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johnwickb1tsch · 16 hours

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THE DEVILS' TRIANGLE

A Yandere Tex Johnson x Witness!Reader x John Wick (& now John Constantine) Imagine Part 8 by:

@treedaddymcpuffpuff @sweetwolfcupcake @johnwickb1tsch and @tammykelly (with honorary dream weavers / shit stirrers @lilspookymeh & @kurai-hono-blog 😘)

Warnings: So many dead doves! Do not eat! Unless you like dead doves, that is. You're in good company here. 😘 Violence, sexual content, blood, murder, kidnapping, possessive behavior, dubcon, yandere sh!t...it's all here! Please take care! 😘

ALL CHAPTERS

PART 9

Johnwickb1tsch:

Wick could have been an asshole about buying a brand new kitchen, sundries included–but instead he merely shrugs off Constantine's hostile question. "Seemed like the least I could do."

Constantine glares, but lets it go, begrudgingly sitting down to a delectable meal cooked by the man he knows, deep down, that you've never been able to forget.

At Tex's midday administering of magical medicine, he takes your hand after you finish, refusing to let go. "Set with me a while, Rattlesnake." He pats the couch, on which there is no room unless you were to sit in his lap–undoubtedly his hope.

With a sigh and a knowing smirk you settle back in your chair. Your eyes are drawn to the burn upon his chest. He will carry that mark for the rest of his life, even if the magic is lifted.

You think on what Papa Midnite said to Constantine. "Take some big feeling..."

It kind of floors you, to think of the energy it took for Constantine to conjure that working out of thin air.

For you.

You told him a little bit about the boys. How they hurt you–and, how they saved your life. How you loved them, and how they destroyed you in their abandonment. No matter how you framed it, Constantine blamed them for the bullet wound forever seared in your side.

However, it wasn’t so simple as that.

"Whacha thinking, baby girl?"

You just shake your head with a tired smile. "Nothing important."

"Hmm. You gonna make me guess? Alright. You're thinkin'...bout that time in Mexico it was just you an me and the stars, out by the pool in our birthday suits."

You snort–quite against your will, it turns into a giggle.

"No..."

"Uh huh. You’re missin' my wicked tongue up between your thighs. I know that look."

"That's enough of that," you say, trying to stand. But he has your hand, and he tugs you so that you fall down to sit on the edge of the couch–and half on him. Your faces hover just centimeters away. You watch with horror a he tries to lean in, capitalizing on the opportunity. By the skin of your teeth, your heart in your throat, you just barely manage to turn your head.

"Didn't you miss me, rattlesnake?" he asks, his deep voice all sultry and low just wrecking you to the bone.

You dare reach up to caress his cheek with the blade of your thumb. "Of course I did. But there’s no going back, Tex. Maybe...that time is behind us." Just saying it hurts like a knife between the ribs, but you go on, “Maybe you and John did the right thing, letting me go.”

He just narrows his dark eyes at hearing that. You hate the way it gives you such a thrill, to the base of your spine, and lower still. “I thought you were mad about that? Hell, I’m still mad about that. I miss you so much I can hardly think straight. There’s just…” He frowns while he says it, but you know it’s just because he’d literally rather take a bullet than talk about his feelings. His grip on your hand tightens; he glares down at your silver rings like they owe him money. “There ain’t no point to anything, when you’re gone. Do you know what I mean?”

You close your eyes; for a moment you feel as though the floor has dropped out from under you, because you know exactly what he means. You lived it for months after they booted you, drifting from country to country, an empty husk of a woman, a gaping black hole where your heart used to be. Only after moving to LA, thinking about going back to school, and meeting Constantine, did your life start to feel like it had some meaning again.

“Yeah. I know what you mean,” you answer quietly. “But how did you think this would go? You’d knock on my door, and I’d just uproot my whole life for you again?”

“Maybe?” The confusion on his handsome face is almost cute. You realize he really did think it would be that easy, and you snort, looking away to a framed Tibetan Thangka painting on the wall. This man. As ever, you’re torn between kissing him and killing him. You have to keep reminding yourself that the former option is not even on the table.

“At least give me some credit. I coulda come in with guns blazin' but instead I brought flowers."

“You want credit?”

“Yeah. I’m practically a changed man. And I wouldn’t mind an apology from Wizard Boy either.”

"You've got to be kidding me." The pair on this man never ceases to amaze you.

"We were just having a little bit of friendly fisticuffs, but he fucked me up pretty good. That’s called unnecessary escalation.”

He would know.

"Spare me the macho bullshit. There’s no such thing as friendly fisticuffs. You were going to hurt my boyfriend, and you absolutely deserved what he gave you. You’re lucky he got Midnite to lift it."

Only a beat later do you realize you called Constantine your boyfriend within earshot of everyone, which you never do, because you both hate labels and the word just seems too high school for what you actually are to each other–but there’s no going back now.

“But–”

At last, at last, you are in a position where you don’t have to swallow his gaslighting. “No buts. You can behave yourself, Tex, or you can go. I mean it.”

Maybe drawn by the sound of your raised voice, Constantine chooses that moment to intervene, appearing at the foot of the couch with a magnificent frown.

“Well well, if it ain’t The Boy Who Lived.”

You know he’s just making yet another Harry Potter reference, but considering Constantine’s history, this nickname makes you flinch. Maybe it’s a mistake on your part, but you bristle. “Don’t call him that.”

Constantine, however, betrays nothing, just crossing his arms with that blandly judgy expression. “It’s alright, y/n. He loves childrens’ books–a man has to stick to his reading level.” You don't feel like arguing about the complexity of the later books, so you let the arrow fly.

You lift an eyebrow, side-eyeing Tex. “You do know an awful lot about Harry Potter for a grown ass man your age.”

For possibly the first time ever Tex actually looks sheepish. “Had to read something while I was in the shit.”

Tex never really told you much about his tour of duty in the Middle East. Bradford had intimated that it didn’t end well–but you weren’t exactly keen to take everything that asshole had said with any sort of seriousness. The thought of him holed up in a mud hut reading about Hogwarts kind of pulls at your heartstrings for some ridiculous reason.

“So what you want, Wizard Boy?” demands Tex, insouciantly refusing to let go of your hand, despite you tugging on it.

“I was going to check your chakras for malevolence, but I'm having second thoughts now.”

“Sounds illegal in five states.”

Constantine snorts. “You want me to double check Midnite's handiwork or not? If there's a trace of darkness left it could spread– and you'll be fucked all over again.”

“Not the way I like, I'm guessin’.”

“Probably not. But then again, you seemed to like Desdemona at the club. You want an introduction?” Constantine has a sly look on his handsome face as he asks this. It must be the succubus you'd run off– the thought of Tex in contact with her again makes you vibrate with jealousy. It is sharp, and fierce, and utterly fucking irrational.

You should encourage Tex to find someone else.

Your heart just doesn't agree.

“I'll…leave you two to it,” you say, reluctantly standing to pull away out of Tex's grip.

Only belatedly, after you've retreated to your room, do you realize that maybe Constantine interrupted your tête a tête with Tex for his sake, rather than yours.

***

John Wick whips you all up a beautiful dinner of sauteed meat and vegetables, complimented with a nice bottle of dry red wine that you're sure did not come from Trader Joe's. You play his sous chef, chopping up veggies, and it almost feels like old times in the kitchen, although he never would have given you access to a big sharp knife before. As though you ever would have had the nerve to stab him.

Tex was another matter.

At first you all sit down to share a semi-awkward meal, peppered with halting silences–until the second bottle of wine comes out, and then things flow more smoothly. It starts with Constantine cracking a joke at Tex's expense, which is surprisingly backed by Wick with a witty aside. Tex responds good naturedly, for once, and you just sit back and watch with a smile, a warm glow in your chest that feels too close to bliss to possibly last.

You help Wick with the dishes, drying as he washes because your dish rack is tiny. “You look tired, sweetheart,” he says after the last plate, bending down to kiss your forehead. You forget. You fucking forget that there are two other people there, one of whom is your current lover, and out of longing and pure habit you tilt your head back for the second staggeringly sweet kiss on your lips that always followed.

Only a long beat later do you realize what you've done, with Wick's shining dark eyes looking down on you, missing nothing. You gasp like a scandalized school girl, taking a small step back. “You're right,” you agree. “I am tired. Good night, everyone.” You're such a coward you can't even lift your head to look at any of them, though you can feel their eyes upon you as you scurry away.

Once in the sanctuary of your room you collapse on the bed, clutching the coverlet in your claws for hands, so embarrassed by your slip that you could die. You know that Constantine loves you, even if he’s never outright said it, and honestly probably never will–and this is how you repay him.

You really are a piece of work.

***

After you retreat, a silence falls over the kitchen, the three formidable men eyeing each other like wolves amidst a power struggle, trying to decide who is the weakest link and who is alpha. It’s Constantine who stands without a word, fetching his green glass bottle of Ardbeg single-malt scotch and setting it down in the middle of the table with a thunk. Then he produces three glasses–none matching–and pours out a finger for each.

“Gentlemen.” He looks between the two assassins seated at his table, a part of him flabbergasted as to how he’d even ended up in this situation. Before he met you, if someone told him someday he would find a woman he loved more than the air he breathed, he would have laughed them out of the room.

Not now.

How the mighty are brought low, and pride goeth before a fall, and all that proverbial biblical bullshit that is old as time and yet somehow still applies. Despite all our advances, humans are still essentially the same animal we were when we first left the cave and started walking upright–or when God created Adam out of dirt, whichever you find more believable.

“I believe we find ourselves at an impasse.”

“How you figure?” asks Tex, knocking back his drink and helping himself to another.

“Does being in love with the same woman ring a bell?”

Wick smirks, watching the exchange between the two, sipping his scotch sparingly. He does not contradict Constantine’s assessment, but in his succinct way he drives home the finer point. “More importantly, that woman is in love with all of us.”

The thought pulls something like a growl from deep in Constantine’s chest, but in the end he acknowledges, “Exactly.”

Tex smirks, leaning on his elbows. “Don’t be sore, Wizard Boy. Be grateful we broke her in for you.”

Constantine seems to count to ten under his breath, restraining himself from unleashing a curse on this fucking cowboy again. “You’re gonna have to give me pointers on how you manage not to murder him daily,” he says to Wick.

“I only listen to about half of what he says,” Wick admits with a smirk, a humorous glitter in his dark eyes.

“Good to know. My point is, if I curse you both into the Seventh Circle, it would hurt her. Likewise, if you two were to dig me a shallow grave out in the desert. You hurt her enough the first time. Do you follow?”

Wick nods, grasping Constantine’s train of thought immediately. Tex, however, has to chew on it a little–maybe because he’d hoped, for once, to finally have this girl to himself.

“You’re saying you don’t mind sharin’,” finally says Tex with a shit-eating grin, leaning back in his chair.

“Oh, I mind,” Constantine is sure to clarify. “But it’s up to her, if she wants you or not. If she decides she wants you to go–I will make you go. If she wants you to stay…” He spreads his big hands, as though to say, we’ll figure it out. Somehow.

Tex narrows his eyes, clearly debating if he should pick a fight over the make you go part, or take it as it sits on the table. “And how do you propose we let her know what we decided about this?”

Constantine snorts at that, draining his glass and standing from the table. “That’s your problem, Howdy Doody. Good night–and may the best man win.” The two assassins watch as John Constantine crosses to your bedroom, and practically shuts the door in their faces.

***

You are drifting on the edge of sleep when Constantine crawls into bed with you. You smile as you feel the familiar pattern of the depression in the mattress, and moan with surprise as he covers your mouth with his. You taste the Ardbeg on his tongue, which explains some of his ardor, but not all. The fury of his kisses on your lips and neck pulls an involuntary moan from deep in your lungs, his big hands digging into the flesh of your thigh, pulling you on top of him.

“John…?” Utterly star-struck, you blink down at him, disheveled in your pajama t-shirt and your hair a mess. He reaches up to cup your cheek, dwarfing your face in his large hand, studying you like there will be a test later. He opens his mouth like there’s something he wants to say to you, but he can’t quite get it out, the words stuck in his throat.

You think you know what it is, and your heart warms for it, that tingling thrill filling your chest and spreading outwards. You’re not even mad, that he can’t say it, because you get him. This is not the week you’re going to push him out of his comfort zone, more than you already have. Most of LA would laugh to hear it, but John Constantine has been a veritable fucking saint the past couple of days, and you’re so grateful to him.

“It’s ok,” you say softly, tracing the line of his square jaw. “I know.”

He frowns, almost like he wants to argue, but in the end he just shakes his head and pulls you to him.

You want to apologize for almost kissing John Wick right in fucking front of him–but that sticks in your throat too. You guess you’re both just a little raw tonight.

He peels off your t-shirt greedily as he guides you down. Hungry lips and a teasing tongue find the sensitive tips of your breasts, making you squirm with longing above him. You know you’ve already soaked through the laughable barrier of your panties, and are probably leaving an unsightly stain on his nice (200 dollar, he likes to tell you with a smirk) white shirt–but if the Chinese laundry down the street can get out demon blood stains, what’s a little cum?

You let out a cry of longing as he releases your nipple with a pop; the ache between your thighs is already nearly unbearable, and you can't stop yourself from grinding against his lean torso. You shut your mouth as soon as you open it, conscious of the paper thin walls and the two dangerous men on the other side of them.

“You like that, baby?” he taunts, hooking his fingers in your panties to tug them down.

“You know I do,” you pant.

“Then let me hear you,” he invites with a wicked smirk, shifting down so that you are nearly sitting on his face. You don’t know what was said out there, but you are starting to get the idea that John Constantine is up to something. But before you can even begin to think what to do about it, he pulls you forward with an undeniable grip on your thighs, and his tongue is laving up your slit.

“Fuck.”

This exclamation is not quiet, and neither are the ones after it. You practically shake the walls with your cries when you cum on his tongue, your body rendered into a quivering mess of over-stimulated nerves. He does not grant you mercy, even when you beg him, and by the time he is done with you, you are halfway to your second orgasm.

“Do you want me baby?” he demands, panting from his champion cunnilingus league exertions as he undresses himself. There is a desperation in his tone you’ve never quite heard before, and you have a feeling he’s not just talking about sex.

“I need you,” you tell him, and you mean every word. It wins you every inch of his hard cock buried inside you, and you can’t stop yourself from moaning, as though there is no room for breath in your body when filled with his impressive manhood. He grips you hard enough to bruise, his face buried in the bend of your neck.

He drives himself inside of you, hips pumping with the fury of his need, but he’s prepared you for it. It’s all you can do just to hold on, to the bed, to him, letting him use you exactly the way he wants to, because you know the past couple of days have been anything but easy for him.

When his thumb finds your clit you think you might die from the overwhelming sensation of it. “No,” you beg, somehow smiling through your exasperation. “Please. Mercy.”

He just pays you that impish curl of lips that always seriously makes you question which side he's playing for. “You can take it,” he informs you. “For me?” The way he pouts down at you while simultaneously rearranging your insides should be illegal.

“Fuck,” you swear again, and he grins down at you, knowing he’s got you in the bag. With your ankles around his ears he slows down for you, but still fills you to the absolute brim, working you in just the rhythm he knows you need with the tip of his too-clever thumb. There is a heart wrenching beauty in making love like this. The two of you have reached an understanding of each other's bodies, a point of familiarity in which you just know, and yet somehow each time is better than the last.

It isn't long before you cum on his cock with a ragged scream that you know there’s no way in hell the boys didn’t hear, yet you cannot stop it, you cannot care, because the man inside you has rendered you into a vessel for this mind-bending pleasure and in this moment, you belong completely to him. His hips snap against yours, and soon he follows with your greedy little cunt fluttering around him, spilling himself inside you with a loud groan.

He collapses beside you, pulling you into his arms. You revel in the sticky warmth of his seed seeping between your thighs, his heart a furious drumbeat beneath your ear. “Jesus fucking Christ,” is all you can manage to wheeze against the warmth of his chest.

“Right initials,” he pants, pressing lips to your hair. “Wrong guy.”

Thinking you really might have lost your mind, you start to cackle, and you can’t stop until you literally can’t breathe. You do not even have the energy to clean up, falling asleep in the beautiful mess John made of you, and maybe it’s just you, but even in his sleep John Constantine seems to hold you more tightly than he ever has before.

Sweetwolfcupcake:

The first signs of dawn begin to show on the dark sky, timid but consistent in pushing back the darkness previously reigning over the sky when you open your eyes-- blinking lazily as you register your dry lips and slightly open mouth. You feel parched, but the arms wrapped around you feel like a slice of heaven by your side and you are too lazy, too sleepy. You try to ignore it but your throat feels like it would scream for water any minute.

Sighing, you gently remove Constantine's arms from your body, not an easy task though-- his arms are firm vines around you, holding you close with a distinct gentleness that you've seen so often in his eyes when they gaze at you.

After you are finally off the bed without waking up Constantine (you're surprised), you tip-toe out of the room and into the kitchen for a much needed glass of water.

It's quiet, you notice as you gulp down a glass of water. With the overpowering sleepy haze gone, you grow more conscious of the environment.

Such an hour is supposed to be quiet. But there is a severe lack of tranquillity in the quietness--- it's more of a deafening silence. And you do not have a good feeling about this. Emptying the glass, you put it silently aside and turn around to rush return to the safety of---

Your eyes widen as you blink away the reminder of sleepy haze from them at the sight of John Wick's looming form in the kitchen doorway.

lo spettro

Indeed, he is like a ghost who appears right when you least expect it to. Though at the moment, he looks more like a formidable predator-- or maybe it is you who feels threatened like a prey.

Whatever it is, it does not settle easily in your stomach. There's chaos, flipping and swirling in there. All are born out of jarringly conflicted emotions and thoughts you feel simultaneously.

You stand still, eyeing him warily. He isn't dressed in his classic three-piece. In fact, he is in simple trousers a white t-shirt, that bulges at all the right places. No, he isn't dressed to hunt, but he seems very much ready to with the way his eyes are set upon you. You know the stare all too well. The thought brings back memories that are now the source of your heartache and you stiffen again.

"Had a busy night with your plaything?"

Ah, of course...

"He's not a plaything." You snap without a second thought.

John smiles faintly, but there is no softness to it. Instead, it looks sharp and somehow feels bitter as he diminishes the distance between you both in two strides.

"Was he good enough? Better?" He invades your personal space as smoothly as he invades your dreams.

This time though, you are determined not to back down and bend to his will. You stand-- stiff and with your heart hammering-- but you are determined to not let it show.

"Our bedroom is none of your business."

Oh, you know the way his chocolate orbs darken. Your words have ruffled him. He presses closer and you know, you just know that he can feel your heartbeat, but there is nowhere else to go, and you are sandwiched between the counter and him.

"Yeah? That's a pity, thought I could show this boy how it's done."

You glare up at him.

The audacity.

If this is a game of riling you up, he was unfortunately winning. But being away from them and being with Constantine has evolved you in ways you are thankful for. You are not going to bend easily under his games anymore.

Your glare charges into a sardonic smile--

"Oh, don't bother. It is blissful when you don't feel like a disposable toy."

To a degree, even you are surprised at the venom in your voice. But the surprise is overshadowed by the sight of John Wick faltering. You admit, the sadness do not make you happy, but having gained power in the conversation does satisfy you.

"I am exhausted after a long so..."

With that, you slip away from him and walk back to the safety of your bedroom, there is a rush in your steps, and the moment you lock the door from inside, relief floods withing you.

A part of this whole encounter reminds you of your childhood ritual of switching off the lights before running upstairs to the safety of your room-- but as a child, it was just your active imagination, right now, your heart thunders the same way it would as a five-year-old, running from the 'ghosts'.

Constantine calls your name lazily from the bed, eyes half-open and hair dishevelled. There is a certain domesticity in the air and your heart unexpectedly flutters-- not an anxious, thrilled flutter, but one that confirms what you are afraid to admit.

You fear losing this. This sight of Constantine laying so unguarded, so vulnerable and open on the bed. You are afraid to not feel his arms wrapped around you again. You are afraid not to feel his lips on you another morning.

You are afraid to lose him.

You are afraid to be abandoned again.

In your fear, you find courage. The courage to finally acknowledge this fear of losing him, losing what you both share.

Silently, you make your way back to bed, slipping under the covers and back in his waiting arms.

You know Constantine can probably sense the shift in your energy, but he chooses silence. He puts your comfort before his curiosity, his doubts. That makes you snuggle closer to him, to his warmth.

Tammykelly:

Songs to get in ya feels:

Karma by Summer Walker

Stand still by Sabrina Claudio

You lay awake under the silk covers, with Constantine quietly breathing beside you in a deep peaceful slumber. You shift your focus to his pace of breath so you can match your own in hopes to fall into the calmness of the space bubble around you. The limbs of your body are heavy, and yet your mind is ever so awake, having drifted towards conscious awareness of bitterly sweetened memories, rather than much needed sleep. Your eyelids flutter shut, as a yet another frustrated sigh escapes your mouth. The silence of the late hours is mockingly embracing the racing thoughts in your mind and pumping heartbeat, uncomfortable heat continues to fill every particle under your skin, amplified by the feel of rushing bloodstream, as if no concept of rest exists in this moment. A small furry body curls itself closer, next to your side, and your hand slowly reaches to brush its fingers through Baby Killy’s soft fur, more purring gently filling your ears, as you give into what your subconscious can’t seem to stop replaying, guided by the whisper of the shadows.

- a flashback -

You feel a warm breeze rush past you, carrying the salty scent of the Mediterranean coast, disrupting the shattered shadows. A tiny glimpse of sunlight pervades through the thin crack between your eyelashes, your narrowed eyes taking in the sunny serenity of French Riviera that envelops you again in its natural flow and beauty, before you hear a stream of rapid gunshots that only alert a flock of birds, rising from your garden.

You watch a tall man’s broad back stiffen, as he reloads the gun. You lazily get up, not taking your eyes off his powerful muscles moving under the skin, as he takes the position again. You feel your chest contract, breath caught in your throat, as his whole body seems to have become one with the weapon at the highest alert, before all the motion subsides, and he fires more shots at the moving targets.

You’re not sure whether it’s the thumping of your heart, ringing in your ears, bringing rising heatwave to your body, or it’s the sun that collects the multitude of nervous specks across your subconscious, melting them through all the layers onto the surface, forming a deeper shade of blush on your cheeks. He looks majestic, engulfed by sunlight, a gun in his hand, akin to an innate extension of his hunter-like, perhaps, hereditary nature. Your gaze traces the sweat dripping down his skin, as a gentle sigh leaves your lips, making it hard for you to look back up.

You don’t try to make your presence known, the sound of your steps remaining almost entirely silent, for even your slightest movement echoes through his awareness. He turns around before you reach him, his long hair sticking out from under the bandana.

“Princessa”, - his deep voice greets you.

“John”, - you playfully reply, watching his eyes wash over your silhouette, while you take one more step.

“Skuchala po mne [missed me]?”, - his calloused palm makes contact with the exposed skin below your silk bralette, hiding under unbuttoned oversized linen dress shirt. His fingers snake around your waist, urging you to move closer, slightly dipping under the waistband of your linen shorts. A shiver across your skin doesn’t escape his attentive gaze, a smirk quirking the corners of his mouth up. You look into his eyes, as you feel his hand brush against your back gently, the same fingers that were just holding a weapon, now playing a dirty game against you.

“Vsegda [always]”, - you tease back, your irises catching the way John smiles when you stand on your tippy toes to kiss him, as he melts into your lips, meeting you half way. The scales of gentle and sweet is something you’re unable to control anymore, for the tender anxiety in your heart flutters away with the wings of passionate fire that is the reflection of him.

One of your hands finds its place at the back of his neck, pulling him into you, which he eagerly complies to, as if pouring all the adrenaline of the practice shooting onto your tongue. You gently trail your fingers down his spine, as you break away from his devilish lips, a sly smirk that is a mirror of his, appearing on your features when he lifts you up, walking to the tent, and puts you at the edge of a poolside bed that actually looks like it belongs in a bedroom.

You calmly stare into the abyss of his dark eyes, your chest filled with the scent of excitement and your own game that quickly escalates to something entirely else the longer you hold eye contact. A different kind of heat knocks on your heart, opening doors to a more subliminal feeling. The type of warmth produced not by the midday sunlight, but by the golden hour sun, its muted colors appearing the brightest only for a slight sight, before its remnants reveal their beauty along the way of one’s attention.

His eyebrows twitch, while his eyes search yours.

“Opasnaya igra, malyshka [it’s a dangerous game, babygirl]”, - John says in a raspy voice, seeing the way you let him read you, akin to an open book with no secrets.

“Rasve ya dolzhna boyatsa [why, should I be afraid?” - your hand grazes his cheek, as a feeling that is bigger than your heart settles down in your chest, upon relishing the way he’s sitting in front of you on his knees, looking up at you, as if you’re God’s greatest creation. The fear and sense of uncertainty long forsaken in the tangled forest of what’s left behind.

“No”, - he tells you, his hands on your thighs, “if that’s what you wish for”. A moment passes in between the eternity that stretches across your souls.

“I don’t think I’ve ever hugged you, have I?”, you tell him, suddenly, his fingers freeze in their place. John’s eyes go blank for a split second, before another emotion replaces it, something deep and so raw, your heart almost explodes. An emotion that is swept away by the ever flowing current when his irises go back to that same deep shade of darkness that is the palette of his whirlpool.

“Come here”, you tell him, your hand gently tugging at him. A shallow breath of his doesn’t dissolve away unnoticed, as you get up and switch positions, him - sitting on the bed, you - standing in between his legs, holding his face and stroking his sharp cheekbones. There’s no sense of reality anymore, just his black chocolate eyes, looking up with the devotion of a man found. Time stood still, its heartbeat paving the way just for you two.

You feel him slowly moving closer, as if testing the limits of his own game of chess, before he nuzzles into you. You wrap your arms around him, patting him with all the gentle love you can master, as if not to break a wounded child. Gradually, you sense his calmness unravel itself when his body melts into yours, drinking every bit of peace that you generously get to offer.

A tear rolls down your cheek, the space around you collapsing on itself and blossoming into an eternal tangible softness that revolves around you and John.

John sighs, pulling you closer, letting every piece of your ethereal gentleness and love that is the reflection of you seep into him, beyond the subliminal, into the deepest infinity of his oblivion that is the code of his own sense of self.

Treedaddymcpuffpuff:

You wake up with a startled gasp, giving Killy the same little fright. She runs away, bells dangling at her neck, the sound fading underneath the bed where she hides from you.

“Killy,” you groan, “I’m sorry, come back.” You wish you could actually tell her in some way you didn’t mean to scare the shit out of her, but it’s too late. And Constantine is gone, too. There’s a little note on the stand. Something about having to run out for a while on a job.

It’s around noon. Your black out curtains can’t contain all of the leaking sunshine, so you decide to follow that biological clock that runs deep and get up. John isn’t here, either, and Tex is snoring on the couch.

“Tex,” you whisper, nudging him a little bit.

His groggy voice sends a pang of reminiscent longing through you. “Hey, honeypie.” He fades out a little bit, and you have to tug on his arm. “You’re snoring,” you tell him, trying to get another pillow under his head to elevate him. “You don’t snore. Sit up a little bit.” You’re worried that he’s not getting proper oxygen while he’s sleeping because of his recent brush with death, so you use most of your weight and a little bit of his to sit him up and lessen the deep rattle of his throat.

“C’mon,” he lays a big arm around your shoulders, tugging your upper torso down against him. “Lay with daddy, huh?”

You push against him. “Tex, you freaking weirdo, lemme go.” The temptation is definitely there, to crawl on top of him and snuggle in, but you’ve already committed to waking up and doing something on this lazy weekend day, so you squirm out of his heavy grip.

He goes back to sleep with a big, satisfied smile on his face. You resist, with all your might, leaning down to kiss his cheek. Adorable fucking idiot.

You make scrambled eggs, plate some for Tex, and leave them in the fridge for when he wakes up. Then, you get a piece of paper, write SCRAMBLED EGGS on it in big letters, and set it on his now peacefully rising chest.

It’s beautiful out here today, sunny with a tropic, warm breeze that reminds you of beachy days with John and Tex. Although the beach is about 30 minutes away by bus, you hop on with a little bag in tow, sporting cute cotton capris and a flowy tank top over your swim suit.

You spend a few hours at the beach, walking up and down the sand, looking at shells, playing in waves and watching the surfers board out past the break. There’s a little food and drink stand nearby, and you packed plenty of sunscreen, so you can stay out as long as you like.

You enjoy this as long as you can, because you have classes coming up and know you won’t get the free time again until next weekend.

You feel free-untethered. Able to go anywhere and do anything without anyone holding you down. There was such a long time, where you didn’t have that freedom. Over half your life, probably, between childhood and witness protection, where you were trapped. And, now that you have a taste of independence, you’ll never stop injecting it. Of course, with this freedom comes a little emptiness, but it’s nothing you can’t handle. You’ve been lonely before, you’ll be lonely again.

Maybe that’s an absurd thought, when three men are waiting for you at home, and for a minute you feel terribly, achingly guilty about wanting freedom and love, protection, shelter-all at the same time. Sometimes women don’t get any of that let alone one. But then, that’s bullshit, isn’t it? The notion that you have to settle and compromise just because you’re a girl. Maybe you want all three of them-no, not maybe. You do want all three, and your independence. And maybe if testosterone wasn’t such a heavy drug, you could mention that to them. But you can already just see John strangling Constantine with his bare hands and Constantine burning John alive if you even dare to mention them sharing you.

Plus, would you even be able to handle all three of them? John and Constantine themselves are insatiable; Constantine, fueled by ancient magic. John, fueled with physical endurance. Tex would be simpler to please, but he’s a wild card of his own.

A group of surfers ride a wave in to shore, and you watch curiously-maybe even a little bit enviously-as they laugh and joke and splash each other in the pink sinking dawn of the day. One of them-tall, broad shouldered, bronze, the god Poseidon himself rising from the frothy ocean bank-makes eye contact with you and you look away quickly, a hot flush that’s not from the late sun flooding your skin.

“Y/n?” You look to the sound, and see a familiar face among the group of ocean dwellers.

Katrina gives you a little wave while she climbs out of one. You tip your chin at her. “Hey, Trine.” She’s one of your classmates, a good friend and study partner. You had no idea that she surfed.

She introduces you to her little group of friends, and one in particular’s name you know you won’t forget. His grin is stark white against beautiful, salt crusted skin when he takes your hand in his bigger one, warm despite the cool water he just rose from, and shakes it. “I’m Johnny.”

The voice. The voice is even too similar for it not to raise every hair on your body.

“Hey, we were just gonna go to Bodhi’s house for a party. Wanna come?” Trina pulls you from Johnny, giving you a strange, knowing look. You were absolutely entranced by him, staring way too much, still holding onto his hand, so you understand why she’s a little suspicious.

“Do I know you?” Johnny asks, bringing you back to him.

“Don’t think so,” you say, feeling like you’re absolutely lying.

Now everyone absolutely notices this strange tension between the two of you, and they seem delighted by it. Bodhi, you think his name is, grabs Johnny’s shoulder and shakes him a little. “Utah, you dog. Close your jaw.”

“Seriously, Johnny, stare a little longer,” Trine grumbles.

“Sorry,” he tells you sheepishly.

“Same,” you reply.

“So, you wanna come?” He asks, motioning to the group. “To the party?”

“I would, but I have to take care of something.”

You propel yourself through the darkening LA streets, the bus system, the crowds of people, the bustle of the city. Keep your eyes ahead, focused, goal driven. The big Bouncer in front of Midnite’s is the only thing that stands in your way to the inner club.

He holds up a card, prompting you. Fuck. You have never come here without John. Probably because he forbid it, but that’s beside the point. You have no idea what to say, so you just do what you’re best at and guess. “Rabbit?”

His facial expression reads “are you fucking kidding me?” All he says is “no.”

“Please. I need to see Midnite. It’s about John Constantine.”

He eyes you for a long while, and then motions for you to sit on the bench in the lobby.

•

“How’s my favorite girl?” Midnite takes a seat beside you. “What kinda shit did Constantine get into this time?”

“it’s actually my shit.”

He laughs. “Tell me about it.”

“No, I mean, really, I think there’s something strange happening, Papa. Everywhere I go, doesn’t matter how far, I see this… guy.”

“You have a spirit following you?” He asks, scanning your body with an open palm, tilting your chin this and that way.

“I don’t know. I don’t know what it is-what he is, but there’s many of them. They all look the same.”

“The same? I’m confused, y/n.”

“They all look like… John Constantine.”

•

“Tex, wake up.” John kicks the couch lightly, alerting the snoring Tex.

“What the fuck.” Tex groans.

“Where’s y/n?”

Constantine has tried to call you ten times, texted you at least twice as much, and still no answer. He’s pacing through the kitchen, hand in his hair, debating on whether or not he should tear down LA to find you. You’re never gone this long, you always keep him updated. This isn’t like you.

He walks into the living room, where Tex and John are looking at the note you left alerting Tex to breakfast.

“You just let her go?” Wick demands of Tex, snatching the slice of paper and tearing it in the process. “When did she leave?”

“Fuck, I didn’t think we were dictating her life anymore,” Tex replies, “she came out here once… I think. It was daylight. I was sleepin. Fuck.”

“She always comes home,” Constantine says, more to himself than the two other men. “It’s almost one AM. We have to find her.”

“Tex, are you able to drive?” Wick asks.

“Yeah.. yeah. I’m good,” Tex nods.

“Take the car, go to her school, her bank, her favorite restaurant. Constantine?” Wick turns to address the still pacing man. “Are you able to try and locate her with some kind of magic?”

“The fuck you think I’m trying to do?” Constantine mumbles, eyes on the floor, hand in his hair, damp sweat gathering on his tshirt.

“Keep doing it. I’m going to look on foot.”

•

Maybe it was a bad idea, to drink with Midnite. Not because of him. The morally grey, powerful voodoo master has never been anything but good to you despite his wavering tolerance for Constantine, and he stays by your side diligently while you both sip on steaming, sweetened cocktails.

No, it’s a bad idea because of the shady characters lurking around you and making you feel a little like you just stepped into Mickey’s House of Villians. The lady with purple, slithery tentacles attached to her just seals the deal on that.

Midnite flips over your other divination card, the gold foils of it catching a rogue neon light and flashing bright in your eyes, before you see what it holds; 10 of spiders. “Something is tightly attached to you, something that draws dark energy. I could see it when we first met, you know. Just like the curse on Texs’ chest made him vulnerable to the wicked dark, you have naturally.”

“I’m so confused. Why?” Your words come out a little slurred, and you realize you’ve been hitting the tap too hard. This is your fifth… fourth cocktail? You’re not sure anymore. “Am I in danger?”

He looks at you with a bit of pity in his fathomless dark eyes, like he doesn’t know what to do for you. Like you’re fucked. “Always.”

Before he can elaborate, give you a warning or message, something, a heavy commotion picks up at the front entrance. Glass smashing, screaming, pounding on something metal and floppy. Midnite sighs and puts his hand on your shoulder. “Stay here. I have to deal with this.”

You ask the bartender for a glass of water to help nurse and coat the alcohol sloshing inside of you and making you pleasantly numb and prickly, and try to ignore the other patrons of the club. Kind of hard when one of them, one you very well recognize, takes the stool beside you.

“Where’s your tall friend?” The succubus asks, those bleach pink eyes doing strange, unearthly things in their sockets; changing shape, reflecting colors that usually don’t exist, sliding from side to side rapidly.

“He’s taken,” you tell her, not bothering to hide the scowl on your face.

“Really?” She asks, voice unnaturally low and seductive, titling her head. “Because I could feel the desperation on him from a league away. Most taken men with that kind of need aren’t satisfied at all.”

“I’m not entertaining this conversation,” you tell her. You remember all the anger you felt toward her after she tried to pull Tex away, and wonder where it is now that you need it. Instead, there is a dull, needy, perplexing throb beginning in your lower belly. It’s a strange way to feel arousal, but unmistakable nonetheless. Usually, all libidinous feelings begin in your brain and trickle downward, but this feeling is severed from your mind, spreading through only your lower body and making you twitch and writhe in the seat.

She grins with sharp little bone white teeth. “Interesting.”

You try and open your mouth, tell her to fuck off, but she reaches over and touches your cheek, and any words you could have said die in your throat.

Replacing speech and sense and sight, is a burly heat that rips through you. A desire like you’ve never felt. A claw-your-skin-off, teeth clenching need to be fucked. Debauched. Ruined.

An inner beast guides your way, now, and she’s hungry for cock. Luckily, there’s some place you can get it. Unluckily, it’s a few bus rides away. And you can’t fucking last that long, that’s for sure.

John Wick doesn’t stop you. Maybe it’s the vicious arousal leaking off you that infects him, too. Or maybe it’s because he missed you, needed you that bad. Either way, he’s kissing you back, picking you up, walking you toward the nearest private place to fuck in, hopefully….

gif from pinterest

You stand up, make for the door, and run into something solid and familiar and warm. Just seeing his angled face make your clit tighten painfully, your cunt flutter around nothing. You jump him. He can fucking take it, and he does, handling you like a champ while you claw up his body and latch onto his mouth with your own.

#wicked johnson fic #john wick x reader #tex johnson x reader #constantine x reader #with hon mention #johnny utah x reader #keanuverse #keanuverse fic #keanu reeves x reader #john wick #constantine 2005 #tex johnson #johnny utah #john constantine #john constantine x you

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lilithlinen · 1 day

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Turning Tables III - Kevin Lomax, John Constantine X You.

"Yes," he says, his voice cold. "Find out everything. And make sure it hurts him." Kevin hangs up the phone, his mind racing. He needs to control this situation, to make sure you know who's in charge. He won't lose you to anyone, especially not John Constantine.

Kevin’s POV

A few hours later as I walk back home, my thoughts are consumed by revenge. I need to make John pay for what he’s done. For making you question me, for trying to take you from me.

When I arrive, I find you sitting on the couch, tears streaming down your face. “Where have you been?” you ask, your voice shaky.

“Taking care of business,” I say, walking towards you. "Did you call your...lover?" I ask mockingly.

“No,” you admit, looking away.

I grab you by the chin, forcing you to look at me. “Don’t worry about him,” I say, my voice low. “I’ll handle him.”

“Kevin, I can't do this anymore,” you whisper, tears still falling. “I can't live like this.”

“Then maybe you shouldn’t have cheated on me,” I growl, my anger rising again. “Maybe you should have thought before you acted.”

“I had to,” you murmur, your voice small. “I just needed something more than THIS.”

“Well, you won’t find it with him,” I say, pushing you onto the couch. “I’ll make sure of it.”

You stare up at me, fear shining in your eyes. “What are you going to do?”

“Whatever it takes to prove my dominance,” I say, my eyes never leaving yours. “To show you who’s in control.”

I watch you as you crawl back. “Kevin, don’t. Please...” You plead, and I smirk.

“You’re mine, Y/N,” I say, my voice firm. “You always will be.”

“I’m not yours,” you say, your voice shaking. “I'm my own person.”

I laugh, my eyes glinting with anger. “Oh, really? Then why are you so willing to run to John?”

“Because he loves me!” You shout, your face red with emotion. “He doesn’t hurt me!”

“That’s not true,” I say, my voice rising. “He’ll break you just like I will if you leave me!”

“Stop it!” you cry out, covering your ears. “Please, just stop it!”

I grab your wrists, pulling them away from your ears. “You’re mine, Y/N. Mine. You belong to me.”

“No!” you scream, fighting against me. “I won't be your possession!”

I shake my head, trying to regain control of the situation. “You're, you’ve always been,” I repeat, my voice cold. “And I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you this way.”

You stare at me, tears stream down your face. “You’re not the man I fell in love with.”

“I never was,” I admit, my voice devoid of emotion. “But I’m the only one who can give you the life you want.”

“You’re wrong,” you say, your voice soft. “I don’t need that kind of life.”

I lean in, my lips brushing against yours. “You’re wrong, Y/N,” I whisper. “You do need me.”

You move your head away and say through gritted teeth. “I don't need you.”

“Yes, you do,” I say firmly. “You need me more than anything.”

“No!” you scream, fighting against me. “I don’t need you!”

With one swift motion, I pin you down on the couch, my body pressing against yours. “Shut up, Y/N,” I growl, my lips crushing against yours.

You struggle, but I'm relentless. My tongue slides into your mouth, dominating you as I have always wanted. Your struggles slowly fade, replaced with moans and whimpers of pleasure.

Finally, I pull away, your breaths ragged. “See?” I say, my voice thick with victory. “You need me.”

You stare at me, confusion and desire mixed in your eyes. “What...what are you doing?”

“Showing you who’s in control,” I say, my eyes never leaving yours. “Reminding you of your place.”

You gasp as I move lower, my tongue tracing the outline of your breasts. “Please, Kevin...” you murmur, your voice shaking.

“Please what?” I ask, my voice low. “Now...why don’t we make it even more fun? Call that bastard of yours. Constantine...right? Call him right now. Let him come over.”

Your eyes widen in shock, and you shake your head. “No, I will not.”

“Come on, Y/N,” I say, my voice soft and seductive. “Make it more interesting.”

“No,” you say firmly. “I won’t do it.”

I smile, leaning in close. “Why don’t you think about it?” I suggest, my breath hot against your ear. “Unless you want him dead.”

You hesitate, your body trembling. Finally, you reach for your phone, your hand shaking. You dial John’s number, your eyes never leaving mine.

John answers immediately. “Y/N? Are you okay? Your last call had me worried sick!”

“John,” you say, your voice trembling. “I need you to come over.”

“I’m on my way,” John says, his voice filled with concern. “What’s going on?”

“Everything’s fine,” you say, your voice shaking. “I just...I just need you here.”

I lean in, my lips brushing against your ear. “Tell him you need help,” I whisper. “Tell him you’re in danger.”

“I... I’m in danger,” you say into the phone, your voice cracking. “Please, John. Come now.”

I smirk, my grip tightening on your wrist. “See, I told you it was a good idea,” I say, my voice low. “Now, let’s make sure we put on a good show for the great John Constantine.”

I lean in, my lips finding yours. My kiss is hungry, possessive, as I dominate your mouth. I can feel your body respond to me, your heart racing in your chest. You want me, Y\N. You always have and always will.

As I pull away, I can see the conflict in your eyes. You know you’re in trouble, but you can’t help but crave my touch. And I’ll make sure that’s all you crave for the rest of your life.

Tears fall down your face as you try to resist again. “Kevin...don’t do that to me.”

“What, Y/N?” I ask, my voice gentle. “Hurting you?”

“No,” you say, your voice breaking. “Making me want you.”

“It’s not my fault you’re a slave to your desires,” I say lowly. “It’s not my fault you can’t resist me.”

“I don’t want to,” you say, your voice shaking. “I...I don’t want to want you.”

“Liar,” I say, my eyes never leaving yours. “You know you’ve always wanted me.”

I move closer, my lips brushing against your neck. “Just think about how good it feels,” I say, my voice soft. “How good it feels to be mine.”

Your breathing quickens, your body responds to me even though you fight it. I can taste the salt on your skin, the evidence of your tears. It makes me harden, knowing I have this kind of power over you.

“Do you want me, babe?” I ask, my voice deep. “Do you want me inside you?”

Your breath hitches, your eyes locked on mine. “Yes,” you whisper, your voice barely audible. “Yes, please.”

I grin, my eyes sparkling with triumph. “Then let’s give you exactly what you want.”

I undress you, reveling in your naked body. As I take you, I can hear John knocking on the door. But it’s too late for him. I’m already deep inside you, claiming you as mine.

As I thrust harder, I can hear his voice outside, shouting your name. But I ignore it, focusing solely on your cries of pleasure. This is ours. Ours alone. “Scream louder, hoe. Let him hear you getting fucked by me.”

I smirk darkly as I watch you sob and struggle to keep quiet.

“Quiet?” I say, my voice mocking. “Are you trying to protect your pathetic lover?”

“No,” you say, your voice breaking. “I just...I can’t.”

“Can’t or won’t?” I ask coldly. “Don’t think you can hide from me, Y/N. I know every inch of your body. Every reaction. Every desire.”

“I...can’t help it,” you say, your voice trembling. “It feels too good.”

“That’s because it’s meant to,” I say lowly. “I’m the one who knows your body best. No one else can compare.”

I thrust harder, feeling you clench around me. You’re so wet, so ready for me. And I’ll make sure you stay that way forever.

As you reach your peak, I can hear John banging on the door. But it’s too late for him. You’re mine, completely and utterly. You’re mine, and no one else will ever satisfy you like I do.

“Come for me, baby,” I say roughly. “Let me hear you scream.”

You do, your body arching beneath me. Your screams fill the room, filling John’s ears. As I finish, I can’t help but smile. He’ll never replace me. Never. Not in your heart or in your bed. “You see, darling? There’s no one else for you but me.”

A/N: Flopped?

#keanu reeves #keanuverse #keanu reeves x reader #keanu reeves x you #JOHN CONSTANTINE #john constantine x you #john constantine imagine #john constantine x reader #john constantine 2005 #kevin lomax x you #kevin lomax imagines #kevin lomax x reader #kevin lomax #IMAGINES #keanu smut

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iovesia · 4 months

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𐚁֙࿐ MEET THE WICKS.

keanu mlist.⠀ 𑇓 ⊹ ᳝ ࣪ ⠀boyfriend's dad!john wick⠀𝑥⠀f!reader.

synopsis. fucking your boyfriend's dad was surely one way to leave a good first impression.

contents. cheating all around. everyone sucks here. ooc!john. large age gap (20s/40s). non-john wick universe au. outdoor sex. size difference. tummy bulge. 4.4k words.

⋆ 𓂃 ﾟ .⠀josie's little note: hello hello ! a happy new years to you guys, and here's a gift! i haven't been terribly active lately, i know— so hopefully this makes up for it ♡ haven't written a proper fic in ages so i kinda of hate this ://

“MY PARENTS ARE GONNA LOVE YOU.”

You side eye your boyfriend at his reassuring smile, his hand on the wheel as the two of you drive further up the mountain to his parent’s home. You finally worked up the courage to meet your boyfriend, Michael’s parents. Having procrastinated this moment for almost two years, Michael finally wore you down to saying yes.

The rows of thick, dark trees trapped the two of you on this thin road up the mountains. Pearly white snowflakes float gently down on your window, your chilled breath creating a small fog as you reach to turn the heat up in the vehicle.

“Your parents are gonna think you fell and hit your head,” you roll your eyes.

“Oh c’mon!” Michael tuts, letting out a little huff. His eyes focused heavily on the road ahead, turning the wheel as the car took a left. “You’re way too hard on yourself.”

Truth be told you could’ve gone your whole life without meeting his parents. The prestiges Wicks. Michael was not the son of any run of the mill family, but rather the son of two CEOs of the largest cybersecurity companies in the world, while all your achievements were golden-sticker-on-a-piece-of-homework level at best.

“Says the kid of billionaires,” you say dismissively.

“Millionaires,” he corrects cheekily, earning a playful punch to the arm. “Baby, you gotta relax.. I love you, so by default my parents will love you too— or at least be nice enough to pretend.”

“Not funny, Michael,” your little whines turn into a soft laugh as your boyfriend chuckles. The two of you continue the drive up to Michael’s parents home. You two engage in nonchalant conversation that was periodically interrupted by a series of texts. Occasionally glancing over to Michael’s phone, you see the name “Maggie” popping up.

The hairs on your neck stand up, and your palms sweat onto the leather seat, but Michael’s soft smile reassures you .. a little.

Hours go by before he finally pulls up to the home and your jaw drops. Your eyes meet the sight of the gorgeous villa, decked with greystone walls with a light wooden trim. A small cobblestone bridge that goes over the infinity pool, leading to the large front door with crystal clear windows. This isolated winter wonderland of a villa (that Michael downplayed heavily— the ever humble man he is) was to be your home for Christmas.

“Michael! This place is—”

“Smaller than the one in Italy, but my mother wanted something cozy.”

Your eye twitches a little at how dismissively he talks about this house. His nonchalant demeanour as he parks his car in the driveway of a home you’d never even be able to afford a fraction of. You simply nod, then unbuckle your seatbelt.

Ping.

You glance down at Michael’s hand, which quickly flips the phone face down.

“Pretty popular, huh?” You joke half-heartedly, trying to probe a reaction. Michael smiles at you, shrugging his shoulders. Noticing his shoulders tense up, you try to ignore the pit in your stomach. The two of you get out of the car and unload your suitcases.

Each step across the small bridge and to the front door felt in slow motion, your heartbeat thumping your ears.

“You’re gonna be fine, baby,” Michael reassures, before ringing the doorbell.

Beat.

Click.

The heavy slategray door glides open slowly, and your fake smile plasters on at the sight of Michaels’ parents. Helen Wick, a graceful woman in her late 30’s. Her flat ironed brunette hair hugged her soft face, and her smile accentuated the faint laugh lines.

On the other hand, her husband John, the older of the pair, stood stoically. His black hair, and black eyes matched with his simple black slacks and button up protruded his muscles. His dark aura almost sucked the light out the area as he stood tall next to his happy wife. Helen’s hazel eyes meet yours as she hides her surprise with a plastic grin.

“Oh Mikey… she’s beautiful!” Helen exclaims, her voice a little pitched.

Michael nudges your shoulder as Helen wraps her arms around you, giving you a stiff hug. You could smell the expensive Chanel No 5 from her neck, and the Michael Kors blouse was silk and soft against your hands as you hugged her back. Mr. Wick, remaining unimpressed as ever, simply watched the interaction unfold.

This was gonna be a long Christmas.

Dinner was painfully awkward. The scratching of gold silverware on the rare china plates filled the air. Inside their villa was just as impressive as the out. The warm lights of the christmas decor and the glorious christmas tree illuminated the luxurious dining room. You rest your elbow on their mahogany table, calmly taking a bite of your roasted turkey.

“Elbows, dear,” Helen hums from across from you, her tone almost motherly. Glancing down at your elbow, you flush embarrassed as you lean back against your chair. Michael sips his wine next to you, sighing at his mother’s uptight behaviour.

John seems to be the quietest of them all, although you can feel his intense stare from across the table. The older man intimidates you to no-end, and some part of you is desperate to earn some form of approval from him. You always liked a challenge.

“So..” Helen breaks the silence again, clearing her throat. The light shines on her expensive bracelets and rings that adorn her hand as she sets her fork and knife down. “Tell us how you met our Michael.”

Michael and you share a glance, and he subtly urges you to speak. You smile softly, sipping your liquid courage before speaking. “We met at the diner I work at. Michael was always a regular, and refused to let anyone but me serve him,” You giggle at the memory, and Michael blushes.

“You’re a waitress?” John chimes in. You swallow at how low and husk his voice was, and you finally meet his dark orbs piercing into you. Like a little ant under a magnifying glass; his simple question felt like a heavy exam, and you were determined to pass.

“Yes.. It’s called Daisy’s Diner on Victory Boulevard” You furrow your brows, a little confused. “Didn’t Michael tell you..?”

“He led us to believe you owned a diner.. Not working in one..” John hums, seemingly returning to his unaffected attitude. Your lips are slightly parted in surprise, and heat rushes to your cheeks as you side eye Michael. He avoids your gaze, focusing down at his plate.

“You told them I owned a food chain?” You huff, annoyance dripping in your voice. The dinner lasted for what seemed forever before the sun finally set and each couple retreated to their respective bedrooms. “Michael, what the hell?”

“It’s not a big deal,” Michael rolls his eyes, fluffing up one of the pillows. He rubs his eyes tiredly, and you can tell he’s getting agitated. “It’s fine— they didn’t mind.”

“Oh really?” You scoff, putting your silk pyjamas shorts on. “He led us to believe you owned a diner.. Not working in one..” you mock John’s voice, making your own deep and nasally.

“My dad does not sound like a nasally Christopher Walken, but okay,” Michael snorts at your impersonation. You toss a pillow at him, hitting his chest.

“Not the point, Michael! You were supposed to be on my side, you just fed me to the wolves!”

“Grow up— you had an awkward conversation with my parents, it wasn’t the end of the world!”

“The whole point of this weekend was to get them to like me! You just sat there cutting your turkey into a million pieces!” The air in the room was thick with tension, the two of your moods souring as your voices raise. You wished your boyfriend had a spine, and he wished you didn’t have one. Letting out another huff, you grab your toiletries purse and head to leave the bedroom to go brush your teeth.

The brightly lit home was now dark and empty, aside from the moonlight shining in through the bright windows. You glance out, and see the snow top mountains faded behind a thick fog as you walk down the hall; feet padding softly on the cold wood.

When you finished in the bathroom, you were hardly paying attention as you opened the door, eyes half shut. Your face instantly pummels into something hard, making your eyes blink rapidly. A quiet hmph can be heard above you, and your eyes dart up to meet John’s. He stood there blankly, wearing nothing but his briefs.

Your face flushed with utter humiliation and you turned your head away. “Sorry— um— I didn’t see you—”

“Wrong bathroom.”

“Huh?” You raise a brow.

“You’re in my wife and I’s bathroom,” He repeats slowly, his tone slightly condescending. His chest rises as he takes a breath, and you can help but watch each muscle that twitches; feeling your throat go dry. You get lost in analysing the tattoos on his arms and shoulders that were so well hidden by his button up.

“Oh..” you clear your throat, snapping out of it. “Sorry.. Michael told me this was the guest one..”

“Michael tells you a lot of things that are not true it seems,” John hums, a curious look on his face.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

No reply.

John simply shrugs, and shifts to the side, allowing you to pass him and you can’t help but take a peek at his toned back. For an older man, he seemed to take care of his body well. His defined muscles, covered in ink of religious tattoos and Latin proverbs, intrigued you to find out more.

“It’s rude to stare,” his deep voice is in a low whisper as he shuts the bathroom door behind him, not even glancing back at you. Embarrassed and fascinated, you hurry back to yours and Michael’s room where you find him already asleep, his mouth open wide as he snores. His typically irritating habits of snoring loudly and taking up space seemed to be the least of your concerns as your mind is flooded with images of his father.

His father’s voice.. His father’s tattoos.. His father’s v-line that disappeared under his briefs..

You were too distracted to even notice Maggie had texted again.

The following days leading up to Christmas were suffocating to say the least. Unless Helen was there to kindly offer comedic relief or keep John occupied— it was as though you were constantly invigilated. Any anecdotes you told, the way you skied when the four of you went, how much or how little PDA you showed Michael: it was one big test, and you were failing, hard.

You had no clue why you were desperate to please Michael’s father. Helen was easy enough to win over.. Perhaps it’s just the masochist in you, but his condescending words began to make you bashful, rather than embarrassed.

Michael’s been aware of your strange behaviour but can’t seem to put his finger on it. Worst part was you knew why he was suspicious— he was projecting. It seemed this trip to get you closer with his parents, ended up straining your own.

“She’s a co-worker— fuck— I can’t keep explaining this to you!” Michael snaps defensively.

“Lower your voice— your parents are right there!” You hiss. The two of you stand outside on the back patio of the villa. Flames from the fireplace crackle, leaving an orange hue on both your faces. The sound of soft wind and smell of dinner oozing from the inside almost created a romantic atmosphere.

Had it not been for Maggie.

“What kind of co-worker texts you on PTO?” You whisper shout. Michael groans, rubbing his eyes as he turns away from you. “She’s been texting you everyday since this trip and it’s not the first time.”

“I’m busy— I work a lot. It’s probably about a project,” your boyfriend replies, almost being unconvincing on purpose. “You’re so goddamn nosy.”

“Nosy? I’m here meeting your parents and you’re probably sexting some random girl right now.”

“She’s not some random fucking girl.”

Your face drops. Your brows furrow together, the anger fading into a gentle hurt. The silence is deafening, and there’s zero remorse in Michael’s eyes for what he’s saying. A stunning realisation sets in that this Maggie is no longer just a notification you notice on his screen— but an actual person who Michael might harbour actual feelings for.

“Michael?” You ask quietly. "Who is she?"

Michael runs his hand through his hair, lips pursed as a sharp sigh escapes. His head hands low, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Agitation fills his figure to the brim, and another pregnant pause occurs. You pinch your thumbnail into your palm, anxiously waiting for his next word.

It never comes.

Michael just mutters to himself as he walks off the patio back inside, sliding the glass door shut loudly. You stand there in the cold, desolate quiet. A thousand thoughts running through your head, but your body stood still— unmoving. What felt like minutes, was hours as the lights inside the villa eventually turned off.

You sat on one of the lounge chairs in a small ball, knees to your chest and your stare fixated on the flames flickering. The ember fire warms your body, but can’t reach your frozen heart. For a strange reason.. Your eyes were dry, your lips weren’t trembling. Rather than a wave of sadness or betrayal— there’s a black hole, numbing you from the inside out.

“(Y/N)?”

Turning your head to the side, you hear the glass door slide open and a tall silhouette emerges from the darkened villa. The moonlight glowed on his face, his black t-shirt and pyjamas sweats only accentuating his pale figure.

“Hello.. Mr. Wick,” You clear your throat, pulling your knees closer to your chest. His faint footsteps become louder as he walks over to you, his looming shadow dimming the fireplace for a second before sitting next to you.

Here he was. The man who shamelessly steered clear of you like water and oil. The man who squinted his eyes at every word you said. The man who was now sitting right next to you in the dead of night.. His legs manspreading a little too close for comfort.

Your leg twitches a little, either from pure anxiety or the Vermont air breezing past your almost bare skin. Perhaps a thin Henley shirt and jeans were not the best choice of clothing, you scold yourself.

Occasionally you glance over at the older man, who simply sits hunched over, his elbows resting on his knees with his fingers interlocked with each other. The gold of his wedding ring glowed like a red warning sign. You were surrounding an intimate fireplace inches away from a married man— your boyfriend’s married father.

“So um—”

“You alright?”

He cuts your sentence off as usual.. But there was a sincerity in his question, albeit his blank expression. Your face softens with genuine surprise, and you scratch your arm, adjusting your sitting position.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you lie.

“Fine with the way Michael talks to you?”

Biting the inside of your cheek, you shrug. The lines of appropriate conversation topics began to blur, and you worry that trash-talking your boyfriend to his father was definitely crossing something.

“I apologise for his behaviour.” This dude’s a fucking paradox.

“What?”

“Helen and I never raised Michael to raise his voice at a woman, let alone curse at you. And for that I apologise,” John repeats blankly. His amiable words were dampened by his impassive body language and tone.

Was he serious? Was it sarcasm? Was it a test for your reaction?

“Thank you” was your safe option, and he nods at your reply, still not even looking your way. Your leg continues twitching anxiously— and this he notices.

“Cold?” John asks.

“What?”

“Your leg.”

Like an obedient pet, you stop your twitching immediately. You hug yourself a bit, leaning back against the lounge couch, trying to create some distance. John mimics your movements, letting out a soft sigh as he does so. As he rolls his shoulders back— a soft crack hissing— his left arm lifts and reaches back, wrapping around your shoulders.

Eyes widened. Heart beating. Throat dry.

This was definitely crossing the line.

“Mr. Wick—”

“John.”

Chewing your bottom lip anxiously, you shift in your seat again, but his arm remains firm around your shoulders, gently pulling you against his side.

“John..” the name feels foreign on your tongue. “What are you doing?”

“You can do better than Michael.”

His words almost make you chuckle— if it wasn’t for your chest tightening. Your brows snap together as you look at him, full of confusion. The entire week you spent trying to impress, and show you were good enough for Michael son— only to be met with such.. Praise? Could you even call it that?

“You’re kidding, right?”

“You don’t think so?”

“Well..” you pause, repeating the phrase in your head over and over. “You spent this past week completely tearing me down, and mocking me.. Where’s all this coming from now?” Tenacity laced in your voice, and for the first time, John’s pink lips pull into a small smile.

“So just because I’m not explicitly praising your every movement means I’m tearing you down? Are you truly that desperate for me to approve of you?” John licks his teeth, a rare chuckle leaving his mouth. Heat rushes to your face at his taunt.

“I don’t need your approval..” you weakly defend. John tilts his head slightly, his dark eyes surveying you before leaning back. You’re almost disappointed at his retrieval of his arm, letting your warm skin cool down.

“You have it.”

If you jaw wasn’t dropped already, it was on the floor by now.

“You’re nice girl, and you're humble. A diner is hard, honest work. I wasn’t born the boss— everyone has to start somewhere, and I respect that.”

“So why act so.. disappointed?” You stammer, eyes blinking rapidly.

“I was disappointed my son had the balls to lie to me,” John clears his throat. “Lied about where you work, when you met.. He was born with a golden spoon in his mouth, of course he doesn’t respect you.”

He doesn’t respect you.

“... He loves me,” you whisper, almost in denial. But deep down in your frozen heart, you knew the truth. All the arguments, the dismissive tone, the hiding were physical proof right in front of your nose.

“That’s not the same thing,” John hums. “He’s cursing you out at his parent’s home— my home— I can only imagine what else he must be doing.”

You don’t know the half of it, is what you wanted to say. But for the sake of not burning bridges, you kept your lips shut. Suddenly, the pad’s of John's finger brush a strand of hair from your face. His touch was electric. Warm. Intoxicating. Merely a bristle of his touch made your chest tighten.

"Michael was right about one thing.. You are beautiful.”

Before you could come to your senses, your soft lips were enraptured with eyes. He swallows your little squeal of surprise, and your back meets the arm of the couch. A ringing echoes in your ear, like a bomb going off. Your boyfriend’s father.. had just made a move on you.

And you like it.

His tongue slips past your lips, meeting yours. You feel his warm big hand cupping at your hip, the other slipping under your thigh to lay you down better on the couch. His taller frame was much bigger now that it hovered over you, keeping you firmly pinned.

“J-John— stop— we can’t!” You manage to pull your face to the side, your lips leaving his. “Your wife— and my boyfriend— your son are right upstairs! Their rooms are right—”

“So you better be quiet then.”

His firm tone sends shivers down your spine, and you were once again suffocated with his lips. The sound of your jeans unbuttoning hits your ears and you realise there’s no turning back. Your mind flashes with moments of this week where you ogled his body.

No longer were your dreams of his tough hands, his manly shoulders or deep voice just a distant fantasy.. but now a reality. You let out a sharp gasp, when you feel pressure on your nub. His sneaky fingers managed their way under your thin panties. His painstakingly slow circles had you squirming like a puppy.

John chuckles at your needy little whines, looking down at your face and watching as it twists into growing pleasure. Ignoring the cold mountain wind, the two of you are quick to shred your pants, drinking in the absolute tabooness of the situation.

Your nails dig into couch pillows, your leg resting over his shoulder. John hisses softly, his large tip barely kissing your entrance. Your eyes trail away from his gorgeous face up to the open window on the second floor. The lights were off, and a small pit of guilt filled your stomach. But soon to be filled with something else, when John suddenly leans in, letting his tip slide past your folds.

“Fuck—” You bite your lip hard. A baritone chuckle echoes through the empty patio and he continues to slowly slide in, stretching your tiny hole out to the brim. The wind promptly knocked out your lungs as your eyes almost rolled back.

“Look at you.. taking it all in like a good little girl,” John taunts but it only makes you throb, clenching tight around him. You blink rapidly trying to focus, but his mocking coos only fluster you more. “Oh.. someone’s enjoying this.. You like when I praise you, don’t you?”

His hips begin at a gradual pace, and you slap your hand over your mouth, desperately trying to swallow your moans and whimpers. John’s longish black hair was covering most of his face, as he leaned down. Your knee was almost to your face, and you whine at the burn in your legs.

“Y-Yes— I do—” You admit bashfully. Thrust by thrush, his hips rut faster and faster against your small frame. The sound of his heavy balls hitting the curve of your ass were so sinful and sticky, and you feared Helen or Michael hearing you two.

“So desperate to make a good impression..” John’s hand rests above your pussy, completely fixated on the small bump his large cock is causing. His tip kisses your cervix as he fills your spongy walls, a thin white ring forming at the base. “...that you’re slutting yourself out to a man twice your age.”

His mean tone and jeering words make your eyes water with humiliation, but your moans sing a different tune. John lets out a groan as your cunt flutters around him, shifting his grip to your waist, and his fingers pinching painfully.

“Such a filthy little girl..” he coos in your ear. You squeal girlishly against your hand, biting down on your finger. John drinks in the teary look in your doe eyes, the way they almost roll back in pleasure. Your soft lips around your finger, as you clamp down hard when he begins to toy with your breast. “With such pretty tits— and such soft skin.”

John’s head dips down, his lips wrap around one of your nipples and you let out a loud cry. He’s quick to bite when you slip up and start making too much noise. The feel of his tongue swirling your bud, and his cock plunging in and out of you was too much, and the knot in your belly tightened.

“Ohmygod— fuck—” You whisper and pant as quietly as you can. John laughs against your skin, his hands like magic as they hit every button that makes you squeal.

“Baby needed a real man to make her feel good, hm?” John asks rhetorically and you nod hurriedly through tears, as you lie a babbling mess under his powerful stature. He continues fucking you relentlessly, each thrust beginning to bruise your poor pussy.

“D-Don’t stop— please— ohgod—” You stammer and sob.

John leans back up, but keeps your thigh pressed to your chest with his hand. Running another hand through his black locks, and wiping the sweat off his hairline, he groans harshly. The bulge in your stomach popping up and down kept the blood rushing to his cock.

“Gonna cum inside— make you all nice and full,” He pants. “You want that, hm?”

“Yes— yes please— please—” You don’t even care how pathetic you sound. How needy you sounded. Like all sound of mind flew out the window the moment you came here. The moment he even wrapped his arm around you.

His abs contort and his thrusts began to get sloppier. He gripped your soft hips like a vessel, like he owned you. John grins devilishly at your pretty little cries and pleas, enjoying how much you craved him.

“God you make the prettiest noises— all for me, hm? Just for me,” John hisses, snapping his hips faster against you as his fingers work skillfully on your bundle of nerves, sending waves through your trembling legs.

You let out an embarrassingly loud squeal, wallens tightening around his thick girth when you feel climax approaching. He shoots ropes of his warm seed inside you, filling you to the brim.

The air is filled with the sound of your weak moans and his quiet pants. Your bodies drenched in sweat, and the Vermont wind is painfully cold now as the passion fades. The thirst of desperation was now quenched with guilt and horror as you realised what you’ve done.

John returns to his blank expression, pulling out of you with a sloppy sound. You wince when his fingers wipe your sensitive folds, collecting his cum on his fingers as he pushes it back inside you. “These pillows are expensive.”

You lie there in shock at how nonchalantly he behaves: like he didn’t just ravage his son’s girlfriend on the couch, leaving her covered in lovebites and full of warm cum. You watch as he tucks himself back into his sweats, and heads back inside the villa.

Soon enough you follow suit, and dress yourself to come back inside. The house was dark and empty, presumably everyone was asleep at this point. You tiptoe to your room with Michael, and thankfully he lies snoring away— unaware what you just committed.

You change into fresh panties and pyjamas, feeling John’s sticky cum on your thighs as it leaks out of you. The betrayal and sin leaks from your skin as you climb into bed, and guilt drips from your pores when Michael wraps his arm around you.

Guilt that you wish it was John’s arm instead.

Fin.

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#keanu reeves x reader #keanu reeves imagine #john wick x reader #john wick imagine #john wick smut #john wick x y/n

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generalkenobee · 8 months

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Bodyguard!John Wick who has to follow you everywhere, always lurking behind you like a silent shadow

Bodyguard!John Wick Who definitely glares at anyone you're talking to, god forbid if it's a boy from your school or a boyfriend

Bodyguard!John Wick who always puts your priorities before his own and who would do anything for you at any cost

Bodyguard!John Wick who has to tag along to stupid events such as shopping at the mall, or going into Victoria secret for a new bra because he has to make sure you're safe

Bodyguard!John Wick who is so much bigger then you in every aspect that it's almost funny to watch this large man follow a sweet little thing through a bath and body works

Bodyguard!John Wick who is always honest when you ask his opinion on a new frilly dress you bought (he was there obviously but it's still fun to play dress up) he'd sit on the edge of your bed while you spun around for him asking what he thought

Bodyguard!John Wick who thinks you're the cutest thing ever with how you view the world. In contrast to some of the horrors he's seen you always seem so happy

#x reader #john wick x y/n #john wick x reader #john wick #john whick smut #john wick smut #john wick chapter 4 #keanu reeves #keanu reeves smut #keanu reeves x reader #bodyguard! john wick #bodyguard john wick #bodyguard AU #bodyguard au #generalkenobee

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keravnous · 1 month

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

dating john wick - the playlist

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

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

word count: 10,6 k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Could be you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I will not die today

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

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

And Oh, does desperation fire up your blood.

I will not die today

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

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

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

I will not die today

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

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

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

I will not die today

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

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

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

I will not die today

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

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

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

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

I will not die today

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I will not fucking die today

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

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

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

There is something hard pressing against your crotch.

The world falls silent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I will not die today, motherfucker

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Don't", you breathe softly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your breath hitches.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There's the gun. And the knife.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Heavy", you breathe.

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

John realizes he is fucked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yeah?"

"Fuck me."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But it is also him.

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

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

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

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

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

And Jesus Fucking Christ. Does John kiss you.

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

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

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

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

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

John moans.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Kill him instead, please."

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

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

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

Easier to kill.

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

See? I will not die today.

"My father. Kill him."

#i'm back girlies #john wick smut #john wick x reader #john wick x you #john wick imagine #smut #my writing #keanu reeves #keanu reeves x reader #keanu reeves x you #keanu reeves smut

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eternalslover · 4 months

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

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

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ruskaroma · 11 months

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could you do a little drabble of an au of the reader and jw on their wedding night and tbe reader is like pure and naive and loosing her virginity to john 🤭🤍🪷

oh my god.. can i shake this up a little bit?

arranged marriage with john wick.

let’s say you’re the only child of a very powerful mob syndicate, and all your parents wanted is the best for you, so they don’t want you going around fucking with other guys that are below they’re status because it might ruin the reputation they’ve worked so hard to achieve.

so they kept you isolated.

you’re homeschooled, the only friends you have are the maids, the children of those maids and gardeners, you rarely go outside – and if you do, you have a bunch of bodyguards following you around everywhere you go.

of course, you don’t question it. you know your parents only want the best for you, and you know how dangerous it is to live in a world like this. you can’t exactly blame your parents.

when you turned 20, your father introduced you to a man named john wick.

he’s the definition of tall, dark, and handsome you keep reading about in the books. late forties or mid fifties, you don’t exactly know. you just know that he’s a lot older and probably knows better.

your father had explained how you’re going to be marrying john and you were beyond ecstatic upon hearing the news. having a companion in life could open up to so many different opportunities. it didn’t matter that you just met this man. there’s so much time to learn about each other as you two plan for the wedding.

you didn’t ask your parents why they’re suddenly letting you marry a man because simply don’t care. too naïve for your own good. you didn’t know that your parents are only paying their debt to john and you were the only thing in their life that they could just simply give away.

fast forward to the night of your wedding day, let’s say that you aren’t expecting john to be so... rough during your lovemaking.

his actions are rough but his words are soft. it’s confusing you. you thought honeymoons are supposed to be sweet and slow, yet here you are getting fucked on the bed like some kind of cheap whore as john pulls your hair from behind and whispers filthy praises in your ear like there’s no tomorrow.

“my pretty little wife,” john grunts, snapping his hips against your ass, burying his cock so far deep into your little cunt that you could feel it in your stomach. you drool, stumbling over your words. “my wife got the best pussy – so fucking tight and pink. i bet you’ve never let anyone touch you like this before, hm? only me? only your husband?”

“y-yes – yes, john, o-only you!” you sob, clutching the bedsheets in your first as your pussy clench around his dick. “f-feel so full, j-john, feel s-so full – so big.”

“that means you’re doing a great job, baby,” he praises, letting go of your hair to drop his head on your neck, peppering kisses all over as his beard tickles your skin. “my little wife is taking my cock so well. you’re gonna have to get used to it, baby, because i can assure you that i’ll be fucking your sweet little cunt every single day that i come back home. gonna get you so nice and full again like this.”

#ask #drabble #concept #my works #THIS IS RUSHED IM SAWRY #john wick x reader #john wick x you #john wick x y/n #john wick fanfiction #john wick fanfic #john wick imagine #john wick smut #john wick #keanu reeves #keanu reeves x reader #keanu reeves smut #jw

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konstanz-69 · 8 months

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I want to write for him but ive got such writers block

#keanu reeves #the matrix resurrections #ted theodore logan #bill and ted #keanu reeves x reader #john wick #john wick x reader

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greenmanalishi · 1 year

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imajinxnation · 22 hours

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Killer And The Wife-Beater

Donnie Barksdale x FEM!Reader x David Allen Griffin

SUMMARY // You and your husband, Donnie are in Los Angeles for a short trip to just get out of town for awhile, when you both stumble across a man who looks oddly like your husband, to which Donnie gets a brilliant idea..

TW // Smut, Angst, Abuse, Cheating, Hitting, Reader is a shit person too, Knife Play, Degradation..

DON'T SAY I DIDN'T FUCKING WARN YOU!!

Also, I can't call Keanu's character David in this because that's my Dad's name.. so I just call him Griffin.

Honestly, I haven't watched The Watcher yet, so please don't hate me if it's not the best depiction of his character!!

Gif credit to @meier-mar for both

"Mm.. Donnie.."

As of right now, you're on your back in Griffin's home, on his bed with Donnie's head between your thighs, licking and sucking at your clit as if his life depended on it. Meanwhile, Griffin was watching from a chair in the corner of his room, groaning and palming himself through his jeans at the sight of your husband eating you out like there's no tomorrow.

Now, you may be wondering how you ended up in this position.. Well, you and Donnie were on a trip in Los Angeles, needing to get away from town for awhile and have some time for yourselves. You had been waiting for Donnie at a local café, when a man who looked almost exactly like your husband came up to you, asking if he could take some pictures of you, telling you that you were absolutely gorgeous.

You weren't one to turn down a man who was complimenting you, so you complied and posed for some pictures for him. Unfortunately, that time was cut short when Donnie had finally arrived, a pissed look on his face, pushing Griffin away and nearly breaking his camera in the process. This caused a fight to break out between you two, Griffin just standing there, watching you two fight, until you and Donnie both started getting extremely violent..

Griffin pulled you two apart after Donnie slapped you, and you retaliated by punching him in the chest back. Griffin tried to calm you both down, even though he was secretly enjoying the little couples spat you were having, but then, as another retaliation to Donnie's jealousy and rage, you grabbed Griffin by the shirt and made out with him in front of your husband.

You thought this would deter him, make him angrier.. and it did, but it also turned him on. Seeing your tongue inside another mans unsuspecting mouth, and Griffin's tongue fighting back against yours, giving into lust.. It made Donnie's brain spark with ideas..

And that's how you ended up where you are now.

"Baby girl, such a fuckin' slut.. Makin' out with another man in front of me, and now havin' him watch us fuck.." Donnie growls into your twitching pussy, his hands gripping your thighs tightly so you can't escape his relentless tongue.

Griffin groans at Donnie's words, unbuttoning his pants and undoing the zipper. Griffin pulls his pants down, and pulls his cock out of his underwear. He squeezes his hand around his thickness, precum spilling out of his pink tip.

"Look at him! Look at him while I fuck you," Donnie growls out once more before sucking and licking at your clit harder than ever, his beard scratching your inner thighs deliciously.

You do as he says. Moaning wildly, you throw your head to the side to watch Griffin as his gloved hand strokes his thick cock, making eye contact with you and groaning.

"Gah! Oh God, Donnie! Gonna fuckin' cum!" You moan loudly, nearly screaming, your hands frantically grabbing onto your husband's long hair.

"That's it baby girl! Cum for me, make him watch you cum for me, and only me! Do it, whore!" He growls, keeping up his pace with his tongue.

You scream, cumming hard onto his long, skilled tongue, your hands gripping his hair so hard your knuckles turned white. Donnie pulls away from your swollen clit and gives your pussy a firm slap, making your body jolt. As you come down from your high, Donnie looks over to Griffin, his cock still hard in his gloved hand.

"Get the fuck over here, city boy. You want my fuckin' whore of I wife, you can have her. For tonight at least.." Donnie sneers at Griffin, but switches places with him, now sitting in the chair where Griffin was.

You pull yourself up onto your elbows, still panting as you watch Griffin, wondering what he was going to do, how he would position you, what his cock felt like.. You loved Donnie's cock, don't get me wrong! But Donnie wasn't as thick as Griffin, and you had a feeling Griffin would stretch you out juuust nicely.

Griffin slowly walks to his bedside table and pulls out a small knife from his top drawer, the metal glinting in the lamp light. For a second, Donnie's heart dropped and became protective of you, ready to stop Griffin from hurting you, but before he could, Griffin silently dragged the dull part of knife across your collar bones.

He drug the knife down further and pressed the cool metal against your nipple, making it harden more at the coldness. A sadistic grin played on Griffin's face as he led the knife down further, across your ribcage, stomach, and finally to your pubic mound, making you gasp, your eyes widening at the sharp object being so close to such a sensitive area.

Donnie watches carefully, making sure that knife doesn't pierce your soft flesh. Sure, Donnie has hit you multiple times, but hitting wasn't the same as cutting.. And if Griffin cut you or sliced your delicate skin in any way, shape, or form? Well then he'd be a dead man walking.

Griffin slides the flat part of the knife through your arousal, gathering a decent amount of your juices on the weapon before bringing it to his lips and licking the knife, his eyes lighting up at the taste of your slick.

"Mm.. how sweet and delicious.. but not this time." He throws the knife to the floor and aligns his cock with your entrance hastily, desperate for release.

He pushes in hard and fast, not waiting for you to adjust to his pulsing thickness. He groans and hisses in pleasure as his cock is engulfed by your tight heat, not expecting you to be as tight as you are. Griffin grunts and starts thrusting hard but slow, wanting the pleasure to last for both of you. Meanwhile, you're a moaning mess under him, his thick cock stretching you out just as you had hoped it would; deliciously. There was a slight stinging, but you honestly didn't care and the pleasure overpowered everything else.

"Fuck! You're so fucking tight.. What, he not stretch you out? His cock that small?" Griffin teases, looking over at Donnie and smirking right at him.

Donnie's face turns red in anger and embarrassment, you can practically see the steam pouring out of his nostrils from the heat of his anger. Donnie growls and finally pulls his cock out, pushing his pants and underwear down onto the floor and coming closer to your face. He grabs your cheeks in his hand, his grip hard and warning. Donnie makes you look up at him while you moan, your pussy getting obliterated by the thickest cock you've ever had.

"You little cockslut.. you want dick so bad then you can fuckin' take mine too. Suck." Donnie demands, slapping your face before placing his dick into your awaiting mouth.

You do as he says, engulfing his cock in your wet mouth, licking and sucking, your moans sending vibrations through him, your hand taking the part of his shaft where your mouth couldn't reach. Griffin groans at the sight and speeds up his pace, fucking you faster and harder, bringing your legs up to lay over his shoulders, giving him more access and hitting deeper than before, making you nearly scream in Donnie's cock as you bobbed your head on his length, moaning frantically.

"That's right, baby girl.. you like having two cocks? Bet you'd fuckin' looove even more, but guess what, sweetheart? After this, you're mine, and I ain't gonna share you ever again.." Donnie hisses out as you lick over his slit, bringing your head up to suck hard at his tip before going back down on his cock.

Griffin ignores Donnie's words and groans deeply, his pace faltering and becoming sloppy, getting closer and closer to the edge, both you and Donnie could tell. Griffin showed no sign of stopping or pulling out, only going faster, trying to bring himself to the edge and cum, not even bothering to try and make you cum. You could definitely feel a pressure in your lower stomach, but it wouldn't be snapping any time soon without any stimulation on your clit.

"You cum inside of her, city boy, and this will be your last day on Earth, ya hear!?" Donnie snaps at Griffin.

Griffin looks up at him with a shit-eating grin before thrusting into your abused pussy harder, pushing as deep as he can in defiance to your husband.

"I'd like to see you fuckin' try, redneck!" Griffin grunts out. Though he had challenged Donnie like that, he knew he'd probably die if he came inside of you, and he didn't particularily feel like meeting death that night.

So, as soon as he felt himself near the edge, he pulled out, making you whine from the empty feeling, and started rubbing and jerking his cock frantically over you until one particular squeeze sent him over, thick, creamy spurts of cum covering your stomach, and even on your tits a little bit.

Donnie pulls his dick out of your mouth and quickly speeds over to where Griffin was hovering over you, his cock dripping cum still. Donnie pulled him up onto the floor and punched him hard where he knew it would knock him out, sending him falling to the floor, looking peacefully asleep with his softening cock pulled out of his underwear still.

Not bothering to fix the way Griffin looked, Donnie took Griffin's previous place, shoving his length into your heat. Even though the city boy had stretched you out significantly, you were still so tight. You moan out at the intrusion, loving the feeling of Donnie's cock inside you, like it should be. Griffin's cock was nice.. but you still prefered your husband's as to his.

"City boy didn't even make you cum, did he? My poor baby girl, so pent up.. Let me fix that for you.." Donnie smirks and licks his thumb before bringing his finger down to your clit, giving you the stimulation you craved.

That is what finally made you scream. The feeling of your husband's cock pounding into your tight pussy while his thumb rubbed furiously at your clit, not only focusing on his pleasure, but yours aswell. That's what turned you on; his willingness to put aside his own pleasure for awhile to take care of your sexual cravings.

"Fuck, honey! Gonna cum! Gonna cum all over your cock!" You moan and scream out, making Donnie thrust harder, his thumb working magic on your clit.

Your eyes widen as you feel the band in your stomach snap and waves of pleasure wash over you, making you scream, your head thrown back and your back arching off the bed. Donnie let's out a loud groan in response, thrusting hard one more time before breaking, his warm cum filling you up, spurt after spurt. He collapses on top of you and immediately groans in disgust as he realizes he now had Griffin's cum on his body..

"That's disgustin'.. we're gonna take over his shower before we go, cause I don't want his cum on you and especially not on me! Fuckin' gross shit.." he mutters the last part, making you smile and laugh.

"It was either that or letting him cum inside me.." you tease him.

Donnie growls and pinches one of your nipples playfully as a warning.

"Never.. you're mine and you're only allowed to be stuffed full of my cum.. Understand, whore?" Donnie growls lowly into your ear.

You giggle and smirk, "Yes, Sir.."