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johnwickb1tsch · 6 hours ago

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you're the worst thing (i'm addicted to) + part 6

a john wick x Helen'sSister!Reader fic You are Helen's baby sister. Set a few years after the first movie, 2-4 never happened. Use of y/n. Warnings: canon typical violence. Smut. Mourning. More smut. Forbidden romance. Grey areas. Questionable decisions. Sweetheart!John, BAMF!John Depressed!John - If you can handle the movie you should be fine here... divider by saradika-graphics PART 1 PART 2 PART 3 PART 4 PART 5

And I, I come here to be what you need, so you can fly, so you can fly -Detune, Kaleida

PART 6.

You always thought the boxy behemoth of John and Helen’s house looked more like a museum than a home. The dramatic lighting in the landscaping out front reinforces this impression, though gliding into the garage where the Mustang gives one last dying rumble before John kills the ignition maybe contradicts this notion.

You have the startling realization that you have never been here, without Helen.

You see no traces of her in the garage. Her Lexus is gone. A motorcycle is parked where her SUV used to be. You wonder if John cleaned out her other belongings inside. It’s none of your business, how he decided to handle the remnants of her things, but the thought makes your heart ache in your chest all the same.

“Ready?” he asks quietly, perhaps sensing your inner turmoil as you sit dead still in the passenger seat for too long, paralyzed in your thoughts of your sister.

Not sure if it’s true, you nod anyway, making to extricate yourself from the low-slung sports car. John removes your duffel from the trunk, slinging the strap of the bag over his shoulder. You’d thought it heavy, but he handles it like you’d packed nothing but a bag of feathers, and it’s possible you admire the view of his powerful form from behind as you follow him inside.

A part of you still can’t believe you are doing this.

Now that your thoughts are only partially clouded by lust, your inner voice of judgement is still yet undecided as to how much loathing you deserve for this escapade. The garage leads into a mudroom, then the kitchen. John tosses his keys into a wooden bowl and flips a light. The open plan of the house gives you a clear view across the dining area and the recessed living room, and something in your heart unclenches as you realize he has not changed a thing.

All of Helen’s carefully curated curios and objet d’art remain in place, and it’s almost as though she’s still there, in a way. Your eyes fill with tears, and desperately you try to blink them away before John notices you’re having a mini-crisis over the sight of Helen’s coffee table books on modern architecture.

You are saved by the sound of claws clicking on the tile floor. A handsome blue pitbull trots up to you, immediately leaning on your legs after a perfunctory sniff. “Oh. Who’s this?” you ask, leaning over to pet the friendly fellow.

“That’s Dog,” John answers with the chagrined smile of a man who knows your next thought will be something along the lines of “You couldn’t be bothered to actually name your dog?”

In an attempt to be original, you let it go. “What a sweetie.”

You wonder what changed Helen’s mind from her original plan. “I thought she was getting you a beagle for some reason,” you remark quietly as Dog licks your chin. You scratch him behind his ears and down his back, smiling as he wiggles blissfully under your longish nails.

John sighs heavily in response. “Yeah.” You sense there’s a whole explanation behind that one word, and maybe you’d talked a tough game back in your apartment, but it’s late, and you’re tired, and you find you don’t have the mettle to pry any more explanations out of this man tonight.

Especially not ones that seem like they’re going to hurt him.

You get the sense that John has endured a lot in his lifetime. The last thing you want is to cause him more pain.

He weighs you with those soulful eyes, and you can’t help but feel like he’s reading a little too much between your lines. “I…can prepare the guest room for you, if you prefer?”

You wonder if he senses your unease in this new and tricky situation–or if he’s the one changing his mind.

“I’m not…sleeping with you?” you ask, trying and failing to hide your own disappointment at hearing this proffered out.

“Only if you want to.”

You find the last thing you want tonight, is to toss and turn with your thoughts of Helen, alone.

You can still see the hint of lace of your panties peeking out from his breast pocket, and a part of you wishes he would just sling you over his shoulder and take you to bed.

And take all the blame, you chide yourself.

No. If you’re digging this hole…you’re doing it together.

Maybe it’s not entirely fair, the way you close the space between you slowly, your heels clicking on the tile. “What do you want, John?” you ask gently, and you don’t mean to purr it so sweetly, but it just comes out of you when you’re with him. And maybe it’s also not fair, when your hands find his trim torso, sliding under the warmth of his suit jacket. You feel he is strung taut as tightrope beneath his fine clothes; yet the moment you touch him something seems to let go.

His eyes slide closed, and he does not answer you with words, ducking to press his lips to yours. Whatever feelings of guilt had been stewing beneath your skin utterly evaporate, immolated by the fire this small gesture ignites within you again.

“Me too,” you admit against his pillow-soft lips, and you think his huff of self-deprecating laughter is nine tenths relief.

“Come on.” He nuzzles your nose with his before turning to lead you upstairs.

You realize you’ve been in his bedroom before–but again, only with Helen, as she shared some new pair of shoes or designer dress she’d bought, putting on a fashion show for you in the walk-in closet, usually before foisting “hand-me-downs” she'd never actually worn (and clearly bought with your taste in mind) upon you.

It certainly feels different now, the neatly made bed glowing in the moonlight streaming through the floor to ceiling windows. You know that they’re mirrored on the outside, but you still wonder how one goes about not feeling like they live in a fishbowl. You suppose you are unaccustomed to living in a house without close neighbors. It’s a luxury you could never afford in the city.

John turns on a lamp, and sets your bag gingerly by the bed. “I’ll make room for you in the closet.”

You’d barely packed enough to require it, but still you nod, touched by the thought because you never would have presumed to ask. “Tomorrow,” you say quietly, your hands finding their way under his jacket again, pushing it from his shoulders. You drape it carefully over the back of a nearby chair, certain it cost more than your rent.

He watches you with those soulful dark eyes, and you feel yourself melting all over again. He seems to enjoy your hands on his body as you slowly work on undressing him, loosening the knot of his tie, sliding the patterned silk from under his collar. You move on to his shining white gold cufflinks. “Pretty,” you compliment, working the toggles carefully.

He hesitates a moment before admitting, “They were a gift.”

“I know. I helped Helen pick them out from Dunhill.”

He looks at you from beneath his lashes, the flash of sorrow in his dark eyes fathomless as the sea at night. He still hurts so much, and you understand. You feel it too.

“It’s ok,” you say, speaking to yourself as much as him. “We should say her name. We shouldn’t skirt around it. I want to remember her.” You don’t want her name to be taboo between you, even if what you are doing is more than a little fucked up.

He closes his eyes, dipping his head in agreement. “Thank you.” You get the feeling he means for more than just helping your sister pick out an anniversary gift for him. You just nod, and he presses his forehead to yours. You stand like that for a long while, two people who are broken but maybe, just maybe, have found a bit of light in each other against the crushing gloom.

You fancy that you feel the exact moment, when John makes up his mind for certain about you. He gathers you to him with a new edge of desperation, grips your curves just this side of too hard, like you might slip away if he doesn’t hold on to you. His mouth slants over yours, and you take the onslaught of his passion gladly, holding him to you with arms around his neck as he devours you. The fine zipper down your spine proves no obstacle for his clever hands; your dress slides down your body, pooling around your ankles.

The hunger in his expression as he looks down at you in just your strapless bra makes your legs weak–it doesn’t matter, because he holds you, and he’s not letting you go. His voice comes rough with the edge of desire: “Y/n…I know I don’t deserve you. But God do I want you.” He doesn't give you much of a chance to answer, manhandling you onto the bed like you weigh nothing, which isn’t the case at all.

You would have told him that you want him too, more than you've ever wanted anyone, but his mouth is on yours and you're happy to kiss him instead. His lean body presses you down deliciously into the soft mattress; you open eagerly, twining your legs with his, holding him to you. He's still completely clothed, and you make an attempt to undo some buttons, craving his bare skin on yours like air to breathe. The promise of his hard groin against yours makes your vision spin.

“I’m sorry,” he growls, seemingly at your breasts as he moves down your body, his hot mouth searing trails of fire down your skin. Your brain function is not at its best at the moment–you’re not sure what he’s talking about at all, and he doesn’t expand on his point until his teeth are grazing the curve of your hip.

“I haven’t…been with anyone…since Helen,” he explains, his voice rough with want. “I might be…a little rusty.”

You have to bite down on a laugh. Not because it’s funny, but because it’s so endearing you could scream, and if this is John Wick when he feels like he’s not on his game…you don’t think you can handle this man at his best.

“I don’t think you have to worry,” you sigh as he kisses the inside of your thigh, moaning as his soft lips travel higher. It’s almost embarrassing how wet he finds you, when he slips the tip of his thumb just past your weeping hole. The sound he makes is more animal than man as he falls to his knees at the edge of the bed, guiding your legs over his broad shoulders, and when his tongue touches your clit you see God. You cannot sit still but he holds you down with one big hand spanned across your belly, two of his fingers sliding inside you as he laves at your aching slit.

“John,” you pant, your hands fisted in the bedspread out of desperation for something to hold on to, your back arched like a bow as he gives you this blissful pleasure between your thighs. “Please…” You can hardly think past his mouth upon you, your brain gone completely offline while in this man’s skillful hands. “Please, I want you inside me?”

He growls against you, making your toes curl. You’re not sure if he’s arguing with you, or himself, but in the end he withdraws, wiping his mouth on the bedspread before standing between your legs. He towers over you from this vantage, and in a blissful stupor you watch him undo the buttons of his shirt with deft fingers. You find yourself holding your breath as he reaches the last one; a whine escapes you as he pauses in the unveiling.

“Y/n…I have to warn you…I have scars.”

He seems self-conscious about this, or maybe afraid of how you might react. You sit up, giving him your full attention.

“It’s ok.”

“I don’t…want to scare you.”

You touch his hands on his shirt halves lightly; it’s possible you're trembling. “I watched you take out three guys tonight and stab one of them in the leg…and I’m still here.”

He lets out a long, shaking sigh, nodding. “Yeah.”

“I’m kind of figuring out that you’re a dangerous man. But I don’t feel like you would ever hurt me. Am I wrong?”

“No,” he answers immediately.

“Ok. Then take off your shirt, please,” you say with a hint of insouciance you hope will break his hesitance, your lips curving in a smirk. You unclip your bra in a gesture of solidarity, tossing it to the foot of the bed.

He looks down at your bare form with a tenderness in his eyes that warms you all over. Are you allowed to look at each other like that yet? Like you are something precious to behold? There are unofficial rules against this, but you feel yourself doing exactly the same. You feel yourself falling, hard, and you don't have the sense tonight to catch yourself before you hit rock bottom.

“Cheeky girl,” he chides you gently, and you can see your ploy succeeded in nudging him out of his cycle of self doubt, at least for now.

“You want me to be quiet, John?” you tease him further, reaching for his belt. “Give me something to put in my mouth.”

He makes a sound low in his throat that makes you think of predatory animals that stalk the deep dark forest at night. For a moment you get an inkling of the beast that lurks beneath this man's skin as he pushes you back down on the bed with a hand that engulfs the base of your throat, his gaze sharpening upon you in a way that sends a wave of gooseflesh rolling across your skin, your nipples tightening painfully. He kisses you, hard, and once more you forget everything due to this man's mouth upon you.

Through half closed lids you watch him shrug out of his shirt, tossing it in the general direction of the chair. He was not joking about the scars; your eyes sweep over his torso, your lips parted with awe, your thighs pressed in an unconscious effort to relieve some of the exquisite ache inspired by seeing him like this, a god of war finally bared before you.

You inventory the evidence of past altercations. Cuts large and small, and puckered round rosettes of flesh you can only assume must have been bullet wounds. This man has endured so much, and your heart aches for him, even as you know he must have given just as good as he got.

You fixate on a long, thick scar that leads down the center of his abdomen, disappearing into his waistband; the sight of it makes your mouth water.

He's beautiful, scars and all. Maybe more so, because of them. This man has been to hell and back– and now he's chosen to be here, in this precious moment, with you. Your fingertips itch to reach for him, to trace his contours and hollows and the evidence written on his skin that he's cheated death more than once. But he seemed to want you where he put you, and so you wait, trembling inside like a blossom waiting for the kiss of the dawn to open.

You watch as he divests himself of the gun again, tucking it into the drawer of the nightstand. You see him eyeing the lamp, considering plunging the room into darkness again, and you click your tongue in warning. “You're not shy, are you John?”

He narrows his eyes at you, though he smiles like he enjoys your teasing. “You’re not going to let me get away with anything, are you?”

“I think you're beautiful, and I want to see you while you fuck me.” Again, there's a flash of that predatory look behind his eyes, a leviathan surfaced from the depths, there and gone. It’s possible that you squirm a little, when he fixes you with that sharp black gaze, and you don't notice for a good long moment when he's finally taken off his pants, because you can't stop looking at his eyes.

“I think you’re beautiful too,” he tells you, and finally he is crawling towards you, and you can run your hands over the expanses of his powerful physique. The curves of his biceps and the plane of his chest. The ladder of his ribs and his trim waist, and the velvety hard length of his manhood filling your hand. He groans into the bend of your neck as you stroke him, guiding him where you need him most between your legs.

“I want you so much, John. I need you.”

He pulls back to look at you with the expression of a drowning man. You think you’re beginning to understand him better. That the thing he wants most deep down is to be wanted, and that maybe it surprises him, that you do. It breaks your heart a little, that he’s so taken aback by that, like he can’t quite allow himself to believe it.

He’d said he hadn’t had a happy life before Helen. You wonder what exactly that entailed. All this flashes through your mind in a millisecond before you guide him to your entrance, teasing yourself with his tip slicked delectably with your own juices. You should take a moment to grab a condom, new partner and all, but you’re on birth control, and you simply do not have the willpower to leave his arms.

He lowers himself so that he is pressing you down into the soft mattress with his body and his mouth on yours. He rolls his hips, his thick cock gliding against your folds torturously. You throw your head back, keening with need, the muscles of your pussy cramped so tightly with desire that it hurts. “Please? I’m so empty without you.”

Maybe he senses the truth in your plea. It is the thing that breaks him, unable to tease you anymore. You groan as his thick head pushes past your entrance, just a taste but god it feels like heaven. He buries his face in your neck as he thrusts, little by little until he is fully sheathed inside you.

“So fucking good,” he groans into your hair, and you hold him against you, your nails digging into his back as you hook your leg on his hip, pulling him deeper. “My good girl, taking me so well.” He rocks against you, rubbing your clit with his pubic bone as he fills you better than anyone ever has, and you are already on the edge of climax, your pussy fluttering around his length. You squeeze him inside you, winning a moan that feels like you've won a prize.

He fills you like he was made for you, and you are lost. Lost in the sensation of him inside you, engulfing you–you’ve never felt so claimed, nor, you reckon, have you ever submitted to a man so gladly.

“You going to cum for me, y/n?” With his thumb on your clit as he thrusts, hitting that perfect spot inside you, it feels more like a demand than a request, or maybe just a sure prediction.

“Yes. Fuck. John…”

You lose the faculty for higher language as your second orgasm of the night crashes through you, ecstasy ripping up your spine like a tidal wave. Maybe because it’s been a while like he said, or just maybe because he’s that into you, John loses it too as he feels the clench of your greedy little cunt milking him, thrusting deep inside you as he fills you with the hot flood of his release.

Maybe it should scare you, that you’ve never connected so perfectly with another man–but all you can manage in this moment is to hold him to you like you have no intention of ever letting him go. It feels like a long time before he rises from what the French call the little death, and how true it is. How is it possible to feel so exhausted, yet born anew?

Words seem to escape him as much as you; instead he kisses you, a long and languorous lock of lips that curls your toes all over again, your pussy clenching in answer around his still semi-hard manhood inside you. It wins you another groan that makes you chuckle against his lips.

The first thing he says to you after this complete mutual ruin is: “Imp,” and all you can do in answer is grin against his mouth triumphantly.

He’s not wrong.

The two of you barely manage to clean yourselves up before you are snuggling down into the covers together, falling into a deep sleep. Maybe it’s foolish of you, but tangled up tightly in John Wick’s strong arms–you feel as though nothing can hurt you.

#shameless morning reblog 🤭#john wick x reader

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johnwickb1tsch · 1 day ago

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

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

Words: 700

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Babayaga has found something that he cannot simply kill.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Will you hold me?”

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

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

#sweet john wick #🥰🥰🥰🥰

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