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treedaddymcpuffpuff · 10 months ago

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JOHN WICK WIPS (INSPO FROM THE BRILLIANT @scarlettspectra) ; READ TW 🕊️

──────── #1 SAVE ME, JW

“You want me to leave you alone, don’t you?” You’re willing to let this one slide, despite the trouble you’ll get in later for it. Maybe a few bruising slaps, nothing you can’t handle.

“You can’t now.”

You look at him strangely. “I can.”

“Your boss is expecting you to deliver.”

You wonder how he knows all this, how he can be casual about it.

“Look at me.” You grin, unbothered, only a little frightened of consequences and repercussions. “You think I’m not used to losing?”

He does look at you, really, and it makes you shudder. Underneath all that grief is slaughter. Bodies piled and burning. Your mouth runs dry and the grin falls. “What are you here for?”

He wipes alcohol from his bottom lip. “Your boss.”

You prickle. “Please.” He betrays no sympathy, so you try again. “Please don’t. I need to protect them.”

“Den mother?” He asks.

You look over your shoulder to the oblivious family you’ve grown to love. Men and women in scantily clad outfits just trying to live in this fucked up world.

“Yeah,” you nod, taking a huge drink of alcohol to numb the future.

It doesn’t help.

He puts his hand on your arm, steadying the shakes. “I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

You find yourself laughing despite the gravity of the situation. “You’re one man. He’ll have you killed, and we’ll get caught in the crossfire.”

He tips down the last of his drink. “Get them out.”

“And then he’ll come looking for me,” you hiss, leaning on the table with your head in your hands.

He says, without a crumb of doubt: “no he won’t.”

──────── #2 NONCON ; DEAD DOVE ; DARK DARK DARK JW

There’s black hellfire in his eyes, a dark promise to make you sorry for your miserable little John-free existence, and, for a second, you resign to the notion that he is going to keep his iron grip around your suffocating throat until you pass out. Your vision is already blurring and darkening, claws scratching pitifully at his arms. A little woodland creature in a big bear trap.

But, he lets you go, dropping you right on the hard floor, and you land on your ass, gasping for air, face soaked from tears, dress ripped down the middle. He jams his pointy shoe in between your legs, pressing the tip into your cunt, hurting you.

“John, please,” you whimper through gritty teeth, trying to push his leg away and only getting a big black dress shoe crushing your pussy as reward.

Your head flips back, neck craning just enough to put agonizing tension on your scalp and spine. His fist nets what feels like every tearing hair on your head, and you can’t help but screech in pain.

“Please,” he repeats, voice eerily calm even as he’s shoving his fingers down your throat and making you choke. He pulls out and leaves thick white spit dripping onto your pouty lips and chin. He smears the excess on your cheek and smiles down at you - almost lovingly - “you’re begging already? Fucking pathetic.” His foot digs deeper into your sensitive pussy and you let out a cry, proving his point.

“Oh, I missed this tight little cunt,” he sighs and closes his eyes as if talking to himself. “Thought about her every fucking day.”

“John, I’m sorry, I-“

“Shut up.” He slaps you on the cheek, hard enough to leave a big red welt, then lugs you up by your hair. He doesn’t bother to move his leg, so your bare skin scrapes raw on the rough fabric of his pants. “The only thing that’s gonna come out of that pretty mouth from now on is ‘yes, John.’”

He spins you around, manhandles you onto the counter, presses his cock into the cotton of your panties and slaps your ass harder than he had done to your face. He watches your plump jiggle and retract, wets his lips, grunts. “Did you hear me, baby?” He slaps the same spot, and you yelp and claw at the counter.

“Yes, John.” The phone is right beside your head, you see the screen light up with worried texts from your friends, asking if you’re home yet. You could try and pick it up, call someone, dial 911, but this is John, and you know there’s not a chance in hell you could touch that phone without him crushing it in one grip.

“Oh?” He sees where your eyes are, of course he does. He’s a fucking lethal predator, and you’re just a stupid girl. “You wanna call somebody to come save you? Do it. Call them. But you’re gonna watch attentively while I kill them all, I can promise you that, honey.”

──────── #3 HOUSE PET

The cute baby blue collar around your squishy, bruised neck - and how can he help but mark you up? It’s so easy to dig his teeth into your skin and latch on.

The cream-pink cheeky underwear nestled tight to your flesh, hidden under a mid thigh denim skirt.

The delicate bralette, useless in caging your heavy, bouncing breasts - even with the aid of the tight pink camisole.

Just for him, an opaque, creamy white, mock garter hugging your thighs and making the fat bulge and jiggle over the snug tops.

John wants to lap at that flesh like you would with melting ice cream from the cone.

He tugs on your little leather leash. The one accessory on your body that’s not pastel and sickly feminine. This shiny lead indicates that the tether between your neck and his hand belongs solely to him.

Adorable cuffs around your wrists and ankles - color made to match collar.

His hands, so steady and thick, inching up your inner thighs and making you giggle and twitch.

He knows you’re so very ticklish right in the crease of your thighs. So adorable trying to squirm away from him even though you know it’s completely useless.

“Johnny, stop it,” you gurgle, slapping at his plucking and pinching fingers.

His mouth contradicts his rough hands, giving you tiny, loving kisses all over your hot face. His smile melts you into a pliant doll, ready to be played with.

At his total mercy - eager to be at his total mercy - not one vulnerability he doesn’t see and latch onto, yet so completely safe and sheltered under him. Like standing in the eye of a tornado, or being a sucker fish on the side of a big great white.

You card your hands through his silky hair, pushing it out of his face and pushing your caged cunt up into his teasing thumb. “I love you.”

“I love you.” He licks at your lips and you open for him, ready to be devoured and left breathless from his mouth.

──────── #4 THAT FUCKIN WHITE HENLEY

“Good boy,” I say, “good boy. Who’s my good boy, huh?”

The tiny Italian greyhound bounces high enough to kiss my face, and I’m giggling in delight. “Yes! You’re my good boy. Go get it!” I throw the ball and he’s gone in a flash, fast a lightning, legs moving so swift I can’t even see them under his little body.

I turn back to the house, where John is situated on our little deck and fixing the grill up.

Instead of coming to me, Oz runs to Dad, and drops the ball at his feet.

My husband picks it up, shows it to Oz, then shows it to me, still leaning down, the upper half of his torso partially obscured by porch rails.

He smiles at me, eyebrow raised.

“Yeah, yeah,” I call over, giggling, “you throw better than me!”

He looks back at the dog. “Don’t be mean to your mom, Oz. It’s not her fault she sucked at gym class.”

Ozzie barks, uninterested in our banter, all eyes for his toy, and I laugh, mouth popping open in mock offensive gesture. “I’m sorry we can’t all be built for high impact sports.” I stick my tongue out at John, and earn a soft chuckle.

He stands up, brushes his blue jeans off and - oh - I haven’t seen this shirt before.

It’s just a damn shirt, and I’ve seen this man at least more than a couple times completely naked, so why am I salivating while he saunters up to me to hand me the ball. Oz, blissfully ignorant to the tension between us, happily trots after him.

He puts the ball in my hand, grins at me. “Thought you’d never wake up, sunshine.”

“I-uh-had a long night.” My cunt gives a diabolical throb. The thick fingers handing me the toy were the same ones scissor fucking my sopping cunt only a few hours ago.

“Poor baby,” he tsks, leaning down to kiss my head.

That fucking shirt. White, marled Henley with the v cut out so his chest can wink teasingly at me. Something about it makes me pulse in more places than my loving heart.

“Wear’d you get this shirt?” I ask him.

“You like it?” He says, twisting around so that I can see the taut bend in his waist and the way the fabric rumples and clings against his sinew and tendon.

I feel the urge to chomp down on my knuckle to avoid screaming.

“You look good,” I say, treading carefully, salivating. Jesus Christ to lord

His smile is all knowing, mischievous, awful, going straight to my pussy.

“I’m thinking barbecue chicken for lunch,” he says. “Would you like that?”

I’m not crazy, that last sentence is 100% dipped in sin and low toned. My cunt puckers. “Sounds good.”

He goes back to fixing the grill while I play with Oz. My throws are even worse now that I’m entirely distracted by watching his muscles move under creamy fabric.

Before I know it, he’s got my back pressed up against his front again, big body engulfing me. “Bad news, baby,” he murmurs, kissing my neck.

I giggle as his beard tickles my skin.

“The grill is out of commission. Let me take you out.” His smile is warm against my shoulder.

My stomach gives a little growl. “What’d you have in mind?” I ask.

“Whatever you want,” he tells me.

“Want you,” I tell him, reaching around to feel for the hard bulge under his denim.

He grabs my hand, spins me around, kisses my fingers and then sucks them into his mouth while I make an absolutely fool of myself and moan involuntarily.

“So impatient,” he tsks, “do I have to spank you again, needy little girl?”

This isn’t fucking fair.

#john wick x reader #john wick x you #john wick fanfic #john wick fanfiction #john wick x plus size reader #x chubby reader #chubby reader #plus size reader #dark john wick #WIPS #WIP

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 2 years ago

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Through the Eye

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, violence, blood, death, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: A new characters brings about echoes of the past.

Character: John Wick

Note: I wrote this for @the-slumberparty Mafia AU challenge for April 2023; prompt: “I speak, you listen. End of story.”

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

Love you like a love song, baby. Take care. 💖

Ps. Do you like my divider? I’ll make you one for your stories.

You feel the grass. The scent wafts in through the open pane as the long blades rustle softly in the breeze. The vibrant green stains your vision against the placid blue skies. The glisten of due still clings to the green expanse, giving the illusion of water flowing all around.

You feel the grass. Long days laying in the sun. The coolness of the ground met by the warmth of the sky.

You feel the grass as you feel time. As time never stops, nor does the grass stop growing. Always. Even when the snows fall, the blade remains. Resilient and unplucked.

Unlike any other day, the grasses do not go untrod. The figure is no less familiar than the field. The spec moving against the horizon, getting closer, and closer, crushing the tender strands between his soles.

You keep your hands working, kneading the dough on the board dusted with flour. You watch your visitor, unsure at first if that’s what he is. More often he’s passing through than stopping by. You give the dough one last fold and drop it in the pan. You put it in the drawer to proof and wash your hands.

He’s carrying something. A basket in one hand. He’s not alone. The dog is there. The charcoal velvet of his coat shining in the sunlight. His bright spirit bounds in contrast to the sombre but steady pace of his owner.

You grab the dishcloth and dry your hands on the waffled fabric as you go to the door. You emerge and tuck it into the pocket of your apron. The screen door snaps shut as you give a wave. Bubba races forward but his owner maintains his patient stride.

You bend to greet the dog, petting his soft head as he wipes a smear of slobber on your thin chambray pants. You chuckle and give him one last pat as you stand to meet the man. Bubba investigates your apron, likely smelling the remnants of your baking.

“John,” you say, “out for a walk?”

“Yeah,” he answers. A single word, oft-repeated.

“Does he like back bacon?” You ask as you let Bubba nuzzle your hand, “I have some left over. You’re welcome to some too.”

He hums and nods at the dog.

Stoic and silent as ever, he always confounds you. He’s not a social creature, you aren’t either, yet he comes around, now and again. Like you, he came here to be alone and like you, he must have bouts of loneliness. You suspect, you also share the same reluctance to admit it.

You smile and turn back to the house. You pull back the screen door and stroll through the kitchen. You pluck up a few strips of bacon cold on the pan and quickly retreat. As you come out, the basket is on the round glass table beside the wicker chair.

Bubba jumps up and startles you. You hold the bacon out of reach and John calls to him curtly, “down.” The dog obeys.

“Thanks,” you say as you break off a piece, “must be hungry after coming all this way.”

“Eggs,” he says with a small gesture to the basket.

“Oh, thank you. That’s very kind of you,” you say as you glance over, feeding more of the greasy strip to the dog. He licks your fingers clean, searching for more, until he gives up and you wipe your hands on your apron, “would you like a coffee? I can put a pot on.”

“No. Thank you.”

“Uh, okay, well,” you drift closer to the table and peer inside at the brown eggs, “thanks again for this.”

“Boy,” he says curtly and the dog returns to his side, “have a good day.”

“You sure you don’t want some water?” You face him again, shading your eyes with your hand, “it’s pretty hot.”

He shakes his head, “thank you.”

“Right,” you bite down on the tension and force a breath out, “well, if you’re nearby tomorrow, you could stop by and grab some sourdough. I have some loaves proofing now.”

He considers you. Dark and pensive. He thinks much more than he’ll ever say out loud.

“Maybe,” he answers and gently rubs Bubba’s ear between his thumb and index, “come.”

He turns and strides back into the field. His black hair flutters with the wind, the only part of him he can’t repress. You watch as the dog follows loyally at his side. You get it, it’s easier to deal with animals than people.

🥚

You wrap a loaf and place it in the basket John left with the eggs. You set it on the table as you wait for the kettle to boil. You don't know if he'll come though if he doesn't, you'll go out to see him.

Maybe. The same declaration he gave you.

The thought of going out after him makes you nervous. He doesn't seem like a man who would be bothered beyond his purview. Those times he stumbles on you are what he allows, beyond that, he is elusive. Almost deliberately so.

The kettle begins to whistle and you go to take it off the burner. Your mind wanders as your body moves out of habit, steeping a cup without a thought to which bag you choose. You stare into the dark liquid, startled by a scratching on the low deck.

You raise your head and rush out through the front room, dim in the shade of the drawn curtains. You grab the broom from beside the door before you swing through, ready to chase away the pestilent gopher. You're met instead by the wrinkled forehead of a wiggling Bubba, prancing across the wooden boards as you hear a subtle grunt on the other side of the picketed rail.

You go to peer down into the garden, resting the broom against the trim as you find John knelt in the patch of golden marigolds. He clutches a wad of green leaves, tossing his hair back as he stands. He looks up at you as he dusts the soil from his knees and opens his hand to present the weed.

"Oh?" You figure he saw the sprouting you'd missed. "Thanks for that."

He nods and lowers his arm as he closes his fist. He's silent as he stalks over to the compost barrel and dumbs the greenery inside. Bubba continues to sniff at the broken bench beneath the window.

"I have some bread for you, John," you announce, "and I just put the kettle on, would you like some tea before you go?"

He nears as he claps off his hands. Bubba circles your legs and nudges your palm. You pet him as John remains beyond the invisible barrier. He never comes closer than the grass.

"Thank you for the bread."

That's it. His answer. Just the bread, no tea. He would do well in another sort of life. His apathy could be dangerous were he to realise it.

"Sure," you scratch Bubba's head and turn to go inside.

The dog sits primly by the door, patient like his master. Inside, you sweep by the crumpled blanket on the couch. Hardly a comfortable place to sleep but a stubborn habit.

You enter the kitchen and give pause. Perhaps he won't stay for tea but you can still be polite. In the cupboard, you take out the shortbread cookies you baked only the day prior and pick out three to wrap in brown paper. You tie them with twine and take out a tin of untouched black tea; Assam, bitter at first, but carries a rich aftertaste.

You tuck it under the bread and take the basket. You grab a carrot from the bowl on the counter and return to the porch. You try to smile as you come out but John is already staring at the sky.

"You mind if Bubba has a carrot?" You ask as you hold the thick vegetable out of the dog's grasp.

He shifts, looking at you from the corner of his eye as he dips his chin. You give the carrot to the dog, his jowls leaving slobber across your hand as he accepts it greedily. You cross the groaning boards and hold out the basket.

"Sourdough," you say, "if you want rye, come back next week."

"Thanks," he steps forward but only close enough to take the basket.

His gaze lingers and you wonder what he's thinking. Is it about you or is he already steps ahead on his daily journey across the plains?

"Bubba," he demands as the dog gulps down the last of the shredded carrots.

You move out of the way as the dog diligently obeys. His paw plod down the steps and he goes to sniff the basket in his owner's hand. Another nod and he's on his heel, venturing off into the green sea.

🥖

Often, you don't notice John's absence until he appears again. There is no rhyme or rhythm to his arrival but that day you note, it's been some time. Not entirely unusual but it tugs at your mind.

You don't linger on it. The solace of this place is safety. You cherish it even when it's lonely.

Still, restlessness consumes you. You cannot be idle. You cannot remain in this house. Even the garden cannot content your listless hands.

The air is dead, stolid with the high heat of July. Your cotton skirt lays limp down your legs, clinging to your sweaty skin as the sun beats down on your shoulders. A wide-brimmed hat shields your eyes but thickens the dampness along your scalp.

Beyond the lea, down the dip of the valley, there is a line of trees, green but still on the lull. The forest divides the grasslands in a sprawling patch. Beautiful but perilous.

You make lazy progress across the field and follow the subtle basin of land that crests into the brush. You pause to examine the mossy bark and the jutting vines that coil and tangle, forming a sort of leafy fortress. You carefully trod past the tree line as your soles meet the soft peat in an eerie silence.

There are wild berries, some dried out in a stream of unfiltered sun while others hang heavy and ripe. You taste a few and ponder coming back to gather more. Your haphazard stroll makes you uneasy. You rarely do anything without meticulous consideration.

Even as your innate caution tells you to go back, you can't help but press on. There's something drawing you in, or away. An urgency you can't place.

You wince as you step on a twig. You exhale, long and heavy, as if you'd been waiting. For what, you don't know.

There's no path, only a gap here and there wide enough to pass between the foliage. You heat some scuffling and what could be a breath, not your own. You still and listen, your own heartbeat pounding, trying to scare you back to safety. There’s a rustle and you turn, only the subtle flutter of leaves to greet you.

Is someone there? You don’t dare to ask the question aloud.

You take a step blindly back as you hear dull padding across the forest floor. You retreat until your back meets bark and you stare at the shaking bush across from you. You dig your nails into the grooves of the bark. It could never last so long.

The curious nose of the dog pokes through first, a heavy huff as his chops flap and foam. You sigh and deflate against the rough oak. It’s only Bubba.

“Jeez,” you utter and chuckle at yourself. Just the dog, but where’s his owner?

You say his name but as quickly as he’s appeared, he’s gone. You blink and hesitate, following only as you fear he’ll leave you alone. You brush through the bushes and long reaching vines, following the wag bony tail.

Ahead, you hear a trickle. The soft ripple of water. Before you can stop, you’re in a clearing, faced with a sight that has you speechless. A back, naked and long, marked with ink and scars. The dark hair drips wetly between his shoulders, shining black like oil.

“Oh, uh, I’m so sorry,” you spin and cover your face as Bubba woofs softly and hops around the shore, “I… I thought Bubba was… lost.”

More like I’m lost, you think to yourself.

There’s no answer. Only the shift of water and steps slowed by the depths. The river babbles gently in the din.

“I’ll go, again, I’m sorry–”

“Don’t,” he says. It’s not the word but his tone that stops you. You shudder as you stare into the shadows between the brambles and trees. “Stop. Don’t–”

You squeal as suddenly Bubba’s playful boofs turn to a raucous bark. You shield yourself and fall back as the dog bowls you over from behind, your feet flying over your head. There’s a whistle in the air and the hard thunk of something unseen as it collides with the tall jagged stone on the other side of the shore.

“Stay down,” John orders as the water splashes, another shot, silenced through some unseen barrel. “Fuck.”

His feet mulch in the dirt as you roll onto your stomach, Bubba circling you erratically, herding you to the covers of an overturned log. You drag yourself on your elbows, your dress smearing with filth and catching on errant pebbles and sticks.

“Bub,” John calls and the dog backs off, running towards his owner.

You raise your head as John stands naked, unafraid, raising a dark glock to fire back. You don’t know why he has it but you’re happy he does. He dodges the counter and swipes up the denim folded at the bottom of the stack of clothes. He pulls the trigger again, aiming into the trees as he comes towards you.

“Don’t move,” he orders as he squints, keeping the gun aloft, “not ‘til I say.”

“John,” you gasp, “what’s going on?”

He’s quiet as he listens. Silence. You watch his throat bob, overly aware of the rest of him, exposed and glistening with water.

He lowers the barrel, quickly stepping into his jeans. He whistles and Bubba comes to him, head lower, eyes watchful. Master and beast match in that moment, waiting for the kill.

“Stay.” He says.

You don’t know if he means you or the dog. But you obey, as Bubba remains at your side. John walks along the other side of the log, gun raised before him. There’s a jostle across the river and he turns instinctively. Three short reactive shots.

The curtain of leaves part and a man staggers forward. His gun is pointed back at John but tumbles from the stranger’s grip. He gurgles and collapses into the water, face first. You get only a glimpse of the red splotches across his dark shirt.

You quiver as your vision speckles with tears. You cover your mouth as the scent of iron underlines the medley of the forest. You shake your head and shakily drag your hand down your cheek.

“John…”

“You know,” he says. Your eyes meet and his gaze says all he won’t. He knows, too.

🌳

You’ve never been to John’s house. You never venture that far from your own. You never even thought to go that far.

Walking up on the small house with its chipped white paints and splintered posts, you realise, it’s not truly his. It’s not a home. It’s a hideout. Like yours but not quite. You follow him onto the porch and stop at the top step. The wood whines with your weight.

“They sent you too,” you say. Your suspicions bubbling over to certainty.

He stops at the door. He’s rigid as he turns his head. His cheek draws and he swallows.

“Will you make it quick?” You ask.

Still, he doesn’t speak. He proceeds through the door as Bubba sits beside you, his eyes pointed outward towards the plain. Watching, guarding. You touch his wrinkled brow and trail after John.

He moves in the grim light of the cramped cottage. You can tell at a glance that the front room is the only occupied space. The house is a facade but every man must live. Somehow.

He faces you and tosses a bag at your feet, a loose duffel. You look down as he carries on. He pulls out another bag, longer, the type you’ve seen before. He checks his glock then the contents of the rifle bag.

“Get changed.”

You don’t move. You run your hand down the filth on your dress as you watch him. He sighs and pushes the rifle bag aside. He crosses to you. You flinch and he bends down to unzip the duffle.

He opens it and takes out a dark hoodie and matching pants. He stands and holds them out to you. You reluctantly take them as he claims another bunch of clothing from the bag. He barely acknowledges you as he turns to change himself.

“I’d rather you kill me here. I don’t want to die with those people.”

“If I was gonna kill you…” he lets the sentence dangle like a noose.

You nod and put the clothes down on a nearby crate. You unfold the hoodie and check the tag. Your size. You peer over at him as he switches out his tee shirt for a plain black button-up.

“They’ll send someone after you too. Looks like they already did,” you remark.

“They can try.”

You fish out the ribbed tank and feel the thin fabric. You don’t understand. You ran this far, what’s the point of going any further.

“I’m not in the habit of killing widows,” he mutters.

You close your eyes and inhale. You turn your head slowly and look over at him.

“You only make them, huh?”

He faces you sullenly, “hurry.”

🏡

“At the next station…” John begins but you know he’s just talking to blend in.

It’s what he does. Like a shadow, he moves through the world. Drifting by those around him with ease. A man without a body.

“I know a place close by,” you see how he tilts his head. He sees something.

He leans back and slips his arm over your shoulders. You tense. The subway shakes on the rails as it powers ahead. It’s been so long since you’ve been in a city. It’s like going back in time.

He pushes you down as a bang pops in your ear. You yelp as he shoves you out of the seat, his own gun arcs through the air and deflects the next attempt. A man falls and another rises from his seat. Another bullet fells him as John stands in front of you.

“Up,” he pulls you up by your arm, another shot over his shoulder and grunt. “Don’t look back.”

It’s not the first time. It’s been weeks of this. Endlessly moving, eternally awake. You wish he’d just killed you back in that cabin.

He follows, urging you along. Shots ping around you and he forces you to duck as he nearly crushes you against the door. You yank the handle and slide it open, stumbling through to the next car. He’s right on your heels as he slams it behind him, barely deflecting the next bullets.

You feel a hot pain in your side, a searing graze across your ribs. Don’t think, just do. That’s what John does. He’s designed for this. It’s both admirable and alarming.

You get to the next door, to the end of the train. John hits the window beside your head impatiently. His back presses to yours as he turns to fire his gun again and again and again. You struggle to twist the lever and when it releases, you nearly fall out of the hurtling car.

“On three,” he says.

“We can’t-”

“I speak, you listen. End of story.”

"It's too dangerous–"

“One.”

“John.”

“Two.”

“Wait.”

“Three.”

He turns and wraps his arm around you. He grabs the outside of the car and swings around, barely clinging to it. He lets go, taking you with him, your feet bouncing off him as he lands on the tracks and falls back beneath you. He grunts and coughs as the train squeals down the tracks.

Out of breath, you roll off of him. He pants and closes his eyes. You can’t do this anymore. It’s not just the fear that haunts you, it’s him. Watching him do this day in and day out. For you? Why?

And Bubba. The poor dog. The heartbroken look in his eyes when you left him with that man. A man with no name.

“John,” you push yourself up to your knees and groan as you slip back onto your ass. A jarring pain tears through your side. “I can’t–”

You look down as you touch your side. He sits up as he stares at the blood seeping through your fingers. He presses his hand against your, holding it firmly to stem the flow. You dizzily shake your head.

“That’s it,” you say.

His eyes meet yours. The dark circles beneath, the wrinkles above, you see the mortal beneath. You frown. He can’t win. He can’t just tell death what to do.

“No,” he insists and pushes on your hand, “like that.”

You keep the pressure. You moan as he scoops you up in his arms, standing with a heave. He looks off down the dark tunnel and walks between the rails. Where others are blind, he sees all. Where others would give up, he goes on.

🚆

A fire crackles beside you. You don’t believe it’s real at first. The soft amber haze burns through your eyelids until you look to see if it is. The glass that separates the flame from the room is set into the plain white stucco of a wall.

You don’t know this place.

There’s a dull weight on your side. You reach to move it but there’s nothing there. You wear only a thin nightgown, white cotton that reflects the hue of the fire. You feel the stitches through the light fabric.

“John,” you know he’s there.

Not far. He’s beside you in a moment. A shadow above you. You flick your lashes up and look at the black figure flickering with the flame.

“Safe here,” he assuress in his way. You believe him.

"They won't stop. They never do," you croak.

As wordless as ever, he lowers himself to sit beside you. He breathes.

"I won't either."

You close your eyes. You will. You have. This isn't how you want to live. Not anymore.

"I do. I give up. John, you should've left me on the tracks."

"No."

His voice is as passionate as you've ever heard it. So much so that you barely recognise it as his. You wince.

"John, it's okay–"

"It's not."

"I knew when I went out there, it would end like that–"

"No," he says again.

"You can't just tell the world no."

"I am."

You huff in exasperation, "John, I'm telling you that it's over. I have nothing left."

He doesn't respond. He rests his arms on his bent legs and pushes back his shaggy locks. He lifts his chin and cluck.

"That's not your choice."

He gets up as you lay helpless. Weak and woozy still. You couldn't argue or refuse if you tried.

"It is," you say.

His face is hidden in the dark, shielded from the fire's light by the curtain of hair. You can't see his eyes but you feel him watching you. This man is not as gentle as you thought. He is not the protector that he seems.

He pivots on his heel and takes even steps away from you. You crane to see him but can't find him in the dim. Hinges squeak and wood hits the frame.

No, he is not your protector. He is your keeper.

🩸

All you do is sleep. It's all there is to do. Lingering, languishing, in that space. Little better than a cell. Or a coffin.

The fireplace glows anon, lending and earthy glow to the room. You lay on the couch, spacious as the large ottoman pushes up to form a cozy expanse. He came again. No words, just a standard peek at your stitches and the cold touch of stringent alcohol.

You're healing. Surviving. Day by day, marked only by the meals he leaves, that appear when you doze and tempt you back to the world. You eat only to sate the ache, paying little note to the pleasant flavours or efforts of each dish.

You are as you have been. Head against the arm of the couch as you keep an arm over the top of the blanket. Your eyes laze beneath your lids as the fireplace flickers. There is no garden, no baking bread, no fraying curtains to distract you here. You must face your thoughts and the persistent past.

A bang brings you up. You wince and clutch your side as the stitches tug. You peer over the top of the couch as the door quakes and bursts open. A body flails through and hits the floor with a sickly thump.

Your heart thrums. You think for a moment it's John splayed across the carpet's edge. But he's there, puffing over the body at his feet. The man wheezes and a rattle fizzles to a gurgle.

John aims his gun at the heaving body. There's no need for it. You can see the man won't get up. He can't. He's bleeding from his shoulder and his foot is twisted around on his ankle.

"Here."

You don't realise he's talking to you. Not until his dark eyes focus on you, the shadows angling along the sharp plains of his face. You blink and part your lips dumbly.

You shake as you grasp the cushion on the back of the couch. You don't know what he wants. He wiggles the gun and you shield yourself, bracing as if the barrel is aimed at you.

"I wouldn't…" he breathes, "come here."

You push yourself away from the back of the couch, nearly falling off entirely. You get a foot under you and sway as you search for your balance. Your skin tingles and your ears buzz.

He scoffs and kicks the body. The man rolls over and coughs again. As you come around, you recognise him. Dominic. The man who killed your husband. The same who put this man on your tail.

"How…"

You yelp as John moves towards you. He has your hand in his and forces it around the gun. You whimper as he drags you over to Dominic, holding your arm straight as he directs the muzzle down at the man.

"No more running," he declares, "he's the last one…"

"John," you gulp as you struggle with him, too weak to do much more than squirm.

"All of them."

"I can't–"

"You can. You want to," he turns and looks you in the face. You meet his gaze sheepishly, a sheen of tears blurring him, "I know you will. For us."

He squeezes your hand and you murmur. He lets you go and takes a step back. Dominic writhes and sputters, a crackly noise which could be a laugh.

"Feels… right," he gulps out as he trembles helplessly, his lips grey as his life slowly seeps away, "kill me like I killed–"

You don't let him finish. You pull the trigger. He will not say his name. Never again.

You quiver as you stand frozen above the bloody ruin. The hole in his chest leaks red and spills over, staining the carpet around him. Your chest rises and falls deeply, your ears ringing, hands hot around the gun.

John closes his fingers over yours. You let him take the gun. He nudges your hand down and turns you away from your victim. Your vengeance.

When you can think again, you're back on the couch. He's there too. You can't see him but you hear bristles scrubbing against the wood.

You close your eyes again. That's what you do. You hide.

⏳

He wakes you with a touch. So light, so gentle, almost afraid. A hint of iron remains in the air. You open your eyes to him as he drags his fingers along the thin fabric of your nightgown.

It's different. He's not there to dress your wound. You see it in the depths of his eyes, so dark you can hardly see the pupils.

A new current of adrenaline swells through you. His fingers graze across the hem and hesitate. He meets your bare thighs and you twitch. You can't remember the last time anyone touched you like this.

Or looked at you like he does.

It's not the same. It can never be what you had before. But you know this man. You know what he's capable of. With men like him, it's best to embrace the light side to keep out of the dark.

You look past him, to the ceiling, the orange glow pulsing around his silhouette. You shiver and part your legs. He's never been much for words, has he?

He brushes down your pelvis. You hold your breath, goosebumps prickling along the path of his touch. It's like fire and ice. It hurts but feels so good. Numbing yet electrifying.

He glides along your lips. You suck in air sharply as he patiently explores, tickling, feeling, prodding, delving into your folds with a curious sort of eagerness.

He leans over you as you gasp. His fingertips send a thill through you, rolling over your tender bud in an easy but intoxicating motion. He bends closer until his lips meet your cheek. He growls and it flows through you.

He kisses along your cheek, his breath hot as it fans over you. His lips find yours and you let him kiss you. The more he touches you, the further he figures you out, the less you feel like yourself. Your body isn't yours, he's claiming that too.

He rubs you cloyingly. Teasing you until your muscles clench in need. His fingers glide back as his tongue pokes between your lips. You squeak as he urges into you, the heel of his large hand resting against your swollen bud.

He rocks deliberately, building a tension, shifting just a little as he swallows down your mewls. His lips leave yours, trailing down your chin and along your throat. Another wave flows over you.

He guides the thin strap of the nightie down and pecks along your collarbone. Your chest pounds and your breath hitches. You're caught in his thrall.

He nuzzles the curve of your chest. He follows the line of your cleavage as his rough lips send tendrils across your skin. He puffs and nips at the soft flesh, toying with you between his teeth.

His hand tilts as he slides deeper, curling his fingers as the pressure pools in your core. He continues his intent journey down your body, laying a path of kisses over your stomach. He urges your legs wider as he moves around your knee, positioning himself on the cushion beneath you.

He pulls back to watch himself play with you. His face blazes with the hue of the fireplace and his burning need. He bends over your pelvis, his hair draping down to tickle your stomach and hips.

Chills like a tide, endless and building, building, building. The coolness of his tongue sinks into you, burying in your warmth. He keeps his hand rocking, methodic as ever.

You push your hands against the couch. You're sinking, drowning. The finality of your surrender consumes you.

He laps at you, like a man in the desert. Your leg bends against him, his arm looping beneath as he dives in further.

You close your eyes as they sear, tears beading in your lashes. What you want, who you want, you'll never have again. He is what you get. You were only ever a prize, you never got one yourself.

He wiggles his fingers tauntingly before slipping them free. Your eyelids part as he raises his head, his breath fluttering over your pelvis. He smears your arousal down your thigh and gives a gentle kiss to the soft patch of hair at the crux of your vee.

He grunts as he lifts himself, sitting on his knees. You bat your lashes as he peers down at you. You exhale and flick your eyes up to the ceiling. The blankness beckons to you.

You feel him shift, jostling you on the couch, then a whisper of fabric and the rough callous of his fingertips. His hands brush up your pelvis and stomach, before retreating to your thighs, kneading as he leans over you.

You whimper as you feel him against you. You return to the present as your eyes detach from the plaster and find his. He bends over you, planting his arm across the couch above you. You guides his tip along your cunt and you hold your breath.

You press your hands to his chest and bite your lip as he slowly invades. It is just like him. The subtle build up to the inevitable.

You let him in, curling your fingers against him. You focus on the dark bruise beside your index and push on it as he sinks in deeper. He growls as he does, a snarl laced with pain and delight.

As he reaches his limit, he rises to sit back on his knees, jerking his hips against you. You moan as he catches your hand and puts it back against the purplish blemish, urging you to press until he groans. He pulls you up into his lap, your head lolling as you hang limp in his embrace.

He keeps your fingers against the bruised flesh as he rocks you against him. You grip him with your other hand, nails digging into his shoulder. He grunts and grazes his teeth along your ear.

"Hurt me," he rasps as he gropes your ass desperately, "please… I want to feel you. I want to feel everything."

You squeeze harder, until you sense the skin about to break. You heave as you hook your arm around his neck, bucking in his lap as you chase the coiling climax. You want to feel too.

Something. Anything.

🛋️

A white dress. That’s what you’re wearing in the photograph. The other half of the picture is gone, a jagged tear down the middle. You’re smiling but the reason why is missing. Seeing that photo rent in two is harder even than facing that truth alone. Your husband is gone.

There’s another white dress. Spread out beneath the photo, with a veil and set of hair pins. You sit beside the swath of ivory and bend the worn corner of the picture with your thumb. You turn it over and read again the slanted cursive scrawl.

‘You look good in white’.

A message that wasn’t there the last time you held that picture.

Your stomach churns as you place the photograph on the other side of you. You look around the room and feel the heat scalding your chest. This place is safe, just like he said, but only because he won’t let you out.

When he comes, he says as little as ever. He only checks your wounds and leaves something to eat or read or wear. Like a warden.

You miss the sunshine, you miss the fragrant fields, and the billowing clouds. You miss the smell of baking bread and the cool breeze stirring the curtains. You miss when life felt like living.

You stand and take the dress without looking at it. He thinks this is mercy. How can it be when it is worse than death?

John can be a good man. Decent, dependable, devoted. But he is just another bad man. The kind you vowed years ago that you were done with. Detached, deadly, destructive.

You never wanted someone to kill for you, you only wanted someone to live with you. What you've been doing is less than. Existing but not living. Healing but thriving. There but somewhere else.

He's still a stranger to you. All you know about him is that he's like any other man you've known. Deadly, stubbornly so.

You step into the white dress and pull the fabric up your body. You shiver as it brushes over the rigid skin of your scar. The ghost of his touch crawls over you, rough but careful.

You hook the straps over your shoulders and strain to zip the back. The fabric closes around you snuggly, perfectly encasing your figure. The details are never missed and never wrong.

You step into the satin toed shoes. A wave of deja vu washes over you. Dressed in white and filled with dread.

You pick up the veil and examine the embroidered edge. Beautiful but ill-suited to you. You expected a funeral shroud by now.

You go to the mirror and work at pinning the veil. Your blood turns cold as your vision pinpoints and you see yourself. The ramshackle bride.

'Til death…'

You cried at your first wedding, you have no tears for the second. Happy, sad, or otherwise.

The door opens behind you, drawing you from your grey reverie. There's nothing you have to miss yet you are wistful. You don't long for what you had, but what you could never have.

You look at him in the mirror. You see only his shoulder at the edge of the reflection. He watches you back. You flinch as coolness touches your knuckles.

You turn and look down at Bubba as he noses your hand. You notice the bowtie at his neck. Oddly endearing in the circumstance.

John waits. Silently. That's how it's been. No more talking. From either of you.

You spread your hand over Bubba's thick skull and rub his soft fur. He wiggles and lurches ahead. You follow him with a shuddery breath.

John's dark gaze roves over you, from head to foot. As you near, he reaches to straighten the veil before pulling it forward. The world obscures on the other side of the lace. He offers his arm and you take it.

For better or worse.

#john wick #dark john wick #dark!john wick #john wick x reader #fic #one shot #dark fic #dark!fic #navy and roo's sleepover

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dark-side-of-human · 5 months ago

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#my post #postlarim #postlarım #photography #art #dark aesthetic #aesthetic #john wick

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johnny-dynamo · 1 month ago

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Cool Rides by Loopy Dave

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sweetwolfcupcake · 11 months ago

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The whimper escapes you before you realise it. He doesn't hurt you yet, but the looming threat could not have been more explicit.

You utterly hate the helplessness, and the feeling of being trapped like this does not help.

"Tex..." The icy warning in his tone makes you gulp down and suppress another whimper.

"Loosen-up John, I'm not hurtin' her." You feel tge 'yet' is silent but hanging in the air.

Right, the other man's name- John. It slipped your mind before.

You feel the bed shift beside you before the warmth of the other body goes missing. You strain your ears, trying to guess what he is doing. When something touches your lips, you jump slightly, only to feel a large hand on your shoulder-- gentle and warm.

"It's just a straw. Try sipping through it."

John's voice is reassuring, soft even-- a stark contrast to the tone he used on Tex, whose fingers are still wrapped around your ankle. Much to your relief, John unlocks your hands from above your head, letting them rest on your front. You are disappointed when you realise that they're still bound, though. He helps you sit up a bit, adjusting pillows behind, before you feel the straw poking on your lips again. Taking the hint, you wrap your lips around it and sip the water eagerly.

You were parched, you realise.

@johnwickb1tsch and @treedaddymcpuffpuff,please save the fic

Tex Johnson x Reader x John Wick round robin part 2 wip

Let's go, girls... @treedaddymcpuffpuff @sweetwolfcupcake 😈😈

Readers: this is our working doc for part 2. If you're new here, see Part 1, and warning, dead doves abound here.

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

As it turns out, faking your death involves taking some very gnarly photos with copious amounts of blood spread about. They will be released to the dark web, as well as the Underground network. John and Tex will get paid for a job well done. The FBI will receive the intelligence in due time, mixed with finding your blood and hair and skin at the scene. And once they off Dmitri, the man you witnessed killing the owner of the restaurant you used to work at, there will be no one left to care but Agent Bradford.

If he survives his wounds.

John and Tex are still perplexed about that one. He must be a tough bastard, but getting shot up even with a vest on would slow anyone down. Not to mention his blown out knee…

When next you wake you know you’re in a different location, even through your blindfold. Your hands are bound again, this time over your head. It feels like you’re laying on a soft surface, a mattress, and not a cheap one. You debate the merits of pretending to still be knocked out, or screaming your head off for help, when you hear, “Looks like sleepin’ beauty’s awake.”

From your other side there is silence, but you feel gentle fingers touching a lock of your hair. It sends a forbidden trill of desire through you, straight to your loins, and for the umpteenth time you wonder what exactly is wrong with you that you don’t 100 percent hate this the way you should.

Fuck.

“Please let me go.” Your words are raspy; your throat is dry as a desert. How long have you been out?

“We have to talk about that,” says Tex. “See, there’s a whole lot gonna be ridin’ on you.” You can just hear his shit-eating grin for his double-entendre.

“You’re a pig.”

“Aww, don’t be shy, darlin’. What did you think we were goin; to get up to when you got in my car? Playin’ pinochle? You wanted me, and I reckon’ that hasn’t changed.” You feel a rough hand sliding up your thigh that must belong to him. You try to buck him off, and find your legs aren’t bound. You try to kick towards the sound of his voice, but your limbs are heavy and slow, and he catches your ankle.

“Boy howdy, someone’s flexible!”

He has you in an iron grip, and you give a frustrated scream.

“Don’t hurt her,” says the other one, in that quietly forbidding tone.

“Was I supposed to let her kick my head off?”

“Fine by me.”

Tex snorts in response, squeezing your leg in his big hand, just to give you a taste. You feel your bones creak beneath his grip.

Your turn! @treedaddymcpuffpuff @sweetwolfcupcake 😘😘

#yandere john wick x reader #yandere john #dark john #yandere tex johnson #yandere john wick #dark john wick #tex johnson #tex johnson x reader

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floatyflowers · 1 year ago

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Helaurrr I'm thinking of a young reader getting their period for the first time any character will do like sibling/parents yk 🥹

Dark Platonic! John Wick, Hannibal Lecter, and Thranduil x Reader

Father! Hannibal Lecter

Hannibal almost had a stroke when he saw trails of blood on the floor, after waking up.

Thinking that someone might have broken into the house and killed you, his 10-year-old daughter, he quickly rushes to where the blood trails lead him to.

Only to find you in the kitchen, in front of the open fridge, eating your favourite snack as if there's no blood between your legs.

Realizing what is happening, he makes you have a bath, and change into new clothes after teaching you how to use a pad.

Hannibal made sure to explain what was going on in a simple way.

But, you only pout.

"Does it have to come every month? Why not every ten years?"

Father! John Wick

When your period arrived, you already knew what you were going to do.

But that doesn't mean John would not coddle you, and make sure you have everything you need.

Especially since his wife's death, he had to be the mother and father for you.

You are the last thing left of his wife, so he will do anything in his power to make sure you are always safe and happy.

He would kill for you, and also kill anyone who would try to steal you from him.

John would make sure to buy the most expensive painkillers and sanitary pads because he is against you using tampons.

Also, the painkillers might be the same ones he uses after treating his bleeding wounds.

Grandfather! Thranduil

Elf women get their period at a much older age then humans, and their period comes every three months.

Meanwhile, you are half-elven, so you got your period around the same age as human girl would.

So, the Mirkwood king got confused when he saw you, his cheerful granddaughter, having bad mood swings.

Directed at him.

Thranduil also got angry, when you were good with servants.

He felt like it should be the opposite, he should be the center of your attention.

So, he locked you up until your period is over.

Let's just say when Legolas got back from his mission, he got into a huge fight with his father.

#tw: toxic relationships #platonic yandere #reader insert #daughter reader #dark #possessive #john wick x reader #thranduil x reader #yandere hannibal

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feinv · 7 months ago

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obfreakingsessed with ur blog idk how many times I can tell uuu 😩 i need a late night drive scrap with John wick xo

got that praise kink in me dawg, the more you tell me the better. (thank you my love ur ideas are always so good :3)

john would often take you to late night drives in his mustang ‘69 when the two of you just wanted to relax for a bit and get out of the house, without doing anything fancy. just listening to calm classical music, or chatting with one another.

the windows were rolled down, the chilly breeze creating pleasant air flow in the car, making your hair dance. your legs were sprawled on his lap, his one hand massaging you, the other on the steering wheel. you were staring at him eyes full of lust and adoration. he was just so perfect, you couldn’t believe he was real, and yours.

“it’s rude to stare, darling,” he half chuckled into the comfortable silence when he felt your gaze on him, glancing at you for a brief moment.

“shut up. i love you so much, john,” you smiled softly at his direction with your sweet voice, intertwining your fingers with his. the car stopped under the red light as he leaned closer to you, moving your messy hair out of you pretty face and kissing you gently.

“i love you too, sweetheart,” he murmured against your lips, reconnecting them again for several seconds, his free hand buckling up your seat, “hold on tight,” he clicked the belt before you registered the cocky smirk on his face.

“wha- john!” he slammed the gas pedals momentarily, racing his car as the tires drifted against the asphalt, taking you out on a real adventure through the empty midnight streets ;)

#1969 mustang is in my top 3 cars of all time it is so pretty and hot jesus #and so is he #pic from pinterest! just pretend it’s dark outside 😔#feinv—jw #john wick x reader #john wick fluff

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nordic-noire · 6 months ago

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'It's hard to beat someone who never gives up.'

#Keanu Reeves #John Wick #moody #tactical #dark aesthetic #class #noir #motivation #confidence #manosphere

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fernpetals · 4 months ago

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In This House #2

Masterlist

Yandere John Wick x Reader

The last time you had been in the garden, there were not many flowers, but as you walk through the space, you realise that the view from the bedroom can do no justice to the beauty of this place. it is by no means an immaculate masterpiece. It is no perfection, but the dedication put into it is evident in the healthy blooms surrounded by luscious greens. A patch of daisies on either side of the entrance makes the garden all the more welcoming. John sits strategically on the side of the exit, facing you. You sigh, but this does not surprise you---John Wick doesn't take chances, after all. Yet the warm sun feels so good on your skin, that it is hard to let any of your resentment emerge to the surface, it dwells just below it.

"Come here, Darling, look what we have here." John's eyes are soft as they watch your timid steps.

Your guards remain high with him, along with the newfound resentment and anger. You eye one of your favourite breakfasts plated on the table.

"Come sit." He gestures towards the chair pulled out for you.

"Thank you."

That is all you manage to say as you sit down on the chair, soaking in the fragrant garden air, the chirping birds, the faint sound of fluttering wings---everything here is so beautiful and...free.

Freedom.

That is the only thing you want, but as the days pass, you feel the prospects slipping out. With a microchip in your shoulder, the chances are slimmer than ever. Maybe you are falling into a resignation. Nothing seems to matter anymore, nothing seems to matter anymore. Not even the food, it is supposed to make you hungry but you have already lost your appetite. The brief moment of light and happiness is overshadowed by the realisation that the animals have more freedom than you.

You eat anyway, at least then you get to stay longer in the garden.

---

You hate sunny summer mornings. This is ironic because summer is supposed to have sunny days---it's just the heat and the constant glare of the sun while the humidity makes your sunscreen melt with the sweat. Water-resistant sunscreens are a bit on the expensive side and you have to save more for the new phone have been eyeing.

Everything is just---

You flinch when you feel something brushing your calf, only to see a black, pitbull with his tale happily wagging as he looks up to you with a smile.

Okay, maybe it's not THAT bad of a morning.

"Who are you?" You bend down to pet him and his tail wags faster "Aren't you the cutest? Are you lost or..." You toy with the collar around its neck 'Dog'

Really?

That's what the owner could come up with? 'Dog'?

As if summoned, a pair of shoes walk up and stand right in front of you, while you are still bent.

"I'm sorry to trouble you, he just loves socialising."

You look up to find the source of the molten chocolate voice---not completely smooth, there's a gruff edge to it, but so deliciously deep and calm. The voice suits him. He is tall, you realise as you straighten up, with deep, brown eyes, a patchy black beard that is evidently well-maintained and chin-length hair that is jet black but has a few silver strands that peeking out.

Despite how polite and apologising he sounds, there is a tinge of unease you feel that isn't hard to ignore but remains persistent---faint, but persistent.

"It's alright, he's lovely." You smile down at 'Dog' whose attention, now has shifted to his presumed owner.

"That he is." the man comments softly, petting the dog, a hint of smile blooms on his otherwise unreadable face.

He is a handsome man indeed, you conclude. But you have no time to ogle a handsome stranger, you have a job to do, and your daily public transit has arrived.

-----

You sometimes wish you had simply walked away without petting Dog- 'boy' or 'good boy' is what you call him, and he lets you know he loves it- but one look at Boy and you know that it has been impossible anyway. He is such a sweet little dog. He runs around in the garden, chases butterflies, sniffs flowers, and is just the happy soul that he is meant to be. You would do anything for that dog, that much you know- had it not been for Boy, your 'stay' in this house would have been much worse.

"Don't you like the food?"

Your gaze averts from Boy to meet John's

"I like it," It's not a lie, you only leave the part of not having an appetite, out.

"You've barely touched it."

You look down at your half-eaten food while John's cutlery rests on his now-empty plate. It has been a while? You never realised it.

Without answering him, you continue to eat, rushing through, growing increasingly uncomfortable under his scrutinizing stare.

"Relax, Darling, there's no hurry, eat at your pace," John comments, concern lacing his voice.

A while ago, you would have snapped at him, telling him that you do not need to be told how to eat, you are not a child or made of glass. But now, you slow down your pace, having no energy. It's like you are tired, perhaps you are, indeed, tired. Maybe he has won, after all, wearing you down, tying you to him, restricting you- one knot at a time until you realise that you are stuck and there is no scope for movement, there is no hope, even.

But John's concern remains the same, his treatment of you as something delicate who does not know better, remains- it simply does not burn you anymore. it remains bothersome though. The shackles remain, but you are beginning to grow numb.

"I'm done. It was a hearty---"

"Stop it."

You frown at this.

"Stop it..." John repeats, even softer, almost inaudible.

He sighs and looks away.

"Don't you think I wish we could be in a different circumstance? You must think I enjoy this."

"Well if you don't..." John's gaze returns to you as you finish looking into his eyes "Then let me go." There is no challenge or confrontation in your voice, it is as plain and form as facts.

"By now I think you understand that is never going to happen, (Y/N)." His voice is gruff and absolute.

Yes, by now you have come to accept that there is no 'healing' John Wick. Some souls are so damaged, that they become twisted permanently, and you have broken your heart and your will trying to put something back together that has no way of being put back---it only cuts you like shards of glass.

You look away, feeling the familiar sting behind your eyes. unfortunately, you haven't grown completely numb.

#yandere john wick #yandere john wick x reader #john wick imagine #john wick x reader #dark john wick #dark john wick x reader

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sweetwolfcupcake · 6 months ago

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Wildflower: 06

The Secret Garden

John Wick x Reader

Category: Short Series

Warning: Stalking, mentions of violence

Note: John is relatively younger in this fic( late thirties to early forties)

*Thank you the original creator for making such an amazing GIF. I downloaded it from Google.

Unedited

Wildflower 05

According to John’s rational, calculating mind, his job was done. He got her to the hospital, paid the bills, played his part in Winston’s unexplained act of taking the young woman under his wing, and ensured his name was nowhere in the records.

The hospital's owner knew’ John and was an old acquaintance of Winston. By now, John was sure Winston learned of John’s visit and that he brought her to be admitted there.

According to John's rational mind, he should be at the Continental, or at least answer Winston's messages (only two since the morning– he was too refined to send more than that).

But for once, his rational mind was conflicting with his instincts. It was not the first time, but it was a rare occurrence. But there he was, blended among the hustle and bustle, hiding in plain sight— keeping his eyes on the hospital. The entrance, precisely. She could be walking out any moment and with the concussion, he might have to—

His jaws clenched at the sight of Norton helping her out. The younger male’s hand rested on her waist, supporting her. Something was burning in John’s chest because he realised that he had been thinking of being at Norton’s place.

John frowned, realising how irrational he would sound if he vocalised his thoughts. Where were his thoughts going anyway?

What the hell was he doing?

He had an explanation for… his ‘treatment’ of the petty criminal. He needed to take back her mother’s ring for her.

But this?

This was not how he was supposed to feel. He felt like he was losing control over his instincts and John hated losing control. Having control over himself helped. There was a feeling that at least he had some control over his life, some sort of freedom.

Losing that control threatened the little freedom and control he had over his life that was perhaps sealed for hell the moment he was born.

He was a man who moved with a purpose— what was his purpose there? He should be relieved, she would not need any help and he could just go home, or to the Continental.

Instead, he stood there, discreet with his eyes and body language but could not help the scowl that faintly appeared on his otherwise unreadable face.

His eyes followed them as they got into a taxi. With his gaze zeroed on the vehicle, he quickly noted the number in his mind before getting inside his car. He knew he could not rest until she was safe in her home.

Without the shadow of Alex Norton lingering around.

John found himself feeling slightly at ease after Alex left. Another open contract. John received the message already.

Three million dollars was a lot. No wonder Alex chose to take it. But John could not bring himself to leave just yet. He sat in his car, just watching her window. At nightfall, it was easier to make out what was happening with the lights on and her fumbling around. Her shadow stumbled a bit now and then, and John found himself frowning in frustration.

Why was she moving so much?

Stupid girl!

John was surprised at the level of obliviousness that surrounded her. Who would go to a park near dawn? And for what? To watch the sunrise?

Not that John did not appreciate such peaceful moments, but he was John Wick. But she? He could tell she had never even thrown a punch at anyone. He felt it when he first shook her hand. He was taken aback by the softness. He was not used to it, but he would admit it felt… good.

John gulped.

He would rather not remember how her form felt pressed against his. He could be gentle, he was gentle with the women when he wasn’t fighting them for survival, and even then, he was never brutal with the kills. He made it quick.

But touching her felt different. It made him think twice about pressing too hard, holding too tight, even the day he just let her bump into him, he somehow regretted wearing the vest because he could see that it hurt her.

John was not a boy. He was old enough to understand where this was going. He simply could not bring himself to look into its eyes and admit it.

If he did…

He tore his gaze away from the window and busied himself with drinking some water. He stubbornly kept his gaze down, refusing to look up again. His phone dinged with an alert.

An exclusive contract.

There were people he could not deny, after all.

With one last glance at her apartment window, John twisted the keys and drove away into the night. It was time to hunt.

—------

Laying on his bed with a bandaged ankle was not something ‘normal’ people would enjoy. John, on the other hand, was thankful. He was half-expecting a fracture. A sprain was no big deal— nothing compared to what he was trained to endure, or what he endured growing up.

John had turned numb to the pain. He would go on, despite the pain. He would go on without acknowledging it, at least until he was done with his task at hand. People might say he had a formidable sense of commitment and focus. But in reality, it was all he knew. To John, it was the way of life. It was how he was trained, and how he grew up.

The world outside gave him much more agency. Not exactly freedom—but the chain binding him loosened up, and the cage expanded. But he was owned; the whole jungle was the High Table’s prison, after all.

He had been a part of this ‘jungle’ for as long as he could remember. Ruska Roma was simply a prison within this prison— this great ‘system’ he was pulled into the moment he was left orphaned. He thought he could live with it because this was all he knew.

But then came (Y/N) (L/N)...

With her expressive eyes brimming with determination, a smile so kind and sweet it made him sigh. A laugh that sounded like bells of spring and a carefree, oblivious kind of happiness he knew he could not have and a touch so soft, so non-deliberate, it irked him.

Everything about her was simultaneously off-putting and intriguing.

John was compelled to admit, that it irked him because her existence, her presence itself felt like a mockery to his life. She was not chained, unlike him, even though she was born to a woman who once belonged to the same hell he was now a part of. It irked him because she was everything he used to dream of as a child. She had everything he wanted so desperately during his naive years before he was finally disillusioned.

It irked him how many times a day he thought about her. About how vulnerable she was and yet had a certain fire within that he knew would burn him down if he dared venture close enough. This flame, or whatever was within her was soothing for now, but he was afraid of it. Afraid of nurturing something he could not contain, he could not control.

Like his thoughts moving to her now and then—each day, he thought longer, more about her, each time he did, he felt himself softening in ways he never thought he was capable of. He thought he had turned completely numb. She proved him wrong even without trying to.

And it irked him in every way possible.

Even the simplest of proximity they shared, he felt it all over his skin, in each of his veins, he felt it in his heart, he felt it in his mind. It was bizarre, bewildering, and infuriating.

But if he found her infuriating, why did he end up doing all the things he had done so far? Why did he end up watching over her behind the quiet shadows of the night, watching her sleep from the darkest corner of her room? Why would he follow her to her little trips at the parks and bicycle rides if her presence irked him? Why would he fracture the ribs of the man who hurt her, and tried to mug her? He broke his fingers, that man’s wrist would never be the same…

John felt the rage that he used to feel while growing up in Ruska Roma and watching helplessly how unfair everything was, and how powerless other children like him were.

Maybe that was why he felt that rage—he had become someone his younger self would run to for protection. When he watched, the man hurt her. Something in him seared, it stung in all the worst ways possible, and he could not stand the feeling until his knuckles were marred with that rat’s blood.

He had been rather merciful, though.

Anyone with a sane mind would call him a monster. Was he not a monster anyway? But at this point, he had no care for morals anymore— he was only surviving, as every other assassin like him was. To hell with the morals, John knew he was strong enough to be feared.

And if fear was the way to keep the little freedom he had earned, he would let fear reign.

—---

It was another day. Just another day of the same cycle. Waking up, having breakfast, taking the prescribed medication a week after being discharged, and going to work. Yes, that was the ‘regular’ part of the day. It was after work, when she was passing by the park, that (Y/N) noticed a familiar figure on the bench.

His hair was brushed back but seemed a bit fluffier—casual. Yes, that was the difference. He was in a plain white T-shirt and a pair of jeans. She had seen, John Wick only in dark suits. Black. Yes, that was his preferred colour, it seemed. But as she watched him sitting on the bench, a sandwich in his hand and a coffee cup by his side, he appeared so...unreal.

It did not make sense. He was a stranger, more or less, and she had seen him hardly four times(?). But he looked almost angelic to (Y/N). Especially with the setting sun casting a glow on the side of his face.

What the hell are you even doing?

Too late, she was already within his earshot. He turned to her, alerted by the disturbance in the otherwise tranquil park. And just as she thought, the sunlight fell just the right way on his eyes, and they seemed ethereal—perhaps brown was the most loved by nature.

She was expecting some surprise in his eyes but they were so calm, so hypnotic, it surprised her instead.

“Hi.”

“Good evening.”

Wow, even his greetings were classy.

“Um, yes, good day—I mean, good evening.” (Y/N) felt the warmth of embarrassment on her cheeks before noticing the mirth in his eyes. It was faint, but it was there.

“I saw here, and just thought, I would say hi.”

This time, the corner of his lips rose higher “Oh, you live here?”

“Yes, just a few blocks ahead…You come here often?”

He took a moment to answer, and throughout that tiny moment (it felt stretched to an hour), his eyes seemed to assess her before he replied.

“Sometimes.”

John did not verbally invite her, only removing the cup from the bench, leaving space for her to sit before turning his gaze ahead. And while, yes, this was a silent invitation, her mind had gained expertise in overthinking.

Did he really want her to sit?

Or was it him being polite?

He looked fine by himself. At peace too.

And then—

He turned to her again “Are you in a rush?”

“Uh…no?”

“Then, please...” He gestured with his hand, glancing at her. It seemed more like a side-eye but, whatever.

“You like to sit here alone?” She asked, taking a seat beside him, not too close, but not noticeably far.

“Solitude is good for my sanity.”

Stoic and quiet, he seemed every bit of a man who would appreciate solitude over company, like her.

“You seemed so to me.”

From the corner of her eyes, she could see him turn to her. Even seated, he towered over her, sitting straight—as if a soldier were on alert.

“How much of me do you know?”

“Enough to draw precise conclusions, I believe.” (Y/N) turned to him. The last of the sun’s rays kissed his face tenderly. He was a sight to behold, she realised.

There was a twinkle in his eyes, and the shade of brown softened. “You know only what you see from afar. There is no reason or good for you to get any closer.”

“Why? My mother was a part of this world.”

“And she kept you away. That is for a reason. There is nothing to see here, (Y/N).”

“I have unanswered questions. If Winston could—”

“I believe he does what he sees as best. Especially for you.”

“Why does he care so much about me? Why did my mother trust him over anyone else?”

John sighed “I’m afraid I have no answer.”

He answered with a contemplative frown and looked away, setting his sight once more on the darkening sky as the remnants of the set sun remained.

“Sorry, I am not great at conversations, and the past months of moving in all the information have taken a toll, I guess.”

“I understand.” He assured her kindly.

A long silence followed after that. It was indeed awkward initially. She had no new words or energy to set another tone. But it grew to be comfortable, at least for her. They sat there in silence until the street lights blinked on and the moon turned more prominent against the black sky.

“It’s late; I should go now.” (Y/N) stated, but made no effort to stand up.

“Sure”

“It was good talking to you.”

Faint amusement danced in his eyes as he turned to her. “I do not recall much talking.”

Yes, they had been sitting in silence for at least fifteen minutes. The of sight of mirth in his eyes made her smile

“I cannot say I hated it.”

He smiled at her. It reminded her of an intimidating and misunderstood large canine trying to socialise. An awkward smile that came with a nod. But nothing mattered because it was in his eyes. The soulful and melancholic pools of molten chocolate had the perfect tinge of golden brown when the sunrays fell on them a few moments ago before the sky darkened.

“Okay, so, see you around? I guess?” (Y/N) forced her gaze away, not wanting to come off as creepy.

“Maybe.” John replied, “Let me walk you home.”

“Oh no, there’s no need. My house is just a few blocks away…”

By the time she was closer to finishing the sentence, he was on on his legs.

“Even better, it’s not far then.”

“Yes and—”

And he was already walking ahead. It turned out, that walking home in a comfortable silence was not that bad.

****

#yandere john #younger john wick #yandere john wick x reader #yandere john wick #john wick x reader #dark john wick

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treedaddymcpuffpuff · 2 months ago

Text

Baba Jaga’s Books

݁ ⛧ ₊ Part one

݁ ⛧ ₊ @johnwickb1tsch’s requested book/antique store au (bc she and @sweetwolfcupcake put up with all my shit on the daily and I love them).

݁ ⛧ ₊ Cw: oversized anatomy, dreams, dubcon but reader 100% is into it, creepy old buildings and cobwebs and dolls, implied female plus size reader, heavy blood, gore and horror, NSFW. This is 6.2k words!!!

݁ ⛧ ₊ Art from Pinterest, but I couldn’t find the original source & apparently google image search isn’t a thing anymore? Dividers from @isisjupiter & @plum98

The woman that greets you at the weathered door is smiling brightly. “He is dead,” she says, delighted, and you blink a few times in response, because what are you supposed to say to that?

She shoves some rusted, ancient keys into your palm and leads you through a corridor lined with shelves of books and porcelain and dust.

She’s light on her feet, quick through the moth-devoured, high pile halls, but you can make out some oddities and bobbles along the way: a little clown doll in a shimmery cotton candy jumpsuit, a whole row of assorted dog figurines in pristine condition, a pearl vase with what looks to be real jade clusters at the base, an old rocking chair with an ancient language engraved on the head.

You’ll have time to explore all of this later, so you hurry to catch up with your host once you realize you’ve fallen behind and can only hear the light thump of her footsteps ahead, scared to get lost in the labyrinth of relics and tomes.

She’s made coffee, by the taste and temperature of it probably long before your arrival, but you garnish it with a little cream and sugar anyway and slurp the dark roast down. “I’m sorry,” you tell her, fingers smoothing over the mouse nibbles in the old green upholstered couch. “About the old owner.”

She shrugs, taking the deep velvet chair across from you with hot tea. “I didn’t know him. Have you ever worked at an antique store before?”

“No,” you reply, “but I sell independently, and I’ve worked retail.”

She’s still smiling, like the Chesire grin is permanently etched into the wrinkles of her pale face, and if you’re being completely honest it’s starting to freak you out a little bit.

“And you’re used to ghosts?” she nods, sipping at her cup.

“Ummm. Depends on what kind?” Even though she’s smiling, the joke seems to heavily sour whatever palpable, stale mood is already established between the two of you.

“Winston, he was haunted by an entity in this shop for the longest time. When his memory started to slip…” She presses her spindly fingers to her temple, then lets them tumble down toward the floor with her head tipped to the side. “Well, he called it The Boogeyman, can you believe that? The old fool.”

You really can’t help yourself. “I thought you said you didn’t know him?”

“Who?” She takes another sip of tea, and you get the sudden urge to cackle with the absurdity of this meeting.

“The…owner?”

“Oh, he’s dead. Good man. Out of his mind.”

“But you said you didn’t know him just a little bit ago and—” You’ve misinterpreted her smile, you realize. It’s not disdainful, it’s blank, like the expression on that cheery little clown doll you passed by so hastily.

An icy worm inches his way up the ladder of your spine before nesting a shiver into your spongey cerebrum. “Nevermind.”

She goes on, still smiling. “The keys I gave you are master. Do not lose them, it is the only set. The orange one is for the store, and the less orange one is for the garage.”

She’s in a hurry to go, it seems, bundling up in her oversized coat and hat, handing you a crumpled, yellow stained list of daily upkeep activities from her pocket.

You don’t mind, always preferring the silencing calm of solitude over lingering company, anyway.

You wonder, as you watch her pull away in a beat up buggy, if the owner was her husband. Or maybe a clandestine lover. Either way, you doubt you’ll be hearing much from her anymore.

The sales room is nothing like you expect based on the gothic, decrepit looks of the rest of the brownstone; it’s domed in a high-reaching skylight of wintery sun, with shiny dark hardwood flooring instead of matted, once-red-now-brown carpet. A wispy spider descends through a beam of dust and sunlight, and reminds you of the woman’s delicate bony fingers tumbling from her skull. There is a large oak desk still smelling of fresh, spicy wood in the very center of the room with an updated, computerized filing system and cash register. In the middle of a far wall, next to a gaping dark corridor, is a large painting of what you assume to be father and son.

He is tall, looming, with jet black hair that curls under his ears and satiny dark eyes that you think could mesmerize a corpse. His bones are strong and sharp under golden hues of flawless skin and neatly trimmed facial hair, and the red tie looped expertly around his collar would be the only color he sports if not for the plump rose of his lips. Without thinking, you reach out to touch the intricate piece of art and jump back when you feel that familiar gritty texture under your fingertips.

Just a moment ago, you were behind the desk, with a panorama of the entire room, and now you are inches away from this handsome man framed in rose gold.

You pull your fingers back and itch the lingering texture off on your blue jeans.

“He painted that.”

The voice from behind makes you jump again, now in the opposite direction, where you slam into the cold frame with the bony blade of your shoulders. You’re much too worried about the beautiful piece of sentimental decor, rather than your own sharp pain, and you turn to make sure you didn’t disturb it, horrified to find that you absolutely did, and scrambling to lift it up and hook the dangling corner back onto its wall fixture from whence it came.

A deep chuckle rumbles behind you, like warning thunder over the crest of rolling hills, and a pair of hands the size of bear paws gently lift the painting back onto the wall.

You turn to look up at him, and he is close, and his features are sharp and pronounced and familiar. You look back at the painting, just to make sure his likeness is still captured there, too, and did not somehow escape and form into solid matter before you.

“Hello, I’m John. Winston’s son.” He holds out his hand, and you don’t really take and shake it, but rather become enveloped it its warm, calloused sanctuary.

If his voice is thunder, his eyes are the lightning that precedes it, striking and shining—deep pools of dark lake water slivered with moonlight. You have to look away from him, because his real time stare is far more intimidating than the painted one.

“When my father told me that someone wanted to buy this place, I didn’t believe him,” he tells you.

“Oh…why?” Your dry throat longs for the water bottle left forgotten in your truck.

“It’s…burdensome.”

Your smile is tight. “Maybe I know how it feels.”

Well, you’ve said too much already, that is apparent by the bewildered, bemused look on his face. “I’m sorry. Let’s start over. Hello, I’m John. Winston’s—“

“—son,” you finish, taking his hand again, maybe a little firmer this time. You feel emboldened by the strange tension brewing here, and have the courage to maintain his gaze…

For about one second.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” you add.

“Thank you, I appreciate that.”

“Do you…live here?” Oh, that would be awkward.

“No, right next door. I was going to buy, renovate, and use it as a gym when he died.”

You snort. “Well, guess you’ll just have to keep paying for a membership to the Y.”

A little part of you is grateful that he can match your sass instead of getting offended as so many men tend to do. “For your information, it’s Planet Fitness.”

A bigger part is worried that this camaraderie only extends so far until you run your mouth just a little too much, as youtend to do, and either wind up publicly shamed or dead—you’re not so sure which is worse anymore. “righhhht, my bad, John.”

He smiles at you, those dark eyes twinkling in the natural light cast down on them from above. You think, maybe, you see him read you right then and there and decide he likes the synopsis. It shouldn’t make you preen, but his playful grin and starry orbs are hard to snub—at least, you think they are, from the minimal glances you’ve managed to steal.

“Did you have an okay time with Marjory? She can be a little strange.”

“Oh, we had loads of fun,” you reply, after a moment of wondering what he’s talking about with those sinfully unfair plush lips. “Right after she tried to steal my soul.”

He sighs. “Not again.”

You laugh together, and already his underlying aura of danger is fading away.

Replaced with…suspicion—he’s too easy to get along with.

After a minute, he says: “she was his last wife.”

“I knew it!” You exclaim, throwing your hands up in victory. “Uh, sorry.”

This is the third time you’ve made him laugh, and you’re really trying not to get a big head about it but it’s damn near impossible. One more deep chuckle and you’re going to start strutting around here like the bedazzled pet peacock of a wealthy warlord.

He’s looking at you again, and it’s making your skin feel tighter on your bones and your head a little woozy. One man should not have that much power in a single gaze, nor be allowed to look that palatable in faded blue jeans and a brown leather jacket. You do what any woman with a libido would, and deflect with humor.

“So, who’s this guy in the painting next to your father?”

It can’t be him. If it is, he doesn’t age. Winston looks twenty years younger in this painting than the recent online photos you’ve seen, and the real man before you looks exactly the same as the painted one.

“That’s my older brother.”

“Oh, what? He looks nothing like you.”

He smiles, more to himself. “Especially not now.”

You take that bait like a hungry trout. “Why?”

“He’s dead.”

“God, I’m sorry, John, any surviving family?” It occurs to you a millisecond too late that was an insensitive question, and you have the sudden urge to bite your tongue clean off.

Tact will never be your specialty.

“Just a sister, but she lives in Rome and we’re not on speaking terms... Hey.”

You tip your chin at him and give a little wave. “Hey.”

He snorts, leans a shoulder on the wall. You try not to notice how good he looks doing it. “Time to tell me about yourself.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ve told you so many things about me, and you haven’t even told me your name. I think it’s fair, don’t you?”

You hesitate, tucking your bottom lip between your teeth.

“Oh, it’s okay, though, if you’d rather not.” You feel guilty about his downturned mouth, and realize you’ve probably killed the atmosphere, but that’s for the best, anyway. This man would devour you, bones and all.

“I just don’t wanna bore you,” you shrug, feigning nonchalance. “But I’m y/n. Nice to meet you.”

His lips press together, probably holding back a dry retort, as he grabs your hand again, startling you, making you flinch back.

He drops your palm, takes a step away for himself. “I’m sorry, I thought—“

“It’s fine,” you wave him off, trying not to start spiraling into a fever fantasy about how warm he is, and how he makes every nerve in your body harmonize like a vengeful choir with just a touch. You try to compose the treacherous axons back into silence.

“Alright, fine, you can open up more as we clean. Until then, I’m not telling you a thing about myself.”

You blink at him stupidly. “What?”

“Oh, she didn’t tell you? I’m helping you. Took the entire day off and everything.” He grins proudly, and you see a whole different, youthful side of him.

“Oh?” You smile again. “Where do you work?”

“Nice try, y/n.”

You giggle, hand pressed over your mouth. “Ah, damn. Almost gotcha…I don’t need any help, though, really. I got it.”

He looks around the big room with his hands shoved into his pockets. “Alright, I’ll just watch, then.”

“I’d actually prefer some solitude, if you don’t mind…”

You commend him for that expertly crafted wounded look, but you will not fall for it. Even hungry wolves can sometimes look like the sweetest puppies.

“Are you sure? I know where his supplies are.”

“I brought my own.”

He kicks some dust, looks away. You shouldn’t feel bad for wanting your space, but you absolutely do. “Alright, if you say so.”

Maybe you can soothe him a little bit with your next inquiry. “Anything you want from the building before I start going through things?”

He shakes his head. “No, if I have to look at one more book from childhood cluttering my house, I’m going to throw up.”

“Take it easy,” you rib. “What did Charlotte's Web ever do to you?”

“Stole my lunch money,” he teases.

Maybe it would be nice, to have his company. He doesn’t seem so bad—

No. Nope. Bad y/n. Slippery slopes are always captivating and luminescent from a distance…

“Anyway,” you tell him. “I should get to work. Nice to meet you, John.”

He tips his head down at you. “The pleasure is mine.”

You’re not religious, but you would swear to God himself that you put your ladder in the truck bed. But it’s not here, and you’re not a good climber, and the chances of you growing a foot taller right now are slim to none.

Grumbling, you lug your cleaning supplies in the door, and almost run into John, who looks like he’s taking his leave.

“Oh, actually,” you ask sheepishly, letting him help you set the heavy bucket of rags and sprays down, “do you know where the ladder is?”

The piece of decaying wood he pulls from a nearby closet won’t hold a toddler let alone you. You test the first moldy step and it immediately crumbles under your foot, spilling damp rot over the carpet. “Fuck,” you say.

He snickers, and you glare at him, which turns the visible laughter into a subtle clearing of his throat and a shy glance away from your wrath. It shouldn’t be adorable. It shouldn’t breathe life into your little dead heart.

“Let me show you something,” he says, and walks over to a tall shelf, reaching up on the balls of his feet to touch the spine of the highest book. “Still sure you don’t need me?”

Is it just you, or is he a little bit of a cheekier bastard than originally thought?

You huff at his timid grin. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, his devil smile and twinkling eyes whisper, to have a tall, strong man around to fight those evil top shelves…

“Looks like I have to go to the store,” you conclude.

“Ouch.”

“Why do you wanna help so bad?”

“It was his last dying wish?”

“Bullshit.”

“I’m lonely.”

You look him over, from head to toe, skipping those intense eyes, and cock an eyebrow…

“Double bullshit,” you conclude, because there’s no way in hell a man like this is lonely unless if it’s by choice.

“Earlier, you asked me if there was anything I wanted to take. There is, but I don’t know where it is.”

“What is it?” You ask him.

“It’s a book. My brother wrote it.” He looks pensive, eyebrows pulled down.

“What’s the name?” You ask.

“I don’t know.”

“What’s it look like?”

He runs his nimble fingertips thoughtfully over the spines of some dusty dictionaries, and the spiders nesting in your marrow quiver. His thick veined hands are almost as dangerous as his eyes.

“I don’t know. It was his manuscript. I was supposed to receive it before he died, but my father kept it from me. Hid it. I broke in many times to look for it.” His fist clenches at his side and all you can think about is how big his knuckles are, and how bad they would hurt striking, and how good they would hurt curled up inside you or brushing softly against your cheek.

You must have taken a step away from him, or adopted some feeble prey expression, because he turns to you and softens, jaw unsticking itself, shoulders falling back. “I’m sorry.”

No, please, anything but showing someone your soft shy underbelly right off the bat in this new town…

Luckily, you can think on your feet.

You give him a big, triumphant smile. “Made you talk about yourself again.”

“You little…” He tsks, narrowing his eyes; for a moment you think he’s going to chase you down the corridor, and the electrical conduction of your heart seizes.

You try to act like you’re not scared, or titillated by the thought of that.

“When did your brother die?” You ask him while you’re rummaging through boxes of porcelain cups, faux gold and silver jewelry tangled together in a tight wad that it takes hours to dig through, a menagerie of plastic animals and colorfully dressed figurines that fit into a miniature circus model, occult literature from the early 1900’s.

There are so many fascinating items in this collection, some of them worth more than your truck or apartment. Trinkets infused with cultural significance, bobbles laden with ancient tales and silent history. And the books—god, the books.

Tomes of famous Russian poets, scholars, eccentrics. Vintage romance novels in mint condition. You can’t wait to curl up on the old couch with some tea and a hefty stack of Agatha Christie and Anne Rice.

“A year before my father.”

You wince and fold a weathered Dickens paperback into your lap. He is pulling them from the shelves, glancing at them, and then handing them to you to sort into piles. “That’s so much.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, sitting beside you with a grunt and whoosh of air. “You want a drink?”

“I’m not thirsty,” you say, motioning to your water bottle.

“I meant something spirited.”

“Oh, well in that case, of course I do.”

He opens a bottle of sweet whiskey in the kitchenette, and you drink it from coffee cups with freezer burned ice.

He downs it without flinching, and you enjoy the view of his Adam’s apple bobbing under five o clock shadow and durable skin, more courageous now thanks to over half the liquor from your cup.

“Sorry it’s not something fancier.”

“Whiskey’s perfect for the occasion,” you tell him, motioning to your grime and dust covered self. “I think I should head back home after it runs its course, though. I’m tired. This is a big place.”

You apologize to him, because he looks exhausted, too, and he has helped you make three times the progress you would have achieved on your own with his extra foot of height…and still his brother’s book is nowhere to be found.

However, you want to see him again, and that means you should never see him again, so you withhold any invitations.

He’s been a perfect gentleman. Good company. He doesn’t need to talk to feel comfortable, and the long silences shared between you, working through boxes and cobwebs, have been pleasant. Your initial resistance to him was unwarranted, even if he is a dark looming shadow with inescapable eyes.

He is a nice man, and that is terrifying. You need to stay far, far away from him. You would put a continent between the two of you if it wasn’t for your life savings recently sinking into this bookstore.

But when he asks to come back, you fold like wet parchment, not even trying to be reluctant or resist his deep, enchanting gaze.

You’ve become soft. You’ll have to work on that.

He insists on walking you to your truck, because it’s dark outside, and this little snowy town is short on street lights. Outside, autumn is employing winter to cover some of its crunchy dead leaves in crispy white tufts. You love the smell of transitioning seasons, and as you tip your frost bitten nose up to the air to take a big whiff, John watches.

“It’s pretty out here,” you say, looking around at the mixture of Halloween, Thanksgiving…Christmas decorations just starting to sprout. Lights twinkle along rooftops, lifting the night up in rainbows.

You’re too busy paying attention to the scenery of small town magic to notice the slight dip in the sidewalk next to your truck. Your foot catches it at the right angle for disaster, and a split second too late, you realize your soft skull is headed for the hard metal of a door handle.

You screw your eyes shut, waiting for the impact, for the crack and the pain and it just never comes…In fact, seems the soles of your feet have been placed back on solid ground, and your back has been formed into something warm and diuturnal behind you.

His hands really are big, Jesus. His palms fold into the curves of your sides, long fingers resting against the soft beginning swells of your tummy, sending fizzy warmth down through your hips and deep in your guts.

Resembling a feral animal, you jump out of his arms, as if you’ve never been touched by another human or as if he’s made of spikes—it’s more to get away from the feeling of his touch—from the feeling it causes—rather than he himself

Luckily, you don’t have time to think about how much of a pathetic waste of human you are, because you’re tumbling right off the curb again in your haste to get away.

This time, he wraps his gentle hands around the divot of your lower back, and guides you up against your freezing door with a bewildered, dazzling smile.

Shit.

“Are you okay?” He asks in a white puff of warm minty breath.

You look up at him to speak, but his sharp features are highlighted in candy apple red from the nutcracker decoration mounted on a street lamp next to your truck.

When you were young and saw a venomous snake for the first time, it was a viper, locked inside a thick cage of glass with eerie red lights shining down on its sharp little head and black almond eyes. Generally, you had never been afraid of reptiles, because they were ostracized and feared, and you maybe knew how that felt a little too well…

But you were afraid of the viper—some primordial instinct traveled through time to warn you not to fuck with that animal, just as it’s doing right now. The once excited butterflies in your middle are suddenly desperate to break free, gnawing and sucking at the lining of your gut, digging their tiny barbed claws into tender pelvic tissue.

He sees it in your eyes, maybe, as they blow two sizes wider, and backs away, hands stuffed inside his pockets. “I’m sorry—“

“It’s okay,” you say too quickly, too sharply. Fear is such a potent thing, filling you up until you’re leaking it from every pore and orifice.

“Get home safe.”

You nod, hop into the front seat, and speed away after fumbling with your keys in trembling hands for what feels like a good five minutes. Your shakes are not from the cold snow descending upon the town.

When your eyes decide to disobey direct commands from the sympathetic nervous system and look at him in the rear view, he’s standing under the red light, on the street, watching you drive away.

In your dreams, the calm day spent rummaging through books is forgotten. There’s no peace here, trapped inside your mind. The one place you can’t hide.

It’s the same scene every night.

You are running under thick overgrowth, sharp wet earth tearing up the delicate plantar surface of your feet. It’s cold, dark, maybe right before dawn or just after sunset. The thorns snatching at your skin, the branches and vines whipping gashes into your face—these sensations are nothing compared to the adrenalized fear overtaking you.

They’ll take you back to freezing metal bondage and endless gray walls and the blistering, assaultive smell of bleach over blood. You want to live, desperately. You’ve never wanted anything more than a beating heart and expanding lungs, but you’d rather die than go back with them, so under cover of a weeping tree, you grab your little stolen pocket knife and press it to your throat.

Life, shining and wet, leaves you in gushes and spurts. It’s messy work, takes a few good sharp, haphazard digs at the jugular, and they find you just as you hit crimson gold and feed the muddy ground with your blood.

You don’t know why you still try; to die, to live, to fight. The dream captures your memories, freezing them in time, and solidifying your fate. You will yourself to struggle harder, hit, kick, scratch, bite, scream, beg, pray—to a God who has forsaken you—for just a little bit of fucking mercy for once.

Mercy looks nothing like you expect.

He is as tall as the surrounding trees, at least 9 feet, with inky black tendrils of thick hair growing down his back.

Massive, clawed hands perfect for hooking and ripping mortal flesh; he lops a head off with one finger, like opening a bottle of coke—tips the body upside down and gulps, greedily, blood and grisly clumps of viscera. Your pursuer’s heart is a tasty, candy gush sweet in his palm, and he swallows it whole.

You are covered in red, so saturated that trying to run is impractical and useless. The forest floor is garroted with it, slick and impossible. You fall into a bundle of pointy thorns and vines and the thick, muddy soup of blood.

It can’t all be yours—

It’s not. It’s theirs. He is tearing them apart. Two at a time. Under the rising silver moon, their plasma has an easy and graceful Grande Jete.

He skewers someone through the chest, and your stomach lurches at the sick crack of pulpy bone.

But you can’t puke, not now.

You need to run. You grasp at the thorns holding you, ripping at your skin, peeling layers off.

The screaming and popping and splintering and wailing ends abruptly, and in the eerie silence, as you freeze in fear, trying to listen for the creature, all you can hear is the drumming beat of your own pulse inside your head.

You have never been small-waisted. In your youth, when you still had stupid hopes that true love and chivalry could find you, you longed to have the same natural slim lines and desired smoothness of your female counterparts, watching enviously as a masculine palm could fit easily into the small of their back to lead them, protect them, court them.

He fits you in one hand just like that, and the gentle nature in which he handles you makes you audibly gasp. These long, sharp fingers, that just effortlessly took apart bone and skin and muscle, dig into your side politely, bluntly, holding you in a way you’ve never considered to be attainable.

You writhe against him, pushing your palms down to feebly pry his long fingers off your hips, but he traps you effortlessly in his arms, and lifts you to his face.

There are razor sharp fangs in place of his upper canines, and they are dripping fresh, hot blood over his bearded chin, his torso, your breasts and tummy. His hair is long, ethereal, soft, floating as if he is in water, smooth tendrils feathering around your shoulders tenderly.

His mouth is just too wide for his face, and if he grinned, it would make any mortal man tremble. You start to recognize the hard lines of his expression underneath these subtle uncanny features…and then you look into those eyes.

They are narrow and dark, and impossible to keep, just like you remember. You glance away, overwhelmed with their intensity, the second before they soften.

You should be terrified, intimidated, screaming, but those eyes prick at your heart, bead a heady drop of life’s blood. This feeling, it’s familiar and centuries old—It’s yearning, agony, imbued and heavy in your very marrow.

You gasp, and writhe against him, but now for another reason; delicious, agonizing need breeds from his touch, infecting your body and spreading through every piece of you like a ruthless pathogen.

His eyes are the key to something inside of you that you wrestled, chained and imprisoned a long time ago, and you sob with the intensity of it bursting free.

You try to hide your face in your hands, protect yourself from whatever natural, effortless connection is happening between you and this unnatural man, but he grabs your head between his thumb and forefinger, tenderly pinching at your puffy cheeks. “Look at me,” he says, voice unmistakeably deep and rough and so human.

But a mortal man could never, ever make you obey so easily without force or pain—with just the heavy infliction of his tone. Your traitorous eyes lock onto his of their own volition.

He brands your soul with black fire, makes your whole being ache, toes and fingers curling against the onslaught of it all, chest heaving with the force of your breath. Your fate is sealed, your time is up, it’s curtains, you’re fucked.

For years, you’ve been painstakingly arranging a wall against the world, against your own pedky emotions. He knocks it all over with a look, and the tough woman that built it is whimpering like a baby as the fallout buries her alive.

“Please stop.” You hardly recognize your own voice when it’s sweet and pleading.

“I…can’t.” There’s something pained in his expression, maybe confused, like he’s just as bewildered by what’s happening here between you.

A loc of his hair slithers around your neck like a curious snake. It’s alarmingly soft, like thick silk ribbons trailing over your skin and between your heaving breasts. You reach out to stop him, because it feels too good and it’s too much, and he wraps your pesky arms behind your back, binding them with the same satin coils collecting at the base of your heartbeat, tickling at the underside of your breast where your very life stems from, where you are soft and tender and feminine.

If you could think straight, you would hate yourself for the way your hips twitch and shudder as an aching throb worms its way into your heart, travels through your bloodstream, and nests inside your cunt.

He hums his approval. “Me too, little witch.” His long mouth curls at the edges like a hungry wolf’s, and it’s terrifying, but you have no sense to be afraid. Instead, you want to touch—feel through the heavy black cloak of shadow covering him, right into his heart, if he has one…

You whine, because you can’t do anything else, reduced to this pathetic mess of a woman, and test the bonds he cradles you with. They are comfortably snug. Undreakable. You are secured.

It’s been so long, since anyone has touched you with reverence, gentleness. You hate it.

Not because it doesn’t feel good. Because it feels far too good, when he folds you up in that strange cashmere darkness that emanates from his being, and exposes all your coveted vulnerability…inside and out.

And you’re just…helpless. Like a stuffed doll in his sure grip.

It takes about two seconds for rationality to drown—sink deep into the blackness again and leave you quivering and warm and wanton.

Velvet serpents test you, first at your fingertips and toes, then your palms and soles. Your calves, thighs, cheeks, collar.

It’s a libidinous swarm descending upon you, swallowing you whole. The last thing you see is his mirthy, onyx eyes before being completely consumed.

The sound you make as he slips over the dusky tips of your breasts is more animal than human. You wretch your head back and forth, because it’s the only thing you can move before he traps it, too, and you swear you hear an impish chuckle before this darkness fills your ears and takes your hearing.

He covers your mouth, your eyes, your cheeks and nose, puts you in total sensory deprivation where every caress, tease, flick, kiss…suck is amplified tenfold.

You growl like an angry little kitten as he finds the sensitive, ticklish spot at the back of your knees.

Then, you sob, or at least you think you do, while slippery little tendrils wrap around the swell of your nipples and press at the soaked fabric of your underwear and mold against all the curves of your tummy

You’ll have time later to hate yourself for rolling your hips against him, for silently begging him to touch your throbbing cunt—to delve under thin cotton and test your wetness before filling every little inch of you up with shadows inside just as thoroughly as he is out.

It’s been a long time, since someone has touched you there. It’s been…never that someone has touched you like he is.

If you were trapped here for eternity, you’re not sure if you would call it heaven or hell.

As he slides past your underwear and flicks your swollen clit, your vote is on the former. When he does not increase the pace or the pressure of these teasing touches after several agonizing moments, your vote is on the latter.

He devolves you from his shadows, placing you upright on the ground, pulling out from the curves of your body with swollen pops, smoothing your hair back against your face.

In an attempt to soothe your animosity, he runs a finger down your cheek, and you bat him away with your hand, taking a quick step back, slipping on fluids—

He catches you. You push him away again. “Get away from me.”

“It’s your dream.” He raises an eyebrow, dark mouth titling at the corner. It’s absurd—you’re arguing with a terrifying bloodthirsty creature of the night like it’s casual when you should be running and screaming.

And…well…he certainly has you there.

“Go away,” you say, because obviously you’re the epitome of wit.

You feel his eyes slide up and down your body, inspiring a deep shiver and a timid step back and a good look at yourself—oversized, ratted band tshirt, old cotton panties. Blood in various stages of drying patching your skin.

You feel your neck, and there is no gash. The thorns and sticks embedded in your palms and soles are gone; not a scratch or scrape or tender stinging place on you. It takes you a second to realize he healed you.

As if he can read your mind—maybe he can—he says, softly, “I am not all death.”

When you’ve woken up from this repeating nightmare in the past, it’s usually been with a panic attack; heart racing, mouth screaming, hands grabbing your stuffed dog to press him into your chest for some warm comfort.

This time, you’re gasping, soaked in—you have to look down at yourself to make sure it’s not blood—sweat, uncomfortably slippery and sticky between your thighs, twitchy and irritated.

You’ve never had a wet dream, not in all your adult years, and having one about a man you just met is just fucking ridiculous.

He is not that great, you tell yourself. You just met him, for God’s sake.

First handsome man that’s nice to you in years and you become a delusional school girl? No. Hell no.

Boundaries need to be established, here. Rules need to be set. You need to put your foot down, have a little bite behind the bark, and tell John, Winston’s son, to go away.

Just like you did in your dream.

Notes: when I was describing the monster, I was thinking of something like Alucard from Hellsing or Dracula from Castlevania.

#john wick x reader #john wick fanfic #john wick fanfiction #john wick x plus size reader #john wick x y/n #john wick x you #monster romance #dark romance #John wick x chubby reader

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97keanu · 1 year ago

Text

Premise: Vampire!John Wick has caught your scent, and now there's nothing that will stop him from obtaining what he craves. You on the other hand, are enjoying a night on the town dressed as an angel for Halloween. You don't realize what a mistake you've made walking into a real vampire's path.

Tags/CW: DARK FIC, Vampire!JW, Being hunted, pred/prey, innocent!reader, angel coded!reader, bimbo!reader, dumb!reader, blood drinking, regular alcohol drinking, john is an evil vampire, dub-con, dead dove don't eat, hypnotism/hypnotized!reader, reader has a secret kidnapping!kink, reader has secret dark desires, knife kink in the form of claws, biting, teasing teasing teasing !!!, mind reading, reader who is a secret slut, reader who wants to be sacrificed, major character death mentions/teased, blood doll!reader, readers fate undetermined.

A/N: I've always had a thing for vampires. In this fic, I explore some of my favorite naughty kinks, and give you an extremely long and kinky sex scene between John and reader. Hope y'all like it, be sure to heed the content warnings ʚ♥︎ɞ

He has hunted your scent for miles. That sweet, delicious blood of yours calling to him in even the faintest amount. You poor, pretty little thing, that doesn't even know she's being hunted. You laugh with friends after dark, walking in groups for safety as you enjoy the Halloween festivities. You have no idea that it doesn't matter where you go tonight. That John has already decided your blood will be his, and so it shall be. You look so dolled up too, in your tiny miniskirt and frilly, barely-there white top. On your back, two perfect, tiny fake angel wings float along your figure, a costume halo atop your head. You look pristine, and John can only imagine what all that white will look like when he's done with you. It's as if you decided to serve yourself up on a silver platter for him, unknowingly.

As you walk about the city in wobbly, chunky platforms, you giggle into the night air with friends, the mist of your breath pooling in the sky above you. You don't notice in the sea of people that is New York, that you're being stalked. You don't see the man, moving silently from building to dark alleyway, inhaling your scent as deep as he can. You don't see the fangs, that glint under street lamps as he passes. They've grown so long from desire he can hardly keep them hidden behind his lips. Luckily for John, costumed Halloween goers flood the streets. A perfect time for a creature of the night like him to be so bold in public. Tonight, he will go unnoticed.

You however go into the next club on your bar hopping adventure without a care in the world. You don't see the dark figure slipping in behind you at a speed you can't even comprehend. You walk with an air of innocence and wide-eyed wonder. You gawk at spooky displays and laugh at slasher costumes as you walk by. You know that underneath that scary mask is just some greasy twenty-something who would love to get you in bed. As if.

The lights and music blare, and you are pulled by your friends to the dance floor. You're already feeling the heat of the cocktails you've had tonight in your body, and when you move to the rhythmic music, you feel your legs wobble along lazily. Your friends pass you another drink, you don't know from where, and you consume it happily. It's sweet, bitter aftertaste goes down easily, and you enjoy your night of being young and free.

A few men try to dance with you, but when you size them up, they're so not your type. They're just too young for you, even if they are likely the same age as you. You've always loved a more mature man, someone bigger and wiser than you who can really put you in your place. Half of you fantasizes about a man like that taking you from this hedonist pit of a club, pulling you into his car and driving away. You imagine he would take you back to his house just to tie you up and keep you kidnapped there against your will. The idea has always turned you on, but none of the men in this club tonight could ever give you something like that. You continue to dance with your friends, ignoring any drunkards who try to make a pass at you with an up turned nose.

The night continues on, and more drinks find their way into your hands. You happily take them, not caring how beyond drunk you are. As you're dancing, you slowly realize how seperated you are from your friends. You glance around, looking for them in the crowd, but see no one. Instead you feel the hair on the back of your neck raise. You feel as if you're the one being watched.

When you finally find the pair of eyes on you, you see the face of a handsome, older man in the crowd. You're surprised to see a man like him in a crowd like this. He seems so suave, so opulent, and through your drunken eyes, he also seems expensive, if not rich. You saunter over, slowly dancing through the crowd, until you're close enough to the staring stranger to see how intense his eyes really are. For a moment, fear washes over you, but you shake your head, deciding yourself silly for being afraid.

John can hardly hide his delight that he has caught you, his pretty little prey angel. He hears your thoughts about a man like him taking you away, tying you up, and using you like the hole you are. John has to laugh under his breath. You could never guess how true that sentiment really is. John can imagine doing more than just tying you up, though.

He watches as you walk right over to him, he can sense the fear rising up in you. You have every right to be afraid, but you still come, like the fly to the spider. You know it, in your heart, that John is a predator. Your own senses tell you, but like the silly human you are, you ignore them. Human's have lost all superstitions for creatures like John, it almost makes it too easy to trick you into letting him in.

John pulls you in when you get close enough, he has to hide how sharp his nails are, be gentle with your fragile body, but he still senses how rough he's pulled you in. In your drunkeness, you assume you've just tripped into him.

John feels your warm, tiny body against his, and you move like a siren, obviously not as angelic as you seem. Your body ungulates on his, rubbing your backside straight into John's cock. To your surprise, he's already hard, and you blush thinking it was so easy to do such a thing to him. You don't know that it's not just your body that's turning him on. No, it's what he's imagining doing to you after he's had his fun toying with you like this. It's that sweet blood that pumps in your veins so temptingly.

He let's his hands move up your body, caressing every curve, feeling your hips and gripping them into himself, imagining how he would take you later on. His hands continue up, pressing and playing with your breasts, and for a moment, you reach up for his hands, startled by how forward this strange man is being in public. He relents, his hands moving up to caress that pretty neck of yours. In your intoxicated state, you continue to allow him to play with you.

What you don't notice is John has slowly pulled you from the crowd, isolating you from the rest of the humans having a fun Halloween weekend. You don't even realize it until John is starting to move you through a back door of the club, the night air suddenly chilling you and ruffling the feathers of your wings. You turn to face him, and he smiles so sweetly. As he smiles you notice the sharpness of his teeth, and your mind tries to explain it away as a costume, but they look so real, and so sharp. Your instincts once again tell you to run, but with the way he's looking at you, you feel a pull to him you can't explain.

It's as if everything in your brain is telling you how dangerous this man is, but your body can't get enough of him. Even being so close now, his husky, earthy scent, similar to pine trees and steel, draws you in. You feel your body tingling where he touches you on your waist and back, his finger tips freezing. He reminds you of winter itself, cold and unmoving. But you are moving aren't you? When you notice your surroundings outside his intense, dark eyes, you see you've been drawn to a dark corner of the alleyway.

You look about and notice how quiet it is, how it's as if everyone else has been banished from the area, not even the rustle of wind is making a sound. No, the only sound right now you hear is of your increasingly alarmed breath. You look back to the strange man to see he has bent you backwards, your wings now barely brushing the dirty alley, your hair swept from your neck.

Suddenly, in the moonlight, those glinting fangs don't seem so fake. In fact, they seem so real you're shaking from it. Your rabbit heart thumps relentlessly, and suddenly adrenaline floods your body. You move to run, to jump out of his grip like a frightened doe, but his hands hold you like steel.

"Who--?" You begin to say, trying to muster a scream for help that doesn't come.

"My sweet angel," John speaks for the first time to you tonight, and your entire body goes cold. "You will be so delicious..."

John doesn't care to hide it anymore, the fear has overcome all else inside you, and you know that he is dangerous.

John takes his hands to your throat, turning your head so that he may look into your eyes. You look into them, those two dark orbs, and you feel that fear wash over you again as you realize how red they are getting. You must be imagining things, it must be the lack of light, but no, you're sure of it. This mans eyes are truly, deeply, darkly red. And just when you had mustered enough sense to want to run away, he's hypnotized you. His vampiric powers of manipulation wash over your mind, over your body. You feel a false sense of calm, and your mind tries to scream for your body to run, but you can't. You're stuck there, transfixed and mouth agape, your body wanting John more than anything.

Now that he has you in such a vulnerable state, he simply picks you up, carrying you bridal style to a spot he's already picked out. He takes you to a nearby apartment, abandoned and high up enough no one will hear you scream. He has outfitted the bedroom here as the perfect vampire nest. The windows are boarded from all light, the room is adorned with candles, and he's even brought in some tools to use on you. He will take his time with you, that much was certain. You want to struggle as he sets you down on the bed, but your body doesn't move. You look up at him like a lamb to the slaughter, waiting for him to break your pretty little neck.

"Hands." He says roughly, and before you can think to deny him, you're lifting your hands I front of you, doe eyes looking at him so pitifully full of tears that won't fall.

He ties your hands skillfully together, tight and inescapable. Then he ties your hands to the bedframe above you, and you look up from there, asking for some miracle to save you.

"There will be no miracles tonight. Not for you, angel." You glance at him, wondering how he read your mind. He laughs when he sees the confusion in your eyes, his fangs yellowed by the candle light.

"Don't worry, my sweet. Being able to experience all that you have in that pretty head of yours is just half the fun..." John pets your hair before he begins to undress you.

When it's time to focus on your clothes, he has an easy answer for that. He runs his claw along your body, so sharp that even the slightest bit of pressure would surely slit your delicate skin. You can feel the hypnotism waning, but suspect that he has done this on purpose.

"Yes... I have." John answers your thought. "Now, let's hear those lovely moans of yours."

You try to scream, and it comes out as a soft murmur, something akin to being strangled. You feel tears fall down your cheeks, and gasp as you feel John apply just enough pressure to slice through your mini skirt. He plucks it off of you the way one might pluck a petal from a flower. You watch as he tosses it away, feeling the cold air on your almost nude bottom half.

He works his way back up your body, still allowing his claws to glide against your baby soft skin. He reaches your top, and snaps the straps easily, pulling the top off to reveal your breasts to him. Despite everything, you can't help how easily wet your cunt is getting.

"You may try to deny me," John says, again pulling your feelings straight from your head. "But I know you've always wanted this. That's what drew me to your blood. You have the blood of someone who knows they're prey."

"N-no..." You attempt to say, but the words barely find their way out.

"Don't lie, I can see those dark thoughts at the back of your head. How you used to touch yourself to the thought of being kidnapped. How you wished someone would tie you up, just like this. Even just tonight, you thought of this. Don't start being a brat for me now, angel. Show me how badly you've wanted this." The last sentence is a command you must follow, and when John's hands have reached up to your glossy mouth, you have no choice but to open.

You feel him place two fingers so deeply inside your mouth, your pussy trembles at the thought that he might cut you there. It's as if he's placed a knife in your mouth, so gentle, but so deadly. You close your warm mouth around his cool fingers, sucking lightly. The thoughts you've had about scenarios like this before flash in your mind, no doubt John's influence.

While he keeps you pacified, he runs his free hand down your exposed body, taking care to hold your breast, feeling your beating heart behind it. The smell of your fear and pleasure mixing in your blood has John beyond hard, he doesn't know how much longer he can contain himself before biting or fucking you. He holds back his throbbing fangs, for now.

You watch helplessly as he pulls his fingers from your mouth, moving his body down yours, until his head is lined up with your soaking cunt.

"I can smell how badly you've wanted this from here..." John teases, and you bite your lip, embarrassed of how your body betrays you.

John plays with your white, lacy panties, pulling them so taut that your pussy lips get caught around them. You moan despite yourself as John plays with your panties just so, your engorged clit getting some wanted attention.

"You're so human...denying yourself the ultimate pleasure you've been seeking, I would never dream of such a thing." John muses as you writhe against your restraints, even this slightest touch driving you mad. You think of kicking John away, but your legs just won't work for you. He has you perfectly spread for him, tied up like a present, and unable to resist.

"I'm sure all your fantasies consist of killing young, helpless women. I'm not sure that counts." Your voice whispers in a chiding tone, and by the look of John's dark eyes on you, you wish you'd held your tongue.

John pulls your panties so hard against your tender clit you let out a small scream. He moves his face to meet yours, speaking directly to you as you lay there fearful, mouth open to silent screams.

"Yes, angel. I do kill young, helpless girls. Let's see if you can be a good girl tonight and change my mind." He watches the fear pool in your eyes, breathing in the scent of it with a smirk.

You try to hold his eye contact, try to be the brave girl who fights her attacker. But that's just not you. That's never been you. You've always been soft, easily guided this way or that. You've never been particularly smart, or witty. You've gotten by on your beauty alone for so long, that you made yourself think you were more powerful than you were. Really, you're just a lost little lamb, looking to be herded, but finding the wolf instead.

John can see that, hear that in your thoughts, and he reaches up, cups your face in his hand, and pulls your eyes back to his.

"I think if you expand your mind a bit, little lamb, you may even really enjoy being drained to death..." The way his cold eyes fill with excitement at this statement makes your stomach flop. It takes everything in you to pull your chin away from his hand.

He let's you, pulling back down to your glistening cunt. John pulls your panties up and places a sharp claw under it, the soft side of his claw brushing against your clit. In one fell swoop, he cuts away your panties.

You squirm and try to make your legs close, your whining coming out between sharp breaths as you try to fight this power over you. He slowly brings his face to your quivering cunt, looking up at you with those dangerous onyx eyes.

"The sooner you realize you've always been meant to be someone's plaything, the sooner you'll find yourself loving this..." He whispers, prodding more of those sick fantasies to flash in your head.

John let's his fangs flash in the light before letting his tongue taste you. His tongue is surprisingly cool, making you recoil, but with more movement, you hate that your hips try to buck into his mouth. He's teasing your clit every so carefully, moving perfectly to keep you on edge. Your entire body floods with pleasure that you try to keep at bay.

"You know you want more...ask me..." His voice breathes against your pussy, leaving chills to run up your spin.

You hate how right he is. You want this, you want this man, no, this monster to fuck you senseless. You can't believe how sensitive you're getting even at the idea that he kills you, that you become nothing but a meal for such a powerful creature. Your blood pumps loudly in your ears as you try to ignore him down there, try to will your body not to be so sensitive to his touch, to his tongue lapping at your cunt ever so gently. You should be fighting him, screaming for your life, scheming at least for how to get yourself out of this, how to save your own life.

But when you look into his dark eyes, you know it's no use. Any plan you could come up with, he would hear. Any escape, if you somehow got out of your restraints, was futile. He was stronger, faster than you in every respect. All you could do was lay here, shuddering against the monster that's tempting you to let them make you cum. What were you supposed to do? What would the smart, cunning, witty girl do?

"P-please..." Your voice summons, and John's ears perk up at the sound.

"Please what? What changed your mind?" He looks at you curiously.

"Please...make me cum. I've..." You take a deep breath and hold it as John gives a longer lick. "I've never been the smart one, or the one who was going anywhere big in life. I'm only useful as a hole to fuck. Please fuck me and make my pitiful existence mean something."

"And if I kill you?" John teases your pussy by lightly gliding his claws across it, the feeling similar to that of a cool blade being used.

"Then I would be happy to be of use to you..." You can't believe you've said this, but you can feel John pulling the words from you with his eyes.

You close your eyes after the last word, unable to look into John's eyes any longer. After a moment, when you hear nothing, you peek at him. He looks at you like a cat presented with a shiny new toy. His interest in you is piqued more than even before.

"Maybe you will be more than a temporary plaything..." John raised his eyebrows with a hint of laughter, the sentiment didn't help much to relieve you of your fear.

Seeing you so willing to admit how much a girl like you was meant to be nothing more than fuck meat and a meal made John's cock struggle against his pants. He has grown tired of smart girls who try to escape, it always ended the same anyways. Now you, you who can admit that they are prey, that was much more interesting. The way you sacrifice yourself to him made John feel like a king, no, a God.

He could feel himself throbbing with want, wanting to take you here and now, but he was a man of his word. He would make you cum first.

He returns to your cunt, served up for him perfectly, and begins to devour you much more than before. He licks with purpose, using his tongue to give you so much attention your eyes almost roll back from the intensity. What surprises you more, leaves you gasping is when he sucks your clit into his mouth, his teeth ever so gently applying pressure and new sensitivity. You quiver and your legs seem to not be your own, muscles tensing and squirming under John's touch. You feel John's hand hold your thigh down in place, his claws knicking your skin just slightly. The pain mixed with the pleasure John gives begins to send you over the edge. When you see the small droplets of blood begin to leak from your thigh, you cum for him, moaning into the night air.

As you settle down, your heart rapidly getting away from you, your eyes lazily open and watching John, you see him move his mouth to your thigh, lapping up the blood that's been spilt there.

John licks the wounds, and the close up, but tasting your delicious blood has him unable to hold back anymore. He needs more of it. Now.

John sinks his teeth into the soft flesh of your inner thigh, his fangs almost melting into your dainty skin. You cry out, and John bites deeper, his cock leaking from the sound of your despair, his mind reeling from how good you taste. Soon, he pulls his teeth back, sucking deeply of the blood that gushes into his mouth. As he begins to drink from you, an unimaginable wave of pleasure crashes over you.

You can barely contain yourself, your voice not your own, your moans of anguish and want, heedy and full of need. You've never felt such pleasure, not even from how well John made you cum moments before. You greedily relish in it as John drinks deeper, a free hand lifting to pet your sweet cunt, driving you mad with sensation. You feel yourself begin to cum again. Then again. And again as John continues to consume your precious blood.

John can feel your heart slowing, can sense your life force leaving you as he consumes your warmth. He has to force himself to stop, his muscles tightening and attempting to keep his jaw locked on your thigh. You're so high on pleasure you hardly notice how close to dying you really are right now. You feel yourself slipping away, as if falling into darkness and greeting it happily. Maybe he was right, maybe dying this way wasn't so bad...

John pulls his fangs from your thigh with great strength. He laps carefully at the two pinprick wounds, and watches as they slowly close, as if nothing at all had happened. You can barely hold your head up, your breath slow. You lay languidly, lolling about when John moves to get near your face.

He softly pets the side of your face and your eyes flutter open, looking up into his eyes the way Ophelia may have looked at the sky before succumbing to death. You watch, unable to process what's happening, as John slits open his own wrist, letting the blood there drop into your open mouth. The taste is sweet, bitter, and smoky, just like him. You swallow with great effort and John watches as your paleness slowly starts to perk up.

"You're going to be an interesting blood doll indeed..." He whispers as he pets your hair gently. "Now rest..." He commands and your world goes dark.

Taglist: @sunnythebunny7 @smutmaniac @worldsgreatestsinner

#john wick x reader #john wick x f!reader #vampire!john wick x reader #vampire!john wick #my writing #dark fic #dark themes

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yourpalsalamander · 7 months ago

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sweetwolfcupcake · 6 months ago

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You want to scream at him-

"No, you're not, idiot, and if you challenge a man like Donaka, you'll end up dead."

But all you can do is try not to sigh in his arms. He is so warm, his hold so gentle, yet so firm, it makes you want to lean back. You wish you wish you could, you would have if only you could.

The longer you stay, the closer Donaka gets to you, and this poor(but awfully stubborn, unfairly fast and devastatingly handsome) man will have to pay the price. Donaka is mad right now. As much as you know the man, you know this---he is going to make you pay for escaping him and hiding from him. He might even make an example out of this man.

"You don't understand---"

"I do, honey, I do. You need to understand that as long as you're with me, he cannot touch a hair of yours."

Is it just you or did he just lean closer? You can feel his breath. it makes you gulp. it's strange---how a man you barely know, can make you feel so scared and so safe simultaneously.

You do not even want to find out. All you want, is to live peacefully with your father. You haven't been able to call him in the fear of being traced.

"Please...It's for your own good..." You take a different approach, though your efforts to slip past his hold never cease.

It's infuriating, especially when you hear his quiet, breathy laugh.

"Uh-huh? You're so...cute."

Something tells you that he had something else in mind, but he simply watered it down. Wait, he thinks you're dumb? Or even worse, nut case?

Okay, maybe not a nutcase, because he saw those men.

"It's not funny..." What was his name again?

"John. John Wick."

"John..." You begin through gritted teeth "Can you let me go?"

"Only if you promise to not do anything stupid. You won't be worrying about a man miles away then, trust me."

"Are you threatening me?"

"Merely telling you about the consequences of defying me."

Donaka's face flashes before your eyes as you stiffen. Is he so different from the older man, after all?

You feel John sigh before his hold loosens, allowing you more room for movement yet no none for an escape. You turn your head to meet his eyes. They look quite similar, you realise. Even their eyes are of the same shade. Perhaps Donaka has darker eyes---you never took time to notice, he sacred you anyway. But you can dare to look into John's eyes, there's a kindness to it, there's melancholic depth and so much life. But they're not bright, they are soulful.

"I'm sorry, I just want to protect you."

You look away, memories of your narrow escape only harden your resolve. What does he think he is? Why even take the trouble?

"You can't protect me." You turn to look at him again and for a moment, you can only look, not think.

There's a shift---you see it closely, the soulful chocolate darkening into the hard resolve, a fire with a promise. This man's darkened stare makes you gulp. His stare matches the darkness in your so-called fiance's eyes but this is different. It's like there's a wild beast ready to tear out.

"I know that you're scared. And I appreciate your concern, but you don't need to worry about me. I am going to take care of this issue, and all I ask you is to cooperate."

You frown, ready with a retort but his landline rings. You are disappointed to find it close enough, had it been a little farther, you could take a chance. but at the moment, feeling the shift in the air, your instincts tell you to stay put for the sake of self-preservation.

"Yes? What did you find? Right now? Hmm." Even though he speaks into the phone, his sharp eyes remain on you.

"I need to leave for a few hours." He declares after putting the phone back.

So, this is your chance.

"Can I trust you to not try anything stupid?"

Yeah, of course, I will simply slip away and hopefully be on the flight to another country by the time you're back.

"Okay." You squeak out, trying not to seem relieved.

"No, I can't." He tilts his head, seeing right through you.

You do not even have the time to defend yourself before he has you in his arms. You realise what's happening only after he begins to walk.

"H-hey, hey, hey, what do you think you're doing? Put me down! Put me de dow..n"

And you are back in his bedroom again. He sets you on the bed as you finish your sentence.

"Here, happy?"

Your glare is met with a tinge of mirth in his eyes that still seems darker. But when he gets on his knees abruptly, you find yourself flinching. He simply opens the bed storage. Something glints in his hold, catching your attention. Oh, how terribly stupid you have been, looking into his eyes instead of his hold. By the time you realise what it is, your ankles are already in his grasp.

"No! What the fuck-- what the hell are you doing? I said I'll not leave--unlock that!" Your voice raises and cracks with increasing panic.

John remains undeterred, though, locking your ankles together with the cuffs. They won't cut into your skin, but they are tight.

"All done."

He dares to look fucking amused.

"Unlock that!"

"I will, once I'm back. It won't take long, I promise." He speaks softly and nods before placing a remote on your hand."There's TV. Feel free to entertain yourself while I'm gone."

"You can't do this!" This is madness. Utter madness.

"I wouldn't have to take such a measure had you not been so stubborn."

He studies you for a moment, contemplative before adding-

"Don't try anything silly while I'm gone."

John brings his knuckles to brush against your cheek. They're not smooth, but that isn't the reason you pull your face away, only to feel a faint pinch in your chest watching the slight disappointment in his eyes---they're soft again(thank God).

He says nothing more, walking out of the room, while you seethe, wanting to pull him back by his hair. He shuts the door on his way out before you hear the unmistakable sound of the lock. of course, he is not taking any chances.

****

*Hides away behind the bushes*

@treedaddymcpuffpuff and @johnwickb1tsch

~ Enigmatic Stranger ~ Part 3 WIP

a young!John Wick x fem!Reader roundrobin fic… by @sweetwolfcupcake , @treedaddymcpuffpuff , & @johnwickb1tsch

part 1 part 2

What's your name?

“Guess.”

“I’m not playing the Rumplestiltskin game with you.”

He chuckles at that. “I guess you could call me…E.S.”

Enigmatic Stranger. Like you’d called him in the poem you wrote. He hadn’t even made fun of you for that. He’d smiled at you in the café. A small smile, filled with…sadness? And maybe…regret.

“You’re quite the poet,” he’d told you quietly, sliding your notebook back to you across the counter.

You’d just stared like a starstruck little idiot, still utterly mortified that he’d read your private words, no matter what praise he offered you. “You shouldn’t do that,” you’d managed to get out past the lump in your throat, your words like sandpaper. “Read other people’s things. That wasn’t meant for you.”

“Why not? It was about me, wasn’t it?”

You swipe at your stinging eyes, feeling ridiculous, and small, and you wish he would just go away, with those midnight-dark eyes that manage to look right through you. You wished he’d stop showing up like this, and making you feel things that would never come to anything. This is what men do to you. They make you feel too much, and then it’s your fault, somehow, when they disappoint you.

He’d pressed his lips, seemingly feeling guilty about it all. “Hey. I didn’t mean to upset you.” He’d reached for your hand, brushing your fingertips before you jerked away, as though he’d burned you.

“Stop playing games with me,” you whimper, looking down into your cup of now cold chocolate. “Please, just go.”

He had, without another word, just a kicked puppy dog look over his shoulder. You didn’t allow yourself to believe that look in his eyes was longing.

But now…he’s here, in your apartment again.

“John.”

You blink. John. Just like that…this man who has been haunting you has a name. A nice, normal name. It’s almost too simple.

“Well, John. You should go.”

He smirks at you, standing slowly. “If you want. Lock that door, y/n.”

***

Maybe it made a difference, locking the window, and the door. Because when they finally strike, it’s on the street, in the alley near your apartment. Two goons try to grab you, but John is there like a whirlwind, breaking limbs, knocking heads. You have never seen anything like it. Not even in an action movie. The carnage is unreal.

“Are you alright, y/n?” John demands, rushing over to you.

You are sinking down with his strong arms around you, your vision swimming. There is blood on his handsome face–and a needle still sticking out of your arm. The fact that you’re only vaguely alarmed about this, about all of this, doesn’t bode well.

“I’m fine,” you say, and that’s when the pinhole of your vision fades to black.

@sweetwolfcupcake @treedaddymcpuffpuff 😘😘😘

#soft yandere #john wick x reader #yandere john wick #yandere john wick x reader #yandere john wick imagine #young john wick #john wick imagine #dark john wick

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