#john wick x m!reader

[nouearth]

a business trip.

john wick x male reader.

warnings: smut, alcohol, blowjob (r receiving), fingering (r receiving), dirty talk, rough!sex, breeding, unprotected!sex, top!johnwick, bottom!reader.

request.

the soft tune of jazz—a sonata that you were never particularly fond of—became comforting in your solitude. though a piano was absent, hidden stereos were more than adequate as you gathered the ambiance would’ve been more or less the same if a pianist had performed. 

in the sleepy hours of the continental hotel, patrons of the lounge kept their conversations low, indescribable murmurs to your ears as you sipped on your drink—warm and smooth down your throat. 

the time on your phone flicked to midnight, and day two commenced. you came on a business trip. if you could, you would’ve rejected the offer to come to new york, especially when it took away time from your dog. but the rascal was spoiled, and that unfortunately meant you had to step out of your home office once in a while—all to keep her spoiled. 

but who ever said you couldn’t have a little fun during your trip?

the seats at the bar were unoccupied except for yours. clients preferred sitting in something that supported their back, you presumed, but that didn’t stop a gentleman from taking a seat next to you.

oh, wow. maybe the lady was right… this cologne is a dick magnet.

unbeknownst to you, his favorite seat was occupied and he was petty—though only slight, because a strong drink to incinerate his stress was his main priority. 

“bourbon whiskey,” the gentleman glanced at you, dried blood and cuts lanterned under the muted lights, but his black hair succeeded in shadowing. “please.”

the man didn’t seem phased by the injuries—a nonchalant attitude he maintained—but you were nonetheless surprised. speechless as no one, not even the bartender, seemed to have minded his wounds, the blood stained on his dress shirt, and the purple bruise beating on his cheekbone.

it was… strange.

“uh...” you cleared your throat, directing the sound towards the man to get his attention. he looked, clearly want to be left alone as he kept his gaze front. “sorry, i just… uh… should i be worried about that?”

though he didn’t seem to recognize you, the stranger was hesitant to answer, taking more than a few beats before speaking, low and gritty. “no, just… got robbed.”

“oh, shit, seriously?” you reached for you phone and turned the screen on. ”then, I think we should call-“ before you could take the process to another step, a gentle grasp latched around your wrist, stopping you.

“that’s very kind of you, but i’m fine.” he finally turned to you, a reassuring gaze pierced to your worry before letting go and looking front again.

handsome, even when he’s all beat up. focus, that was not the priority right now.

“dude, you’re bleeding.” remnants of warmth escaped your wrist, but his calloused fingers remained in memory. “you could have a concussion or something.”

“maybe,” the man took a sip of his drink, a simper to his face when it was concluded that you were evidently not from his world. “seemed fine as i walked the way here though.”

“jesus,” you couldn’t pick apart between fact or fiction, especially from a stranger, but he had no reason to lie. you took another sip, watching him and accepting his truth. “did you manage to get a hit on them, at least?”

you missed it, but the man glanced down at the red stain on his dress shirt, small and ruby-ed against the white fabric before taking a sip again. “something like that.”

“hm... i guess i know who to call for a bodyguard when i’m in the city again, then.” the ice between the two of you was slowly melting, puddles of it spreading when you two shared a chuckle. “(m/n), by the way.”

“john.” you can put a name to his face now, and it was fitting. mysterious and aloof, but never intimidating because there was a warmth inside of him that just needed a reason to come out. “never seen you here before, first time?”

“kind of?” by now, the drink has caught up to you and you felt a little more confident, turning your body towards him. “i mean, i’ve been to new york before—just not this hotel. i’m here for work.”

“i see,” when you faced towards him, john never meant to do a double-take. several glances were hidden in between the constant motion of drinking, the heat relieving john’s body whenever he took a sip—he likened it to medicine. “enjoying your stay then?”

but the more john looked at you, warmth began to rise instead. it eventually settled on his chest, neck, and cheeks to his dismay and it does not intent to wear off, no matter how many sips he took in greatest efforts to push it down—in a void somewhere, where he believed his feelings deserved to be buried.

“it could be better.” alcohol was a powerful drug, because you were one-hundred percent sure that the chance of you flirting without a drink would’ve been close to zero.

it came out of nowhere—this feeling. fleeting or not, your pants tightened and you needed a release. if it wasn’t him, then it was going to be someone else. and if you really couldn’t get laid, you’d be content with dry-humping a pillow.

you’ve seen it in the movies before—well, usually from a women—but it should be universally accepted, right? confidence was sexy: show some skin, make your intentions clear, and handle rejection like a real class act. 

worst he could do is say no…

“I don’t mean to be crass, but,” you tugged on your necktie, loosening it around the collar, and unbuttoned only the top two buttons. a slight breeze ghosted your neck as it radiated and yearned for lust—kindled further when you downed another drink, a last stop for encouragement, but also a device to handle rejection all at once. “do you want to fuck?”

john watched you stone-faced, but there was clear interest in his eyes—you watched it spread across his dark orbs. 

it was telling that you both needed something—a release: you with work and him with being mugged, apparently. your fingers tapped on the counter, impatient for an answer. 

after a smooth swig of his drink, john got up and beckoned to you with a small smile. “come on.”

as soon as the door shut, you were backed into it with considerable force—not a single second to spare. you held onto john in blind support, groping at his broad back and hips while john’s needy palms worked at your ass, squeezing tight to aid the erection in his pants.

“fuck.” pressure applied to your clothed bulge as john pressed his hips against you, rutting in irregular rhythms conducted by pure lust, and you desperately returned them, needier as you rubbed into his thigh. your moans caught between his lips when the pair found themselves on you, kissing you with the utmost passion—poisonous, because it stole your breath away. 

“i could come just like this.” you spared enough oxygen to breathe out, but later found it swallowed when john kissed you again, eagerly licking the inside of your mouth. his tongue was sloppy, mixing the sweetness of your drink with the burn of his to form an entirely new recipe that only the two of you would share. 

complete darkness filled your sight while your neck was then bombarded with rough kisses, only broken when john unwillingly tore himself from your skin to strip himself. it was a tedious process because he was greedy, returning back to your neck and lips whenever a piece of clothing was thrown to the corner of the room.

but you were impatient, as was he, and knew things would never progress if he was submitted under the smell and soft touch of your skin. so you playfully pushed him, squeezing his chest in midst, and constantly knocking him back to his amusement while the glow of the moon became your guide to the bed.

“keep that up,” john held you by the waist again, applying his bare body to your clothed figure, half-undressed with your trousers and shirt left, as you felt his beard against your skin. a gentle brush tickled you, but his darkened, low voice sent goosebumps. “and we won’t make it to the bed.”

“hm.” a hum vibrated in your throat while he kissed your neck again, suckled at his favorite area because he could feel your cock throb against him, desperate to be freed from the fabric. 

you watched him in the moonlight as john began undoing your clothes, leaving a wake of hot kisses down your body the more you unveiled before him—cold, but john’s mouth made up for it as it wrapped around you like a warm glove. no warning whatsoever, but you preferred that, shuddering when he worshipped your body like a knight to a prince; calmed caresses to your calves while he polished your cock with godly licks. 

john’s fingers spidered up your legs and his palm found its way to your ass again, spanking one cheek hard enough for you to suddenly thrust your cock into his mouth and down his warm throat. “oh, fuck-“ 

he moaned around you, vibrations riding your thick veins as it would take a electrifying trip up north until you moaned, pleaded with him to be fucked—to no avail, simply because he was stubborn. 

briefly, john let you go with a slimy pop to stroke you, standing back up to kiss you in midst. you tasted yourself, the saltiness of your pre-cum lining your taste-buds as his tongue ran over yours in a wet and sloppy affair. “god, you taste so good…”

simultaneously, your hand worked at his cock, under-handing the weight of it with slow strokes—to the intimate arousal of your sluggish tongues moving with one another. it wouldn’t be long until you found yourself pressing into him again, gliding your wet cock against his, spreading and sharing john’s thick saliva between the two muscles.

your lips never his, neither did your hand on his cock—both of your cocks now, clumsily stroking—even when john began to prod at your hole with his finger, lubed up seconds before, teasing. only then, you pulled away when his finger slid into you with careful ease, and you flushed forward.

he embraced you with one arm around your body, holding you still while he worked you open, curling inside of you deeper with quickening intervals. you could practically come undone from this, but you refrained from doing so, distracting yourself with kisses to john’s chest, then his nipples, sucking hard to counter the overwhelming pleasure.

but he had the upper hand on you, only realizing when you immediately flexed around him when he pushed into you with another finger—slight difficulty, and so he worked you open once again. though, it doesn’t last long because he wanted to feel the tight stretch you’d provide for him—a heavenly need you’d happily supply. 

without any guidance, you bent over the bed and pushed your hips out, and he held you close. you laid there bare before him, looking back completely vulnerable while john toyed with you, taunting your arousal as he slid his cock in between your ass cheeks, wet and sticky from the lube. 

“come on…” you almost whined out into the sheets, refraining yourself from wiggling your hips. 

his silhouette didn’t budge and he only agitated your impatience even further by tracing your pucker with the plump tip of his cock, slow and teasing with a smirk you could hear. “you want me that bad?”

“fuck,” you were never one to admit things easily, and this wasn’t going to be the start of it. equally as stubborn as john was, you groaned into bed again and used your core to push back at his taunts. you began reaching back amid his continuing tease to grab ahold of his length. “if you’re not going to fuck me, then i’m going to-“

john’s reflexes were fast. as soon as you wrapped your hand around him, he pinned you further into the bed with a firm shove to your back. your chest stung when it rubbed harsh against the sheets and you immediately let go, lying pliant under his force. “you’re going to what?”

you struggled to move—to escape from his hold—but he was stronger in every way possible. every struggle was met with an ache to your body as he barely used a fourth of his strength to hold you down.

and your cock couldn’t have gotten harder.

“I’m going to-“ before you could respond, your throat dried up as john pushed himself inside of you with one slow yet rugged thrust, pushing heat back in, and filling your hole up with more. “f-fuck!” every muscle in your body tensed and you shouted out, almost a whimper.

his cock was thick inside of you. you can feel every pulse, every vein as he worked himself into you, back and forth with deep and slow thrusts, painfully stretching you out. it knocked the breath out of you and your legs wobbled, feeling your current stance weakening as your toes curled into the floor, desperately clinging onto the arrival of your soreness.

but you loved it. you loved how barely prepped you were because you can feel every inch of him reaching deep inside and violating your hole with the uttermost disrespect. he held your wrists together, your arms back and your chest pushed forward while your cock rubbed against the bed, and fucked into you—faster, harder. “look at you, fuck. you take cock like it’s nothing, hm?“

“m-mmm!” you whimpered out in response, your breath hitching as he repeatedly slammed his hips into you, continuously knocking any thought out of you. the painful pleasure was dizzying, finding solace in muffling your moans into the covers. your breath warmed your cheeks as you rocked into the bed from impact, gliding your cock in between the bed and your pelvis along. 

there was an ache in your shoulders, in your arms, in your wrists, but john’s cock overpowered every feeling to the point where they became numb. all there was left was john’s rapture and you basked in it. the heaviness of the sex-filled air, the humidity of your bodies when john decided to push his all of his weight onto you and fuck you like you were nothing but a void, the warmth of his breath when he kissed your shoulder and neck, and the sting when he bit.

overwhelming was an understatement of your current state of euphoria. you took him in and overloaded yourself into his pleasure. every thrust, every breath was submerged into you, compelled to mirror even a fraction of the pleasure john felt, and it was only when his cock drove into your prostate with unbeatable force that you did—tenfold.

“oh, fuck! don’t stop,” you cried out, desperate in pushing back against him because you never knew if john would pull away anytime soon. “fuck me just like that, fuck!”

and he doesn’t. john was a man of promise and he delivered your pleas with force and speed, letting go your wrists to spread your cheeks apart and watch you be fucked open with his thick cock, growing more swollen with every passing second. you can feel his balls following his thrusts, swinging against your sweaty skin and creating the most delectable sounds. “like that, yeah? you like my cock, just like that?”

“f-fuck, yes!”

in this moment, you were his, under his control, and selfishly captured when john devastated your prostate with one more powerful thrust to your demands, and you found the stars. they resided in the back of your eyelids as you came—thick and heavy—in between the sheets and your twitching body. 

it wouldn’t be long until john joined you in your trip to heaven, his grasp on your hips hard and bruising as he yanked you back and met your ass to his cock one last time in uniting your body with his. 

warmth began to fill you as john came undone, shooting deep inside of you. his hips slowed, but never came to a stop as you clenched around him, tight and yearning for his seed, and with that, he milked himself inside of you, giving you all of him and what was left of him—creamy and thick. 

his breath was heavy in your ear as he pressed his chest to your back, and you groaned, coming down from the high that you just experienced. sleep approached for the both of you, but he maintained the steadiness of his hips, spreading his load in you as if he was marking his territory.

“so... how long until you’re leaving?”

“mmmph, four more days….”

"good."

nouearth. please do not repost, plagiarize, or translate my works. andif you like this story, please reblog and leave a like!

[iovesia]

✧ ˚ ༘ ⋆ 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐂𝐀𝐍 𝐁𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐎𝐒𝐒.

bodyguard!john wick⠀x⠀bratty!spoiled!fem!reader.

𝒔𝒚𝒏𝒐𝒑𝒔𝒊𝒔. being notorious for your spoiled, bratty behavior— you have successfully scared off your all previous bodyguards. but you’re stumped when this one just won’t quit.

—⠀੭୧⠀warnings⠀· ˚ ༘⠀large age gap. hyperfem!reader. reader is a bitch. mean!john. oral (m!receiving). dubious consent. brat taming. size kink. face slapping. 2.4k words.

𝒙𝒐𝒙𝒐, 𝒋𝒐𝒔𝒊𝒆 ִֶָ 𓂃 ⊹ for all my hyperfem!reader enthusiasts— this one's for you! i lowkey hate this but i haven't posted a fic in ages ohmygod and i also started school so i might be less active..

#. keanu reeves masterlist. | main masterlist. | request rules.

NO.

It was the one word that was not in your vocabulary. 

“No. My decision is final.”

Unfortunately, it was your father’s favorite.

“Daddy, this is so unfair!” You squeal like a petulant child, hot on your father’s trail as he walks through the lavish penthouse which you reside in. Your heels hitting the marble floors reverberate along with your high pitched whining. “I don’t need a babysitter!”

“Bodyguard.” Your father corrects. 

“Same difference!” Your father lets out an exhausted sigh at your complaints, rubbing his eyes with his ring-adorned finger. The wrinkles on his face are prominent, displaying his ageing stress. “I can handle myself! I’m not a child anymore!”

“You behave like one!” Your father snaps. “It’s how you’ve managed to scare off the last two bodyguards. So help me God, if this one quits too, there’s going to be mayhem. You hear me, young lady?”

Your soft features contort into a nasty grimace when your father points his finger in your face. Resisting the urge to stomp your Dior, pink heel —ergo proving your father’s point— you let out a defeated scoff. “Fine.”

“Thank you,” Your father gives you a tight lipped smile. “Jesus, you’re just like your mother. God forbid things don’t go your way.” You try to ignore the sting in your heart at your father’s callous words, the venom in his tone as he refers cruelly to his ex-wife, and your mother. 

You clear your throat, quickly wishing to change the topic. “Who even is this guy?!”

“His name’s John Wick. He’s highly specialised in martial arts, firearms, and other weaponry. He also has military experience—”

“So basically, you hired The Terminator?” You interject, snapping your gum loudly in between your lip gloss covered lips. “I still don’t understand why the hell he’s here. None of my friends have old bodyguards following them!”

“Your friends are also not daughters of a mob boss,” your father replied bluntly, his patience wearing as thin as his greying hair. Before you could conjure another witty retort— the doorbell rings through the apartment. You follow close behind your father, eyes shooting daggers into the back of his skull when he walks into the entrance area. 

The penthouse was adorned with gold trim and marble floors, along with glimmering chandeliers hanging from the tall ceilings, accentuating your father’s immense wealth— your silver platter prison as you liked to call. 

“Christ, give me strength,” Your father mumbles under his breath.

“It’s John, isn’t it?”

“I pray it is.”

“If he’s short, bald and old like the last one— I’m going to freak out,” you hold your hands up defensively, briefly admiring your manicured french tip nails. You pride yourself on your appearance— if you’re not complaining and bitching, you’re spending daddy’s credit card on all things girly and pink.

The door slowly opens. From the bottom of your new bodyguard’s Oxford shoes, you eye him up past his lean body under his tight black suit— accentuating his buff arms and chest, up to his slicked back black hair and piercing dark eyes. You stare in slight disbelief at the man ahead, who towered over you. 

“Meet John. Your new bodyguard.”

AS ATTRACTIVE AND BROODING as your new bodyguard was, he was also quiet.

Too quiet.

Unlike your previous bodyguards, John was as still as stone, completely unresponsive to any of your nasty quips, bitchy comments or snarky commands. You were lucky to receive even a word of acknowledgement, let alone a sentence.

He was your silent shadow, always standing eerily close by wherever you went.  At the mall. At clubs. At the library. Even when you go to public restrooms, he stands waiting outside the door, embarrassingly dragging attention to the both of you.

“Seriously?” You grumble to yourself, adjusting your pink tennis skirt as you walk out of the ladies restroom. The older man merely looks down on you, his unreadable expression only pissing you off more.

“It’s my job.”

That was his famous catchphrase. Like a broken record, or a poor man’s Princess Bride— it was his automated response for any of your complaints. It’s his job. 

You huff, tongue in cheek as you lean against the doorframe of the kitchen, watching the brooding bodyguard read a book. John’s leaning against the back of the chair, his arm resting on the countertop of the kitchen island, his veiny hand holding the book upwards as he takes a sip of coffee with his other. The palpable silence was too much for you to bear. You’ve had enough. You needed a reaction out of him— anything— literally anything other than this monotonous apathy. 

Your hips sway side to side as you stroll over to John, his attention unwavering from his book. You clench your jaw, tapping your nails on the marble countertop. You take a seat next to him, and lift your leg up, resting your foot on his thigh. 

Shockingly, he raises a brow— but still doesn’t look at you.

“Lace up my heels,” you demand, a smug smile on your lips, gently digging the heel of your shoe into his thigh. But he doesn’t twitch. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t even produce a sound of pain.

“You’re not a child, you can do it yourself,” his voice is low, and raspy as he clears his throat. John flips to the next page of his book and your brows stitch together, a small frown etching on your lips.

“Lace up my heels, Jack,” you repeat firmly, the taunt in your voice disappearing as you purposefully get his name wrong.

“John.”

“Whatever.”

John’s attention to his stupid book never faltered, and your annoyance boiled like bile in your chest. Clearly you’d have to try a little bit harder. You remove your foot off his lap, and let out a purposefully loud sigh.

“I’m your boss, John,” you say mockingly, “you better do what I say.”

“Your father is my boss,” his tone is painfully monotonous, if he was anyhow irritated with your bratty behaviour— he didn’t show it. “I work for him.”

There’s another tense silence casted upon the door, and you huff, jumping off your seat before storming out of the kitchen. Blinded by your temper tantrum, you missed the older man’s leering eyes on your ass as you walked away.

YOU WERE FUMING.

A whole month.

A whole thirty days he’s been your bodyguard, and you still have not managed to find out what made John Wick tick. His silent, stoic demeanour seemed impenetrable to your girlish, spoiled wit. John has bested your previous guards by the duration of his stay— most, if not all of them would have packed their bags by this point.

The sun beamed on your soft skin, exposed by the skimpy pink bikini that barely covered your breasts and left little to the imagination. Lying across the sunbed next to the glistening infinity pool, the sun suddenly disappears from your face, and you open your eyes to see John hovering over you. 

“Move, you’re blocking the sun,” You roll your eyes, pulling your Cartier sunglasses above your head.

“Get dressed.”

You furrow your brows in confusion at his command.

“Your father says there’s a gala in a few hours, your attendance is mandatory.” John affirms his previous command, before he stalks away from you, his long legs carrying him far as he re-enters the penthouse. Immediately, you sit up from your sunbed, not bothering to cover your skimpy figure with a towel as you chase him.

“I don’t take orders from the help.”

“But, you do take orders from your father,” John quips, quirking a brow as he turns to face you, his staggeringly tall body looming over you. “Get dressed.”

“I don’t take orders from you, I’m not going!” You sneer, and when you attempt to walk past John, his large arm wraps around your forearm, gently but firmly pulling you backwards in front of him. “Excuse me?”

“You’re excused. Get. Dressed.”

“Get fucked, how about that?” You retort, scoffing at his audacity to tell you what to do. “I don’t take orders from the butler.” Roughly tugging your arm back, you take a challenging step closer and you can feel the warmth radiating from his suit covered body. 

“Bodyguard.”

“Oh, please— you’re a glorified babysitter,” you chuckle incredulously. “All that military experience is probably a load of crap— I have half a mind to get my daddy to fire you!”

“I have half a mind to shut that mouth of yours,” John’s low voice has goosebumps swimming across your skin. He finally cracked, and now you were just waiting for the pieces to come apart. John takes a step forward, closing the distance as his chest nearly touches yours.

“What did you just say to me?” You speak quietly, your confidence slowly decreasing. A small, devious scowl creeping on his face. “I said: what did you just—”

Your words die in your throat when a sudden hand clutches your jaw, fingers digging into your cherub cheeks. A weak gasp comes out, as John pulls you closer, your exposed stomach and barely-covered breasts pressing against his lean body. His stubbled face leans down, your noses almost touch as he whispers: “I think it’s time you got a taste of your own medicine.”

“GET ON YOUR KNEES.”

Jaw dropped.

“What?” 

“You heard me,” John rests against the back of the leather couch, sitting as his legs manspreading with his elbows resting on the leather couch pillows. You stood like a deer in headlights in front of him, hands on your hips, looking down at him. “Get on your knees.”

“I’m not gonna do that, are you out of your mind?!” You squeal, offendedly. John merely licks his bottom lip, his eyes focused on your hips, and thighs. “You are so fired, John! I’m telling my dad!”

“Go ahead, let your precious daddy know you made another one of his staff quit..” John shrugs nonchalantly, scratching his beard. “Your father will be pissed, and will probably cut you off.. And then who will pay for those little bikinis?” 

You kiss your teeth, lips pursed as your leg bounces anxiously. He was right. 

“Asshole,” you hiss under your breath as you lower yourself down to the ground, your knees scratching against the rough carpet. His penetrating stare made you sweat, a chill tingling down your spine. God, you wished you had taken that towel with you. John’s voyeuristic gaze trailed from your breasts that barely fit in your bikini top, down the curves of your hips to the swell of your ass. 

“Come here,” he says slowly.

Reluctantly, you abide his words, and your hands and knees graze the carpet as you crawl over to John— like an obedient little puppy. Sitting on the heels of your foot, you rest your palm on your thighs, an exasperated huff flaring through your nose.

“You are a spoiled little girl, you know that?”

You roll your eyes.

Suddenly, pain blooms in your left cheek as a firm hand smacks across your face— not enough to hurt, but enough to shoot down your attitude, making you mewl. “Ow!”

“Aw.. did that hurt?” John leans forward, his warm breath hitting your face as you look up at him, batting your long lashes. His fingers digging into your cheeks again, holding you in place. “You want me to kiss it better?”

Your face flushes at his question, as you roll your shoulders back. The diva inside you was screaming when you nodded— but you didn’t care. You eyed the older man hungrily, the sting on your cheek had you rubbing your thighs together. Unfortunately, John noticed.

“That’s too bad.” Pushing your face away, he leans back against the couch. John subtly spreads his knees further apart, signalling you to his shiny belt buckle. Eyeing the older man hungrily, the pads of your fingers touch the cool metal as you undo his belt. 

His lowered slacks reveal his flushed, hardened cock, with pre-cum already leaking from the red tip. Your hand shakily wrapped around his shaft, your whole hand unable to fit around his full girth. You stroke him gently as his lips part, a soft groan escaping. You swallow nervously, his cock throbbing in your hand when you halt your hand. Spit gathering into a small glob on your lips before stretching down onto his mushroom tip. The saliva made your movements smoother, and more confident. 

“I know that mouth does more than complain,” John taunts, his large hand softly caressing the back of your head when he edges your face closer to his thick shaft. Your mouth waters as you wrap your glossy lips around his cock, your tongue flat against his tip, the salty pre-cum satisfying your tastebuds.

Relaxing your jaw to adjust to his size, you lower your head, his cock nudging against the back of your throat. Whatever you couldn’t fit in your mouth, your hands covered, massaging the base of his cock. John grits his teeth, swallowing a groan as you begin bobbing up and down his cock. John’s hand is heavier on the back of your hand, forcing you lower on his cock till your nose is buried in his short, curly pubes— making you gag loudly.

“Does the spoiled brat need some air?” John chuckles raspily, his hand clutching your hair, pulling you back off his cock. A thick line of saliva dribbles down your chin, lips puffy as tears brim your waterline. Your jaw ached, but your tongue was desperate for more. His thumb swipes against your bottom lip, wiping away the pre-cum and spit, before shoving his thumb into your mouth. The pad of his thumb presses down on your tongue, and you gag once again. 

“Spent the last month dealing with your little attitude problem,” John eyes squinted into slits, repeatedly patting your face with his other hand. “I think a little appreciation is in check.”

Like a cockdrunk doll, you nod ditzily as he switches his thumb out for the tip of his shaft. 

Your father was surprised to see you wearing jeans the next day, as they covered those little bruises on your knees.

john wick taglist : @hamburgerslippers @alwaysinblck @emosludge @nwheregirl @beansricejc @sughcashsaiki @namjoons-crabssss @scream-queen-25 @slutforsoldierboy @hamburgerslippers @redhotelroom. @hearteyedbambi @ilovedilfs4ever @aerangi @spacemonkeyfitz

let me know if you wish to be added/removed ♡

[zablife]

Seamstress, Secretary, Sex-worker, Spy

John x female reader

Summary: You've been seen with John numerous times and now the Shelby family is getting suspicious. Who are you and what's your true relationship to John?

Author’s Note: This was requested by a lovely anon. Tysm for the idea! I hope you don't mind that I wrote them as headcanons. I haven't had much time for full fics recently.

Warnings: language, mention of smut

🌹The first time someone sees you with John you're collecting the laundry, a large basket at your hip piled high with all his unwashed shirts. "Have we got a new washerwoman in town, Charlie?" Curly asks, scratching his head as he sees you passing on the street.

"Don't look like any washerwoman I ever saw," Charlie says ogling you.

💌The second time, you're in the betting shop, nibbling on the end of a pencil as you think of a clever note to leave on John’s desk. Linda rolls her eyes as she complains, "Perfect, they've sent me another useless idiot who can't do simple maths." When you disappear, she assumes you quit. "Thanks be to Jesus for that," she mutters under her breath.

❤️ The third time your presence is much harder to miss, a sharp cry of pleasure erupting from the snug in the Garrison. "Has John got a whore in there?" Isaiah asked, turning to Finn with a wicked smirk. Their suspicions seemed to be confirmed when you left minutes later, money in hand and a smoldering kiss to send you on your way.

🌹 The mystery of your presence remains in the following days and soon Tommy becomes suspicious as well. “I knew he was spending too much time in Solomons’ territory,” he grumbles, pacing the floor of his office. “What if that dodgy fucker sent her here?"

"A spy?" Polly chuckles as she leans back in her chair.

"Why not use a pretty girl to turn his head?," Tommy reasoned with a huff of frustration. When she rolled her eyes in return he shouted, "Everyone knows John thinks with his cock!"

💌 The family meeting begins without John who appears twenty minutes late, stuffing his shirt into the back of his trousers. Running to the meeting from your arms is difficult enough, but now the entire family is boring holes into him, expecting an explanation. When they begin telling him of their suspicions, his mouth drops open.

"You being serious, Tom?" he asks. "All of you?" he looks around the room aghast. Slowly everyone nods. "Bloody hell..." his voice drops as removes his cap and drops into a chair crestfallen.

❤️ Polly begins to look worried, leaning forward at the table to ask, "John, if this girl is going to be trouble, we need to know."

"Always thinking the worst, ain't ya?" he answers bitterly. Then he shakes his head with a little laugh, which angers Arthur first.

"You fucking laughing at us? Finn and Isaiah saw you pay the little tart! What's that about, eh?" he grumbles, anger contorting his face.

"What the fuck did you call her?" John seethes, lunging for his brother. A scuffle breaks out between them which Tommy and Uncle Charlie have to stop before either of them can land a punch.

🌹 John straightens his clothes as he begins, "Yeah, she's my girl. But she ain't a whore and she ain't a spy for Alfie fucking Solomons either alright? Moved to Saltley two years ago with her mum. I had it checked out....'M not as stupid as everyone thinks." He sniffs and takes a look around the room to see disbelief still hanging in the air. "Why is that so hard for you to believe?"

Polly places a hand on his arm, "We're listening, go on."

💌John's eyes soften as he speaks of you. "She takes care of me, does the laundry and shopping, leaves me kind notes..." Eyes glazing slightly at the memory he turns to Arthur adding, "Sucks me dry, I swear to God. Yesterday I thought--"

"We believe you," Polly interjects with a firm nod. Turning to her other nephew she states, "Tommy, I think this item of business is closed."

❤️ You're invited to the next family dinner as a way to placate John, but also for the others to get to know you. When they do, they adore you instantly and John is rightfully vindicated. "Shouldn't have doubted me," John reminds them.

"I know. I was wrong to say you were only thinking with your cock," Tommy apologizes.

"No, I was thinking with me cock, but for once it was the right decision," John admits with a wink.

------------------

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[matthew-gray-gublers-babygirl]

Safe - John Wick x Fem!Reader

Summary: John comes home from work and he is wounded, and as his worried wife, you help him.

Warnings: swearing, oral m!receiving, blood/gore, talk of violence, mainly fluff.

Enjoy!

You sit alone in your large kitchen, biting your nails and shaking your leg as you anxiously wait for your husband to come home.

His profession was extremely dangerous. Every time he went out you didn’t know if he was alive. Whenever you heard a car pass by your house, you wondered if it were the police coming to inform you that your husband had passed.

You knew that you had to make certain sacrifices that came with being married to The John Wick, the Boogie Man, as they call him.

You hear the door unlock, and your breath hitched. Running to the door, you are met with John. You wrap your arms around his neck, holding back tears as you nuzzle your face into the crook of us neck. “Oh, John…”

His hands weakily wrap around your waist. “Y/N…” he sighs, resting his chin atop your head.

Your hand trails down the chest of his suit. You find the red substance of blood on his white shirt. “You were shot?”

“Stabbed,” he says. “Not too bad. I’ve been though worse,”

You sigh. “Yeah, just stabbed.” You say sarcastically. “What if next time you get stabbed even worse, or shot, and you don’t make it through?” You question.

John gives you a saddened look. “I’m sorry, Y/N. You have a right to be mad, and worried.”

You give him an angered gaze, but it slowly fades as you hear the sincerity in his voice. You lean up to kiss him. “You’re right,” you say.

You take him to the kitchen where you strip him of his suit jacket and button up shirt. “This is going to sting,” you say. “I know,” he replies.

The wound was shallow, but it was still gushing a fair amount of blood. Once you were able to slow down the bleeding, you begin to clean it. John lightly hisses as you disinfect his wound.

You quickly bandage it neatly, then reward him with a warm kiss on his lips. “You have to stop this, John,”

“I know,” he says again. “I- I can retire, if you want.”

“Will you really do that for me?”

“Of course, baby. You are more important than work.”

You smile softly. “If you think it’s the best, then you can. I will support whatever you do,” you say. “Will you be safe?” You ask.

“We are safe. We will always be safe.”

“No, will you be safe?”

John pauses for a concerning amount of time. “I will be safe.” He says. “And if anybody comes after you, or me, I will kill them.”

“John,” you say like a disappointed mother. But, you couldn’t help but smile. You loved your mass murderer husband.

“That’s the spirit, love,” he smiles and gives you a kiss.

“You should go wash up,” you tell him. His face was cut, as well as his hair slicked back with sweat.

“Join me?”

“Very funny,” you laugh before sending him up to the bathroom to clean off the sins of the night. “Be mindful of your bandages,”

“Yes, ma’am,” John chuckled.

John finds his way to the master bathroom. He strips the rest of his clothes and got into the shower. His bandage inevitably got wet.

He ran his hands through his hair, feeling as the heterogeneous mixture of sweat, styling gel and water ran down his back. It felt so releiving to wash himself of the stress and torment of his job.

He used a musky scented soap to wash off the sweat and grime he had accumulated through the night. He exited the shower, wrapped a towel around his waist before redressing his wound.

John left the bathroom, towel still lazily around his waist. You were in bed, reading a book as you awaited for your husband to join you.

You couldn’t help but look at his chiseled abs and cutting hip bones. Of course, you also couldn’t ignore his broad shoulders and tattoo covered back.

“Y/N. You’re starring,”

“Oh,” you say. “Sorry,” you laugh, and he smirks. “Is it such a crime to appreciate my husbands body?”

“No. Just funny to call you out on it,” he says. He grabs a pair of sweatpants and slipped them on.

“Come lay down, babe,” you pull back the comforter in the empty space for him to fill. He slowly lays down, and he groans as his aching back hits the bed.

“Are you really going to retire?” You ask as your hand gently rests on his chest. You slowly draw circles on his skin, avoiding any bruised areas.

“Anything for you,”

You smile, and he slowly leans in to connect your lips in a gently kiss. “I will love you forever…” he murmurs agaisnt your lips. “I will love you when I’m below the ground, and I will love you after the earth ceases to exist…”

You rest your forehead against his, shakily sighing. “I love you, too. Always and forever…”

John kisses you again, hungerly needing your touch and presence against his skin. He gently grips your hair as he hums against your soft, pillowy lips.

His hand reaches for your waist, pulling your laying body closer to his. He squeezes your flesh though your sleep shirt. You whine at the tight squeeze.

Johns lips trail off yours, adventuring down your jaw to suck hot sores on your neck. His hand on your waist moves up, dangerously close to your chest. He cups your breast with his sore and bruised hands through your shirt, gently massaging it in his palm. He knew just how to make you fold.

“John-“ you whisper.

“What, love?”

“Not tonight. You need to heal.” You tell him.

He rests his head on your shoulder, sighing softly. “You’re right,” he whispers. “It’s just so hard to keep my hands off you.” He glances down at his lap, seeing the tent growing in his sweatpants.

“Y/N?”

“Yes, baby?” You reply.

“I- um. I know you said I have to heal. But, what am I supposed to do about that?” He asks, moving away from the crook of your neck to show the erection in his pants.

You think for a moment, keeping your eyes fixated on his bulge. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t use my hands or my mouth on you,” you tell him, and he grins.

You reach for the waistband of his sweatpants, slowly pulling them off his thighs. Johns cock springs out from his pants. He was hard and throbbing just by touching your breasts.

You grasp his length. His breath hitched at the sight of your hand around his dick. You slowly begin stroking him. You hover above him, letting a string of spit slowly dripping down onto his tip.

“Oh-“ he mumbled as the warm liquid touches his pulsating crown.

You gently kiss the tip, your hand still stroking his shaft slowly.

“Y/N…”

You whimper against his cock at the sound of his voice. You knew you had to resist him. You couldn’t risk opening his wound and causing him any pain. Hopefully an orgasm would help his aching body in some way.

You slowly take in his length. You suck the tip, humming at the salty taste of his pre-cum. You knew he wasn’t going to last too long. He never lasted long when you sucked him off.

“Just like that, baby,” he praised, “don’t stop- fuck. Don’t stop-“

You didn’t stop, and you weren’t going to stop until you pleasured him to your full ability.

You take in more of his cock. John shivered at the sight of his erection engulfed in your mouth.

“I’m close- shit. I’m gonna cum. Fuck.” He moans.

You began sucking him faster. You felt as your lips glided over the thriving veins on his cock, but always focusing on the tip. He loved it when you toyed with his tip.

His hips shudder, causing you to gag. “Sorry, baby,” he quickly says. You don’t reply, gagging again. You didn’t care if you gagged on his cock. You loved it, because you knew that you were doing good.

His hips jerk up again. He grips your hair, moaning your name as you quickly and steadily suck his cock. He began chasing his release.

“Fuck!” He moans. His eyes roll back, head hitting the pillow as his cum shoots into your mouth. You always loved the taste of his cum.

You finish him off with your hand, swallowing all his arousal as you did. Cum continued to shoot out, going all over your hand as he bucked his hips into your palm.

You happily licked it off, humming at the salty, yet at the same time, sweet taste.

“Fuck. Thank you, baby…” he whispers. The pleasure helped ease some of his pain.

“Anything for you,” you smile. You kiss him, and he tastes his own cum off your lips.

“Can I return the favour?” He asks, toying with the elastic band of your sleep shorts.

You shake your head. “Not tonight. You can in the morning once you have some rest,” you tell him. He frowns, but obeys.

“Okay,” John says. He fixes his sweatpants, and you grab a tissue off the night stand to wipe the spit and cum off your hand, and a bit of the white fluid that got on his stomach. John reachs over to turn off the bedside lamp, groaning as his body was strained to make the reach.

“Goodnight, baby…” you lay your head on his chest, yet again mindful of the bruises and cuts.

“Goodnight. I love you…” John whispers

“I love you too…”

[spacequokka]

About Time

Pairing: Changkyun x Reader Genre: Angst, Smut Rating: M Summary: You broke the number rule of fuck buddies and ghosted him. You think you don’t have to answer for that? Word Count: 3.5k Warnings: mentions of drinking, fingering, public unprotected vaginal sex, hair pulling, biting, creampie

Arrow: Gold > Friends (with benefits!) to Lovers AU

Thanks to everyone in @kvanity-main​ who patiently put up with my 99 questions and requests. Extra thanks to @jinsquishes​ for the beautiful banner. I recommend nvrmnd, Die for You, God Damn, and Horizon for this. Happy Valentine’s Day my lovelies!

One would assume a dark, crowded club would be the best place to avoid someone you’re ghosting. How could you ever hope to find anyone through all the bodies and smoke? Now add the fact that the person you’re avoiding hates places like this, and it should be perfect. Right?

Wrong.

Because across the fucking room with a red solo cup in one hand and a vape in the other was none other than the last person you planned to see tonight. You fully expected to see the Easter Bunny before Changkyun’s molten stare. A sharp elbow to your side yanked you out of the mental sinkhole you fell into the second your eyes met his.

“What the fuck are you staring at—” Vita followed your line of sight and gasped dramatically. “Ain’t no way. I thought he hated clubs. What the fuck is he doing here?”

You sputtered something that could’ve been a response in baby talk, mind thoroughly fucked as you scrambled to get your shit together. Quickly tossing back the rest of your drink, you looked around, frantically searching for the nearest exit. You’d even jump out of a third-story window at this moment.

“I’ve gotta get the fuck out of here.” You threw your cup away. “I can’t be here.”

“Wait, what?” She pulled on your arm. “No! Don’t leave me! You swore you’d hang out with me tonight.”

“Well, that was before Korean John Wick popped up looking like he’s gonna take me out with a pencil.” You looked at her, eyes pleading for understanding. “What if he comes over? He’s gonna ask why I’m not answering his calls and texts. What the fuck am I gonna say to him?”

Her grip tightened. “Be honest with him! Just flat out say you caught feelings and the situation doesn’t vibe for you anymore. I’m pretty sure he’d appreciate you being upfront with him instead of pulling this hide-and-go-seek shit.”

“Oh, fuck you, smart ass. You dodged Taehyung for weeks before you nutted up and told him the truth.”

Shock flashed in her eyes before she let go. “Wow. Digging deep in the past, ain’t you? At least I fucking told him.”

“Right.” You looked back at Changkyun. The cup and vape were gone, but his eyes were still on you as he watched with curiosity. “So I have at least another week or two before you can talk shit. God, he looks like he’s gonna come over. If he does…”

“Jesus, _____, just spit the words out and be done with it.” She crossed her arms. “It’s better than dragging this out any longer. Trust me. What’s he gonna do? Dump you? You’re not dating. At the most, he’ll agree it won’t work and walk away. He isn’t the type to make a scene.”

As if to piss on her logic, Changkyun pushed away from the wall and headed in your direction, snaking through people without taking his eyes off you. Pure fear made your heart stutter as you grabbed her shoulders.

“Yeah, right. Tell him that, will you? I’m getting the fuck out of here.” You darted to the side. Stupid fucking heels and stupid fucking drinks made it hard to coordinate your limbs in a way that put as much space between you and the quiet storm behind you as fast as you could. Sure, it was a cowardly thing to do, but you weren’t in any shape to have a decent conversation with him. An honest one. One that formally put an end to the nights that bled into mornings where he’d cuddle you as the sun rose. To the moments you cherished while confusing you.

Not yet. You needed more time. Just a little more time.

Your eyes stung as you pushed your way through to the nearest glowing green ceiling sign. You just wanted out, away. Anything but face the truth, the inevitable hurt. The chilly night air was refreshing on your heated face when you stepped out the door. The panic softened just enough for your head to clear. Okay, you were in an alley. You just needed to figure out which way the street was so you could get a Lyft and—

The door opened behind you. Panic shot through you like shards of ice as you looked over your shoulder in horror and watched Changkyun step out. Time crawled to a stop as he adjusted his black leather jacket, pulling on the collar of his matching silk shirt. “Are you done running from me?”

Your mouth opened and closed as each train of thought derailed before making it to your lips. Running? In which sense? You turned around to face him, intent on saying something but ultimately failing because what the fuck should you say?

The longer he waited for you to speak, the more intense his stare got. “You realize the whole point of being fuck buddies is to actually fuck, right?” He pulled the door shut behind him then put his hands into his pocket, and cocked his head to the side. “And I’m not sure if you noticed, but uh, we haven’t fucked since—what—three weeks ago?”

“Something more like two and a half.” You mumbled.

His eyebrows rose. “Oh, so she does remember how to communicate.” He looked away and nodded, tongue poking the inside of his cheek. “Since I’m not worth the effort of a call or text, I won’t waste your time. Just tell me why we’re not fucking anymore and I’ll be on my way.” He gestured at you with his hand in his coat pocket. “Go on. Is it someone else?”

There was something in the way his frown and grouchy words didn’t match the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. Though it was brief, for a second you saw the Changkyun you wished you could be with all the time. The one who was emotionally available. “N-no. I haven’t…no one but you, Kyun.”

Confusion creased his brow even more. “So, then what is it? I give it to you good, right? I mean, the way you can’t even get out of bed after—”

“It’s not that. I promise.” You bit your lip and looked at your feet. “Please, Kyun. It’s hella stupid. I just…” You couldn’t bring yourself to say it. He was expecting some grand, logical reason when in reality it was so fucking…simple.

“What is it?” He prodded. His gaze dragged over your body before he looked away and changed his stance. “Jeez, you don’t have to overthink everything. Just spit it out.” He closed his eyes, swallowed, and lowered his voice. “Just say it.”

Maybe it was the sudden softness in his words that made your chest tighter as your throat and eyes burned. Right. Just say it. Let go and move on. You took a deep, shuddering breath. “I-I can’t do this anymore.”

His face tightened for a second as if he’d flinched from pain. For a solid minute, neither of you said a word, listening to the ambiance around you. The cars passing by on the street. The muffled bass of the music inside the club. The hum of electricity from the flickering streetlight nearby. Just when you thought you couldn’t take another moment of silence, he asked, “Why? Did I do something wrong?”

“No!” You reached out and nearly touched him before thinking better of it. “No. It’s me. My mistake. I—” You swallowed and looked around the dimly lit alley as if the words you needed to say would jump out and save your ass. How could you tell him the truth without ripping your heart out in the process? You hugged yourself and shut your eyes, willing the unshed tears to back the fuck off. You could cry it out later. Not here. Not in front of him. He’d told you plenty of times tears did nothing for him. “Fuck. When we started this, we both agreed to keep it casual. No feelings.”

He inhaled sharply and took a step forward. The crunch of the ground under his shoes made your eyes snap open. A mistake. His eyes widened upon seeing the tears lining yours. “Baby—”

You shook your head and hugged yourself tighter. “A-at first, that worked for me, Kyun. I swear it did. Sex with you is the greatest thing I’ve ever experienced so far in life. You’re amazing, so please don’t question that. But, as we got to know each other more, things got…complicated.”

“Really. Complicated, how?” He took another step closer and you took one back. “What complication justifies shutting me out?”

Your body sagged as your chest tightened to the point of pain. “Please, don’t make me say it.”

“I deserve to know the truth, don’t I? I’ve spent more time in the past six months in bed with you than I have on my own. I got to the point where I’m not used to waking up alone.” He licked his lips and exhaled hard. “Like, I get that fuck buddies aren’t as close as we are. Maybe friends with benefits doesn’t cover it either. Whatever it is, it’s good, right?”

You hated how your heart colored his words with hope and yearning. This wasn’t the same guy who swore to you he couldn’t do relationships. That you’d never catch him doing lovey-dovey couple stuff. That wasn’t him. Commitment wasn’t in his skillset. “For you.” You bit out after a gulp of air. “It’s good for you. I-I can’t separate the physical from the emotional stuff.” You looked at him through tears. “I tried so hard to keep it casual. I reminded myself over and over that you can’t give me lo—more. But you confused me! Insisting I stay each night, waking up with you. Telling me I’m beautiful and insisting we hang out for fun. How was I supposed to keep my heart out of it?”

His expression went blank, completely clueless as he stared at you. “What?”

“God, Kyun. For someone who says otherwise, you do the boyfriend thing really well.” You dried your face by dabbing at it with your coat sleeve. “For a minute, you had me imagining what it’d be like. And once I got to that point, I knew I couldn’t go on with this anymore. It hurts like hell to want someone in a way they’ll never want you.”

Changkyun blinked a few times before understanding dawned on his pretty face. “Oh.” He got a distant look in his eyes, looking down the alley at the street. “So…you caught feelings for me?”

Your arms dropped to your sides. The gut punch wasn’t as painful as you thought it’d be, but it still hurt. “I know I should’ve talked to you. I just…didn’t know what to say or how to say it.”

He bit his bottom lip and nodded then took a step towards you. You automatically took a step back so he took another. And another. And another. Your back collided with the wall of the building behind you and before you knew it, he was pressed against you, chest to chest, and looking into your eyes with an expression you’d never seen on his face before. Worse of all, it made your stomach turn with excitement in a way that only he ever could incite. His fingertips caressed your cheek before they traced down to your neck.

“Say it again,” his voice was low and warm like coffee on your tongue, “tell me what you imagined being with me was like.”

You sucked in cold air noticing how the tip of your nose was getting numb. “I—this isn’t a joke, Kyun!” You pushed at his chest. “I’m being serious—”

His fingers curled around the back of your neck and gently squeezed. “And so am I. I wanna hear it.” He pulled you close until your foreheads touched then gently rubbed his nose against yours. “You made me go weeks without hearing your voice or seeing your face over this. So, give it all to me. Every single thought. Make the pain worth it.”

Your heart skipped a beat. You swallowed hard and looked into his eyes. “I told you. It’s dumb. I just pictured stupid couple stuff like taking selfies, holding hands in front of your friends, or cuddling on a rainy day.”

He hummed as his fingertips caught the hem of your skirt. “I admit, that does sound like stupid couple stuff.” You scoffed and tried to pull away, so he quickly followed with, “But I’d do them with you if you really wanted to. At this point, there isn’t much I wouldn’t do with you. For you. To you.”

“What?” You searched his eyes, mind reeling as his words echoed in your head.

“Let me make a little confession of my own.” His free hand gripped your jaw between his thumb and index finger as the other splayed across your thigh. “Since I last saw you, I haven’t been out much. Maybe to the store. At first I thought maybe you were just busy. But then Jooheon would tell me he saw you out with your friend and each time I wondered if it was me. Maybe you were avoiding me.” He pulled your leg up on his hip. “At first, I told myself I didn’t care. That you’d get over whatever the fuck you were going through and come back when you were ready. But you never did.”

You gasped as his hand wandered between your bodies and toyed with the edge of your panties. “Kyun—”

“No, no. Shh. Listen to me. I need you to know how hard it was to stay away and give you space, baby. No one else touches this dick but you.” It was hard to focus on his words when his fingers started to stroke your clit through the sheer fabric. “I don’t even get hard at the thought of fucking anyone but you. That whole time you were gone? It was just me and my hand.” His lips brushed against yours, but he didn’t kiss you and smiled when you started to chase his mouth. “Just like you, hm? What did you use?”

His fingers pushed your panties aside and cupped your pussy, middle finger pressing between your folds. “My toys—oh, god—and fingers.” Your breath hitched as he dipped his finger inside.

He moved his hand from your chin to the wall. “Did they feel good? Better than me?” You shook your head and he bit his lip, rewarding your honesty with the rest of his finger buried to the hilt. “You look so fucking hot right now. This skirt. This top.” He leaned in and nipped at your neck, soothing the skin with a lick as he worked his finger in and out. “I saw you as soon as I walked in. Wanted you right then. Needed you…”

His words were smoke in your head, creating a dense fog of him that made you burn from the inside out. Your hips rolled on his hand, pace increasing when he added another finger. You were vaguely aware of how fucked out and needy you sounded as he pulled moans from you with just his hand. His lips caught yours and ended with a playful bite as he pulled his hand away.

“As needy as the last time we did this, huh?” He groaned in your ear, low and husky as he fumbled with his pants. You couldn’t even respond, too focused on helping him work the belt buckle and zipper. The second his dick was free, he pushed his pants down to his thighs and reached for yours. “Get up here.”

One leg went around his waist, and with a hop, so was the other. You put your arms around his neck. Using the wall for leverage, he gave you sloppy, frantic kisses as he held you up by your thighs, feeling around with the head of his dick for your entrance. You squealed when it pressed into your clit and he chuckled into your mouth as he angled his hips just right and—

“Say it, baby.” He hissed as he pushed in slowly. “Tell me again why you ghosted me.” You tightened your grip, nails digging into the sleeves of your coat, as his dick stretched you with an ache you missed. When it felt like it’d never stop, he was fully seated inside and twitching every time you clenched. “Say it.”

“B-because I fell for you.” You whimpered when he pulled back then snapped his hips once. A warning. “Ah! Fuck, Kyun.”

“I wanna hear you say it.”

You squeezed your eyes shut and hid your face. “I love you. I did it because I love you and I thought you wouldn’t feel the same.”

“Fucking finally.” He brushed a kiss to the side of your face and adjusted his grip on your thighs. “About time you came around, baby.” With another snap of his hips, he set a steady pace that he’d occasionally interrupt by grinding his pelvis against your clit, determined to get you both there as quickly as possible. “Need you to cum with me. Missed you so much. I hate waking up without you next to me. Need you th—Ah, fuck. So tight.”

Your fingertips caught the ends of his hair and you pulled on it. In response his strokes grew longer, deeper as he let you drop onto his length with a clap of skin. Every time he moved, sparks danced up your spine and through your limbs. “Oh, fuck!”

“It’s been so long, baby. Just a—just a little longer. I’m almost there.” He nudged your head back and kissed you hard, a clash of lips and tongue as he swallowed your moans while feeding you his own. You were vaguely aware of how the bricks dug into your back and hips, too lost in the pleasure you were drowning in. How had you stayed away from him for so long when he could do shit like this to you? You were crumbling to pieces in his arms, on his dick, and for once it didn’t scare you shitless. You could trust him to put you back together. You held his face and kissed him harder, trying to match his intensity. When he caught your tongue and sucked on it, you fell apart. You came hard, convulsing in his arms as he leaned back and switched to quick strokes, moaning your name as he reached his high. “Oh, shit. Fuck, baby, fuck. I love you. I love you so fucking much.”

He leaned against you with a whimper as his body rode the wave, pressing up into you as he stuffed your pussy with cum. Your lips met after a few misses and you laughed through a kiss. The kiss slowly turned to light pecks between shy smiles as he rubbed your thighs. “My back is gonna be so sore in the morning.”

He snorted and kissed you once more before helping you down onto your shaky feet. “That’s not the only thing that’ll be sore. The night is young.”

You playfully swatted his arm as you fixed your panties and skirt. “Ugh. My panties are wet and sticky.”

His arm came around your waist and pulled you against him. “My car’s not that far. We could go back to my place.”

The thought of leaving with him reminded you of what he’d said not too long ago. “…Did you mean it? Or was that just heat of the moment talk?”

He looked into your eyes. “I’ve been in love with you since the first night you stayed over.”

“What?! Kyun, that was like the first month into this. There’s no way—” He cut you off with a kiss, this one sweet and tender as if he’d break you with his lips.

“I didn’t say anything because I remembered the rules. It seemed like you were okay with the way things were so I was okay with it. As long as I knew I was the only one you went to, I could live like that.” He looked into your eyes as his thumb brushed over your bottom lip before brushing over your hair. “Then suddenly you were gone without an explanation why…and I realized I didn’t want to let you go. Not without a good reason. So, yeah. I meant it. And just in case you don’t believe me, I love you. And I’d love you even without the sex. My heart is yours…so take care of it.” He gave you a shy yet bratty pout.

You blinked and fanned your face, turning away so he couldn’t see. “I’ll do my best. Um, so to your place?”

He threaded your fingers together. “Yup.” He pulled you along towards the street. “We can take a shower, drink some water, then work on getting another noise complaint from my neighbors.”

“What are you gonna do when your landlord finally kicks your ass out?”

He looked at you and smiled. “Look for a place to share with you.”

[whatifyoulivelikethat]

dark and dangerous, m | jjk

pairing(s): jungkook x reader

you were the love of my life the darkness, the light this is a portrait of a tortured you and I is this the end? – up in the air by thirty seconds to mars

warnings: rated M (18+) for language; blind reader; hitman!au (basically John Wick universe; I was inspired by Donnie Yen's character Caine); violence + body disfiguration from violence; reader being forced + blackmailed back to service; tbh, many feels; smut (fem reader, choking / erotic asphyxiation, ink appreciation, a lot of sensual touching, slight D/s due to the situation, mild restraint, cowgirl); non-idol!BTS - retired hitwoman!reader x current hitman!JK; sub!JK; JK’s POV

--

He hadn’t seen her in a long time.

Time was a bitch.

She had defied it in some ways, as he knew she would. Pristine, glossy waves of hair cascading down her left shoulder. Longer than he had ever seen it. Gleaming skin, with that little mole under the right side of her lower lip. A little prefect imperfection under a perpetual faint smile. Blouse with a ruffled collar. Clean black longline trench. That was all he could see from this angle, above the bobbing heads of the packed train car. They were both forced to stand, along with many others. No free seats available. Her shoulders were forward, as if her hands were resting in front of her body. Not holding on to any railing, her back only vaguely leaning against the steel pole.

She wore dark-tinted glasses now.

Cat-eye-shaped, with silver accents. Actually, probably palladium. She had expensive taste.

The train approached a tunnel.

There was chattering, but mostly it was the low buzz of the general public. A mass gathered but not interacting. Passengers politely in their own worlds with the collective backdrop of a thundering train speeding through carved darkness.

The gunshot tore through the murmur.

Everyone began screaming.

He was standing in the corner of the train car, towards the door. Looking very much like a businessman ready to punctually take his leave, and suddenly he was one of the many flattened against the metal walls, crushed past the doors and into the train map. The mass became one. Earsplitting panic ricocheting. The awareness of being contained, confined, trapped, heightening and getting louder. He paid attention to none of it, instead narrowing his eyes and focusing on the way the crowd parted, right at the center.

Right where the woman in dark-tinted glasses was standing.

Her body was ever-so-slightly turned.

It must have been less than a second.

It was so fast that he barely had a chance to see the crouching man with arm extended, and then there was another blast of sound. The fear pitched, piercingly sharp. Instant, whirling black as she closed the distance. Long, thin, rod-like, rising. He finally found out what she kept in her hands in front of her body.

Thwack!

The sound cracked through the air as startlingly as the gunshots. Even faster, perhaps, because there was no hesitation. The untrained eye would be unable to keep up, but he was no untrained eye – one strike, onto the hand, where the delicate bone of the thumb was immediately snapped. The gun flew out of his hand and into the crowd, causing more alarmed screeching as people stampeded away from it, throwing themselves against the sealed doors. The disarmed gunman had no time to shriek. Two strikes to the arm and he was crumpling. Two more. Shoulder, head bowing as the body involuntarily cowered to protect itself and the last, side of the head behind the ear.

The gunman hit the floor with a crunch, groaning wetly.

The hysteria was racing towards critical level, but the train slowed and the doors burst open despite the mechanical reminder to stand back. No one noticed. No one cared. Flinging themselves out, scrambling over each other, clawing to be the first ones to escape. Crying, tripping, running, and then.

Silence.

“The doors are closing. Please stand back.”

The whirr reinstated after the doors closed and the train began moving again. A metal shell was oblivious to human terror.

The woman in dark glasses remained.

There was a gleam of silver towards the top of her cane. Something wicked hiding within.

Her hand shifted and snapped it shut.

She flipped the cane in her hand, the bulbous handle pointing downward.

The man on the ground grunted, shifting.

Crack!

Completely still now.

The gun was still on the floor, all the way to the other side of the car.

The woman stood in the middle. The cane in her hand flipped back to its correct alignment, the tip rapping the floor. It moved forward, to the body, poking it several times. Gingerly. Her lips twisted into a pout of discomfort, muttering something under her breath that sounded like, just one, the disrespect, and she crouched down, sweeping her coat aside.

Ping. Ping.

A familiar sound.

She stuck her hand out and calmly patted down the fallen man. There was a distinct tapping motion rather than a grazing along the body. Manicured nails, and then those nimble fingers flitted under the collar of the jacket her assailant was wearing. An exhale and she pulled, hard, plucking something from the body. A small metal disc, no more than a couple centimeters, with an engraving on it. It looked like a stylized ’S’ with flowers made of blade-like petals.

Her thumb ran across the surface.

“Fuck,” she spat.

Then she tucked the pin into the inside of her coat.

The woman in dark glasses stood back up and tapped the floor with the black cane again. This process had taken about a minute. The train was still moving, onto the next stop. The cane struck the linoleum, repeatedly, against the seats and the metal poles, the tinkering echoing in the cabin.

Stopped.

Shit.

The woman tilted her head slowly, then faced his direction.

“And here I thought you were stupid,” she said, her voice loud and clear, directed to the corner he was standing in. “But actually you were just being courteous to the disabled, hm?”

The black cane turned, silent, the stance of the hand holding it altering from exploratory to predatory.

He had two choices.

Talk or get his ass kicked by an expert of ass-kicking.

He settled on saying, “Not a warning shot.”

She froze.

Still wary and on high alert, but no longer an arrow pulled to the brink against the string of the bow. He saw the twitch of one of her eyebrows.

“You have got to be kidding me,” she hissed in icy annoyance. Her shoulders lowered and her head ticked back. The body language equivalent of rolling one’s eyes. The dark glasses remained though. “Why the fuck are you here? I’m retired.”

He didn’t move from his corner. The tip of that cane was blunt but he just watched her take out a man in five hits. That thing wasn’t made out of plastic – and he was pretty sure it was sheathing a blade. No thanks. “And still getting shot at.”

“I said I was retired, not uninteresting,” she retorted, stance relaxing. He let out the breath he had been holding. “Answer my question.” She rapped the floor sharply and his body immediately snapped to attention.

He should have listened to his superiors.

“Why are you here, Jeon Jungkook?”

Leave the information to be found. Do not engage with the target.

The last time Jungkook saw her, she still had sight.

He let out a soft sigh.

“The Elders are giving you a name.”

The dark tint of those sunglasses did nothing to hide the vicious distaste behind them.

“Tell the Elders to shove the name up their collective assholes,” she growled, but he was already walking forward and the cane was pulling back, poised at an angle at her side.

“I didn’t want to come,” Jungkook said, and it came out quieter and more helpless than he thought it would.

The anger in her expression wiped clean.

The Elders, his superiors, were not to be trifled with.

She tucked her tongue in her cheek as he reached into his suit jacket. It was made an unpatented combination of fibers, the latest in cutting-edge bulletproof fabric. Couldn’t really patent shit made for the general public to not know. He suspected her coat and slacks were made of the same material, which explained the pinging noise earlier.

Old habits die hard.

“I’m blind. Not stupid,” she muttered.

She held her hand out, but her face wasn’t quite in his direction.

He placed the black card with a series of raised dots.

She swiftly pulled it back, not allowing his hand to linger. Mashed it against the top of the cane. He noticed the orb-shaped handle was an intricately carved piece of silver metal. Vines? No, more like stylized lines of water. Or fire. There was a creature within those lines, inset, making it look like it was huddled within.

A bunny.

Her fingertip pressed into the black cardstock. Stopped in between, only halfway. Then pressed on even though they both knew the name on there. He couldn’t read braille but he could read her pissed-off expression pretty well.

She let out a huff.

“Really.”

It wasn’t a question.

“He betrayed us.”

“Like I couldn’t have told you that sooner,” she breathed out in a vengeful exhale. “I warned them. I warned them against taking that American snake’s money. They didn’t listen to me. Took my eyes instead. And now they gave me a name? You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

He really did not want to see her angry but there was no other reaction she could have.

The train was calling, indicating the next stop was coming.

Jungkook opened his mouth, a single syllable of her name escaping his throat.

The cane shot up and jammed into his chin. Bruising pain. Shut him up and made him jerk back, but she pressed forward, lowering her head, still not quite looking at him, and that was the worst, her not being able to look at him even though she was doing the equivalent of that.

Just…

Differently.

“Young gun,” she sighed, and the hole in his chest tore open a little more upon hearing the nickname she had for him long ago. Back when they were not quite friends on the surface, because this life that they chose didn’t allow for that, but friends nonetheless in the moments that counted. “If they sent you, that means you should stay away from me.”

“They didn’t send me,” Jungkook admitted and he could smell her perfume.

Sweet.

Familiar.

In the past, it had clung to his skin sometimes.

Her head tilted.

The train was slowing, announcement crackling up above. They would have to get off. Can’t be near a body with brain damage and a gun. He spoke softly to the thin air between them.

"I picked up the task with the last messenger was… interrupted. I happened to be closest.”

Silence.

There was the faintest tick at the corner of her lips. She removed her cane from his chin.

“Happened to be closest,” she echoed.

Her voice like smoke curling in the darkness.

“Hm.”

The train stopped.

The doors slid open.

She backed up and turned away. The cane tapped from side to side. Side to side, a rhythm and routine of finding the opened doors. The mechanical announcement called above their heads. He watched her stride away confidently, a stricken feeling in his chest, remembering something she used to whisper to him in the dark, I love looking at you, curling smoke all around them as scarred fingertips slid up his naked forearm.

She stopped at the exit.

“Don’t follow me.”

Walked out.

Jungkook followed.

-

“How’s your father?”

“I told you not to follow me.”

They were standing at a crosswalk and he was behind her. Not that close but close enough. She stayed close to the pole where repeated beeps indicated it was not safe to cross yet. Cars zipped by. For some reason, Jungkook found them unnaturally loud and violent even though he had never thought that about cars before.

“He’s fine.”

He glanced at her face but there was no expression.

“Still has dementia, still gambles and milks every cent out of the old folks in the retirement complex. You would think he would ease up once he’s struggling to remember the people in his life but, nope, he’s completely content with only knowing how to kick your ass in poker.”

There was a resonance of bitterness in those words but, also, a feeling long gone.

She ticked her head. “They keep him alive to remind me he doesn’t remember I exist. Least he pays his own bills with his habits.”

It was safe to cross now.

He watched the cane sway and tap. She walked calmly and with ease. Maybe even a swagger. It relaxed him as he fell in step.

“You do what you know,” he commented, his eyes darting, taking in his surroundings.

“I really try not to, young gun.”

They walked briskly along the streets. She turned this way and that, stopping once at a fruit stand to buy some apples. The merchant accepted the bills handed to him. She asked if it was enough. Jungkook saw it was more than enough. The merchant replied it was the exact amount. She hummed and stepped away before Jungkook could say anything. He hurried after, and she immediately turned and walked right into a laundromat.

The repeated thump-thump-thump of whirring washing machines and dryers radiated all around them as people fought with their duvets and swore under their breath.

“You overpaid,” Jungkook hissed, stepping closer.

“Such is life,” was her reply. She chuckled, tap, tap tapping away, hitting the edges of the machines but not a single person seemed to notice or care, too busy hurling themselves into the large cavities to yank out their sopping garments. “I do it sometimes just to see if they’ll correct me. They don’t.”

He frowned and made a mental note of the man’s face.

Just in case.

She held delicately to the bag of apples and shouldered her way into the back double doors.

Kept walking, through the back of the laundromat, into the alleys, and now the faces here were different. Keen, sharp gazes that ignored her presence but immediately narrowed upon seeing Jungkook, looking him up and down. Men and women, in musty coats and worn-out gloves with holes in them, backpacks and carts. A complete turnaround from his sharp three-piece suit and neatly parted hair. She breezed past, the apples rustling in the plastic bag, skimming her cane along the concrete, not quite looking exactly forward. Her head was slightly tilted; one ear closer to him.

“I told you not to follow me,” she chuckled.

“I see that,” Jungkook let himself say, calmly and without emotion.

“I don’t,” she quipped back.

There was a lightness to her tone that indicated there was no danger as long as he kept his hands to himself. He continued to follow.

Someone on his right reached out and shoved him.

The cane whipped through the air, swatting Jungkook’s left arm and pinning it to his body. He grimaced, feeling the solid stripe of pain, noticing her movement had stopped his body from colliding with another in this narrow alley. The woman to his left glared at him, grinding her teeth. The shove hadn’t hurt.

It was just disrespectful as hell.

What had been previous tense silence erupted into malicious sniggers.

Droning all around.

Jungkook gritted his teeth and pushed his anger down.

Her head jerked like a hawk.

“You know the rules,” she warned to the air. “You upset me and I will take your offering from the shrine and then there will be nothing to protect you.”

The sniggering immediately died.

Now the silence wasn’t tense.

It was fear.

She removed her cane from Jungkook’s arm and swung it in an arc. Slowly.

Stopping.

Jungkook didn’t have to turn his head. He heard the sharp intake of breath. Hard not to in the terrified hush. He didn’t say anything. He let her handle it. If he reacted, there would be cracked skulls. He had a feeling that the woman in dark glasses would be a lot more pissed at him if that was the case. He did not want to make her angry. It seemed like a bad idea.

She whacked the tip of the cane against the brick wall.

Everyone flinched.

Even Jungkook felt a muscle in his shoulder twitch, reacting to the loud, piercing sound.

She turned back around and continued walking.

No one bothered them after that.

They finally turned and stopped at a makeshift shrine in the middle of the maze of alleys. It seemed to be a clearing point. An intersection of sorts, where a group of buildings were sequestered awkwardly due to poor planning. Someone had created a structure in the middle of this chaos with a shingled roof and a statue in the center surrounded by a sandy pit of burnt incense sticks. There was a wall behind it, with strips of paper tacked on, fronted by tables overflowing with fruit and cellophane-packaged boxes.

She placed the bag down and it tumbled against a stack of oranges, one red apple spilling out of the plastic and hitting some pears.

Jungkook stepped up and corrected it.

She faced the papers. They flapped about like ducks crowding a lake, not in the wind but in the hot air blasting out a vent from of one of the buildings. She made a noise that sounded like disapproval and irritation mixed together. Turned and walked purposefully away, running her cane along the cracks of the concrete.

Jungkook followed once more as she stepped out, following a walkway between two buildings.

Stopped.

There was a door to their right, inset within the walls. Or, not a door. He frowned. Instead of a handle, there was an odd dent in this part of the wall that seemed to cave inward. She paused, tapping the cane along the ground. There was a hollow sound, and Jungkook looked down to see some metal tiles littered against the door. She stepped forward, treading along the otherwise meaningless metal sealed into the concrete. She slid the cane up in her hand, gripping below the rounded handle.

The orb made of swirls around a bunny.

She raised it and with surprising accuracy, within two taps against the door, slid the orb into the dent.

There was a whirr and a click.

The door slid open, a strip of light appearing on the ground.

She stepped inside.

Jungkook followed.

“What if you lose your cane?” he wondered out loud.

The door slid closed after they entered.

“There’s another way to get in, obviously,” she tutted. “All I have to do is bleed on it.”

A hollow silence.

They were in darkness except for the thin line of light at the bottom of the door.

“I…”

“Don’t need to talk,” she interrupted. “I need to shower and then pack some things. Wait.”

She stepped out of her shoes and placed the cane against the wall beside them. Felt along shoulder height, pressing switches. Stripes of light gleamed from above and below the walls, along the edges and sides. He had to pause to take it in. Black ceilings with brocade-patterned obsidian wallpaper where the designs were glossy compared to the matte background. A squishy-looking coffee-colored leather couch, a huge sound system bolted to the wall above an electric fireplace, bobbly blankets stuffed in a basket. No television, no coffee table. A large, empty space behind this area with a large set of dark wood armories along the wall. To his right, a kitchen with dark granite countertops that had similar notable differences than what he was used to. When she walked, she followed the lines of light along the ground.

“I’m sorry,” he called after her.

She stopped.

“I should have…”

“Shut up, young gun.”

She didn’t sound angry or pissed off.

She just sounded tired and that was worse.

“You couldn’t have done anything. This is the life we have.”

“I should have tried to find you,” Jungkook pleaded to that back, to that longline black coat and graceful legs. Dancer’s legs, he used to think, so nimble and quick that he could never keep up. He had been a little envious of how lithe she was back then. Aroused at how she always struck with such poise, something he wasn’t good at. He preferred brute force. Learned outmaneuvering from watching her move, often. It was addicting, watching her move, and he had found himself wanting more.

He hadn’t expected this would be the result.

She reached up in one smooth motion and removed her sunglasses. Placed them on the kitchen island.

The palladium on the edges of the dark lenses glammed.

“You wouldn’t have found me.”

She turned.

Starburst eyelashes surrounding white, mottled irises framed by twisted scar tissue.

A faint, emotionless smile.

“Can’t find a shadow when they’re all around you, Jungkook.”

-

He breathed in.

The bed smelled just like her. Her perfume, mixed with fabric softener, and there was that indescribable scent that could only be described as his perception of her. The smell that didn’t change despite the perfume, the smell he breathed in now with his back flat on the mattress, the smell that only he knew because its effect on him was different from everyone else. It was an experience. It was memories. It was…

Jeon Jungkook breathed in, laying on her bed as she showered.

He hadn’t asked. Probably should have. His arms were spread out with the backs of his hands touching the duvet. His black jacket and vest were draped on the pale chestnut-colored velvet armchair next the bed. At least he had kept his dress shirt and necktie on. He had thought about removing them. Letting his bare skin touch the folded duvet, even slip under to be against the sheets, but even he had a limit to his insanity.

He had thought about it though.

Maybe would have done it if she meant a little less.

He had missed her smell. He inhaled again. The last time he memorized it, she still had sight. It had been so long. Time was a bitch. His hands turned. The duvet was made of a cool, creamy linen. He closed his eyes, fingertips grazing the soft fabric, something satisfying about the wrinkled texture, organic, imagining their body lines pressed against it.

He bunched the fabric in his fists.

Let go, sighing.

For not the first time, Jungkook wondered how it could have been different.

He hadn’t missed the details. All of the furniture in this home had rounded corners. Lines of light streamed throughout every room, clearly indicating all the corners and edges of the walls. There were little speakers positioned discreetly, waiting for her command. No mirrors anywhere. No windows. Hole in the wall that no one was supposed to know was here, although Jungkook was sure the Elders somehow knew. Or guessed. Sometimes one didn’t need to have full information to cause enough disruption. He gritted his teeth even though he understood why she hadn’t been in touch.

The rage within him, from witnessing how she now lived, was beyond violent.

Careful there, young gun.

This was Korea but Jungkook was eager to introduce the Elders to the language of Columbian neckties.

You’re so reckless. I like that about you.

He was of the belief that he could handle the details later. The reality was that he was just very lucky to meet certain people in this business of killing for hire. People who saw something in him, whatever it was. Youth. Energy. Power. He was coasting a little because of his looks.

That was part of playing the game, too.

He liked playing the game. It had been a necessity once, and now he liked it. Because of ego. Because he had a natural talent for it. Because there was a time where he believed there were no rules – but the rules were always there, a silken web underneath his feet. In this business, one didn’t get to decide to work for the Elders.

The Elders decided when you worked for them.

Crossing paths was inevitable.

He had almost hated it. And then he met her. Same business. Different approach when it came to dealing with the cards that had been dealt. A moment that meant everything. Pivotal. Fate. Guns crossed and he knew. He knew the moment he looked into her eyes.

Jungkook turned his head and inhaled again, drenching his lungs with her scent.

Opened his eyes.

She was gliding into the bedroom, a long, dark maroon silk robe flaring out against her legs. Her hand was following the wall, three fingertips grazing against the black wallpaper. Skin gleaming, hair pinned in large, soft curlers, head tilted to one side. The silk clung to her shoulders, her breasts, her hips, and then she turned, facing the dresser.

Her hands lifted, finding the glided edges of the dark wood, stroking the intricate profile of inlaid silver.

“If I didn’t know better, I would be creeped out right now,” she chuckled.

He sat up.

“Do you know better?”

He didn’t know how he wanted that to sound, but those words escaped with an edge of uncertainty.

On the dresser was a plate with a perfume and a collection of faceted crystals. Her hand was dancing upward, following the surface, finding the dark glass bottle. He didn’t understand the meaning of the various stones, but for some reason he didn’t think they were there for a spiritual reason.

Those thoughts were confirmed as her other hand drifted over them, following the edges.

“You’re simple, young gun.”

She doused herself with sprays of spicy gourmand.

Exhaled, satisfied.

He could smell it from here and it made him ravenous.

“And not that subtle,” she added, smooth and biting.

Silence.

Neither of them moved.

Jungkook found that despite the carnal instincts eating up in the cavity of his ribcage, he wasn’t sure if he wanted her to turn around. Knotted lines and white orbs. He grimaced and hoped it was silent. Still, he didn’t look away from her back, his skin burning all over with festering shame and guilt.

She shifted her weight, accenting the delicious curve of her hip.

Dark silk molded to those body lines.

Yeah, Jungkook was sure that he didn’t want to stop looking.

“Are you supposed to be accompanying me?” she asked.

He could lie. “I’ve been assigned to be your eyes.”

She snorted.

He would have followed anyway, orders or not. The orders were there to both torment and annoy him. Well, the level of pain depended on how he felt about the situation, he knew. And that depended on how he could navigate this moment, right now. Currently the status was, not well. Her back still facing him after all.

“Stupid motherfuckers.”

“Yeah.”

He smiled despite himself. It was funny and familiar, her swearing. He noticed the pin with the lotus and the stylized ‘S’ in her hand now. She ran her thumb over it. There was a tension in her shoulders. He didn’t recognize that symbol and that bothered him.

“I thought you were retired?”

She hummed, tapping the metal against the wood. “I am. I got bored. Gotta pick up hobbies, you know.”

“I could pick up your hobby,” he offered.

She chuckled again, placing the pin down and sliding it to between white crystals. “Sadly, I think that fun will have to wait. I’m being called to service and all that shit.”

Silence again.

It was hard to know how much time passed though. Time almost didn’t seem real in within these walls.

She broke it.

“Don’t you want to get out?”

He took a moment.

“The Elders would have called you back eventually.”

He let that statement hang in the air.

“Tracking was never your strong suit.”

Yeah, it wasn’t.

“Now it’s not mine either.”

Jungkook winced and hoped she couldn’t hear it. Her head ticked. Sigh.

“My fucked-up eyes bother you?”

“No.” Shit. He said that way too fast. “I don’t think you’re ugly.”

“That wasn’t what I asked, Jungkook.”

Her words cut through him, razor-sharp and accurate. He withered despite not being viewed.

“You know the Elders suspected you might intercept. They’re old, not dumb.” He did know. He still didn’t say anything. He struggled to say it out loud, but she had no trouble. “They are testing you. They will manipulate you no matter how you feel about it. The best way to avoid those puppet strings is to feel nothing at all. You are putting yourself in danger.”

It was unbearable, saying nothing.

“What about you?” he asked softly.

A pause.

He saw he index finger bounce silently on the edge of the dresser.

Her head turned a little more, the curlers holding her hair blocking the side of her face. She reached one and, one by one, removed them. Pulling out pins. Setting them on the dresser. Pulling out the soft curlers, setting the cylinders on the flat side so they didn’t roll away. Locks of hair cascading down, falling, falling, framing shoulders and back.

She ran a hand through her hair, sighing, separating the waves with her fingers.

Messy.

“I told you. I’m retired.”

His lips parted.

“Not uninteresting.”

The side of her mouth curved upward.

“You shouldn’t have intercepted the messenger.”

There was something about the way she said it. Teasing rather than chiding. And yet there was still that hesitation. He let his eyes roam over her partial side profile.

“I’ve been in danger from the day I met you,” Jungkook finally admitted and he didn’t mean his physical self.

From what he could see of her expression behind her hair was an amused one. “Shit. You’re gonna make me blush, young gun,” she snickered.

Her words had the opposite effect. He felt his neck heat and instantly reached back to rub it, trying not to let it show. Well, she couldn’t see anyway. After a split second of consideration, he let out the low noise of embarrassment. Her head lifted, hair shifting. He saw the side of her mouth soften to a faint smile.

“I wonder how you’ve changed,” she breathed out. “Can’t appreciate you like I used to.”

He still couldn’t quite see her eyes. They were covered by curls of hair shadowing her temples.

Jungkook let himself say her name the way he wanted to.

She didn’t move, still life wrapped in deep scarlet silk.

“I don’t believe you.”

He could see it now, the subtle change in her demeanor. Sharpened. He had said the words with a smile and she could tell. Tone or volume or both. If possible, more frightening now. More deadly. More of a weapon, which was why, he assumed, the mutilation was done rather than an execution.

“You’re blind. Not stupid,” he reminded her.

Her head and body turned.

The way her hair framed her face, only half done. The slim openings of the robe securely tied at the waist, exposing thin white scars and the raised marring of worse ones. Retired, sure, but not that long ago, and still honed in muscle and movement. She wasn’t that much older than him. She just called him young gun to get on his nerves a little. Had seniority over him in this business and all that. Pretty easy to have seniority when one was given to the Elders as a child.

Payment.

He wasn’t always a good gambler. We all start somewhere.

Jungkook stood up.

Those clouded orbs found the source of blocked light at the end of the bed. It was a different feeling, being the focal point knowing the other didn’t have sight. Unnerving was the wrong word. He was just very aware that he was the target of her senses. With sight, he realized, he had an inherent level of complacency. There were a lot of intricacies in a single glance. The concrete details mattered less than the contrast between what he expected versus what he didn’t expect.

Ah.

Her lips curved into a dangerous smirk.

He admired it.

She moved forward, silent.

“You do seem to have put on more muscle,” she hummed. “Heavy.”

“You always reminded me to remember to eat while on the job.” The direction of his voice. His breathing. “You’ve learned more skills. Scary.”

She grinned. “I’ve had some free time. Wait till you see me dual wield.”

She stopped in front of him.

Raised her head.

Jungkook found he saw a lot more when he looked into her scarred eyes than he ever expected.

“You have changed,” she murmured.

A faint smile.

“Y… Yeah,” he breathed back, the ache in his ribs rattling.

It was different.

She reached up and forward. Fingertips grazing his shirt, then finding the tie. Following it with two hands, carefully. Seeing. He tried to stay still. Focused on her face, the little smile when she found the tie clip, muttering under her breath, oh, you’ve become a little more of a man, huh, and her body language, relaxed. Comfortable. Details he would have ignored given different circumstances.

What else had he missed all this time?

He was still lacking in some areas, he realized.

She was unraveling his tie.

“I hope you have learned how to tie a tie by now.”

He hadn’t. “Nope.”

A laugh. “You hate them anyway.” She folded it in her hands and held it to the side. “Hold onto it for me. I might need it.”

His skin tingled, the sensation traveling up his back. Lifted his hand and let it linger, brushing past her callused knuckles, taking the necktie from her. A contrast from their past. This was a measured ferocity compared to a fast-paced chase. He ran his fingertips along her wrist, trailing off her forearm. She smiled and he felt it everywhere, in his blood and in his nerves, his world alight once more.

Skin-to-skin.

She raised her hands again and followed his shirt placket, starting from the top.

“I like this cologne.”

“You said it was your favorite.”

“You really can’t be subtle to save your life, can you, Jungkook?”

She teased him as easily as she teased the buttons from their restraints. He bit his lower lip, sucking in a breath.

“I’m really trying to be patient right now,” he gritted out.

She smiled again.

This was her smile she only showed him.

He was sure of it.

His shirt was halfway unbuttoned now. She leaned in, locks of hair curling over her shoulders, spreading the placket open with two fingers. Breathed out. The heated air washed over his chest, and he closed his eyes, shuddering, ignited desire shimmering in his raging blood. She did it again, but this time with his name.

“Jungkook…”

His head tipped back, lips parting, the low sound of clawing lust bubbling in his throat. His hands came up, tensely resting on her silken shoulders.

The rest of the buttons came undone as he himself unraveled.

Her hands slid in, fingers spreading over his flexed abdomen. Cool, careful, seeing him. He gasped, struggling to keep still. Exploring his scars, known and new. His shirt peeled back, tugging out of his slacks as she touched him. Along his sides, his chest. His nipples, and she flicked one, making him hiss and flinch. They hardened as she rubbed them.

“Still like that, hm.”

“S… Shut up.”

Her palms over his pectoral muscles, fingers fanning out.

“Been working out, haven’t you?”

His breathing was shallow. “Gotta pick up hobbies, you know.”

A soft laugh. She gently knocked back his arms, pushing the dress shirt off his shoulders. Confines, he concluded. Her fingertips paused on his right shoulder. He looked down, body on fire. Her lips were parted, pink tongue dancing on the edge of for lips.

“You have tattoos.”

Oh.

That was right. She hadn’t seen yet.

“Hobbies,” he snickered.

She turned her head, fingertips hesitating.

Jungkook reached up and pressed her hand to his arm.

“Please. Look.”

It was a strange, intoxicating sensation. Being touched like this, guiding her along. He murmured under his breath, describing them one by one. She could follow, especially the newer ones or the ones that were done over his scars. She lingered by the tiger lilies on the inside of his forearm. There was a patch of black there. Amusement flitting across her features. Continued down, following the outline another tattoo, tracing the eyelashes.

She cocked an eyebrow.

“I think I might change that one. In light of… events.”

Her cheek tightened in mirth. Just more confirmation that she was alarmingly acute in sensing tone and meaning beyond words.

“You’re unbelievable.”

He froze, feeling her other hand sliding up his back as the one he was holding slid down to his knuckles, caressing them as her lids lowered. Lines of scars, across starburst lashes and across his spine, closer, her fingers lacing with his, her chin lifting.

That small mole under the right side of her plush lower lip.

“You have goosebumps, Jungkook,” she purred, dragging her nails down his back.

He closed the distance.

Her scent all around him.

Her taste.

The fervor seeped into him when their lips connected, ravaging his senses and his thoughts, body to body. Nights and days, culminated memories bleeding into now, into the ferocity of their kiss, her fingers claiming his back and his in her hair, tangled in the mess, clasped hands below them, squeezing tight.

He thought he would never see her again.

Never hold, never touch, never breathe in her breath.

He was afraid too. Afraid it wouldn’t feel the same. Afraid their euphoria was broken by interference and ego. Afraid he was wrong, abut himself, about her, about them.

But he wasn’t.

Jungkook could tell.

She let go of his hand and wrapped it around his throat.

“I missed your taste,” she whispered into his moan, in between nicks of teeth and feathery kisses. “You know what makes someone dangerous?” Her grip tightened, pulling him down to her, red silk slipping off her shoulders. “When they have someone to die for.” Her lips traveling over his jaw, to his gasping mouth, his blood flow slowing as her fingers pressed into the sides of his neck. “When they have someone to live for.” Ravenous kiss, making his eyes roll back and his air disappear, lightheaded as he touched the exposed skin of her upper arm, knotted lines of scar tissue from a previous gunshot wound under his fingertips.

She murmured to his open mouth, husky voice a caress.

“When they have someone to kill for.”

He pressed his forehead to hers, his erection straining against his slacks, pressing it into her naked thigh.

“You…”

Jungkook stared into her white eyes and she reveled in the darkness, basking in his shadows, seeing all of him with all her other senses.

“You made me all three,” he gasped.

Her grip loosened and the blood rushed back, making his eyelids flutter and fire crawl up his scalp.

A resolved sigh.

“We are one and the same, you and I.”

His hands following the memorized lines across her back. The dark red silk pooling onto the floor. Her hand between them, stroking him through his clothes, choking him again. Pleasure seeping down his tense thighs, up his clenched abs. The pressure winding within his core, his lips trembling against her calm, so close to the perfect imperfection of that mole under a silver tongue.

“Guns just waiting to be aimed.”

-

She held down his wrists bound by his necktie.

Rammed her hips into his and he hissed, back arching, bouncing on the mattress. Torn condom wrapper on the floor by their discarded clothes. Saliva drying on the inside of his hard thighs still tingling from bites. Her other hand pressed down on his chest, pushing him back into place. Fuck, so tight. So wet, constricting around his cock, the swollen head throbbing against her pulsing walls.

Her face was directed to the side.

Seeing with her ears.

He groaned, feeling her hips rock, building the pace deliberately, squeezing every centimeter. Fuck. He pressed his head into the pillows, black strands invading his vision. His own hair a mess. Whimpers threatening to break free. She raked her fingernails over his chest, teasing his hardened nipples. Toying with him. Rolling her hips as he thrust up, a vain attempt to fight back.

Her fingers fanned over his wrists, palm pressing down on the knot.

“I’ve missed your sound,” she shuddered, her hand on his chest sliding to his collarbones.

Her nail scraped against his Adam’s apple, sparking electricity through his veins.

“Just… fuck… choke me, please.”

The side of her lips twisted into a smirk.

“I’ll wrap my hand around your neck.”

So tight, with love.

Her grip closed in, causing the fire to prickle over his skin, up his cheeks and down his spine. Limited oxygen, heightened awareness, pleasure flowing to every core, bound at the wrists but finally free, losing himself to the sound of connected bodies and swirling moans, to the shock of firm, wet slaps between hips, to the scent of sex weighing down the air, soaking it, to the taste of iron as he chewed on his lower lip, whines leaking out between his teeth, deeper, harder, faster.

His vision hazed, edges smoking with black.

Her chin tipped down.

Clouded white.

He was exposed, torn open and ripped apart by that gaze that was no more.

He could barely force the words out, the ache in his ribs pooling down, down.

“Take… me…”

She breathed in, seeing all of him.

“Fuck, you feel good.”

She let go of his wrists and layered both her hands over his throat, choking him harder and fucking him into the mattress. Air gone, his eyes rolling back, vision black, power radiating in every thrust, and he felt her body weight shift downward, fingertips digging into the sides of his neck, hopefully leaving bruises, his resolve cracking, slick walls around him throbbing in their shared pulse, there.

“F-Fuck!”

He rammed his hips up and the orgasm shot through him in shattering bolts, through his burning muscle and his empty lungs, his cock jerking, and then – release – his voice returning in a hoarse moan, another wave slamming into him, another level, creating a ripple effect throughout his nerves that electrified him, burning, gasping, his spine locked in an arc, hearing her exhale his name in a wanton hiss, clenching, spasms, sweet and sticky between their thighs.

His tongue extended, tasting the air, their passion palpable and pungent.

His body was trembling so much he was sure she could feel it even through her hands flat on the bed next to his head. She raised one, tracing his trembling jaw. Ran the pad of her fingertip over his quivering lips. Her name came out in a weak rasp, hot and shaking against her touch.

And yet he wanted her hands around his throat again.

How he missed that feeling.

“Jungkook…”

She saw with her hands. In scent and sound. In previous knowledge, and she knew his body so well, his heat and his hunger. Bondage was temporary. Trust was forever. She could mark him in bites and in scratches, but her scars were in the cavity of his ribs, in his heart that still yearned and in hers that she kept from him to protect them from becoming tools against the other.

Jungkook was afraid.

But he had someone to die for, to live for, to kill for.

And that made him dangerous.

So the Elders could try to rip them apart, but he was sure now that they would go down causing irreversible damage.

She ran her hands over his heaving chest.

“I’m not doing this stupid assignment until I’ve made up for lost time,” she panted, warning sharpness to her tone.

He smirked.

“I was hoping you would say that.”

--

masterpost

[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? ” - he cringes just thinking about that coming out of his mouth - 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 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 his combat classes.

“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. “ Mydoorstep. 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 grin is too mean, but he can’t help himself from sporting it.

[liz-allyn]

sugar and vice, pt. 15 [mob!tasm!peter x fem!reader]

summary: what’s worse - a painful truth or a beautiful liar?

words: 5.6 k

chapter warning: trigger warning - *tw sa* - pls read at your own risk. John Walker (is officially a c*nt trigger warning). ANNNNNNGST. Mean awful words.

series warnings: mob-typical violence, bang bang shoot shoot, whump. hurt/comfort. s*xu*l situations. spousal ab^se. family trauma. dr^g use. coercion. manipulation. kidnapping. gore. blood. toxic/yandere!peter (maybe, sorta), negative self talk, shameless forced proximity trope. ‘only ten one bed oops’ trope, imprisonment. slowest burn. a dash of questionable and/or morally grey intentions. extremely toxic relationships.

This version of TASM Peter is not canon. The relationships and characters here are not healthy.

Don't date a mob boss.™️

18+ You’re responsible for your own media consumption, but if you don’t remember when Shia LeBeouf was just Louis Stevens then I’m not sure this content is right for you.

Back to Part 14.

Part 15

She was inches off the ground, her feet kicking wildly. It was no different than a noose around her neck. John dragged her like a ragdoll into a wide bathroom stall. With his beefy hand clamped around her jaw, tight enough to crush it, he shut and latched the partition door.

The forced proximity caused her to mewl louder, hyperventilating in his grip. He lifted her further off the floor by the shoulders and slammed her against the tiles, expelling the air from her lungs. 

He was stronger than she remembered, his grip exponentially more painful. He’d no doubt logged extra hours in the gym, just like he used to, between his time at work and his time violating her.

She was weaker than she remembered, clawing helplessly at his arms with her shoulders pinned against the wall. Shrinking with terror at the feral look in his eye. Eventually, she went limp in his hold, submitting to her fate. She trembled uncontrollably, gasping through her nose, with her toes barely touching the tops of his feet. 

Just like old times.

“There you are!” he cheerfully cooed, with a tone that reminded her of the way two old women greet each other on Easter Sunday. 

His hand cemented her mouth closed while his forearm crushed her chest like a steel beam. “I’ve been worried sick about you, Peach. You haven’t answered my texts... my calls...” He grinned sadistically, with a festive tone. “I was beginning to think you’d fallen off the face of the Brooklyn Bridge!”

She had nightmares like this, where a scream tore at her throat but couldn’t break free. If she could, it would’ve pierced their eardrums. The panic in her eyes was shriller than sirens. Her heart drummed nearly as loud as the muffled music in the bar outside. Terror gripped her, and all he could do was laugh.

If she could scream, it would be one name: Peter.

As if John could read her mind, he narrowed his gaze, eyes darkening. Threatening. Daring her. “Now. I’m gonna move my hand so we can chat. And if you do so much as sneeze too loudly, I’ll drown you in that toilet bowl down there.”

She shuddered, tears spilling down her face. She sobbed. But she quit struggling. 

“Atta girl,” he purred with a wicked smile. Licking his lips, he wiped a tear away with the pad of his thumb. “Here we go.” Slowly, he loosened his grip, letting his palm slide down her chin and his fingers wrap dangerously around her throat.

She gaped up at him, wet eyes glimmering in the fluorescent light. 

“So,” he said, glancing between her petrified eyes and trembling lips. “What gives, Peach? Did you forget about me already?”

“John, please—”

He constricted his hand around the base of her neck. She pictured a python suffocating its prey, squeezing slowly until every bone shattered.

“I can’t help but feel like you’ve been ghosting me,” he said unnervingly lightheartedly. “Be honest. Was it something I said?”

She panted in short breaths. “Nonono, you don’t understand—I’m-’m trying to protect you!”

He tightened his grip.

“It’s the truth! You don-don’t understand—something is wrong... Peter is—he-he’s capable of things that-that humans shouldn’t be capable of!”

He curled a brow upwards, intrigued.

“I’ve seen it! It’s... it’s like the devil. I-I don’t know. He’s-he’s not human, John. I’ve seen him almost rip a man’s head off with his bare hands. Please, he’s... he’s not right—”

“You tellin’ me bedtime stories, Peach?” 

“Nooo,” she sobbed, shaking her head. He allowed her the space to do so. “I’m not, I swear! He-he can’t be stopped...I don’t know what he’ll do to me if he finds out— I don’t know what he’ll do to either of us—”

“Shh,” he whispered, his eyes softening. He wiped another tear from her cheek. “It’s okay, I got ya.” He stroked her face sweetly. It made her skin crawl—a cruel imitation of kindness. “I’m sure you’ll be fine. You just gotta use that silver tongue of yours.”

She gulped at his insinuation. 

“Speaking of which, you blow ‘em yet?” He sneered with a smile that made her nauseous, with an overemphasis on each syllable, “Come on, Hun-ney.” He wiped across her lower lip with the pad of his thumb, narrowing his eyes into slits. He breached her mouth, and she loathed the foul taste of his finger. “I know you’ve got what it takes.” 

She went stiff. Felt cold and clammy. Like her skin wasn’t attached to her muscles. She didn’t want to wear it anymore.

“Well,” John pouted, pulling his thumb away, “if you’re not willing to play, I’ll have to resort to other measures. Guess I’ll have to settle for the kid.”

Her eyes flashed with anger. “Don’t you dare! Don’t you dare touch Bella—”

“I’m not talkin’ about Bella,” he snickered. “And not any of your slutty sisters either.” Her brows pinched together anxiously. “I’m talkin’ about the other kid—Miles Morales.”

Her breath hitched in her throat. A Cheshire smile stretched his face like an evil clown out of a horror movie. “Fucked up what happened to his family,” John mused with faux sympathy. “If anyone ever knew where to find him, he’d be in real danger.”

Her glossy eyes widened and her blood went cold. He didn’t need to choke her. She was being strangled by a mix of terror and rage, cutting off her air supply. She thought she was going to pass out. 

“You can’t do that,” she whispered in shock. He tilted his head, glaring through slitted eyes. “He’s... he’s just a kid. He’s not even a part—”

“Oh, please,” he chuckled darkly. “Don’t tell me you’re that stupid. No one’s gonna believe that he’s some innocent bystander. Especially not the cops in this city.” 

Her upper lip curled. “You’ll never prove anything.”

“I don’t have to,” John said under his breath. His voice was as soft as a cloud, and his eyes turned to ice. “All I have to do is call for backup. Lotsa things happen when the police get involved. Miscommunication. Accidents.”

He let the words sink in, as if holding for a dramatic pause. He leered down at her maliciously, like he’d just delivered a punchline. Her sense of reason detached from her own body. A fresh swell of rage rose in her, boiling the blood in her veins.

She barely recognized her own voice, or the poisonous sound of her fury. “If you come near Miles, you’re a dead man,” she seethed, almost breathless with anger. “Peter will kill you.”

John’s smile melted at her insolence, staring at her with disbelief. Rage spread through him.

She recognized that look. Knew it well, like an old friend. This was usually the part where he’d flatten her with the back of his hand. 

She expected it. Welcomed it. She was convinced that it would have been worth it.

Instead, he pulled back his chin, studying her with scrutiny. “Wow,” he scoffed in disgust. “Parker got you good. He’s your knight in shining armor, isn’t he?”

He released her weight, letting her stand on her own, but kept his forearm against her chest. With the other hand, he reached into his pocket, pulling out a smartphone. Tapping in a code, he unlocked the screen and held it up to her view. She blinked rapidly, her eyes struggling to focus on the harsh blue light.

The image that came into view baffled her. It looked like a red paint can had exploded. But she knew who was showing her the picture, and anxious nausea gripped her. She looked away.

“Look. At. It,” he ordered through clenched teeth. “Recognize this?”

She glanced at the image with a stoic expression, which looked more like a Jackson Pollock painting than anything. She flicked her gaze upwards, glowering in silence. 

“No? Lemme show you the ‘before.’”

He swiped the photo away. Her eyes went cold.

Immediately, she recognized Peter. If you had asked her—that was the first thing she saw. He was in some kind of nightclub, maybe in a part of Web that she hadn’t seen. 

His face was partially obscured. But if you had asked her, she could tell you with certainty that it was Peter. That jutted jaw sporting a beard he’d worn up until today. That sharp nose. The prominent Adam’s apple in his throat. She’d recognize them anywhere. 

If you had asked her, he looked disheveled in a way she couldn’t recognize. His hair was wild. Black shirt slightly askew, hanging too loosely like he spent time in a mosh pit.

But if you had asked her at that moment, she wouldn’t say anything. She was unable to speak.

She was utterly frozen, staring horrified at the half-naked woman on his lap. The woman was wearing nothing but a thong and tiny slivers of fabric that barely contained her breasts. She straddled him, fingers laced around the buttons of his shirt. 

He didn’t look upset by it. Not one bit. 

Didn’t look concerned at all. Instead, his head was thrown back in what appeared to her as ecstasy. She’d recognized that expression. She’d seen it from that same angle. It had only been a couple of days since she was sitting where that woman sat.

A sharp line formed between her brows. It had only been a couple of days. 

This photo was taken with a long lens from a hidden angle. Someone had been spying on him. Watching him, unseen. Recently, too—there was a watermark of a date in the corner of the image. 

It had only been a couple of days ago.

She was numb. She didn’t need to look up at John to see him beaming down at her. The color was draining from her face, her natural hue turning greener every second. Viciously, he flicked his thumb, displaying another image.

This one had them locked in a filthy kiss. 

The next one had his lips latched to her chest.

The next one had his hands cupping her ass. Thumbs toying beneath the waistband of the silver thong she was wearing.

The next one had those hands buried in the woman’s hair—that gorgeous woman with her giant tits and flawless body. Perfect ass hoisted in the air as she bent her knees on either side of his thighs. Her tongue licked the flesh of Peter’s exposed chest. 

Although Honey’s eyes told her it was a still image, her brain projected a motion picture. Her mind crafted each frame, imagining this woman trailing down his sternum until she connected with the hard, thick line in his lap.

In her memories, she could vividly see his eyes, but now they were staring at this woman. Burning her with a hungry gaze. Speaking filthy vows as he worked himself with his own hand. Worshiping her like she was a goddess. 

“Aww, how sad,” John hummed, relishing in her pain. 

When had she started crying?

“Now, check this out. Lemme show you the ‘after.’”

Another flick of his thumb revealed a wider image of the painting. She gasped with horror as she recognized the paint splatter as human remains. It was all that was left of the woman. Body parts and organs spread across a room like disjointed puzzle pieces. Her mouth fell open in a silent gag as her stomach pitched. 

John snorted with a chuckle, “Geez, I can’t imagine the cock on this guy. Talk about splitting a woman in half, eh?”

Her heart crumbled. Her mind was shattered. Like the piano against the wall. Like that guard’s spine. Like the bloody mess of the man who’d kidnapped her. The whole world was red. 

“Did he tell you about Gwen?”

Her heart skipped at the sound of her name. Her eyes darted up to John’s—stunned. How did John know about the woman of Peter’s dreams—the other other woman in his fantasies? She gazed at him in disbelief. He snickered.

“Did he tell you they were married?”

Another stab to her heart. A phantom limb severed. 

“Did he tell you how she died?”

Another stone placed on her chest. She felt her lungs compress and buckle. 

“Did he tell you how he murdered his own wife?”

Now, she was nothing. Less than nothing. Pulverized. Crushed to dust. Ground into the dirt. No more a body than the bloody painting of Peter’s mistress.

“You know what’ll happen to me if something happens to Miles?” John said. 

He hooked a finger under her chin, pulling her gaze up to his. It was effortless. She had no fight left in her body. She was clay in his hands to mold however he wanted. A jellyfish washed up on shore. She had never had a backbone.

“Absolutely nothing,” he breathed, fixing her with a cruel smile. Tears were streaming down her cheeks, but she couldn’t feel them anymore. Couldn’t feel anything. 

“I won’t be the one that Parker goes after. It’ll be you. His sweet, saintly, slutty snake.”

She stared with lifeless eyes, like playing possum. That was a mistake. She knew it wasn’t any fun for John if he couldn’t see her suffer. He wouldn’t be sated. 

“Oh. One more thing. You forgot this.” He put his phone back in his pocket, retrieving another one. Her eyes went wide. It was hers—the one she kept hidden in her bedroom. “Can’t leave this lying around just anywhere,” he glowered. 

She felt an iron grip on her thigh. She gasped sharply, but he cupped her mouth and sealed off the cries. Viciously, he wrenched up her thigh, pulling her legs apart. His fingers groped beneath the hem of her dress. A scream bubbled up in her throat as he shoved his hand into her underwear. 

“Gotta make sure you keep this close,” he sneered through gritted teeth. Cold glass was placed crudely against her flesh, sending a chill that penetrated every cell in her body. In her mind, she thrashed, shrieked, kicked, hollered, scratched, bit, punched, yelled, clawed, bludgeoned, and punctured. But aside from sobbing, her body did nothing. 

Just like old times.

When he retracted his hand, her limbs were rubber. If his hand on her mouth hadn’t nailed her to the wall, she would’ve collapsed. 

Instead, he leered down at her, feasting on her anguish and relishing her torment.

He smirked. 

There was no need for threats. No need to worry about her at all. She was broken. Weak. She would fall apart if he pushed her—a dandelion in a hurricane.

He released her, letting her knees buckle. She slid down the wall, trembling, crumbling beneath the toilet bowl. She winced at the uncomfortable feeling of a foreign object between her thighs.

“You run along now,” he muttered, undisturbed. “You’ll be okay as long as you can manage to keep your legs closed.”

Peter leaned back against the wall, letting the coolness seep into his scalp. His eyes were closed as he hummed a tune playing on the jukebox. Every breath was measured steadily, trying to shut out the noises around him.

He’d almost lost it. Again.

And while he was dreaming up violent pictures and all the different ways he could slaughter the two drunkards—who had smartly disappeared—he felt the sensation of an icy breeze tickling his body. It started gentle, like a gust of late autumn wind against bare skin. A moment later, the temperature plunged. It was excruciating, stab wounds all over his skin like he’d been dropped into a frozen river. 

His eyes opened wide, a gasp filling his lungs. A chill he hadn’t felt in years shot down his spine. His gaze darted across the room, frantically searching. And then he spotted her—his girl stomping across the bar, rushing towards the exit. Her shoulders were rigid, arms wrapped tightly around herself, head down. She was a few paces away from sprinting. He could smell her tears from here.

His eyebrows pinched together. “Honey?”

She stopped for nothing. Scampered on shaky legs and unsteady heels out onto the sidewalk. Frozen tear tracks decorated her cheeks like glitter. She could hear Peter calling after her. The sound of his voice made her want to rip her face off. 

A bomb of vile fury— ugly, savage, and raw— had been set off beneath her ribs. Rage vaporized her insides, burning blisters across her heart. A firestorm in her stomach and chest threatened to incinerate everything in her path.

“Honey! Wait up!”

Her eyes were blurry—glazed over. She recognized the shape of a yellow cab in front of her. Didn’t hesitate for a moment. 

“Taxi!” she shouted, reaching for the door handle. She wrenched it open—if she had a fraction of Peter’s strength, she would’ve ripped the sedan in half.

Just before she crawled inside, the door slammed shut. Again. Peter tried to pull her back from the edge. Again. 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa— what the hell—?”

“Don’t touch me!” she shrieked, voice like shattered glass. 

The shrillness of it caused him to jolt. Immediately, Peter removed his hand from her upper arm, a bewildered look on his face. He blinked in confusion, overwhelmed by the redness of her eyes and the streaks of mascara down her face.

“What happened?” he gasped softly. His voice hardened to a demand. “Who did this to you?”

“Get the fuck away from me!” she screamed in a tone that was sharp and piercing enough to cut through the concrete jungle of New York City’s streets. 

Peter suddenly felt every eye in the city on him, reminding him they stood on a busy Manhattan street. Flushed, he glanced around to see a crowd of bystanders turning to look. Curious and judgmental eyes attacked him from every direction.

Calming himself, he lowered his voice. “Honey, talk to me. What happened?”

Her eyes were wild. “Where’s Bella?”

“What?”

“Where is she, Peter? Where did you take her?!”

He curled a brow upwards, studying her, becoming more disturbed by her erratic outburst. “We talked about this,” he said placatingly, “I told you she was safe—”

“All you told me was that you took my family out of their home and hid them away from me!” She roared with a sharp, accusatory tone, “What did you do to them?! Where are they?! What did you do with my baby niece?!”

Compared to her, he was a whisper in the wind. “Honey, please, just calm down—”

“Forget it, I’m leaving!”

“What? No, I’ll drive us home!” Peter rushed after her, trying to maintain control of the situation. Panicked, he made eye contact with a man sitting at the valet stand just off the arcade entrance. He called to him, “Hey! Bring my car ‘round, will ya?” He hurried to give the valet his ticket, and the young man darted off immediately at the command.

Honey was now ten feet away from him and expanding her lead. The crowd was still eagerly watching the drama unfold. His senses buzzed him again as his eyes found a beat cop parked in a police cruiser nearby. He broke eye contact with the suspicious eyes of the officer, jogging away to catch up to her.

She turned a corner just as he approached. “Honey, I said I’d drive you—”

“I’m not going anywhere with you!” she hissed. He jumped into her path, fighting the urge to make contact.

“Wait a minute—!”

“Get away from me!” she hollered, her voice cracked and ravaged with cries. She stopped and backed up, putting several feet between them. A couple that was passing by slowed to a stop to watch. As did a senior man walking his dog. As did an off-duty driver watching from his cab.

Peter could recognize a power shift when he saw one. Now, standing on Fifth Avenue with her screaming her head off in front of a growing audience, she had all the power in the world.

He breathed heavily through his nose, his voice barely above a whisper, “Please, just slow down. Lower your voice. Tell me what’s wrong—”

“Or what?” she snapped, her volume still teetering on hysteria. “You’ll kidnap me again?” She was louder than a jet engine. 

He felt faint, with the constant sirens in his mind alerting him to impending danger. He was defenseless. 

“You're gonna throw a bag over my head and put me in the trunk?” she hissed. “In front of all these people?”

He swallowed hard, stomach twisting. Skin burning from dirty looks in the crowd. Cheeks flushed red with embarrassment. 

“That’s your weakness, isn’t it?” she speared him, relentless in her attack. “You thrive in the shadows. You can’t survive without the dark! Can’t live where people can see how dirty you are out in the open! You’re worse than a rat; you’re fucking vermin! You act like you’re different, like you’ve got some moral code! But you’re no different than those dirty cops! All you want is to control people!”

His chest heaved while his gaze blackened. He lowered his chin, quietly seething. “Honey. Let’s not talk about this here.”

“I’m taking a cab.”

“You’re not gettin’ in a cab by yourself.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s not safe!”

She glowered resentfully, jabbing a finger at him, “You’re not safe!” He blinked rapidly, taken aback by the pure loathing in her eyes. Rage flowed through her veins like lava. He’d never seen her so savagely cruel, like she was savoring the violence in her mouth.

“You call that love?” she demanded, voice cracking with cries. “Devotion? That’s obsession! Slavery!” Her whole body was shaking, eyes ablaze. “Fuck you! You don’t know what it means to love!” 

The twist beneath his ribs was beginning to throb. Nostrils flared, he glared back and opened his mouth to speak. She unleashed another barrage the moment she saw his resistance. 

“You know how to fight, but you don’t know what it means to surrender.” Her voice was quieter but no less vicious. She stalked towards him, emboldened by her anger. “You think I didn’t want to leave home? I wanted to run away! But I didn’t! I stayed... because that’s my mother! I stayed there to protect my sisters!” She paused only for air. “Suffering! Sacrifice! That’s love! How dare you pretend you know anything about it!” 

“I’ve sacrificed,” he bit back, his hardened defensively. His eyes were lit up by the cars that passed by, the glimmer in them unmistakable. “And for the record—that’s not love. Love isn’t suffering. That’s fear.”

She eyed him lividly, words spewing out like boiling poison. “How would you know?” she hissed. “Everyone that ever loved you is dead. And everyone left alive is too scared to tell you the truth.”

He pressed his lips together, lifting his chin. His eyebrows furrowed together, eyes hung solemnly on her seething form. She spotted the tick in his jaw. The way he clenched it tight to keep himself from breaking down in her presence. 

Against her will, the sight soured her rage. She inhaled slowly through her nose, biting down her jaw to keep her lip from wobbling in response.

He sniffed, rubbing his nose briefly. “That feel good?” he said bitterly. He glanced up at her, tears brimming in his eyes. “I bet it did. Now you finally know what it’s like to stand up for yourself.”

He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple sliding up and down as if he was keeping something rancid from crawling up his throat. He sniffed again. Eyes flicked away. “Pretty nice bein’ on the opposite end for a change? Or do you get off on the pain more?”

Her irritation flared; his words sliced into her like a dagger. Her eyes burned with built-up tears. 

“You like that, yeah?” he glowered. His eyes flashed with anger, temper flaring. “Ain't that right?” He hissed through gritted teeth, stalking up until he was inches from her. “You love it when the bad men hurt you. Fuckin’ love being a victim. So much that you’re willing to apologize for it. Admit that you wanna be controlled! You wanna be tied up and kept! It’s your goddamn dirty fantasy, isn’t it?”

His voice reverberated off the buildings before he buttoned his lips. Nostrils flaring, he dropped his gaze to the cement beneath their feet. She glared back, but she wasn’t looking at him. 

Instead, she saw that slut writhing on top of him while she foolishly—stupid, stupid girl— worried for his safety. 

“You’re confusing your fantasies with reality,” she sneered lividly. “You bastard, you don’t even know my name. You don’t know anything about me.”

His jawbone twitched, eyes downcast. “How could I? How could anyone? You never let me in.” He glanced up at her beneath his lashes, bitterness in his gaze. “I don’t know if you won’t because you don’t trust me or because it’s just easier for you to lie. But I am the only one who has laid it all out for you! I’ve told you exactly who I am, and what I am!”

She shook her head, her tone virulent, “And I hate all of it.” 

The viciousness of her tone gave him pause. The sweet girl in the coffee shop was gone. Her humanity was ripped from her cells. He stood in horrified awe. Completely aghast and wondering who would have destroyed her like this. Who on Earth had the power to tear apart a soul the way hers had been?

“You were right, Peter,” she softly declared. “Your aunt and uncle didn’t deserve to die like that.” All the tears had drained from her eyes; the remnants dripped from her chin. Her quivering lip shook them loose. “But you do.”

The killing blow. That’s all he needed to hear in order to posit his answer. 

He had been the one to kill her. To break her spirit. Tear apart her soul. He just hadn’t realized it until now.

He heard the roar of a familiar V8 engine. Glancing over, still slightly glazed from the raw energy of their fight, he saw his Basalt Black Porsche Spyder pulling up to the curb. It stopped several paces away, high gloss shine glittering in the streetlights. It was a stunning jewel proclaiming his accomplishments, none of which he could immediately recall—or give a shit about.

Most of the faces on the sidewalk were now pointed away from them, but Peter could hear the cruel things they whispered under their breaths. Maybe they were right.

The valet popped out of the driver's side, smartly avoiding even a glance towards the couple. He disappeared, didn’t even wait for a tip. 

Peter stared at the ajar door, reeling with hot emotions and dreading the next fight ahead.

“Get in the car, Honey,” he muttered darkly. Any ounce of kindness or patience had evaporated.

“Fuck off.”

He flashed rageful eyes at her. “I’m not tellin’ you again. Get. In the car.”

She narrowed her eyes and scoffed at his empty threat. “You gonna have me whacked, Boss?”

He tilted his head. Glowered at her for several moments. “Of course not.” His tone was calm and his eyes gentle, a shocking contrast to his livid demeanor moments before. He strolled towards her until she was within arm’s length.

“I’m gonna let you go,” he said matter-of-factly. “Gonna let you run. Get as far away from me as you can, until I’m nothin’ but a bad memory. I’m gonna let you go free. Let you believe that you really won this time.” Like a feather, he drifted closer, stopping inches from her ear. He whispered icily, “Then I’m gonna hunt you down.” 

She flicked her gaze to his. His eyes were black, possessed by rage and whatever other evil lived inside his soul. “And I will bring you back. In handcuffs, if I have to. In chains.” He leveled his gaze at her, speaking in a hushed tone. “You think I’m scary now? You think I’m the bad guy? No. You haven’t seen me bad, Honey. You haven’t seen me angry.”

Her expression was stone. The threat lingered in the air, but she didn’t respond. He doubted she lacked the courage to do so. She likely didn’t have the energy.

She simply didn’t care anymore. 

“I’ve seen all I need to see,” she said calmly, letting out a tired sigh. 

Rolling her eyes, she rounded around him and began strolling towards the car. She walked with an airy gait, floating like a ghost. Untethered to this world. Empty and void of anything resembling life. “Dinner is over,” she bitterly muttered. “And I’m ready to go back to my room now—”

A force collided with her upper back like she took a punch to the spine. Before she could cry out, she was flying backward. 

The car shrank in her gaze. She came to a sudden stop, crashing against the brick wall of Peter’s chest, steel beams wrapping around her. They were both flying through the air, spinning dizzily, until coming to a hard crash on the pavement. 

The air ejected from her lungs as she rolled to her back. Peter’s body covered hers, shielding her.

A bright flash. Blinding light. A blast of heat. 

A shockwave erupted from the sportscar as it exploded into flames.

And then, there was nothing but silence.

Her lungs felt like they were on fire. She choked on methane, her chest trembling from damage. Her eyes fluttered open to see Peter gazing down at her. Doe eyes. Wide and terrified. He was sobbing. She could barely hear him over the ringing in her ears.

“Wake up, baby... Baby, please, please come back to me, wake up wake up, come back, stay with me staywithmeplease staywithme—”

It sounded like she was at the bottom of a well.

On the next inhale, she broke into a coughing fit. The change in pressure of her airways restored some of her hearing, but she was still trapped in a coffee can. The whole world rattled and buzzed around her. 

Peter’s face filled with relief, albeit short. “I got you.” His voice trembled. She was no longer on the ground. She was freezing and soaked, covered in road mud and sleet. She shook against the heat of his chest. Her fingers were icicles, and it was painful to grip his neck.

“I got you,” he repeated. “S’okay. Gonna get us out of here, okay? Just close your eyes for me.”

The bright lights of a bonfire blinded her, and closing her eyes was a welcome relief. Then her stomach pitched, like she jumped off a building. 

She kept her eyes closed. Gripping him close, her nails dug into the leather of his jacket. She was so cold. Like she’d been walking through a blizzard. Could barely feel her toes. What happened to her shoes?

She jostled as she came to a sudden stop. Her head throbbed from the jerking sensation. It was like she’d been in a car crash. Or had gotten hit by a bus.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Peter repeated, terror stretching his voice thin. “Sorry so sorry so sorry I didn’t mean it, I didn’t mean it—”

She felt herself crying, shaking in his hold. The sharp prickle of gravel on the backs of her exposed legs startled her. Dizzied, she blinked up at him in confusion. His gaze was buried within hers. He cradled her close to his chest. 

She was disoriented. Where did the buildings go? Were they on the roof? When did they go upstairs? Had she blacked out?

“Baby, look at me,” he called to her, his voice as gentle as a lake. Her eyes struggled to focus. Her mouth opened, but she couldn’t breathe enough to speak. Choked on the frost in the air. Choked on the taste of blood in her mouth.

Her eyes went wide, gazing up at him as terror settled in. Her brain started to reboot, putting pieces together, but her pulse pounded as the picture came to life. The car blew up. Right in front of her. They had almost died. She had almost died. Peter had almost died.

She sobbed. Cried out his name.

He held her tight, rocking her like a child. “It’s okay,” he whispered soothingly. He dug his arm beneath her knees, elevating her legs while dipping his hold on her back. He was so warm, always warm all the time—practically burning up. She was so cold. 

“You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay. Just breathe.” 

Tearfully, she hiccuped, sucking in big gasps of air. “Pete—”

“Shh, shh,” he cooed. “Breathe for me, baby. Just breathe. Just like you taught me, yeah? In and out. We’re gonna take a moment to breathe.” 

“M’sorry... I’m sorry about everything,” her voice broke over the words. It felt like her tongue wouldn’t move as she wanted it to. “I didn’t mean it—” 

His face was filthy, streaked with tears and horror and blood. He shook his head, touching his nose to her. “It’s okay, baby. Just rest right now, okay?”

“Peter, what happened?” she cried, shuddering as he rocked her. “Wha...?”

“It’s okay, sweetie. S’okay, we just fell. We fell. You-you hit your head... and—fuck, I’m so sorry, this is all my fault—”

“I’m co-cold...”

“Here.” He shucked off his jacket, blanketing her with it. “We gotta get you warm. Just need t’get a good look at you, see where you’re hurt.”

“Di-Did I almost die?”

He winced. Squeezed his eyes closed, like holding back a scream. “No, baby.” He swallowed hard. “No. I was never gonna let that happen. I’m never gonna let that happen, I swear.” His face crumpled as he pressed an agonized kiss to her forehead. “I’m so sorry. I’ll never—I’ll never hurt you again, I swear it. I swear.”

Her face crumpled as he squeezed her body to his chest. She closed her eyes, burying her wet cheeks in the crook of his neck.

He was sorry. So was she.

But not nearly enough. 

Not yet. 

Continue to Part 16

[back to masterlist]

A/N yeeeeeaaaah. originally, i planned for 14 and 15 to be one chapter, but instead, we needed some semblance of joy. for a moment.

thank you so much for everyone that has given me beautiful feedback and notes and fun little ideas for the playlist—I have been going through a mountain of stuff but I appreciate you all so much.

want to be on the taglist for the next one? make sure you reblog!

take care, spider fam

[matthew-gray-gublers-babygirl]

Hi :)

I really love your story "Late Night Visitor". Would you like to write a second part? Maybe something about how John and Reader try to find more and more opportunities to "spend time together", they are getting more passionate and brave and one time they are almost caught by Winston. Sorry for my English (this is not my 1st language). Your works are great,

Best Wishes,

Late Night Visitor (PT 2) - John Wick x Fem!Reader

Summary: As requested, I wrote a second part to my Late Night Visitor fic. And yes, I know this took me a lifetime. I wrote multiple different variations but I was never happy with the outcome and scrapped them. I'm considering a third part as well!

Contents: Oral smut (m receiving), moments of dominance, soft!John, minimal swearing and dirty talk, implied violence.

Wordcount: 1035

Read part one -> here

Enjoy!

In the back of your mind, you thought the incident with Mr. Wick would be a one-time thing. A man nearing fifty with a young woman barely in her twenties yet. Society would have a rampage. But then it happened again. John couldn't keep his hands off you, and you couldn't resist. And now you were there again in Johns’ reserved room, pressed against the wall while being touched and teased in just the right places.

“Missed you,” he whispers simply as his hand runs along the curve of your bum, giving it a squeeze as his mouth sucks hot welts onto your neck. You whine as all the blood comes to the surface. “Me too…” you whisper, a whine begging to escape your mouth as you spoke. You feel John’s husky breath against your neck as he prepares to speak. “Did you miss my cock?” you whimper at his words and force his knee deeper between your legs. 

John impatiently awaits your answer. “Did you?” he repeats. “Yes,” you spit out. “Missed it so much.” You attempted to pleasure yourself while thinking of John, but it wasn't the same. You couldn't give yourself an orgasm as strong as John knew how to.

John smirks at your answer. “Why don't you show me how much you missed it?” he says, forcing you to your knees as you promptly undo his dress pants, pull down his underwear and take out his half-erect cock. You pump his length in your hand, running your thumb over the tip which rewarded you with a low groan from John. “You look so pretty on your knees,” he hums, running his bruised fingers through your hair. You take one of his hands, inspecting the bruises before giving each knuckle the gentlest of kisses. He had forgotten how it felt like to be cared for. 

John rubs his thumb against your cheek, and before he could say anything else, you licked his tip, causing his hips to buck. “Baby, fuck. Gotta warn me,” he laughs. This was the real John. He may seem like he has a hard exterior, which is true from all the years of training, but inside he just wanted to love somebody, and to be loved.

You let out a soft giggle. “Sorry,” you smile. John was now fully erect in your hand and was silently begging for more. You wrap your lips around the tip, gentle suckling as John's breath gets heavier with every second. “Youre so good at this, baby. Just like that…” he whispers to you. He always loved to talk you through it. This was the third time you two were really alone together. You had your little stolen kisses in the hallways after John studied the corridors for blindspots in the security cameras, and of course that unforgettably embarrassing dinner your father just had to arrange. 

Your father arranged a dinner with a couple of his well-known business partners, and that included John. As his young daughter in law school, you were also invited to socialize with people in your field of study. You felt John's eyes on you the entire night. You tell his blood pressure was rising every time one of the younger male associates gave you more than thirty seconds of attention. 

After one too many awkward conversations, if one could even call them that, you excused yourself to the ladies' room. You grab a paper towel, letting some water moisten it slightly before gently patting your forehead and neck with the cool water. Your panties were soaked and you were immersed in hot flashes from how badly you needed John. He looked so good in a three-piece suit. 

As you leave the restroom you are met with John standing right in front of you. He pulls you into a corner hidden from the main view of the restaurant and kisses you passionately. His hands grab needily at your waist and buttock. You couldn't help but kiss him back but are forced away once reality kicks in.

“John, John!” you quickly push him away. He lets out a sigh and a wash of disappointment splashes on his face. “I’m sorry. It's just hard to keep my hands off you,” he whispers, moving his hands to a respectful area on your upper waist. “Don’t be sorry. I just don't want you to get in trouble, that's all,” you explain, and he nods. “When can I see you again? You know, alone,” he asks as he plays with the hem of your dress. “Soon,” you say. “I’ll come by your room later tonight if it's clear.” That’s how vague the planning had to be. It was all about luck. You had to pray that your father wasn't looking for you, nor that he or Charon was on the same floor as John's room. 

You return to the dinner table, and John returns shortly after. His excuse being that he went out for a smoke break, but everybody at the table couldn't help but notice my faded lipstick and the transferred pigment on John. 

Back at the hotel, you were escorted back to your room by your father, which you though was strange. “Did you have a nice time at the restaurant?” he asks. You ponder. “It was nice. There was a bit of tension, I think. At least on my end,” you explain. “Like what?” your father asks. “Please, do tell.” you sigh. “Well, I feel like your business partners don’t see me as an adult. They don't take me seriously, even if they pretend to,” you say. “I guess the only associate of yours I get along with is John. Mr. Wick,” you say, quickly but ineffectively correcting yourself at the end.

“You like Johnathan. Don’t you?” You swallow thickly. “Define ‘like’,” you say. “You get along with him. He respects you and you respect him,” your father states. “But who am I to say anything about your relationship with him,” he says humbly as you reach your bedroom. “Goodnight, sweetheart. Don't stay up too late,” he hums, giving you a kiss on the forehead before leaving to attend to some business. 

Did your father know about your relations with John? You used to be afraid of abandonment and death, but now this was your biggest fear.

[theexaltedbride]

Dead Island 2 Slayers X National Guard Reader (Gender Neutral) (Part 2!)

(Once again, art is not mine, but taken from the old TTRPG “All Flesh Must Be Eaten”, forgive me if its a crappy crop. AFMBE is a pretty good and highly modular game if you want to get your zombie fix on with some dicegames. I would also recommend the other games by Eden Studios, like Conspiracy X, Armageddon, and Witchcraft. Not enough people out there give Unisystem a try.)

Amy:

-When it comes to running PT around the manor, or around the block that has been cleared out, Amy always runs past you like its nothing and sometimes playfully swats you on the butt just to help motivate you to move it.

-She sometimes says that after they all get out of this, she might start looking into helping out with physical therapy and exercises for wounded vets with prosthetics. Give something back to the community, but she’s doing it after she wins the gold at the Paralympics and kisses you on camera of course.

-When you go to visit Patton, Amy likes to tag along. She may not know what kind of pain he feels as a soldier, but she perfectly understands what he suffered through his injury and how he must have felt when given looks by people who saw his face. It was the same kind of looks that Amy got for her prosthetic leg. She sees that you like to check in on Patton and wants to be part of it, as her way of telling you that if you were ever hurt like that, or lost a limb like she did, then she would still love you no matter what.

-Amy has seen the way you sometimes have trouble fighting zombie soldiers, and has tried to help you through it by opening up a little about how she hates learning the names of the more recently infected, because its so much easier to put them down when you think of them as just monsters. She understands what bothers you, and she is there for you.

-After plenty of gun drills out in the hills (totally not an excuse to have a secret picnic alone together...well not all the time), you’ve both decided that a pistol is the best kind of Gun for Amy. Something lightweight she can fire one handed while on the run and keeping ahead of the undead.

Bruno:

-Whenever he sees you loading up on weapons or equipment it’s going to be a tossup between a John Wick or John Rambo joke.

-In a sparring match you got a bit too into it and punched Bruno so hard it knocked him down, he played it up more while asking if you could kiss it better.

-Once in bed asked you to talk to him in a more dominant and commanding way, giving him orders. 

-When you’ve tried to determine what gun was best for Bruno, he insisted on trying out a shotgun, only to immediately get knocked onto his ass by the recoil. He had a bruise for a few days, but it was the bruise to his ego which stung the most. This soon cleared up when you figured out a single shot sports rifle with the same caliber rounds as your own, was better for Bruno rather than Semi-automatic or Full-automatic. This way you could both share the same ammunition, but Bruno could actually take his time to hit the Zeds. Anything else seemed to make him too trigger happy. 

-Once you figured out Bruno kind of wanted to impress Mr. Curtis (because he was his Grandpa’s favorite actor) you helped Bruno get some target shooting in so that the next time Curtis had any shooting competitions at the mansion, Bruno just might be able to impress him. 

Carla:

-Similar to Bruno, Carla will sometimes compare you to Hicks or Vazques from Aliens when she sees you loading up, and will throw some quotes your way.

-The scratches you both leave on each other during sparring sessions lead to a lot of jokes that you’re straight up having wild Viking sex rather than training. Carla just jokes back that if you can survive either one with her then nothing will kill you.

-You were genuinely impressed at seeing Carla pick up an M-249 SAW like it was nothing. She loved the look on your face as she just unloaded it into a horde of Zeds coming at you. Sure, most of her shots completely missed or only maimed the zombies, but that still doesn’t change the fact that you will never forget that moment. 

-As a special gift to you, Carla’s personal project is to pick out one of the military vehicles lying around that is best suited for both fighting and transporting people, and tricking it out to handle moving through the zombie infested streets. She’s gonna make it look like something out of Dawn of the Dead or Mad Max. As tribute to you, she’s naming it the “(Your Name) 2″. Since she’s not up to date on what vehicle does what, she’s constantly asking you about them.

-Carla liked her own style, but after finding out from you just how many different pockets military and tactical pants have she’s started to adopt them as part of her wardrobe and loves all the extra space she has for holding her tools and snacks and whatever the hell else she wants to carry with her in the zombie apocalypse. Pockets rule!

Dani:

-Dani regularly helps you cut and style your hair properly so you can keep it regulation standard. She find it boring and would love to go crazy with your hair. But since you want it that way, and it relaxes you to keep some uniformity to your look, she tries to keep complaints to the minimum (but insists on getting to go all out with your hair once you both leave Hell-A and your time with the Guard is over).

-Despite not being one for guns, Dani took to them like a fish to water. She passed all the tests you devised for the group with flying colors (matched only by Sam B whose had plenty of experience by now). She prefers sticking to smaller calibers with pistols and submachine guns. You even went so far as to teach Dani a few little tricks, such as how to properly move and clear a room without bumping into someone else, and communicating with gestures and touches. Shoulder touching is normally a way of communicating between soldiers among a fire team to let them know you are nearby and ready, but between you and Dani it has also taken on a more...intimate meaning as well.

-Since Dani loves to swear now and gain you’ve taken to teaching her some military swears and fun acronyms like SNAFU (Situation Normal All Fucked Up), RDS (Real Deep Shit), and Blue Falcon (Buddy Fucker IE: Backstabber / double-crosser.).

-She sometimes jokes about taking the riot gear off of a riot zombie and wearing it so that she and you can look like a properly armored pair of warrior lovers. But she likes being able to maneuver around zombies and the armor would just cramp her style.  

-Started affectionately calling you the “GI of My Eye.”, even after someone joked that it sounded more like a reference to an eye infection than something sweet (to which she punched them square in the shoulder for it).

Jacob:

-He’s normally pretty anti-authoritarian and anti-establishment, but didn’t take too kindly to Rikky Rex shit talking you in your uniform and making Vietnam War comparisons. Rikky doesn’t know you and doesn’t know what you’ve been through to save people in Hell-A while he and his gang of drunks were partying it up in Beverly Hills. It wasn’t so much an argument on your behalf, as Rikky is way too drunk to hold a coherent thought, but it was kind of nice to see Jacob stand up for you personally even if there are things he doesn’t agree with about your service and to whom you swore an oath to. 

-You and Jacob are starting to develop a Legolas and Gimli style competition over who can stack the most Zeds per mission. You both lie to try and make it sound like the other person got more kills.

-Jacob is trying to find a sleeveless vest with a camo pattern that matches your own, no luck yet but he’ll keep looking.

-You tried to get Jacob to do some gun practice with you, but he honestly swears it off and is happy to stick with clubs and hammers. He says you can pick off the zeds from a distance while he crushes the ones that get through, teamwork.

-Jacob would love to introduce you to his mother, especially if you would show up in your dress uniform, his mother has always been telling him to meet someone nice and respectable outside of the Stunt actor business. 

Ryan:

-You and Ryan had a bonding experience over sharing an MRE together. He was surprised it wasn’t total garbage. It wasn’t good, but at least it was somewhat edible, and he especially loved finding that they sometimes come with sweets.

-You once caught him wearing your helmet and vest and admiring himself in a  mirror while trying out some lines as if he were an actor. You joked to him that if he really wants to admire himself like that in private you could clean up an extra uniform and gear for him to use, but to not use yours since you need them.

-Ryan sometimes leaves little things in your helmet when you are going to be separated for missions and he knows about it in advance. This could range from sweets, to notes, to even once an old photo of him mid dance during his previous career. 

-You’ve both been practicing how to carry another person if they are injured, that’s totally why you are constantly grabbing each other. No ulterior motive at all. It’s just professionalism, even though Ryan isn’t a real First Responder. (Do you think the other Slayers bought it?)

-He has sometimes wondered what he’d look like with a more military high and tight haircut, but just can’t give up his current hairstyle. He even jokes to you that it was a good thing he had a fireman’s costume on hand, or else he never would have been able to bluff his way past the security checkpoint if he had to pretend to be a soldier.

All Purpose Headcanons:

-Once it finally gets through the heads of everyone else that you have a day job besides being in the Guard, they started coming at you with all sorts of questions about what you do and why you chose to give up part of your time off and work days doing training and other work with the National Guard. They were kind of disappointed that your answers were pretty mundane.

-When your slayer lover was thrown into the sewer pit by the Numen, the only reason you didn’t immediately try to jump in and save them was because you tried to stab the nearest Numen who was in your way, only for them to block your hits. Despite being untrained, the Numen named ‘Thurston’ was able to match your movements with frightening speed, using the barrel of his own rifle to block all your bayonet jabs and swipes, before the one called Cadenza grabbed the barrel of your rifle and bent it like a toy. Together the two of them kicked you square in the chest and send you tumbling down into the same pit as your lover.

You landed on the ground with such force it knocked the wind out of you, but before the zombies could overwhelm you your Slayer Lover jumped in, crushing the skulls of the zeds with ease, kicking them so hard they splattered against walls. Even in your lover’s frenzied state, they recognized you and knew the danger you were in, and would not allow any harm to come to you.

-When your own Numen abilities began to manifest beyond just a general boost to your body and rapid regeneration, you found that your experience as a soldier, taking orders and sometimes giving them, has influenced your powers. When you try hard enough, you can start to command the weaker autophage infected and use them like puppets to attack other infected. It is draining, gives you a real migraine, and feels...dirty when you do it. But it has been a lifesaver for the group on a few occasions so it remains a trick you can pull out when needed. You can’t do more than a dozen infected at a single time, but the more you practice, the better you get at controlling them. 

You’re also beginning to suspect that the Numen called ‘Konradt’ might have a similar power to you. Unlike her, you only use this power when necessary, while you have a sneaking suspicion that she uses it to spy on you and the Slayers.

-Your Slayer lover kept trying to throw grenades like they were baseballs and it took you a while to teach them to properly lob it overhead. Luckily there are plenty of Zeds to practice with.

-Thankfully you haven’t had to fight too many other survivors, the uniform and six other survivors at your back is enough to intimidate most raiders, but a few times now its had to happen, at least when it does you can fall back on the training.

-As dangerous and downright terrifying as it is to go out at night, sometimes you have no choice, a mission needs to be done or you need the cover of darkness to help you get somewhere far from the mansion. For moments like these you are sadly one of the better options for a moonlight run. You have yet to find any proper night vision goggles, so you have no choice but to rely on moonlight, random streetlights, or your own flashlights to get across Hell-A. Since you’re the one with an understanding of light discipline, and regularly wears camo to blend in, you are normally chosen to go out at night. Though your Slayer Lover always wants to go with you since its dangerous at night. 

-You have some small experience with CBRN and other Hazmat training, not a lot but you and the others were given a quick refresher before being sent to LA to fight the infection, so you tend to be the one helping cleanup after any major fights near a safezone. Surprisingly, Andrea is pretty good at cleaning up those messes as well. The group also tends to depend on you to clear the way whenever you encounter that caustic slime the government was using to melt down infected bodies and neutralize the virus. 

-The worst encounter you’ve had so far has been in finding infected version of soldiers and guards that you knew from before. Whatever they once were is gone now, and you struggled to pull the trigger, the Slayers helped you, they told you to just look away while they did the dirty work. There were no jokes, no quips, just fast and efficient Slaying. Afterwards, your lover refused to leave your side until they were sure you were okay, and only after you asked them to give you some space.

-The best memory so far is when you (thanks to Carla’s mechanic experience) managed to get a Humvee working and proceeded to drive it up and down the beach, giving everyone else a turn on the .50 call in the turret, while mowing down zombies left and right. You even plowed through a few smaller swarms before you slammed into a Crusher and had to bail out while it was trying to flip the vehicle. Next time you are gonna try to do it again with an MRAP. Though honestly you should get one of those working in order to safely evacuate multiple civilians at once if you ever need it.

-Since you already have some bayonet training and experience you’re starting to get good at using spears and polearms and other similar two-handed stabbing weapons.

-Sometimes when you and Patton hang out, you both slip into a lot of military jargon and three letter acronyms or slang that leaves the rest of the group completely lost. Its fun to see the utter confusion on their faces.

-You’ve had to borrow extra uniforms off of the ‘fresher’ undead and give them a thorough cleaning so you have more than one set to use throughout the week. The others have suggested just switching to normal clothes, but you can’t. This is who you are and its who you will present yourself as, especially given how many times people have looked hopeful when you and the Slayers come to the rescue.

-Sometimes you listen to Civil Defense frequencies on the radios, or over scavenged military comms and some of the reports you hear are strange. Those earthquakes that screwed up the evacuation almost felt targeted, rather than just a case of nature being cruel. Down in one of the spare rooms you are slowly putting the pieces together with a web of intrigue on a wall. The others aren’t sure they buy your theory...but you think the Earthquakes and all that slime everywhere is not natural, its something eldritch, lovecraftian even. Luciana is the only one who is into this, but you need more proof. Which might mean dealing with the Eschaton group at some point.

When you have enough proof, you’re going to send it back to the DOD, CDC, Every single Alphabet Agency and news agency, so that the world can be prepared for what is to come. You just need to be able to prove it. This might be the only chance we have to stop humanity from dying, all the lives lost, all the pain endured, it has to be worth it in the end.

Bonus: Bruno’s playlist for you.

Some of the songs Bruno has put together which remind him of you or he likes to listen when out with you.

-The Offspring “Dividing By Zero/Slim Pickens”.

-Neo Fresco “Sublimation”.

-Battlefield 3 “Steel On Target”.

-Sons of Pythagoras  “Counting The Cost”.

-Imagine Dragons “Friction”.

-Nine Inch Nails  “The Good Soldier”.

-Invocation Array “The Machine in the Ghost”.

-Jefferson Airplane  “White Rabbit”.

-Disturbed “The Curse”.

-Disturbed  “The Infection”.

[nenyabusiness]

Writer Asks

Tagged by @myfavouritelunatic and @cliffdivingsblog, thank you!

How many works do you have on AO3? 24 on one account, 43 on another. (I'm telling you, I'm juggling two hyperfixations.)

What's your total AO3 words count? 201,385 on my reylo/haladriel account, 123,964 (100k redacted because of a fic-turned-novel publishing deal) on my Final Fantasy/JRPG/anime account.

What fandoms do you write for? Currently, Tolkien (Rings of Power with touches of Silmarillion) and Final Fantasy XIII (fine, @shadowmeowth, accept that we're more or less co-writing now, FINE).

What are your top five fics by kudos? - A reluctant compromise (reylo, force bond smut) - Whatever It Takes (reylo, WIP that will probably never be finished, I'm so sorry) - The Wolf (reylo, post TLJ-smut) - You'll Be Mine (reylo, force bond smut) - se vis pacem, para bellum (haladriel, John Wick AU) I was on a roll with the reylo force bond smut there for a while.

Do you respond to comments? Why or why not? I didn't use to until about half a year ago. Until then, I didn't see writing fanfiction as being a part of a community the same way I do now. I recognize most of my commenters now, so it feels more natural to turn the comment section into a place for dialogue. (Yes, anyone-who-have-commented-on-a-fic-more-than-a-handful-of-times, I do remember you and I'm always happy to see you come back!)

What's the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending? This made me laugh, because in a different lifetime in a different fandom (okay I'm talking hope/light 2012), I was called "the Queen of Angst". I was still struggling a little with writing in English, so I relied a lot on the same kind of writing that you guys see from me today in my ficlets. Short, straight to the point, and packed with emotion. Easy way of getting around that little issue of, you know, not being able to describe things. It's hard to choose from those, but I remember people being really upset about this one: - The nameless soldier In this fandom, most of my ficlets are pretty angsty, but I think this one might be one of the most tragic: - but still the door is closed

What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending? I think Four Hours a Day wins the race here, even if se vis pacem, para bellum is a close second. Four Hours a Day might be the only fic I've written that's pure feel-good.

Do you get hate on fics? Back in the FFXIII fandom in 2012, that was just your everyday morning news. The shipping wars were ruthless. Pretty intense from time to time with reylo too. I've only gotten hate twice in the haladriel fandom, and one of them made me laugh so hard because the thing they decided to dunk on was actually taken straight from John Wick.

Do you write smut? If so, what kind? Yes, yes I do. It used to be limited to M+ territory, but I managed to cross the threshold into proper E with Four Hours a Day. I've always been more intrigued by sexual tension and buildup rather than the actual mechanics, but I'm in an experimenting phase.

Do you write crossovers? If so, what's the craziest one you've written? Do I even have to say it? I'm going to say it: se vis pacem, para bellum. John Wick x Rings of Power x some Silmarillion. When I first got the idea, I thought it was so bizarre that I would probably be its only reader. I was proven wrong. Good times.

Have you ever had a fic stolen? Yes. A lot of FFXIII fics were scraped and reuploaded on a different site a couple of years ago, but we managed to get them removed.

Have you ever had a fic translated? Yep! The fic that I later rewrote into an original work was translated into German and French, and one of my reylo works have been translated into Russian.

Have you ever co-written a fic before? I have. I wrote a scene together with @youwearfinethingswellwriter a couple of months ago, and I'm currently in some kind of symbiotic writing relationship with @shadowmeowth.

What's your all time favourite ship? I can't choose between haladriel and hope/light. I just can't. I've got two hyperfixations and neither seem to be willing to let me go. (And one of them has had a hold over me for 13 damn years.)

What's a WIP you want to finish, but doubt you ever will? Definitely Whatever It Takes. I didn't have an outline when I started, and then the project just grew too big. I knew, ish, where I wanted it to go, but I didn't know how to get it there. I'm really sorry about abandoning it though, because I had so many lovely followers. (Fun fact: I actually got to apologize for that, 7 years later, when one of those followers started commenting on my haladriel fics. The reylo/haladriel venn diagram is a circle.)

What are your writing strengths? Thanks to the editors I worked with when I got my novel published, I learned a lot about writing action scenes and how to control the pacing. I'd like to think that at least some of it stuck. I'm also good at writing short. It's not necessarily an altogether positive thing, but I do know how to get something across with as few words as possible. (Oh, the things you do to avoid describing things when you're writing in your second language.)

What are your writing weaknesses? Second. Language. Writer. My prose is efficient, but it will never be pretty or effortless. And I'm really, really slow.

Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language for a fic? Unpopular opinion? It's a pet peeve. If it's already established that a conversation is held in a certain language but written in English, there's no need to add phrases from that language to the dialogue. For me, it just makes it look like the characters were speaking English all along. Just... pick one. Full translation or plain English.

First fandom you wrote for? Final Fantasy XIII. Never left.

Favourite fic you've ever written? It's a tie between se vis pacem, para bellum and Four Hours a Day. Para bellum was a four month commitment. I followed an outline from start to finish with barely any alterations at all, and it turned out exactly as planned. 4h/d was the complete opposite. I got an idea, and then I wrote the whole 12k monster of a one shot in like two days. It reawakened my love for music, and I still reread it sometimes when I need to get a music kick. Damn. That was a lot. My usual suspects seem to have been tagged already, so I'm leaving that open. Thanks again!