#pairing: john wick/you

[thecandywrites]

Monster March 2025 Day 23- Doppleganger

BE The Bear

So, when I got this prompt list for 2025, I knew exactly what I needed to write and this was, believe it or not, the first one I wrote for. A fully and purely self indulgent comfort fic, for myself, because instead of 'choosing the man or the bear in the woods'. How much better would it be to just BE THE FUCKING BEAR IN THE FIRST PLACE?! The names of the innocent have been changed for their privacy, the names of the guilty have not, because they are not owed that. They don't deserve to breathe air right now. And as much joy it would give me to act this out in real life, sadly, I am bound by the whole 'I can't turn into a bear' thing. It's really annoying, just saying.

But alas, sadly, I must stay a human, and not become a mother grizzly or polar bear and shred these assholes limb from limb myself and my husband tells me that these assholes are not worth me going to prison over. And he's right. But that being said, I hope karma rips these assholes a new asshole from the tips of their toes to the tops of their heads. Just saying, they deserve it. And if you really want to know what these assholes did to earn my ire and my wrath? I have two filed police reports to back me up detailing their actual criminal behavior for the last 16 years that I've been documenting and curating. Like a museum collection. Because yes, Big Sister Mode and Mama Bear Mode combined into Grizzly/Polar Bear Mode in 2024 that nearly killed me and my sisters.

But this, this was worth living and survivng it all, just to post this. Very long overdue. And yes it's fictional, but to me, it has given me peace in knowing that if I could, I would, without hesitation.

Monster March 2025- Day 23- Doppelganger- 

Be The Bear

“Oh what a cute little kitten you are!” Sybill cooed as she picked you up. You were disguised as one of those little couture kittens. No one, not even Sybill could resist your big blue eyes and your fluffy soft fur. Nor could she ignore the urge to pick you up and cradle you to her chest. 

“And is this a diamond studded collar? Oh, it’s my lucky day!” She squealed delightfully. 

“Kelsey. That’s not a good name for you. You’re more of a Princess Mittens!” She cooed as she cradled you to her chest and then drove to what used to be your sister’s house where Sybill was currently shacked up with your sister’s soon to be ex husband. Which was what you wanted the most. To be let into the residence without any resistance whatsoever. 

“What you got there?” Ben asked as he eyed you in his girlfriend’s arms once she brought him into the house. 

“This is Princess Mittens.” Sybill informed him proudly. 

“Holy shit, where did you get her? She’s wearing diamonds in her collar, Babe. You didn’t steal her did you?” He asked worriedly. 

“No. She was forgotten about. Oh well, what is their loss, is our gain.” She cooed as she tried to get the collar off of you but you turned and instead, “playfully” bit and scratched at her hand as if you were playing. 

“Ouch, you have little sharp claws Princess.” She tried to say as she sat down on the couch as what you had your claws dipped in started to make her very, very drowsy. 

“Come here you little scamp. Give me those diamonds you little brat.” Ben tried to do the same but you quickly, flipped around and did the same to him. 

“Ouch! You little..bihh….” He tried to say before they both seemed to simultaneously pass out at the same time, her, on the couch, him, right down onto his face onto the floor before you leaped out of her lap and transformed into her first before you stuffed a key down her throat and made her swallow it down to her stomach. 

“Now, now, now, aren’t you just a skanky hoe?” You taunted the real her as you used the tiny blood sample your little teeth were able to pull to access everything she knew before you got her phone and got everything you needed from her and made several posts across her social media feeds. Including sending a video of her hooking up with your former brother in law, up to a porn site and then to the greater internet at large as you quickly drained all of her wealth she had access to and consolidated it so that it would just take one swipe of your finger and it was sent to you for your trouble. 

“Now, you big guy, what did you have for me?” You asked as you turned the ugly nasty bastard that used to be your brother in law over to his back before you transformed back into your kitten like self and scratched the shit out of his face, lots of entry points for that rabies later- as those little blood samples had given you all his current knowledge, including where he was keeping all of his millions in hidden assets that had made your sister’s divorce to him, quite costly and incredibly hard for her. But that was ok. Because you were going to be making it up to her- ten fold, if not a hundred so before you put a key down his own throat and made him swallow it down into his stomach.  

Because, you never mess with an eldest daughter’s eldest daughter’s little sister. 

Especially one that was raised by a narcissistic abuser, practically ‘a sheep in wolf’s clothing’ as the Scriptures would say. Because all that did was turn a fawn in childhood- into a mother bear who would not hesitate to eat wolves, no matter their clothing, in a metaphorical or maybe in this case, a literal sense too, for breakfast, lunch and dinner, oh and brunch, and midnight snacks too. 

He had gotten quite chubby lately, there was surely more than enough for you to feast on, but no, that wouldn’t do. Grizzly bears weren’t seen around these parts and eaten by a grizzly was not listed as one of the ways he could die on his life insurance policy and was not covered, but accidental death and dismemberment was, as was murder and homicide. 

Silly, silly wolves, always assuming that a ‘fawn’ like you, would ever be anything other than what you wanted them to think you were a poor, little, innocent, defenseless fawn, and not the ruthless, vicious mother bear you knew you were in your heart of hearts.

Your necklace with your name on it, along with a pendant of a mother bear and her cub was around your neck as you touched it with fondness. Because you had learned “to fawn” to survive your own father as a child, growing up, he was always Mr. Perfect to everyone else, but was very much a vicious wolf who mauled you and your sisters behind closed doors, at least, for you and your sisters, it was verbal abuse, emotional abuse, verbal abuse and narcissistic abuse being the worst of all. And that fawning kept you from getting “mauled” as it were by him and any other like him. Including 2 of your 3 brothers in law, which, unfortunately, you wouldn’t see or recognize until it was too late. But that was ok. After today. They wouldn’t be “mauling” anyone else. It was still early. You could still get Ben done and then move onto Jacob by tonight. 

Besides, while your mother had given your father over 40 years to change, and thankfully, he was able to change, thanks to a lot of therapy and admitting that he was a monster and apologizing profusely for the hurt he had caused you and your mother and sisters for most of your lives. You knew your sisters had gotten to the point that they couldn’t last 40 seconds without losing their own lives to their wolves. 

But that was ok. They were safe now. Out of harm’s way and would never be hurt again. Over your own dead body first- anyway. 

But now that they were out, you couldn’t waste time, you had a lot to do as you popped a second dose of Adderall, needing the extra brain power to make sure you got everything. You gave them both a second dose to make sure they would stay in that medical coma for as long as you needed them to before you would wake them up for the show of their lives before they would descend into madness, as was the way for rabies. 

The thought gave you - your own wolfish grin as you gathered up everything that was of value inside the house, even knocking out walls to get at the money hidden in the walls. And the safe and then you loaded it up into the truck you were going to be driving out of here, the one vehicle that was in your sister’s name. You gathered up all of his titles and made sure to get them ready to note with your borrowed notary supplies for the weekend. You even made sure you changed his will so that his life insurance policy would be paid out to your sister and only to her and made sure that what was about to befall him would be covered as you double checked the coverage. Because like hell, he would make her pay for 15 years and get off the hook easier than 15 times his true annual income. And what was the saying? Always make sure that you’re insured for ten times your annual income, just in case your loved ones needed ten years to replace you?

And with one final load, it was all loaded up, and you made sure that you had listed everything out, gotten the keys and titles to everything, of course, written in Ben’s handwriting before you broke all the cameras in the house to make sure that none of the real harm would ever be recorded and used as proof of anything other than what you would leave this scene as. The movers showed up shortly after that and you put all of Ben’s other assets into storage for your sister to do with as she pleased as you made sure to tip the moving guys extra well to make sure it would get to where it would need to go- without a problem or a scratch. 

You returned inside and did your best to tidy up the damage you had done, in accessing what was hidden in the walls. Just in case your sister decided to move back, didn’t want her doing more work than she needed to- to reclaim her home. 

You transformed into the mother grizzly you knew you had turned into in your heart, and that height gave you what you needed and took a pistol, that you had loaded a single bullet into it with Ben’s own fingerprints as well as Sybill’s and hung it on the antler chandelier, so temptingly close to that balcony. So that it would be the only way to escape the hell that this house would descend into as it’s occupants went insane and would eventually die of dehydration and injuries due to a massive rabies infection you had just given Sybil for now, but Ben, was shortly to follow as you locked yourself into the house with them. Because you were going to leave out the bedroom window, like a bird on the wing. 

Well, now that your work was done, it was time to wake up the sleeping disasters before you picked them up and carried them up the stairs and dropped them onto the now broken bed, that you had broken in your mama bear form, trying to rip apart the bed frame to make sure it wasn’t hollowed out or that the mattress wasn’t stuffed with more money than it had been, but they were kind of sitting up. And looking towards you as you sat down on a stool at their feet and woke him up after you put a knife into each of her hands, practically gluing them into her hands. Because you knew the moment she would wake up, she would have complete and utter psychosis, and would be her own demon, there to torment him and it would be a death by a thousand cuts, or 15 thousand, if she could manage. 

“Wake up you fucking waste of flesh.” You kicked him in the head as you were donning his own skin to do so. 

“What…? What the…what the fuck? What did I smoke? Snort? What…this has got to be the worst trip. Worst weed…” He slurred and stammered as he shook his head but could do little other than that. 

“Oh you didn’t smoke any bad weed, or are tripping on any THC, well, yet anyway.” You reassured him as you sat down on the stool with his phone in your hand as you aired out all of his dirty laundry before you played the video you had made, of him, “confessing” to everything he had done, and so much more. That was sure to land him in any federal prison- and if not given the death sentence, would at least give him a life sentence without parole. 

“Care to see your last fifteen minutes of fame douchebag?” You taunted him as you let him watch the video as he stared in horror, tears coming to his eyes as he saw how many of his friends were watching the video. 

“Stop. This has to be a bad dream. This has to be a bad dream. This can’t be real.” He tried to say to himself. 

“Oh it’s real. It’s as real as the hell you put my sister through for 15 years.” You offered in your own voice, but coming out of his mouth as you smirked down at him as your eyes turned from his brown to your blue and glowed with delight and unknown power and potential. 

“Sister…Kelsey?! Oh God, Kelsey?! Is that you?!” He asked in horror. 

“The one and only.” You giggled as you morphed back into yourself as you sat on the stool and let him watch the rest of the video of his confession as you snacked on the last bit of edible and perishable food that wouldn’t rot in the time it would take for the police to find the remains here in a few days. 

“What…what can I do? What…what can I give you to make this stop?” He asked desperately. 

“Nothing, I already have everything of value from both of you. Because I don’t need to be a little fawn to you anymore.” You teased as you put the phone in his lap before prancing around his bedroom as a baby deer fawn before transforming back into yourself and ran your fingers through your hair. 

“Fawn…?” He repeated in confusion. 

“Oh for being so smart with money, you sure are incredibly sense stupid.” You scoffed. 

“When threatened, there are four main responses, fight or flight, those are the two most common and readily recognizable. But the Freeze Response. Oh, that’s what you see, deer, in headlights, in their freeze response before they flee. Or, in special cases like mine, the fourth and most misunderstood, and most unrecognizable, except to the trained eye, is the Fawn Response- you know, kissing your ass, stroking your ego. Making you feel like the Big Man, with his pathetic little golf pencil sized dick.” You taunted him as you morphed back into him to shove his own dick, before you shrank it down to the right size in his face as he felt his own cock shrink to match it. 

“My dick is…” He went to argue but you shushed him. 

“Shhh….no one cares. Until you go to prison, then only the other prisoners who will be raping you will be the only ones who will care. That is, if there is anything left of you to arrest or take to prison that is.” You swiped your finger across his lips before he licked them, but that was a mistake, because that only glued his lips together so he wouldn’t be able to talk. Only mumble and murmur as tears flowed from his eyes. 

“Don’t be wasting those alligator tears on me.” You tsked him before you sat back down on the stool and applied some lip balm to your own lips, quite enjoying the blueberry crisp scent of your own favorite lip balm. 

“Don’t you know that there are four archetypes to children when they have a narcissistic parent?” You asked as you sat back down on the stool once the video ended and Ben was powerless to even twitch a finger to pick it up. 

“The Golden Child, The Comedian, The Black Sheep and The Invisible Child. You married The Golden Child, but because Grace was The Golden Child, that meant that I could be The Comedian, well, when I wasn’t the second mother to my little sisters. Because isn’t it true? That saying that goes ‘a first born son is his mother’s Prince, but a first born daughter is the second mother’? And you may have forgotten that me, being the oldest daughter, and my mother being her mom’s oldest daughter, that makes me the eldest daughter’s eldest daughter. Which you know from experience, I practically got a double dose of it. It’s why I can’t go into any grocery store without babies smiling at me, or lost kids finding me, before they find anyone else, because they sense that I’m a safe person for them. They sense that I am the epitome of a Mama Bear, who will rip wolves like you to shreds if it means protecting them.” You growled as you morphed into the Mother Grizzly Bear you always knew you were at heart, larger than any male natural grizzly was, as the floor began to groan under your weight as your razor sharp claws were mere millimeters from his face. 

And that got Ben to piss his pants.

Perfect. 

Oh and he got his own piss in a puddle in his lap, soaking into his phone and killing it as your jaws opened big enough to fit his head into as he whimpered and cried in fear before you slobbered some rabid infested mucus onto his face as it started to sting where your former kitten like self scratched the shit out of his face. 

“Oh, stop, like I would make it that easy or painless for you? Just one chomp and you’re done? You underestimate me. Shame really. You always did. Always saw me as a fawn, never as I really was all along. Oh now, I have much more in store for you.” You giggled as you retreated as you morphed back into yourself and retreated to sit back down and got your notebook and opened it up to finish off this last bit of business. 

“Because isn’t this just so funny? Quite ironically funny actually. That the worst scum of the world would marry the most amazing of God’s creation, make her suffer the worst horrors because of your own depravity. Only to come to your senses at the last minute and then, to be ravaged by the consequences of your own hubris. Perfectly ironically funny.” You laughed in amusement. 

“What…what…did you do to me?” He asked as the stinging got worse as the glue began to wear off and he ripped the skin on his chapped lips off to open his mouth to speak. 

“I gave you rabies you dumb fuck.” You scoffed. 

“Because, with little Syphilis Sybil here, taking home a kitten wearing diamonds, who would have believed such a thing? No, she took home a mangy racoon, thinking it was kitten, the racoon gave you both rabies, the racoon escapes into the woods and you and Sybil get to be each other’s personal demon until either you kill her and escape with your life or she kills you and escapes with her life. Since isn’t that what you made my sister do a year almost two years ago? Killing her own love for you so she could escape with her own life and the lives of her pets as her own spoils?” You taunted him as he began to hyperventilate as he realized you were going to make him suffer what he had made her endure. 

“Oh don’t go- getting yourself into a tizzy yet. I wanted to make sure that I have everything you love and hold dear listed down and made sure I wasn’t leaving anything out.” You offered to him as you flipped over to the list as you listed off all of his assets, complete with titles and had even emptied out his safe, and all of the other weapons on the property. 

“Now, that was only what your conscious mind knew about, I could always go back in and mess with your subconscious. Oh and your brothers and your mother, I should pay them a visit too…” You began as you listed it all down. 

“Take, take it all, I’ll tell you where everything is, I’ll tell you about everyone who I know has something that you want. You want to make it right to your sister? Right? Take, take everything my family has, take everything my friends have… just…just let me live.” He tried to bargain. 

“Benjamin…you drive a hard bargain…” You pretended to agree as you sat back down on the stool and wrote down everything he told you, that you knew, from being in his own head for a minute, was true. 

“I know when you’re lying to me Ben. And for every lie you tell me, and for every lie you’ve told others and especially Grace. Will be another cut.” You huffed as you clicked the back of the pen against the notepad in your hand, your own handwriting now sprawling out across the page, as pretty as you knew your cursive could be when you really concentrated. 

“Cut?” Ben asked before you pointed to the rusty knives in his girlfriend’s hands. 

“You know? Death by a thousand cuts? Well, for you, we’ll see if Syphilis Sybil can get fifteen thousand and….21 out of you. Because you did ruin my 18th, 19th and 20th wedding Anniversaries. It’s only fitting that we start this year out right. And who knows, by 25, I’ll get the Anniversary I know I’ve always wanted and knew I deserved, on her dime of course.” You pointed to Sybil with your pen as you took out the pages and folded them neatly. 

“That is, unless, you impale her onto that antler chandelier to get the gun to kill her. And once you do, the key that is in her stomach right now, will be the only way to unlock the locks on the doors to let you out of here. Unless she cuts the key that is in your stomach out first and does so herself. Although, I’d imagine that if you can survive getting shot in the gut, you could, in theory survive being stabbed in the gut too. Although, with as rusty as those knives are, how you’d not get tetanus, would be a miracle.” You shrugged with a nod to her weapons. 

“Wait, I have more, don’t…don’t do this, this isn’t you. You’ve always been a sweetheart, you’ve always been the hostess with the mostess?” He tried to flatter as a last ditch effort. 

“Not yet, But I will.” You grinned triumphantly. 

“Now, smile, you guys are about to go live and your deaths will be used as evidence. But don’t worry. I put a special block in your subconscious, neither of you are allowed to kill yourselves. Only each other. Because suicide isn’t covered by your life insurance policy. And neither is hers.” You offered to him. 

“Money, if this is about money, I have….” Ben tried to offer. 

“Had. Ben. Had. I already took every penny to your name. I took it out of every hiding place you tried to put into. I was in here remember? I know everything you know and I know everything she knows too, I feel like a virus about to hit critical mass with a super condensed unprotected population, like Covid-19, you know, the Plague? Although I’m sure I could procure a black plague from a rat in Europe for you if you really wanted that too. Plus I wracked up all your credit cards to charge this special gift card. It has a near limitless credit limit on it. So since you had hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of credit thanks to all that previously unreported income. Oh the IRS is gonna have a field day with you if you survive her.” You corrected him as you fished out everything of value in his wallet, making sure you cleaned it out completely. 

“To think, my sister cowered in fear of you. How I wish she could see you the way I do, right now. A sad, pitiful, pathetic excuse of a human, who pissed and shit himself in his own bed. Knowing that the chances of you getting out of here are slim. But that’s ok. I’ll only let the authorities find you when I know you’ve endured your fair share of fear and pain that you made Grace endure, and then some because I am, I’m told- vindictive and spiteful, to the same degree I’m sweet and kind. You did make her flee in the middle of a blizzard, in only her pajamas, a robe and slippers. But that’s ok. If you make it out of this house, you’ll make it out with far less than she did. Because by then, you’ll be a hazard, and have to be quarantined. Probably put down, like the bitch you chose over Grace, and the pathetic little whiny bitch I know you are.” You snarled with a grizzly growl before he did shit himself, as you predicted. 

“But first, I should do something. Show time! But remember, no matter how much you scream, no one will hear you, because no one will be out this way until I want them to be.” You offered before you turned the cameras set inside the house back on and made sure you left out of the window in the bathroom, with the list in your beak as you flew out of the house and down to the ground and transformed back into Sybil and drove the vehicle out of there and drove it to her family’s house and did the same to them, taking everything they had. Because if they raised such a leech, surely they had something they were protecting from her grubby little hands, and you were right. Then once you were done there, you went to his mother’s house to do the same thing to Theresa and the rest of her family. 

You were getting tired, but you had one last stop to make. Your other brother in law's house. Jacob. 

He should be getting home from work about now and should be letting out his own bitch- Finch out. That bitch had taken her bite out of your sisters in your own way. And you were still raised, that if a dog bit anyone, it went down. And Finch was long overdue. 

You parked the vehicle and transformed into Finch and waited in Jacob’s back yard as you waited for him to come home and let her out of her kennel and into the back yard. 

She immediately sensed and growled rather ferociously before Jacob had her ‘get after it’ in the dark. 

She ran straight into your jaws and claws and yipped as you gave her injection to put her into a coma while also giving her rabies while you were at it before you hid her body under the tree you were hiding under before you came out as her, limping slightly towards Jacob. 

“What got ya girl? You didn’t get skunked did you?” He asked you worriedly as he readily got you and practically picked you up and carried you inside as you licked at his face “affectionately”. Giving him rabies by licking the inside of his mouth. 

“Wait, what did you eat, you..don’t…taste…” He tried to say as he barely made it into his own house before he collapsed onto the floor and you had to drag him the rest of the way in and put him on the stairs since there wasn’t a camera there as you then took on his form and went back out and got Finch out and carried her into the house and down the stairs into the bedroom, into the bed, where your other sister Brienne used to lay beside him before you went back upstairs and got him and did the same thing. Gosh it was late. But ‘all in a day’s work’ as they would say. But oh, was this the most rewarding work you had ever done. Another Adderall, because you needed the extra focus on this one too. 

“Now, Jacob, let’s see what you’ve been hiding from Brienne.” You offered as you went around and shut off all the cameras he kept himself, since with only a drop of blood, you could take his skin on. You methodically went through the house, doing the same thing you had done to Ben, gather everything of real value, while taking his wallet and cleaning him out while making a “confession” video and airing out of all his own family’s dirty laundry and put it all up on social media, again, confessing to all that you knew he did, all that he knew he had done and then some. Again, enough to land him in any federal prison for life without parole, or the death penalty at the very least. You packed all of his precious bourbons and whiskeys and such. Along with every other precious thing he owned in his house. You packed it all up, walking in and out of the house as him, so that no one watching would be none the wiser. Once you had given the home the fine toothed comb treatment. Once you were satisfied, you prepared all his titles along with all of Ben’s on Jacob’s own dining room table as you notarized all of them, one stack for Grace, one stack for Brienne, and the last stack, for you, for all your own hard work that day before you put them in the appropriate envelopes and licked them with each of their saliva’s and would need to drop them off at the post office in the morning. Because you had a feeling this was about to take you the rest of the night. 

And that was ok. 

Your sisters had suffered in silence for years. And all of their suffering would come to an end in a matter of hours as you watched the feed on Ben from your old phone. Which didn’t have a GPS tracker on it. But it did have the feed to all of Ben’s cameras as you watched in amusement as Sybil really did try to get all 15 thousand cuts in because Ben’s body was still dead to him. And all he could do was scream in anguish as she really took her time with him. She had started with that penis first, always the best place to start and was now onto his testicles, always the best place to continue. Which gave you quite the idea as you went ahead and went to a local grocery store and bought a bunch of steaks, granted, the cheap ones, for Finch to start to sink her teeth into when she would rip Jacob limb from limb when she would wake up with already advanced stages in rabies. 

Jacob awoke to the feeling of cold wet, things being put onto him as he opened his eyes and blunk a few times up at the ceiling before his eyes traveled down to see his naked form on his own bed as his cock and testicles were now inside steaks as you continued to slather on “meat glue” you liked to call it onto him before putting more steaks on him as he stared in horror at what appeared to be himself, doing this to him. 

“Well hello there, been a hot minute.” You greeted with a wolfish grin. 

“This has to be a nightmare. This isn’t real, wake up Jacob. Wake up!” He tried to coach himself as he felt like he was dreaming. 

“Nope. You’re not sleeping, well, anymore. You’re wide awake. And just in time too.” You reassured him. 

“In time for what?” He asked. 

“Your final performance as The Tragic Victim.” You dramatically clutched at your chest in his best primadonna impression. 

“But…But I am a victim!” He squeaked, as his voice cracked with nervousness.  

“Now Jacob. We both know better than to believe a big fat lie like that.” You scoffed before you finished and took off the gloves and put them in your pocket. 

“Smile.” You urged him. 

“This has to be…” Jacob began to spiral before you swiped some meat glue onto his lips to close them for a little bit. 

“Now, I’ve had the longest day. Really, all this revenge business is downright exhausting. So much work to undo all the evil you’ve done in 14 years, to undo you in less than 4hours, is really quite the accomplishment. And after the last few years of torture you’ve made Brienne suffer and endure, from abusing her and neglecting her and abandoning her in every way that mattered to her. But that’s ok, it’ll be over sooner than later. Because I doubt Finch will have the ability or the presence of mind in her bitch brain to give you the death by a thousand cuts you deserve. Or, for the 14 years of suffering, 14 thousand cuts.” You snipped as you cut a 14 into a steak that was strapped to his chest as he cried and whimpered in pain as his body couldn’t even tense against the pain. Because his body was otherwise dead to him. He only had control over his own face and breathing, for now before he tore his own lips to get his mouth back open. 

“Wait, wait, please, stop, please, just….just for a minute.” He begged and pleaded before you paused and looked at him expectantly. 

“Who are you?” He asked. 

“Guess.” You offered to him. 

“Who would have known you for at least 14 years. And would have seen you become the wolf in sheep’s clothing I know you are today? Who would have warned Brienne about you, saying that you were just like her dad. Only because I recognized in you, what I saw in him all of our lives.” You offered. 

“Oh, God. Uh, so…so…Fourteen…oh God, Grace?” He asked fearfully. 

“Nope.” You cut an x, the tip of the knife digging into the scant meat of his pecks. 

“Richelle.” He offered. 

“Wrong.” You shook your head no and did another x, closer to his nipple. 

“Kelsey!” He finally belted out. 

“Bingo.” You offered before you finally morphed back into yourself. 

“Oh I should have known it was you!” He tried to holler before you brushed more meat glue onto his lips. 

“Shh..shh…it’s late and dark outside. And I can’t have you causing a racket just yet.” You urged as you painted more onto his lips as he tried to resist you. 

“Ok fine, you have a choice then, be mauled by your bitch Finch, or me? But not the fawn you’ve seen in me for 14 years. But the Mama Bear I’ve become in adulthood who eats wolves like you for breakfast, lunch and dinner, oh and brunch and midnight snacks.” You offered as you turned into that mama bear grizzly again. 

“You’d be quicker.” He tried to say without touching his lips together. 

“Would I? Do you really think I’d let you die quickly? Or with less pain that I’m letting Ben get off on?” You asked once you morphed back into yourself to pull out your other phone from his bedside table to show him the feed as his already ridiculously large eyes got comically large as he gasped in horror as you zoomed in on how Sybil was now working her way down his legs, away from his stomach. 

“Haven’t you ever heard the expression? ‘A first born son is his mother’s prince, but a first born daughter, is the second mother’?” You asked rhetorically since  you closed his gaping jaw and glued his lips back together so you’d have some semblance of peace for a moment. 

“And you know that my mother is her mother’s first born daughter. So if anything I got a double dose of that since I’m her eldest daughter.” You offered as you put the knife you had been using on the raw meat aside to pick up a properly sharp steak knife to finish your own steak dinner that was on his bedside table as he turned and watched you eat with the worst puppy dog eyes as his stomach growled loudly. 

“Oh that look may have worked on Brienne but it’s never gonna work on me Bud. I knew you were a wolf in sheep’s clothing long before anyone else did. You know why? Of course you don’t. Well, as it stands, my special brain, with all of its mental illnesses, does have a unique gift, and that is behavioral pattern recognition. I’m practically a Dr. Lightman. I can see microexpressions, and with being super highly empathetic, I can always sense how anyone else in the room is feeling with just a glance, and a feeling. Or if people are lying, or if they’re putting on a show for others, but they’re being disingenuous. Like your pathetic attempt at playing The Victim. Like I couldn’t outperform you on my worst days. You know, the stage is always more than big enough for another to out-act you and practically turn the audience against you and boo you straight off the stage.” You taunted between mouthfuls. 

“And you know the really sad part. I didn’t even know I had this until I was in school to become an LMT. Because you know there’s a funny thing about the difference in state standards and scopes of practices and modalities. Is, in the state I reside in now, is that treating victims of abuse is it’s own damn modality, or specialty. Just like how you prefer to work in drywall. I have the main one, neuromuscular medical massage. But the victim’s one? That’s one that I’ve kept under wraps for years. You know why? Because I couldn’t handle the stress to know if my client was going to be alive for her next appointment. Do you have any idea how many patients I’ve lost to wolves like you? How many children have died, or been harmed from wolves like you mauling them for daring to cry out when they were being mauled to death. And then when you tried to metaphorically drown two of my three sisters out? You really thought that I’d just stand on the shore and watch you do that to them without crying out? Well, thankfully, my outcry was heard in your case. And you know, I have a responsibility. It’s called being a Mandated Reporter. And you want to know why that’s relevant? Because I have a duty, which I carried out to the most detailed, extreme degree, I did. So that when I reported to you, to your county sheriff’s department, but to the district for this state’s police. But also, to the federal agents in the corresponding regions over those districts. Because I have this little thing called an National Provider Indicator. And what that means, is I’m registered with the Federal Government as a Provider, and a Mandated Reporter- especially since the Federal Government has jurisdiction over every, single, state, and, territory, in the U.S of A. So that means that my outcry was heard by them too. And while at this point, all I did was report, just a piece of paper to file away, until you sneeze. And then the cops get to come with cuffs. Well, that is if you get out of this alive.” You growled as you picked up the other, rusty knife to poke holes into him in the steaks around his body. Surely the tetanus would do its damage too. 

“You see, because if you manage to survive -Finch. You’ll still have what she has. And at best, you’d be in a medical prison quarantine, at worst, there won’t be much of anything left of you for anyone to arrest. But that’s ok. It’s a good thing you already have all of your affairs in order. And Brienne will get what has been overdue to her.” You offered to him as you showed him his own simplified last will and testament, naming his ex wife still as his sole heir of his assets but none of his debts. He tried to scream out at you but not much came out other than a pitiful mumbling whine which began to stir Finch. 

“I’d be careful with your voice there. Bitches have the keenest hearing. Especially ones who have rabies, and you are covered in steak and peanut butter under that in your naughtiest parts. The poor people who find your body, everyone will have no choice but to believe the evidence, that you put peanut butter and steak over your own sex organs in order to be sexually gratified by the only Bitch you’ve duped into continuing to be faithful to you. And with her having rabies, if she outlives you, she will have to be put down. Although with as how aggressive she will be when she wakes up, it won’t be humanely done, that’s for sure.” You muttered as you finished your meal, using your last bite of steak to clean up the last bits of food off of the plate before you drank right out of the most valuable bottle of bourbon he had. 

“Yeah, I still can’t taste the difference between this and Jack Daniels. Honestly, I’d prefer a flavored one over this, give me peach or blackberry or something. But, if watching the thing you love dearly be consumed by anyone but you, causes you any kind of pain or distress or anger or anguish then I’m delighted. I would offer you a sip but I don’t want to. Plus your lips are stuck together and if I unstick them, all you’d do is scream. And I don’t want that. But if you’d have something that you’d like to try to offer me in exchange to spare your life, I might consider it.” You offered as he tried to nod yes. 

“Fine. One scream, and I’ll break your voice box myself.” You offered as you applied something to melt the meat glue to finally free his lips before you put a straw in the bottle and offered him a sip before he made a face. 

“You spit that at me, I punch your trachea and break your throat and I’ll have you breathing out this straw when I leave or else you’d just drown in your own blood.” You warned before he swallowed it. 

“Now, so far, for all of your assets I have…” You began to list them off. 

“Now, here is where you get to tell me if I missed anything, and if I did, I get to write it down. And if I didn’t. That sip of whiskey will be the last thing found as contents in your stomach. Otherwise your only salvation is actually inside Finch’s stomach. But you will either have to wait until she shits it out, or you cut it out of her yourself, with this.” You said as you slipped that rusted and rather dull knife into his hand, having to use meat glue to keep it in his fist. In his non dominant hand. 

“But have fun digging through all of her various feet of intestine to find the key to the locks that are on the inside of your own doors and are already locked.” You offered once you did and backed away to sit at his bedside. 

“If the doors are locked, that means you’re locked in here with me. As soon as I get the feeling  back into my fucking hands I’ll stab you myself you fucking bitch.” He seethed. 

“Jacob, such language.” You gasped in mock surprise but cackled in delight anyway. 

“Oh, you have no idea how much fun I would have watching you try. But, sadly, I don’t have the luxury of waiting for 28 hours for your body’s function to start to return to you and Finch will be up in less than…oh, one, that is if, I don’t give her this, and just put her out of her misery now.” You offered as you held up a needle with an x written on the plunger before you held up another needle, with a Y marked on the plunger. 

“That is, unless I give her this, and then in that case, she’ll be awake within minutes and sinking her teeth into you, all over every inch of you.” You mused as you got up and walked around the bed and held each syringe in each hand. 

“Hmm. Or do I have that confused? Was X, the waking agent and Y- the sleep forever potion?” You noted as you looked between them. 

“I suppose I could just inject both of them into her, although, that will only make things worse. She’ll be a tooth, flesh tearing tornado for a few hours before her heart explodes from beating too hard for too long.” You offered. 

“Because, interesting thing about chemistry. If I were to inject both of them into you, you wouldn’t even be able to blink your eyes and barely breathe, but you’d be able to hear and see and feel everything. But be trapped in your own sick, twisted head. While your heart tried to see how hard and fast it could beat before it tore itself apart. But you see, that would look just a little bit too suspicious. And that would make even the most asininely inept and incompetent persons of law enforcement suspect foul play. And in order for Brienne to get everything you have, we can’t have her or anyone else she knows be responsible. But, people die from rabies from their pet dogs all the time. But I did call and confirm, accidental death and dismemberment is covered by all of your insurance policies. And even murder or homicide, whichever term you prefer. But then Brienne and myself and my family would be prime suspects if it was ruled murder/homicide, and that’s too much hassle than you’ve ever been worth.” You mused with a dismissive wave of your hand. 

“Please, Kelsey, please, if I could kneel, I would be kneeling at your feet, begging for your forgiveness…”

“Forgive you? What have you done to me? Well, besides, have us move Brienne’s things on a hot July day, without any water, or airconditioning, making the move that much harder on all of us who showed up to whisk her away from the very real danger you posed to her. But I do recall…” You pretended to think and ponder. 

“Oh that’s right, on that day at exactly 11:37am, you did threaten to “accidentally” shoot me in the head, which you said a “joke” in front of two witnesses and the sheriff’s deputy as you gave me that grin that said ‘see? I can do anything and there's nothing you can do about it, including threatening you right under everyone’s nose and get away with it.’’ You snarled before giving him a sardonic laugh. 

“You might as well have added your famous line that ‘you could murder anyone and you would never be a suspect’ the same way you’ve been bragging about for the last 14 years.” You tossed his words right back in his face. And that was when Jacob both saw and felt how hell- indeed did not have the same amount of fiery fury that a woman who was jilted, scorned, scoffed and dismissed- did. Because he saw himself, a sobbing, trembling coward reflected back to him in your own eyes like he did now as he could do little more than pitifully cry and whimper as you just snorted and scoffed at his own pitiful self. 

“Now, all I need to do is sign here, and with just that signature, everything that was worth anything, is now mine, or more importantly and particularly, Brienne’s to do with as she sees fit.” You signed, changing your hand to his to sign the paperwork to show how he had ��sold” all of his “business assets” over to Brienne, for a total sum of $1 and with tax. A dollar and seven cents. That’s all it took to because you put a single, ratty, nasty $1 into his wallet and seven cents into his jean pockets on the floor before you took his phone and finished cloning it the same way you had done to the phones of all of those who were on your warpath as you cloned the cards too so that you could leech all the money out of him that you could, as if you were an infectious contagion, only it would be towards anyone and everyone even remotely associated to these two assholes, let alone related or especially towards those who actually enabled such atrocious behavior. 

Oh, on the contrary, the only thing these two assholes would ever have in common is the method in which they died by an “accidental” infection, and succumbing to their mortal wounds. Period. Then you climbed the stairs and put up an invisible baby gate to keep Finch’s mauling to just the downstairs basement and watched with a happy contented sigh as Finch began to wake up, already foaming at the mouth and was happy for the great ‘buffett’ you had set out for her as her own last meal as Jacob just tried to scream and cry as Finch quite literally, tore him limb from limb, dick first, balls second, before you put a sound proof barrier on the basement before another set of delivery guys came to pick up what you had managed to collect from Jacob’s earthly possessions and packed it away to be put into yet another rental space, right next to Grace’s and coincidentally, right next to where your things that you were claiming as ‘payment’ for what you had done that day and once you managed to unpack everything and put everything away, that’s when you managed to walk, rather tiredly, towards your own car that was in a parking space in the rental space’s parking lot, happy to finally get the true victims, the justice they really deserved, and instead of having to choose a man or a bear in a forrest. You just proved, that instead of choosing the bear, it was better to be the damn fucking bear.

[angrythingstarlight]

Better Than Before

Summary: Bucky wants to erase every disappointing, unsatisfying experience you've had, starting with your first time. He plans on making sure this time is better than anything you ever had before.

Pairing: Roommate!Bucky x Reader

CW: Smut, Oral (fem rec), praise kink, hint of overstimulation kink, minors dni.

WC: 3.7k

AN: Beta'd by the lovely @flordeamatista.

❀Masterlist❀Roommate Masterlist❀Library❀

“You know that means you’re still a virgin.” 

His brazen remark coasts over the top of his bottle nestled in his right hand. Avoiding his perceptive gaze, you rest your head against his headboard and fight the urge to fidget across the sheets. God, you should have kept your mouth shut, should have known that he’d keep pulling on that thread until the truth came out, leaving you raw and exposed. 

Bucky wraps his fingers around your ankle, tugging once, twice. “None of that shit counts, you know that.” 

Maybe. 

Still, it doesn’t mean you know what to say or how to handle this—another tug interrupts your musings, instead your mind focuses on the feel of his hand smoothing over your ankle. A small, unworried part of you wonders why such rough, calloused fingers feel so good, so right on your skin. 

You shake the wayward thoughts off with a stern reminder that Bucky is your roommate–just your roommate. 

Not dropping your gaze from the TV across the room, you wonder if it would be easier to roll over and pretend to sleep until he gives up.

But this is Bucky.

He’s persistent.

And he’s firmly stuck on the whole orgasm thing. Or lack thereof.

And you’re in his room which makes escaping this conversation difficult. Freeing your ankle, he nudges your thigh with the end of his cold bottle, the wet condensation makes you flinch. 

“Tell me I’m wrong.” 

You’re not getting out of this. 

Sighing, you loll your head onto your shoulder, eyes flicking down to his. “Pretty sure that’s not how that works, Bucky. I’ve had sex.” 

He hums in his throat, dismissing your statement. He’s sprawled across his half of the sheets, one leg bent causing the end of his shorts to ride up, exposing his thick thigh. Your eyes drawn to the muscles flexing as he stretches. The low thrum of the tv swallowed by the deafening silence pulsating between you. 

Bucky takes a slow slip, polishing off the rest of his beer, intense blue eyes never leaving your face. The longer he stares, giving you that look, the warmer you get, heat fanning down your chest and settling between your thighs. You want to squeeze them together, needing to relive the ache unfurling inside you. A part of you knows if you do, he’ll know exactly what he’s doing to you. 

What he’s been doing to you for the past month.

It’s hard to tell the exact moment things changed between you and your roommate. But it's there. An unspoken thing that takes up more space than his hockey gear scattered across his floor. 

Maybe it was around the time he kicked your ex out after a particularly nasty fight or the night he held you when you finally got rid of the jackass. 

“C'mon plum, I know what you need,” he said, his eyes warm and empathic, not an ounce of pity to be found. He brought you to his room, gathered all two of his pillows and his blanket, wrapped you up, and made you watch every Fast and Furious movie he owns, the two of you spent the entire night debating the physics of a branch being able to support a car until you fell asleep. 

The next week, you made him watch your favorite chick flicks. He retaliated with a series of horror movies that left you both uneasy. 

Tonight it’s John Wick. 

The low bass floating from the speakers goes unnoticed. You’re not sure how the conversation led to this point. A casual question about if you’re going out tonight led to you scoffing that you didn’t feel like being disappointed again, he wrangled the truth out of you so slyly that you didn’t realize what you were admitting to until your confession spilled out, splattering between you. 

 Too late to go back now. 

“Like I said.” A smile flits across his pink lips, his tongue peeking out to catch a wayward drop before it slips away. Your eyes follow the slow, languid movements, his lips parting again. “If you didn’t enjoy it, if you don’t cum so hard you can’t hear for a good five seconds afterward, it doesn't count. Therefore You. Are. A. Virgin.” His words are emphasized by a squeeze on your calf. 

There’s a finality to his words like he’s never been more certain of anything in his life. In his eyes, it's a goddamn travesty that your loser of an ex couldn't do the bare minimum of getting you off. 

He’s not wrong. 

It definitely felt like it at the time. A few hasty, uncoordinated thrusts, one was it good for you, already on his side and half asleep before you could even think to answer. It became a pattern after that, one that left you unsatisfied, wondering if it was your fault while investing in toys that almost made up for his lack of attention. 

Another cold nudge brings you back to the present. Raising your brows, you glance at Bucky out of the side of your eye. “What?�� 

He looks at you, something heady and indiscernible in his deep blue eyes. It makes your stomach drop and twist. A lazy smirk pulls at his lips, stretching across his bearded face. 

“I could change that. I’ll be your first Plum.” 

 You must have misheard. You blink. Slowly. His smirk widens, the 'ya heard' me evident in the way his gaze darkens. No, you did not. Turning your upper body, planting your elbow in the side of your pillow, you stare down at your roommate. “Huh?” 

“Huh, she says.” He chuckles softly under his breath. Bucky reaches behind him, his teal henley stretching across his broad chest, outlining the ridges of muscles hidden beneath, a hint of his dog tags peek through the top as he sets his empty bottle on the nightstand with a dull clack. He drops down, grabbing your pillow from under you and pushing it under his head. “You heard me.” 

Cheeky bastard. 

You inhale a shaky breath, glancing away from him. Your heart is beating too fast, you don’t think you can handle this conversation any longer. Bucky moves to his knees, the bed dipping under his weight. Smooth, cool fingers encircle your ankle again, his thumb sweeping back and forth. 

“If you want,” he starts the timbre of his voice, deep and smooth and casual as it sends a shiver down your spine, goosebumps prickling across your skin. “I’ll show you how you should be treated. How a real man fucks. I’ll give you a real first time and make it so good you’ll never think of anyone else but me again.” His hand lifts your leg, bringing you to his mouth, barely touching your calf but the warmth of his lips sinks into you like a tattoo. “If you let me.” 

“I-” Your eyes widen, his drop to your chest, rising and falling, your nipples tightening, showing through the thin cotton of your shirt. 

You want this. Everything in you wants this. 

“Please let me.” It's the please that breaks you. His voice laced with desire and hunger for you. Followed by a slow sweep of his lips across your skin, chaining kiss after kiss up your thighs. A silent mantra imprinted by his lips. 

Please. 

Please. 

He sets your foot back on the bed, sliding it up until your knee is bent. He moves up your body, his hands on either side of your stomach, kiss after kiss, easing your shirt up until he’s at your breasts. “Will you let me take care of you the way you deserve? Let me make you feel good.” 

You nod, swallowing thickly. 

The corner of his lips lifts. “Words Plum. Need to hear you say it.” 

“I-yes.” 

He lowers himself onto you, the warmth of his abs melts into your soft stomach, his erection presses into your skin, hard and heavy. Hands braced next to your head as he lowers his face until his lips are hovering over yours. “Words, Plum.” His voice travels across your skin, the slight brush of his lips teasing you. “Need to hear you say it. Say you want me. I’ll give you anything you, all you have to do is ask.” 

The deep blue of his gaze pierces through you, he grins when you tentatively place your hands on the small of his back. “I want–want you Bucky.” He doesn’t move, his brow lifts expectantly, a burst of heat rushes to your cheeks when you realize what he’s waiting for, what he’s making you wait for. “Please fuck me,” you rush out before your nerves get the better of you. 

“I’ve been waiting for you to say that,” he breathes out, his lips slamming into yours. A frantic glide of his mouth over yours, his tongue delving into your mouth.

 Bucky wasn’t lying, he’s been craving to discover if you taste as sweet as you look. He is not disappointed. It’s not enough to satisfy his need for you but it takes the edge off his hunger. 

His lips slot over yours, devouring you once, twice before slowly turning into something languid and sweet. Savoring your kiss, his hand slips down to the curve of your waist and he drags you into him. His erection hardening against the thin layers of cotton separating you from him. 

Kisses chained down your face, across the smooth column of your throat, lacing down your chest as if he’s mapping his way across your body. Each press of his lips is a landmark he intends on coming back to again and again. His lips enclose around one taut nipple, gently scraping it between his teeth before sucking it into his mouth, his fingers plucking at your nipple, rolling it between his calloused fingers. “Bucky,” you choke out, a flare of pleasure shooting straight to your clit.

He kisses the growing wet spot on your panties, twisting them to the side to see your pussy, glistening and dripping. “This for me?” He murmurs, his greedy gaze skating up to your face. “Knew you’d be pretty everywhere Plum.” His praise sinks into your veins. His fingers curl under the band of your panties, easing them down your legs, he tosses them over his shoulder. 

His eyes drop to your pussy. 

“Been dreaming about this, Can’t believe I’m about to taste you,” he curses under his breath. You barely hear him over the dull roar in your ears, you don’t need to though, not with Bucky staring at your cunt like he wants to eat you whole. So he does. No warning. No teasing–he’ll save that for next time. He licks one thick stripe up through your folds.

“Oh–Bucky,” you keen, voice cracking as your back arches off the bed, your thighs clamp around his head. 

His tongue is so warm and wet and oh god–fuck that feels so good–when he drags the tip of his warm, wet tongue around your clit in a dizzying circle only to flatten it and drag it up in one firm motion. 

You don’t know if you want to cry out or grab the back of his head and beg for him to do that again. 

You do both. 

His name jumbled and broken on your lips. our heels dig into his back and you fist his hair, twisting the soft strands between your fingers as you roll your hips, pushing your pussy into his wicked mouth. 

As good as it is for you, it’s even better for him. 

You taste so sweet–he knew he was going to be addicted to you the second he saw you. He’s going to make up for every lackluster experience you’ve ever had and replace every disappointing memory with the ones he’s going to create for you. 

Bucky is going to treat you the way you should have been. He’s been waiting for the opportunity to show you how good it would be if you were his girl. 

Bucky slides his hands under your ass, lifting you to his face. He groans your name, the vibration of his deep voice sends another surge of sensations through you. Two fingers slip inside you, curling and thrusting to the frantic rhythm of his tongue. Pleasure winds tighter and tighter around you, dragging you down even as it borders on too much. 

Buicky feels you clench around him, the sounds of your moans spurring him on, his eyes locked on your face, watching your expression as you fall apart. Your mouth falling open on a sharp cry, your body tensing as your orgasm spirals wildly throughout you. 

This would be enough for you but Bucky isn’t done. Not when he has more to give you. 

You feel the soft press of his lips on your pulsing clit and then he pulls back, cool air replacing the warmth of his mouth. His face is drenched, your slick clinging to his beard. He runs his thumb across his lips, licking you off of him with a debauched groan. Quickly getting rid of his shorts, his cock springs free, lightly slapping his stomach. "I’m clean but I can grab a condom if you want. Either way, I can’t wait to feel you around me.”

“I’m on birth control and clean too.” You glance down,  pausing at his hand wrapped around the base of his cock. “I want–” Bucky watches your eyes widen as he slowly strokes his cock, your gaze following his hand up his thick, hard length to the swollen tip shiny with beads of precum and he gets painfully harder. “I want to feel you. Just you.”

 “Grab the headboard,” he hoarsely demands. The second your fingers curl around the wooden frame, he’s tapping your sensitive clit with the head of his cock. Light jolts of sensations makes you whimper and he inhales sharply, eagerly anticipating all the ways he’s going to get you to make that sound again. “Ready for me plum?” 

“No,” you laugh out. You don’t think you’ll ever be ready for him. “Pretty sure you’re about to ruin me.” 

“Good, it’s only fair for what you’ve done to me,” he replies, pushing into you with a deep, sure stroke, filling you instantly. You’ll never forget the way his lips part on a quiet gasp, his eyes closing shut as your warm, tight walls surround him. 

Your own gasp echoes in the room. 

You are so full, so stretched, you’ve never been this full before, your lungs struggle to take in a breath. A slight burning spreads through you but it’s soon lost in the sensation of having him inside you. 

“Tell me when you’re ready,” he tells you, resting his weight on his forearms. “I’ll wait as long as you need.” 

He doesn’t move, holding himself above you. There’s no pressure, no worries that you’re taking too long or doing something wrong. The only way you know he’s affected is by the flush sweeping across his face, yet he doesn’t rush you, smiling down at you like he could wait forever. You swallow down the swell of emotion and taking a shaky inhale through your nose, you run your hands up and down his tattooed back, relaxing bit by bit around him until the sting fades, leaving only a faint pleasurable ache in its place. You tentatively rock your hips and–

Oh.

You do it again, taking more of him inside you.

Oh.

He’s so deep now. You didn’t think you could take him but now–now that’s all you want to do. 

“I’m ready.” 

Bucky eases out of you and immediately slams back into your pussy with a filthy, frantic swivel of his hips and you keen, unable to control the needy, indiscernible sound from spilling out. His pace escalates, and the wet slapslapslap of skin echoes in your ears. 

A steady thread of pleasure winds inside you.  

Bucky watches your face, waiting for you to tell him that he’s found what he's been looking for since his first stroke, his angle changing with every thrust. 

“C’mon, c’mon Plum, give it to me, let me have it, fuck, let–” he groans, then his swollen head grazes over a sensitive spot just right and your eyes roll back, a sob crawling up your throat. “There it is, that’s my girl.” His pace getting faster, driving his cock deeper into your pussy. “Gonna learn what you like, gonna discover everything this pretty little pussy needs, and give it to you.” 

Bucky bites your earlobe, groaning in your ear. “You want it fast and deep,” The bed creaking and groaning under your combined weights. He’s overwhelming your senses. Bucky is all you see. His cologne drifting around you. His warm, heavy weight on you. His soft, deep groans in your ear. 

You’re so close, you can feel it wrapping around the base of your spine, thick, hot pressure mounting higher,  threatening to pull you under again. “Yes yes,” you sob, grabbing his firm ass in your hands as he grinds deeper and deeper. “Fuck–”

“Mmmhm, don’t think I’m convinced Plum. Maybe you like it, slow and hard.” He pulls out until only the tip of him sits inside you, your walls clench down, trying to bring him back in

“Please,” you mindlessly beg, your fingers dig into his skin, desperately trying to pull him back down. No one has ever made you feel so incredible, you need him back inside you. You’d do anything he’d want right now. “‘m so close, please Bucky.” 

“Yeah, you are,” he says, a smug tilt to his tone. “You’re going to cum all over my cock, I promise plum.” He slides back in, inch by inch by inch, a languid, lazy roll of his hips, ensuring you feel each smooth ridge stretching your silken walls, brushing over that soft, sensitive spot. “Just tell me how you need it.” 

“I–shit, don’t stop,” you moan into the curve of his neck.

“I won’t. Not until you cum for me.” Bucky takes your hands in his, lacing his fingers through yours, the sweet gesture in dichotomy with the savage way he’s fucking you. “Gonna give you what you deserve plum.” 

As the last word leaves his lips, your orgasm crashes into you, and blinding hot pleasure takes over your body, searing through your veins as its pulses deep in your belly. 

Oh god, you get it now. It’s so good–he’s so good.  

More than you expected. Tears leak out of your eyes, rolling down the sides of your face. 

“One more,” breathed into the side of your throat, kissing your sweat-laced skin. 

“I don’t know if I—” 

“Yeah, you can. Don’t tell me you can’t when I can feel your pretty pussy gripping like she doesn’t want to let go. She needs this. Greedy little thing needs to cum again.” Bucky doesn’t slow down, without breaking his pace, he leans back and lets go of your hands, lifting your hips up. The sudden change prolongs your orgasm, another creeping up. “You got another for me.  Play with your clit” he hoarsely demanded, his gaze torn between watching your pussy swallow his cock, glistening with your slick juices and your beautiful face contorted with pleasure. 

“Good girl,” he praises when your fingers slide down your belly and sweep across your clit, fast circles that push you closer to your peak. “That’s my good fucking girl.

His hands slide up your back and he pulls you up until you’re sitting on his lap, your arms winding around his neck, you hold on dropping your forehead on his shoulder as he fucks up into your cunt. Bucky takes your chin in his hand, tilting your head back. “Look at me, let me see your pretty eyes.” 

You struggle to pry your eyes open, clenching down at the sight of his darkened gaze, only a thin rim of blue visible in his lust-blown pupils. “You’re going to cum for me. Just one more and you’re gonna make a mess all over my cock. Bucky brings your face close to his and he grins. “Those other ones were yours but this one is mine and I want it.”

 His voice, desperate and hoarse, tips you over the edge, only this one doesn’t slam into you like before, it creeps up on you, the knot unraveling slowly until you’re consumed. More tears spill out. A sob tears from your throat, and a litany of BuckyBuckyBucky rolls off your tongue. 

“I got ya, I got ya pretty girl. That’s it, knew you could cum for me. S’proud.” Biting his lip, his chest heaving as you grip him so sweetly, he doesn’t want to stop fucking you, doesn’t want to pull out. Bucky is already making plans for you, one that involves keeping you wrapped around him for the rest of the weekend. In his bed, your bed, on the kitchen counter, and a few times in the shower.

He lets go, dropping his weight onto you, fucking you into the mattress. Bucky takes your chin, turning your face towards him, kissing you, warmth filling you as he cums,  his hips jerking erratically once, twice. A small part of you preens—feeling him lose control is nearly as good as hearing him moan your name. Knowing you’re the one to do that to him is even better. 

Bucky rolls over, taking you with him. His large hands sweep up and down your back. "How was that?" he asks genuinely. 

“Incredible. That was–,” you blow out a breath, “better than I expected.”

He smiles softly. “Yes, you are, “ he murmurs, holding you close to his chest. “I had to go easy on you because it was your first time and all,” Bucky says, scrunching his nose. “Next time though, I won’t hold back.” 

Your brows furrow and you gesture at your still-joined bodies. “That was holding back?” Bucky laughs, the rich sound vibrates through your chest. “Wait. No–you were holding back?

“There’s a lot of things I’m going to do to you. That was just a sample of what you can have. You have no idea what I’m capable of.” The hopeful glint in his expression steals your breath. “You will though. If you want me, I’m all yours. All you have to do is say yes and I’ll take care of everything else.”

“Yes, Bucky.” You don’t hesitate, not even embarrassed by how quickly it rolls off your tongue.  It’s not every day that you have Bucky Barnes between your thighs and you’re not about to pass up the opportunity to be his girl. Crossing your arms across his chest, you look down at him and match his grin with your own. “But let's talk about this holding back thing. Because if that was you holding back, I’m pretty sure the next time is going to destroy me.” 

He leans up, his hand curving around your jaw as he kisses you again. When he pulls back, there’s a cocky smirk pulling at his lips. 

"Oh, I plan on it." 

[drakeanddice]

Haunted by a fantasy world where "adventurer" is handled in the same way as "assassin" in John Wick. An ifykyk secondary economy running on gold coins where everyone knows each other but no one acknowledges the elephant in the room because we have manners about our weird-ass line of deadly desperate dangerous work.

Rolling into town, looking immaculate. Checking into the Inn. Not an inn, or the coaching house, or the traveler's hostel. The Inn. The one that takes my ridiculous oversized coin and says that my room is ready, and will I need to visit the Smith today? Perhaps a meeting with the Vintner? Shall I send up the Gourmand?

"Good afternoon, Master Whicke," the Smith says, putting aside the barrel scraper he's been working on to flip a switch beside the forge. Racks of tenpenny nails and trowels and hammers fold back to reveal the glittering points and edges of a score of swords and axes and spearpoints lit with the flicker of finely-tuned enchantments. "Shall we tour what's new?"

"What sort of occasion are we hosting, Master Whicke?" The Vintner asks, pocketing the coin with a sigh. "A funeral," you say.

"Ah, well perhaps something light to start, then," she says selecting a straight-walled flask that glitters with contained starlight, proof against the touch of the undead. " And something for remembrance," she plucks a small crock of something evil-smelling and phosphorescent. "And then something to really bring down the house." She gingerly selects a double ampoule of energetic looking jellies.

The Gourmand carefully runs his knife through the salted flank of a cockatrice with a pursing of the lips. "So many neglect trail rations, Master Whicke, and it is their shame. Paired with goldenwheat pancakes and carrion honey, a mouthful of cockatrice--properly seasoned of course--will keep the mummy rot at bay, even post-exposure. I have been given to indicate by the Management that your current escapade may make such information useful to you. I will of course wrap your purchases exceedingly carefully. Rot will be your constant companion in the Black Pyramid."

There's something here.

[plasticflowersinahistorycemetery]

malevolence

part I

Pairing: Demon!Dean x Bobby's!Niece!Reader

Summary: You've had a crush on Dean for longer than you even remember, but Uncle Bobby told you not to play with fire. When Dean returns home from a hunt, you knew something was off... you just didn't expect it to be this.

Warnings: 18+!, language, violence, manipulation, gaslighting, corruption, pining, smut (kissing, spitting, marking, fingering, oral/cunnilingus, p in v, implied breeding kink, rough sex, dirty talk, mildly dubious consent, cum-play), I may have missed some.

Word Count: 5,887

A/N: Oh my god. This has been in my drafts forever and I'm so happy I've finally put it out. I'm thinking... three parts? If I get all of the story down as it is in my head, then for sure... should be about three parts. It's set not long after John's death, so Dean is still a baby boy. <3 I found these gifs ages ago and I was like, "oh, I need to do a Demon!Dean fic where he's early seasons Dean." because ugh, the potential. You know the drill. If all the warnings listed above aren't evident yet? They will be. Oh, boy, will they be. I hope y'all like this. All the love.

You didn’t remember when it started. Maybe it had always been there, tucked beneath your ribs like a secret. Something soft and patient, biding its time in the dark. A seed waiting for heat and blood and something wicked to make it bloom.

Dean Winchester had been in your life for as long as you’d had a life worth remembering.

Not family, not really. But close. Tangled up in the same blood-and-oil world that raised you. The golden boy in your uncle’s long, strange shadow. Loud, sharp, sunburnt around the edges—he came and went like a storm, shaking dust off his boots and filling every room he entered with too much heat.

He was six years older, which had once felt like a canyon.

When you were ten and he was sixteen, he may as well have been a movie star. Too cool. Too fast. All swagger and sarcasm and smudged knuckles from a fight he didn’t bother to explain. You remembered the first time he called you sweetheart—just a tossed-off thing, barely looking at you as he handed you an ice pop in the middle of a sweltering July.

“Here ya go, sweetheart.”

And you remembered the way it made you freeze. How the word hung in the air like cigarette smoke, thick and confusing and too warm. You didn’t know what to say. You didn’t know why it mattered. You just knew that your name had never sounded like that before.

He’d swung you up onto his shoulders that same day—hands sure, grip steady, like he didn’t mind your weight. Like you belonged there. You’d clutched fistfuls of his hair and shrieked with laughter while Bobby hollered from the porch to “cut that damn foolin’ around before someone breaks a bone.” Dean had just grinned and jogged faster.

You were twelve when he taught you how to throw a punch. Fourteen when he handed you your first switchblade, silver and wicked and gleaming like a promise in your palm.

“Keep it in your back pocket. If a guy gets too close, don’t hesitate.”

He said it like it meant nothing. Like he hadn’t just handed you the sharpest thing you'd ever owned and trusted you not to flinch.

He always trusted you not to flinch.

That was the difference.

You knew what adoration felt like long before you understood it. You knew you liked his voice, liked his hands, liked the way he’d lean against the hood of the Impala and call you trouble when Bobby wasn’t looking. You hated the way your stomach twisted when he brought girls around. Hated the way you’d listen for laughter through the thin walls of Bobby’s house and feel sick when you heard it.

You were seventeen when it changed. When it stopped being something soft.

You’d grown into yourself by then. Still not tall, still not loud, but sharper in the eyes. More aware. And Dean—he’d started looking at you like he wasn’t supposed to.

It was in the way his gaze lingered a beat too long when you passed him in the hallway. The way his voice dropped when he asked you how your day had been. The way he smirked when you snapped back at him, low and dark, like he liked it. Like he was daring you to try again.

You didn’t say anything. Didn’t push. But you started wearing tank tops when he was home. You started sitting a little closer on the couch. You let your fingers brush his when you passed him a drink.

You told yourself it was nothing.

Bobby, of course, saw it all.

“That boy’s got too much fire in him. You don’t go pokin’ it just to see if it burns.”

But by then, it already had.

You were twenty-one now. The canyon had closed.

That afternoon, like so many before it, you sat curled in your usual spot on the porch swing, the cushion beneath you faded from years of sun, the book in your lap more of a habit than a distraction. Your bare legs were pulled up under you, one foot tucked beside the other, your back pressed to the peeling white wood of the armrest. The breeze was warm, sticky with late-summer heaviness, and the cicadas sang like they didn’t know how to stop.

Out in the yard, Bobby cursed low under his breath as he wrestled with the rusted insides of a pickup that hadn’t run since the Reagan administration. His ball cap was pushed up on his forehead, sweat darkening the brim, grease streaking his arms all the way to the elbows. There was a glass of sweet tea beside you, sweating rings into the wood, forgotten in the quiet rhythm of turning pages.

The world hadn’t shifted yet. Not that you could tell. Everything was still where it belonged.

You’d been half-asleep in the sun, lulled by the rhythm of cicadas and the creak of the porch swing, when Bobby’s voice cut through the quiet like a blade.

“Son of a bitch!”

You blinked, looked up from your book. A moment later—

“Goddamn bastard bolt won’t budge—get in there, ya stubborn piece of shit—”

Yep. Classic Bobby.

You closed your book around one finger to mark your page and leaned forward, peering past the porch railing toward the truck hood and your uncle’s hunched figure.

“You need a hand, Uncle Bobby?” You called, voice lazy with the warmth of the afternoon. “Or want some tea?”

There was a pause. A soft clank of metal against metal. Then, gruff:

“Tea, girl. And ice this time—I ain’t drinkin’ lukewarm leaf water in this heat.”

You huffed a laugh and stood, arms stretching up overhead as your back arched, joints crackling from the hours spent curled on the swing. The hem of your tank top slid up your stomach, bare skin catching the last of the sun as you padded barefoot across the porch.

Your cutoffs were frayed at the bottom, threadbare in the way only your favourite ones could be. Your legs had picked up freckles over the summer. You felt them heat now under the open air as you reached for the screen door.

Inside, the house was cooler, dim and familiar. You moved on autopilot, pulling a glass from the cupboard, grabbing the pitcher from the fridge. The ice clinked softly as you poured. You lifted it, turned—

And froze.

That sound. That rumble. Low. Hungry. Home.

The Impala.

You nearly dropped the glass right there on the kitchen tile.

You turned so fast your bare feet squeaked against the floor. The screen door banged open behind you as you stepped out onto the porch, tea sloshing over the rim, eyes locked on the long black shape pulling into the drive like it owned the world.

She slid to a stop in a slow growl of gravel. The driver’s door creaked open.

And then—there he was.

Dean climbed out like a scene from a movie. One hand on the roof, the other shoving the door closed. His boots hit the dirt and your heart tripped over itself. He looked broader than you remembered. Taller somehow. His hair was longer than it had been last time—curling just slightly at the nape of his neck, damp with sweat. His jacket was slung over one shoulder, and he moved like he hadn’t just been on the road for hours. Like his body didn’t get tired the way other people’s did.

Bobby looked up from under the hood.

“Well I’ll be damned,” he said, already wiping his hands on a rag. “Where the hell’s your brother?”

Dean just smiled, that lazy half-smirk you knew too well.

And then you called his name.

“Dean!”

His head snapped toward the porch so fast it almost startled you.

And when his eyes landed on you—barefoot, flushed from the sun, standing under the porch roof with your tank top clinging to your ribs and the glass of sweet tea still trembling faintly in your hand—he grinned.

Not like he used to. Not like the soft smirks he’d given you when you were younger, teasing and warm and safe.

No. This one was sharp. Wolfish. Like he’d been starving and just spotted his first meal in days.

“Well hey there, sweetheart.”

You didn’t think. Didn’t hesitate.

The second his voice hit your ears, smooth and warm and laced with something low and dangerous, your body moved before your brain caught up.

The glass of tea hit the porch rail with a clatter, sloshing again, forgotten as your bare feet left the wood and hit the gravel, sharp stones biting into your soles. You winced but didn’t slow, teeth catching your lip, eyes locked on him like nothing else in the world mattered.

“Girl!” Bobby hollered from the front of the truck, voice sharp as a whip. “You’re out here barefoot on the goddamn gravel again—what’re you, feral?”

You didn’t answer. Just ran faster.

Dean was already grinning by the time you reached him. One brow quirked, his whole face lit with smug delight like he’d known you’d come running. Like he wanted it.

You could see it in the way he stood, relaxed and ready, arms just starting to open. Like he was expecting to catch you.

And God help you, he did.

You threw yourself into him without grace—without shame—legs wrapping around his waist, arms around his neck, breath catching somewhere between a gasp and a laugh. His hands caught you under your thighs, rough palms settling against bare skin, fingers pressing. Harder than they needed to.

He smelled like heat. Like leather and road salt and motel soap and something darker curling beneath it. Something you couldn’t name.

Your voice came out soft, pressed close to his ear as you held onto him tighter than you meant to.

“We missed you.”

His hands flexed where they held you—gripping tight. You felt it. The possessiveness in his touch. The way his thumbs slid just slightly against the crease where your thighs met the curve of your ass. The quiet exhale that ghosted down your neck.

“Speak for yourself,” Bobby grunted from behind, but even that sounded weaker than usual. More bark than bite.

There was a pause. Then:

“Dean,” he said flatly. “Put my niece down. Don’t think I ain’t seen where your hands are, boy.”

Dean turned his head just slightly, that grin never leaving his face. Still holding you.

“Just catchin’ her, Bobby. Can’t help it if she’s a little…” His gaze dragged back to you. Slow. Heavy. “Squishy.”

Your breath hitched. You felt heat rise all the way up your neck.

Dean’s fingers squeezed again. Barely perceptible. Just enough for you to feel it. For Bobby to notice.

“Dean,” Bobby snapped, and this time there was steel under it.

With infuriating ease, Dean let you down. Gently. Like he didn’t want to. His hands slid down the backs of your thighs as he lowered you, only releasing when your feet touched dirt and your balance returned.

You took a half-step back, suddenly too aware of the heat between your legs. Of the gravel under your soles. Of the way he looked at you like you were his to pick up again whenever he pleased.

Bobby was already walking past, muttering to himself and wiping his hands again.

“Damn fool boy…”

Dean just chuckled, low and satisfied. His eyes never left you.

“Miss me, sweetheart?”

The house smelled like garlic and onions and whatever Bobby had pulled from the freezer that morning and declared dinner. The table was set with mismatched plates, forks with dull edges, and two sweating bottles of beer you’d pulled from the fridge yourself. One slid in front of your uncle with a thunk, the other nudged across the table toward Dean with just enough force to draw his eyes back to you.

He caught it easily, grinned like he knew the touch of your fingers on the bottle had been deliberate, and then tipped it in a mock toast before popping the cap with the edge of the table. You pretended not to watch the way his throat moved when he took the first sip.

You took your usual seat to Bobby’s left, legs tucked beneath you, sipping your water slow and quiet. The table was warm and familiar. A little too small for three grown bodies. A little too crowded in the heat.

Dean and Bobby talked like no time had passed at all.

“So where’s your brother?” Bobby asked around a mouthful of food, squinting at Dean like he expected bad news.

“Chasin’ some lead out in Idaho,” Dean replied, casual. “He’ll meet me back on the road. Said somethin’ about needing space.”

“From you or the case?”

Dean just smirked. Shrugged. “Probably both.”

You didn’t join in. Just twirled your fork in your noodles, dragging them across the plate like you were thinking hard about something. You weren’t. You were trying not to look at Dean. You were failing.

He looked good. Too good. Tanned and broad and infuriatingly comfortable, leaning back in his chair like it was his own damn kitchen. Like he belonged there. Like he always had.

You caught yourself staring and dropped your eyes back to your food.

Then something brushed your foot. Just a light nudge. The kind that might’ve been an accident. The kind that would’ve been nothing, if you weren’t barefoot and hyper-aware of every single thing about him.

You froze. Fork paused mid-twirl. Eyes still on your plate. The nudge came again—more deliberate this time. A soft push against your arch.

You looked up. Dean was still talking to Bobby. Still sipping his beer, leaning back in his chair like he didn’t have a care in the world.

But his eyes cut to you. And he grinned. Slow. Shit-eating. Wolfish.

Your stomach dropped straight to your knees. You cleared your throat and took a sip of water, suddenly warm all over. Bobby was still muttering about Sam, something about demon omens in Ohio, and you tried to focus. You really did.

Dean’s foot slid along the curve of your ankle. A slow, lazy stroke like he was petting a dog. You flinched. He didn’t.

You jabbed him back without looking, your toes kicking out under the table—more annoyed than anything else. But all it earned you was a harder nudge, right against your calf this time, like a shove disguised as affection.

You looked at him again. He didn’t break eye contact. He arched one brow, lips twitching around the mouth of his beer bottle.

What’re you gonna do about it, sweetheart?

You wanted to kick him. You wanted to crawl into his lap. You wanted to do something reckless. But you just stabbed a piece of meat with your fork and tried not to choke on your own pulse.

Bobby looked up, finally catching the flush on your cheeks.

“You alright there, girl?”

You smiled too quickly. “Just hot.”

Dean chuckled. Low and full of teeth. His foot bumped yours again under the table. You didn’t look at him this time. But you could still feel him.

You barely touched your dinner after that. Every bite tasted like heat. Every sip of water failed to cool you. You could still feel the press of his boot against your ankle long after he’d stopped. Like his touch had sunk straight through your skin.

You were the first one to stand when the plates were empty, scraping your chair back with a little too much force.

“I’ll get this cleaned up,” you said quickly, already stacking yours and Bobby's plates, trying to busy your hands so they didn’t shake.

Bobby looked up with a lazy arch of his brow.

“Someone’s in a damn hurry all of a sudden.”

You forced a small laugh, ducking your head. “Just trying to be useful.”

“Mhm.”

You were already halfway to the sink, rinsing plates under warm water, grateful for the hiss of the faucet and the hum of muscle memory. Plate, rinse, stack. Forks, soak, scrub. Your feet shifted over the cool tile, and for a moment, the tension in your shoulders started to melt.

Behind you, a chair scraped back.

“I’ll help.”

Dean.

Bobby snorted from the table.

“You? Since when do you ever lift a damn finger after supper?”

“Feelin’ generous,” Dean said, all smooth edges. You could hear the grin in his voice. “Must be the company.”

Bobby huffed and pushed to his feet with a grunt, grabbing the last beer and heading toward the living room.

“Well, bless your heart. I’ll be in my chair, pretendin' not to hear whatever dumb shit you’re about to break in my kitchen.”

And just like that, you were alone.

You didn’t turn around. Just kept scrubbing the last plate, shoulders a little too stiff, breath caught somewhere too high in your chest. You heard him behind you—soft bootfalls, the clink of glass against glass as he gathered the empty bottles and his dish.

Then—

Heat. He was behind you. Close. Then closer.

The heat of his chest pressed flush to your back, hard muscle and worn cotton, and you froze. Completely. Your breath caught in your throat. The plate in your hand nearly slipped from your fingers.

Dean reached around you, casually, his forearm brushing the side of your breast as he slid his plate into the sink with a quiet clink.

He didn’t move. He lingered, then stepped back a beat too slow.

“Oops.”

Your whole body burned.

You turned your head, wide-eyed, and found him just watching you. That smile on his face wasn’t sheepish. It was smug. Knowing. Unholy.

You tried to say something—tried to form any kind of reply—but your tongue felt thick and your heart was pounding in your throat.

Dean leaned one arm against the counter beside you, his body angled lazily toward yours. He was close enough that you could see the faint pink line of a healing cut along his collarbone. Close enough that his scent wrapped around you again—leather, motel soap, motor oil, and something else. Something you couldn’t name. Something dark.

“You always clean up this fast, sweetheart? Or just when I’m watching?”

Your mouth parted. Nothing came out.

He tilted his head, eyes dragging slow across your face, then down your neck, then back up.

“You've never been shy.”

You tried to laugh. It came out breathless.

“You’re messin' with me.”

Dean’s smile widened, teeth flashing.

“Am I?”

You shook your head—barely. “You don’t… You don’t look at me like that.”

“Don’t I?”

His voice was low. Deliberate.

You turned back to the sink, trying to hide your face, the blush crawling down your throat. Your hands moved automatically, scrubbing at a plate that was already clean.

Dean didn’t leave.

“Been gone a while,” he said, voice softer now. “Did you miss me?”

Your hand paused on the dish. Your voice was almost a whisper.

“Of course I did.”

He leaned in closer again, heat at your back, breath on your neck.

“Yeah?”

You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak.

And behind you, he chuckled. Low and dark and pleased.

“Good.”

You didn’t move. Couldn’t.

Dean was still behind you, heat pressed too close, breath ghosting somewhere near your ear—and for a second, it felt like he might lean in further. Might say something else. Might do something else.

But before anything could shatter, Bobby’s voice cut through the house like a crack of thunder:

“You two done makin’ out in there or can I start the damn show?”

You practically jumped.

Dean chuckled—soft, smug, low in his throat like he was deeply entertained by your reaction—and stepped back just far enough to let the heat leave your skin.

You scrambled into the living room a little too fast, like Bobby’s voice had tugged you from the edge of something you couldn’t name. Your skin was still warm, your breath still not quite steady, but you dropped down onto the couch with a half-hearted exhale, like you could shake it off with the right posture. You curled your legs up beside you, pulled a throw pillow into your lap, and clutched your glass of water like it was going to save you.

“Eastwood or MASH*?” You asked, too quick, too light.

Bobby looked up from the remote, squinting at the ancient television like it had personally offended him.

“Whichever channel works. If I get static again, I’m throwin’ the damn thing out the window.”

You smiled, even if it didn’t quite reach your eyes. The house had settled into its familiar hum—floorboards creaking under the weight of time, cicadas still buzzing low through the open windows, the faint clatter of Dean moving around in the kitchen.

You heard him before you saw him.

He entered the room like a slow-moving shadow—easy, casual, like he belonged there more than the furniture. Your stomach twisted.

He didn’t say a word. Just met your gaze for a moment—sharp, amused—and then reached down, hooked his hands under your ankles, and lifted your legs without asking. You startled slightly, not because it hurt, but because it didn’t. Because it felt so easy for him.

Then, with a slow exhale, he dropped onto the couch beside you, your legs falling across his lap like he’d planned it that way all along. One of his arms rested along the back of the couch, close enough for you to feel the heat of it at your shoulders. The other—casual, lazy—settled over your shin, fingers tracing an idle path along your skin.

You tried not to tense. You tried not to breathe. He didn’t look at you. Didn’t need to.

And Bobby noticed. He turned his head slowly, one eye narrowing as it moved from the screen to your legs across Dean’s lap, then up to the hand that hadn’t stopped moving. His jaw clenched. His beer bottle landed on the side table with a quiet clunk.

“Touch her like that again,” he said, voice low and dry, “and I’ll break your fuckin’ hand.”

Dean didn’t flinch. He didn’t even stop. Just kept rubbing slow, maddening circles along your shin with the pad of his thumb. He still hadn’t looked at you.

“Aw, c’mon, Bobby,” he drawled, the smile curling across his lips like smoke. “Ain’t like I’m doin’ anything wrong.”

Bobby didn’t laugh. Didn’t even blink.

“You think I don’t see it?” He asked, and his voice was sharper now, honed to an edge. “The way you been lookin’ at her since you pulled up? I ain’t blind, Dean. And I sure as hell ain’t stupid.”

There was a pause, a hitch you felt more than heard. Dean’s smile wavered for the barest second. Just long enough for you to wonder if Bobby had struck a nerve.

Then it returned, just as cocky, just as easy.

“She’s not a kid anymore,” he said, casual, like that settled something.

Bobby leaned forward in his chair. His eyes were cold. Steady.

“No, she ain't. Which is exactly why I’ll put you in the goddamn ground if you so much as look at her like she ain’t got a choice.”

Something shifted.

You didn’t understand it, not fully. But you felt it. Something sharp beneath the surface. Something not quite right. Like there was more to what Bobby said than what he said.

Dean’s silence stretched long enough to be dangerous. Then he tilted his head, eyes still on Bobby, and smiled.

“She looks like she can make her own choices to me.”

You tried to move your legs. Tried to pull away, just a little. Dean’s hand pressed down. Not painfully. Just firmly. Deliberately. Bobby was still watching. And so was Dean.

“You touch her like that again,” Bobby said, lower this time, the threat coiled beneath each syllable, “and I’ll remind you who the hell you’re talkin’ to.”

Dean didn’t answer.

The television filled the silence, tinny dialogue from a rerun you couldn’t focus on. And under the hum of it all, Dean’s thumb resumed its lazy stroke against your skin, like nothing had happened at all.

The house was silent, save for the low creak of floorboards beneath your bare feet.

The kind of silence that came only after the heat of the day had broken—after the static between bodies had faded into cool sheets and shallow sleep. Bobby had gone to bed not long before you had, muttering something about his bad knee and early mornings, casting one last look between you and Dean like he was waiting for something to ignite.

But nothing had.

Not then.

Now, it was past midnight. Maybe closer to two. You didn’t check the clock—just blinked awake with your throat dry and your skin too warm beneath the sheets. The house had cooled but your body hadn’t. Something restless sat in your chest like a live wire humming under your ribs.

The floor was cold beneath your feet, quiet in the way old houses only were when everyone else had gone to bed and the world had softened into stillness.

The air felt different after midnight—cooler, heavier somehow. The way it settled in your lungs felt like a warning, though you couldn’t say why. You moved without thinking, sleepy and restless, fingers trailing along the hallway walls as you padded toward the kitchen, drawn by nothing more than the dryness in your throat and the weight of something unnamed sitting beneath your skin.

Bobby’s old shirt hung off one shoulder, worn soft with age, the hem brushing the tops of your thighs as you walked. No panties. No bra. Just that and bare skin and the ghost of sleep still clinging to the corners of your vision.

The fridge opened with a low hum. You filled your glass slowly, letting the cool water slide over the ice and kiss the rim, the glow of the open door painting your skin in pale blue light. You lifted the glass to your lips and drank.

And that’s when you heard it.

The creak.

Not the house settling. Not the wind. Not the sound of an old man in the hallway. Boots. Slow, deliberate.

You turned just as the light from the fridge caught the edge of his silhouette, cutting him out from the dark like something carved from smoke and heat and half-formed sin.

Dean.

Leaning in the doorway like he hadn’t been asleep at all. Like he was waiting. He didn’t speak at first. Just looked at you. And when he did? Something in his expression made your stomach twist—not with fear, not yet, but something so thick and dark and electric it almost knocked the air out of you.

That grin.

It was the same one he’d worn when you were sixteen and he caught you staring at his mouth. The same one he used when he fixed cars with the sleeves of his flannel rolled high and the cigarette tucked behind his ear. Familiar. Easy. Pure Dean.

But something about it wasn’t right anymore. It was too still. Too slow. Too hungry.

“Well,” he said, and his voice was rough in that way it always got when it was late and he hadn’t talked in hours. “Aren’t you a sight.”

You swallowed hard. “Couldn’t sleep.”

His eyes dropped down your body. Then rose again. Like he had every right.

You didn’t move. Didn’t cover yourself. You should have.

“You always walk around like that?” He asked, stepping into the room. “Wearing nothin’ but some old shirt and a smile?”

You didn’t answer. The question didn’t feel like a question.

Dean smiled again, slower this time, head cocked to the side as he watched you over the rim of the glass in your hand.

“Bobby know his niece’s struttin’ around like a damn centrefold at two in the morning?”

You flushed hot. “It’s just a shirt.”

“Mm.” He nodded slowly, stepping closer. “Yeah. I can see that.”

He was close now. Close enough to smell—leather and heat and that undertone you still couldn’t quite place. Something wrong. Something sour-sweet and unplaceable. It made your knees feel unsteady.

His hand lifted—not fast, just steady—and pushed the fridge door shut behind you. The kitchen plunged into shadows again, save for the faint light of the oven clock. He was still grinning.

“Didn’t think you’d grown up this much.”

You laughed, shaky and quiet, trying to ease the weight of his stare. “Been a year.”

“Yeah,” he said. “It’s showin’.”

Your breath caught.

He took another step. Close enough now that the fabric of his shirt brushed your arm. He tilted his head down, voice dropping just slightly.

“You used to look at me funny,” he said. “Back when you were younger. Always staring. Thought I was imaginin’ it.”

You blinked, pulse pounding. “You weren’t.”

“No,” he murmured, and his eyes flicked to your mouth. “Guess I wasn’t.”

You could feel his breath on your skin. The heat of him. His fingers brushed the side of your thigh—light, just once, and then gone. It burned like fire anyway.

“You’ve really come into yourself, sweetheart.”

He said it like a confession. Like a revelation. Like it was all finally clicking into place.

And you couldn’t breathe.

His voice went softer. Meaner.

“You want me to look at you like this, don’t you?”

You didn’t speak. He didn’t need you to. Because he already knew.

You didn’t know who moved first. Didn’t know if it was his hand on your hip or the tilt of your chin or the way the space between your bodies seemed to vanish all at once—like the air itself had given up pretending there was still a line that shouldn’t be crossed.

All you knew was that you were suddenly there. Back pressed to the counter. Dean’s body crowding yours like gravity had finally remembered what it owed you.

And then he kissed you.

Not softly. Not hesitantly. Not like a maybe. No, Dean Winchester kissed you like he was claiming you.

His hand came up to your jaw, thumb pressed against your cheek, fingers curling behind your neck as he pulled you in and kissed you like it was the only thing that had ever mattered. Like he’d been waiting too. Starving for it. For you.

You gasped into it, lips parting without thought, and he groaned—"fuckin’ finally"—and kissed you deeper, tongue slipping past your lips like he knew exactly how to take what he wanted. And he did.

You were drowning in him. Pressed between cool counter and burning heat, chest heaving, hands fisting into the hem of his t-shirt just to keep from sliding down the cabinets. Your knees had gone weak. Your body was molten.

When he pulled back, it was barely an inch. His breath hit your lips. His grin carved into you like a knife.

“Goddamn,” he whispered, voice thick and low and already wrecked. “I always knew you’d taste this fucking sweet.”

You didn’t get a chance to reply.

His hand was already moving. Down your side. Over your hip. Between your thighs.

You gasped.

He grinned harder.

“No panties,” he murmured, dragging the hem of the shirt up your thigh with his knuckles. “You really were asking for it, huh?”

You opened your mouth—to protest, to deny, to confess every filthy thought you’d ever had about him—but then two of his fingers slid between your legs and found you already wet, and the words died on your tongue.

“Fuck,” he breathed, eyes dark and hungry, lashes low. “You’re soaked for me. All this time, and you’ve been walking around just beggin’ for me to get my hands on you.”

He didn’t stop. Didn’t hesitate.

He slipped one thick finger inside you, slow and deliberate, watching your face as your jaw dropped open around a gasp. Then another, stretching you perfectly. You choked on a sound, back arching, thighs trembling.

“Shhh,” he crooned, lips at your temple now, the hand at your jaw moving to cover your mouth. “Gotta keep it down, sweetheart. Bobby hears you moaning like a whore in his kitchen, he’s gonna come down here and shoot me.”

His fingers curled.

Your eyes rolled back.

You moaned—muffled, desperate—against his palm as he started to fuck you with those fingers like he meant it. Like he’d been thinking about it for years.

And maybe he had.

His hips were pressed against yours, his breath against your cheek, his mouth dragging along your jaw as he fucked you slow and filthy and completely possessed.

“You ever think about me, baby?” He whispered. “Late at night, all alone in your bed? Bet you used these pretty fingers trying to imagine mine, didn’t you?”

You whimpered under his hand, your body jerking with every pump of his fingers, slick and obscene.

“Bet you used to fuck that little pillow, huh? Crying into it thinkin’ about me pinning you down, stretching you open…”

You were going to come.

It was embarrassing how fast it was happening—how quick he’d found every nerve, every want, every buried need you’d never let yourself speak out loud. But now it was all on the surface, raw and exposed, dripping down his wrist.

He growled in your ear, soft and dark and lethal:

“Come for me, sweetheart. C’mon. Be a good girl and come all over my fuckin’ fingers.”

You did.

You shattered—silently, somehow—body writhing against his hand, nails digging into his shoulders, whole frame trembling with the force of it. His fingers didn’t stop, fucking you through it, dragging every last wave from your body until you were limp in his grip, gasping into his palm.

He finally pulled his hand from your mouth, cupping your jaw again, kissing you slow and deep, like the filth he’d just whispered into your skin meant nothing. Like it meant everything.

He pulled his hand away, brought it up to his lips, and licked his fingers. Then smiled.

“Told you,” he said. “Sweet as goddamn honey.” 

Then his lips were back on your neck.

You were still trembling, thighs slick and trembling where he held you, one hand gripping the back of your thigh, the other back between your legs, slick with everything he’d pulled from you. You were floating, dizzy, pressed between the cool of the counter and the heat of his body, his mouth trailing kisses up your throat like he was about to say something—

And then the kitchen door slammed open. You barely had time to register the heavy feet pounding across the floor before—

Splash.

Dean staggered back with a sharp, visceral hiss, smoke curling from his shoulder where the water hit, his skin bubbling in a flash of red.

You gasped, shoved back into the counter, heart leaping into your throat.

“What the fuck—!”

Dean growled—growled—low and guttural, his spine arching with the burn, lips curling back to reveal teeth that didn’t quite look like his own.

And Bobby was standing there. In boxers and a flannel and socks. Holding an empty mason jar in one hand and a shotgun in the other. Breathing hard. Rage in every line of his face.

“Get. The fuck. Outta my house,” Bobby said, each word like a shotgun blast. “Now.”

Dean turned his head slowly. Eyes flashing black for a moment before shifting back to the green you'd always known.

“Well, shit,” he rasped, voice raw. “Knew you were smart, old man. Didn’t think you’d catch on so fast.”

“Yeah, well,” Bobby snarled, stepping forward, “I’ve seen a lot of demons pretend to be worse things. You just happen to be wearin’ a face I liked.”

Dean smiled—teeth too sharp, too wide.

“I’ll be seeing her again.”

Bobby raised the shotgun in his hands.

“Not if I have anythin' to say about it.”

Dean looked at you once. Only once. That same smirk, but now you saw it—really saw it—for what it was. Too smooth. Too slow. Something evil wearing something you used to love. And then he vanished. Not in smoke, not in fire. Just… gone. The air thinned out. The heat left the room. And the absence of him was a screaming thing.

You were still shaking. Still pressed to the counter, shirt rumpled, legs slick, skin flushed. The high hadn’t even left your blood yet. You didn’t speak. You couldn’t.

Bobby lowered the shotgun, then turned to you.

“It ain’t safe anymore.”

Your lips parted, but no sound came out.

He crossed to you slowly. Gently. Like approaching a spooked animal.

“That thing,” he said, voice quieter now. “That thing wearin’ Dean’s face? That’s a demon. And he’s been here all day.”

You stared at him. Everything in you recoiled. Denied. And yet—you knew.

Bobby exhaled hard. His hand came up to your arm, grounding you. Steady.

“I’m sendin’ you somewhere safe.”

You blinked. “What—?”

“Somewhere he don’t know. Somewhere he can’t get to you. You’re leavin’ in the mornin’. No arguments.”

You were still in Bobby’s shirt. Still barefoot. Still breathless. And now the world had cracked open beneath you. You nodded. Because what else could you do?

@mostlymarvelgirl @losers-clvb @lunaleah @itshellfire @drakulana @sl33pylilbunny @suckitands33 @nevercameraready @0ccvltism @lyarr24 @podiumackles @spxideyver @tinas111 @cevansbaby-dove @paristheonewhoreads @winchestersbgirl @blossomingorchids @sacr1ficialang3l <3

[shotmrmiller]

simon's many things. a retired fighter, for one. he hung his mma gloves a few of years ago with the excuse of getting older. he still sticks around, though— sitting in the front, so close to the hexagonal cage that his knees can touch the steel, occasionally gesturing price over to hand him a crinkled wad of cash.

gambling's illegal, you know.

thought you were a medic not a cop, pet.

a veterinarian.

good thing we're all dogs here, then.

he's also a bit unhinged, or so price says. you had pressed your tongue against the back of your teeth to keep from asking him if the hits simon's taken to the side of the head knocked a few things loose or if he was simply born that way. you'd be thoroughly unsurprised by the latter.

seen 'em take a man out with one ferocious hit— dislocated his jaw and retired him all in one second— all over cigarettes.

what, did they guy like steal them or something?

no. the prize for the winner of their fight was that pack of smokes.

incredible. (that's insane.)

he's also unrepentantly forward and a bit of a pervert, to boot. no explanation is needed.

lemme take ya out, love—

don't call me that.

and wear a pretty dress with heels. bet you'd look real good in—

stop talking, simon.

and now, you're about to find out that he's also, apparently, magnanimous.

a friday night's hustle and bustle has come and gone, as has the crowd that was in there earlier to watch a fight. the air smells of cheap alcohol and even cheaper cologne. the lighting inside is dim, casting a dull, almost sickly glow over wooden stands and the bloodied arena. the floor, once dry concrete, was now mud-slicked; drinks, urine, and spilled blood staining the surface. betting slips stick to your sneakers as you walk. (trudge, more like.)

with your worn medical supply bag around your shoulder, you tiredly head towards price's office whose metal door is being held open by an old barstool, and gently rap your knuckles on the frame. "i'm leaving, john."

he looks up at you, soft blue eyes crinkling over his glasses as he smiles. "sounds good, love. see ya later. want me to walk you out?"

always the gentleman. "no, i'm alright. i'm sure simon's out there waiting for me any—"

the metal entrance door slams open then, causing you to jump at the startling noise. you whip your head around and a resigned groan escapes your lips. it's simon and he's got bruised company. very bruised.

there's never any rest for the wicked.

"who's that?" john calls from behind you. "he lost?"

the guy whose arm is slung around simon's shoulders looks relatively young. thick, straight eyebrows, a swollen broken nose, and thin blood-crusted lips. the last time you saw a mohawk on someone, it'd been in the early 00s.

"somewhat but it's a good thing i found 'em," simon grunts. his eyes flash over to you. "can ya patch him up f'me, love? i'll go on tha' date you've been beggin' me for."

you ignore simon as you approach them both and tip the guy's head up with your fingers under his chin. searching in your front pocket, you tell him to look at you. "open your eyes as best you can, alright?"

his eyes are like sparkling blue gems— bright like the sky on a clear summer's day. he winces at the blinding white light emitting from the flashlight. "tha' necessary, lass? ah'm not seein' double, if tha's what ye lookin' fer."

he gives a pained grunt before simon tells him to stand still. "my girl here's the medic and what she says goes. clear?"

"crystal, sir." purple bruises are blooming like dark flowers around his left eye and right cheekbone, and the blood that oozed from his split lip long coagulated. his nose, however, continues to languidly drip crimson.

"not the worst break i've seen," you mutter.

the pair shuffle behind you quietly as you head toward the dedicated medical room. the sharp, clinical scent of antiseptic wafts through the air as the door swings open.

"sit, please," you gesture to the well-worn chair in the corner.

black latex gloves squeak in protest as you slide them on. "wanna tell me what's going on, simon? i'm not gonna fix the nose of a wanted murderer, am i?"

simon chuckles under his breath. "no. unlucky bloke chose to mug the wrong person. johnny here is real good at fightin', though, for someone with no real proper trainin'. figured i could give him a way to earn his money instead of stealin' it off of hard-workin' folk."

you hum and press your thumbs as gently as you can where the nasal fracture is. johnny hisses sharply and grips your wrist tightly. "easy. i barely touched it." you quickly tap the back of his hand with your knuckles. "let go, please. last thing i need is you tensing and breaking my arm."

he slackens his fingers and sits on both of his hands. "sorry, lass. ah'd never hurt a bonnie lass like ye. say, how'd ye even end up in the bowels of the city?"

his talking re-opened the cut on his upper lip, blood streaking his teeth pink. "i'm a charity case, just like you, i reckon."

johnny means to continue the conversation, but you take advantage of his distracted mind and push to the left, the sickening crunch of cartilage follows the adjustment. he curls in on himself and lets out a guttural noise that bounces off the white walls. "i'd be sorry but..." you trail off with a casual shrug.

pulling a clean rag from a basket nearby, you order johnny to sit up straight. "look up for me." he leans his head back, adam's apple bobbing as he swallows. "hold this there," he squeezes his eyes shut when you firmly press the rag under his nose, "you'll stop bleeding soon enough."

you swivel on your stool, turning your attention to simon who's been silently watching you work by the door. "any injuries on you?"

he pulls his balaclava up, revealing a blonde stubble and scarred lips. "i got an injury right," he points at his mouth, "here tha' you can kiss—"

"stop talking, simon."

johnny's laughter emerges from behind the crimson-stained cloth.

--

this is the first time you've ever seen simon in the ring.

simon, even while 'retired', fights with a viciousness that borders on primal. his snarl— a ravenous wolf's— bare crooked teeth that hunger for victory, for dominance.

even when he's merely teaching johnny how to survive in this subterranean battleground.

"there's no room for mercy, soap!" he bellows. his eyes are sharp as blades, holding an edge of madness. he charges forward with fists like sledgehammers, delivering blow after punishing blow; johnny's body paying the price for his mistakes.

pain is the currency in that pit of despair, laswell had once said.

simon is a beast in human skin, ferocity incarnate...and you don't remember the last time you were this aroused by such a brute display. if this is what he looks like now, after years of being the spectator and not the spectacle, you can only imagine him in the zenith of his strength, his power.

heat licks up your cheeks at the mere thought.

he looks like he was born and bred to fight. his crib must've been the stained mat he's dancing on, his lullabies the sound of fists making contact, forcing flesh to yield. his broad back bears the weight of history— jagged flesh that stretches taut with each swing.

"fight smart! rules dissolve once tha' bell tolls, mate. many come here for glory, others come for an escape but some--" simon ducks the undisciplined punch johnny throws and gives him a ruthless jab to the ribs once then another to the side of his cut jaw.

johnny falls like a tree that's been cut at the trunk, the sound his body makes on impact with the canvas echoing in the empty basement. his breathing comes in ragged bursts, sweat and trickles of blood mingling on his face. simon kneels next to him, grunting as he goes down. "some are only here for their next meal and those are the most dangerous."

he is in his element, all bruised flesh and bloodied nose.

oh no. johnny's nose is bleeding too. "simon!" his head snaps to you when you scream, eyes wide and unfettered. "i just fixed his nose, you dolt!" his expression softens then— furrowed brows and taut lips relax.

"he'll be alrigh'. even my nose whistles when i breathe," he remarks.

simpleton. nothing but fighting and gambling in that big head of his. "that doesn't mean that it's okay to break bones i mended a few days ago." you keep your eyes fixed on johnny, ignoring the way the heat that's radiating from simon's sweat-slick body seeps into your chilled skin. "why he call you soap, anyway? good at cleaning dishes?"

he slurs a little, blood dribbling from the corner of his mouth. "'cuz ah'm a shlippery bashtard."

you bite on your tongue, hoping that his slurring is because he's still mildly dazed from the punch and not something worse.

"wha' about me, love? i've got a beaten face too, y'know." you look at him then, narrowing your eyes as you take his bare face in. the bridge of his nose is pretty swollen, and you can see the onset of bruising already happening. it's also freely dribbling blood.

"shit, let me go get my medbag."

he hooks his fingers around the loops of your jeans, keeping you in place. "'fraid of a little blood, are ya? i think you'd look real good with me on you."

a jolt of arousal shoots up your spine unbidden, blooming desire, focus wavering. your breath catches and pupils dilate as they lock with his rich, brown ones.

"oi, get a room, aye?" johnny's hoarse voice snaps you back to the present, your thunderous heartbeat ebbing away like a tide from shore.

"whenever you want, sweetheart," simon purred. the lump lodged in your throat makes it hard to respond. "get the bag 'fore i bleed out. price will have my head if i drop dead on his mat."

you blink and scramble away on shaky legs and weak knees.

[ficsbb]

Moments with John Wick II

》 Pairing: Loving!John Wick x Reader

》 Warnings: pet names, gross misconduct of lovey doviness

》 Word Count: 1.3k+

Part 1

Note: I've been overthinking about these snippets for too long, so here I go, I release them! 🤭 Enjoy! Apologies for any error in tense use, spelling, grammar etc. Credit to @toastray for the cute dividers!

It was hard at first, getting to know him better. You could feel the heaviness of his grief all around him. It was in everything he looked at and everything he touched, lingering in doorways after he'd walk through. He knew you could see it. It was all in your eyes and how you interacted with him during moments the sadness gathered in his throat.

“I'm okay,” he says, “I promise.” You put your hand on his cheek and nod.

"I know."

He doesn't know what it is with your touch, but it unravels that monstrous grief with ease. You watch him close his eyes briefly and bring your palm to his lips, letting out a sigh, followed by a kiss.

“You save me.” It's genuine, and every part of you knows it's true. There's been a lingering doubt with others, but never with him. When John tells you this, time and time again, it makes you feel lighter and warm.

“What do you think?” You're leafing through a pamphlet for a train vacation. It's not something you would have expected John would like. In fact, you were the one more inclined to do something like this.

“When are you thinking?” He lets out a sigh of relief, happy that you're interested at least. He's waiting for you to spot the destination on the trip he circled, the one he knows you've always wanted to go on. John pauses, waits a moment and then sees your eyes glow.

You look up at him, “Is that the one we're going on?” He nods. “Like, we're actually going, for real?” You watch as he laughs, head tipped back and adam's apple moving slightly. It warms you up just as a nice cup of hot chocolate always does.

“What about work?” John shakes his head, knowing you'd ask.

“I can work anywhere, but I'm taking a full break for the trip. I don't want to miss a moment with you.” He watches your eyes flutter, your breathing change. For a second he's worried he said the wrong thing. He worries about that all the time, but when you pull him into a tight hug, arms around his middle, he feels that pull of the string. The way it snaps straight from the center of his chest to yours and he wonders if you can feel it too.

“Thank you, John. Thank you.”

“You never have to thank me, beautiful.”

A phone call comes through in the middle of the night. It startles you awake and you feel John put his arm over you. He knows when your nervousness or anxiety is heightened more than usual. It didn't take long for him to notice your mannerisms when you're under stress while you've been together. These things were part of his work and work has had some ways of bleeding through. Whether it was through his clothes or in the ways he could keep you safe, it bleeds through.

“Is everything okay?” You ask, voice laced in sleep. You rub at his arm as he pats your stomach a couple times before he sits up. Your eyes are adjusted to the dark as you sit up with him, watching his hand sift through his hair. He hates these moments. Similar conversations come to mind, blurred and racing as the quiet around you both becomes deafening.

“A job. I have to go.” 

“Oh.”

“I know.” 

He hates these moments. He hates the way your sleep is interrupted and the sadness so easily conveyed in the ‘oh’s’, ‘right now?’, ‘when will you be home?’ gnaws at him. 

“I'll have to be on a plane soon.” You nod, quiet, rubbing at your arm. Self soothing. John turns over to look at you and it doesn't get any easier for him when he sees that shimmer of tears gloss your eyes.

“Come here, sweetheart.” You take a deep breath to brace yourself and get out of bed to go to his side. He leans back slightly as you stand between his legs, both hands on either side of his face. His eyes close. You know he loves when you do this. It calms the both of you down in a way and any chance to touch him is a chance you'll grab at greedily.

“How long will this one take?” 

“Not long. A couple of days.” You kiss his forehead as he pulls you in closer. When he rests his head on your chest, he can hear your heartbeat. It's a little fast, but it's comforting. It's a song to him, the melody striking and forceful always swallowing him up. As he pulls back, he looks up at you and wipes at the rest of the tears you seem to have messily swept away.

“How about you come with me?” 

“Is that allowed?” You're genuinely surprised since he's never asked. John tells you very little about these things, hoping that sparing you details will keep you safe.

“I'm allowing it.” A rush of heat goes to your cheeks and he smiles when that twinkle is back in your eyes.

“May I kiss you?” He pulls you both into bed so you're lying down again.

“I'll allow that too.” You laugh, and he kisses you.

You slam the back door behind you and walk purposefully to the shed. It's a crisp and foggy evening. You've left John in the house somewhere, calling after you.

“Fucker,” you say under your breath, exasperated. He knows you hate big gatherings being popped up on you. While it's exhilarating being at his side at events, it also comes with your own anxieties about being seen. Apart from that, you've already made plans with close friends that you hadn't seen in a long time and it makes you angry that he's forgotten again.

“I'm sorry.” His voice startles you a bit, your thoughts swirling in an irritated bubble around you. John's voice always breaks through. You grab a bag of dirt to prep for the plants in your greenhouse.

“I'm sorry,” he says again, his voice closer than before. You sigh and pause scooping the dirt from the bag into your own mixture.

“I hate this.”

“I know, I'm sorry. I really am.” You continue what you're doing, preferring to stay quiet instead of saying something you'll regret later on. It's not long before John is right next to you, bringing his sleeves up and mixing the dirt by hand. It softens you up. The sight of him helping you always has really, and it makes you smile despite yourself.

“I can do it, John.” 

“I know you can. Let me.” You stop what you're doing and watch his hands. Watch how they sift through the dirt like he was mixing butter into a short puff pastry. So delicate and without any thought, just as natural to him as it is to breathe. John can see you from the corner of his eye. You've seemingly forgotten the mixing altogether and are leaning closer, almost shoulder to shoulder. 

“I like being here with you,” he starts, taking a used rag nearby to wipe his hands, “I can lose my focus and it doesn't cost me a life. It feels freeing.”

“I didn't know that.” You move things out of the way, cleaning as you go.

“Well, I know this is your space to get away so I try not to barge in.” He wipes some dirt from the tip of your nose.

“I always love when you're here with me.”

“Even if I upset you by being a dumb, forgetful man?” He sort of pouts and a giggle bubbles out of you. John smiles, hoping to hear that sound every moment of his life. He finds a wayward hair falling out of place and tucks it behind your ear.

“I love you.” 

“I love you too.” He pulls you into him, enveloping you completely. There's nothing else for you to do but fall in deep, deeper still. The smell of him calming all of your senses and somehow, some way you feel that peaceful quiet making you sleepy.

“How about this? We go inside, warm up with some hot chocolate and put on a spooky movie.” 

“Yes, please.” You say, taking his hand and following him back to the house.

You’ve never been one to push him on expressing his feelings. You learned quickly that John would come to on his own, as did you whether you realized it or not. It took an accident, a simple fall really. You were out on a walk and something struck you in how these tiny flowers, or weeds, really, stuck out from the side of the road you were walking on. The Sun shining pointedly at them and they seemed to have pointedly been reaching out to you. John had a meeting to take somewhere in town even though it was supposed to be your vacation together, so as soon as you woke in the morning to find him gone and a beautiful note at your bedside, a walk was due.

You only meant to pick a few to press when you got back to the rental, but before you knew it, your ankle rolled and you found yourself tumbling in the ditch. It wasn’t deep or far off at all, but when John found out, you might as well have fallen straight to the Earth’s core.

“You should’ve waited until I got back,” he started, pacing in the hospital room. The nurse was tending to your ankle, gently. “What if you got really hurt? How would I have known?”

“I was clumsy. I can be clumsy, John. I’m okay.”

“And if you weren’t?”

“Then I wouldn’t be.”

For some reason, that stops him. You still wonder what it was you said that calmed him down, but you remember him kneeling down in front of you and softly, deftly, taking your sprained ankle into his hands. You were going to stop him from unraveling the nurses' handiwork, but stop yourself and let him, curious. He looks you over, careful not to cause any pain or discomfort, and wraps it back better than it just had been.

“You’re okay.” You nodded, understanding what he needed at that moment. He sighed heavily, looking up at you and saying, "Getting that call scared me. I don’t want you getting hurt ever again.” And there it was.

“I can’t promise that.” You both laughed quietly. He placed a kiss on your ankle and stood up.

“I know, but do it anyway. Promise me.”

“I promise.”

You'll never forget that look in his eyes. Brown eyes, matching yours, shimmering with so much love. You swore in that moment that if you had reached out to put your hand on his chest, your hearts beating would be indistinguishable from the other. Not a single wave, lurch, or pulse different in any way. How curious all of this was. How lovely. How lucky.

"I promise, John." You remember saying again and he kissed you. A soft and sweet kiss that always lingers, still.

[minihotdog]

Caught Red Handed // Part 1

Summary: Soap Catches His Roommate Reading an Erotic Novel

Part 2

Pairing: John "Soap" Mactavish x Fem!Reader

a/n: Most likely gonna be a follow up fic for this, already brainstorming

c/w: oral (F receiving), a little penetration

word count: 2k

***

You sat on the end of the couch curled up in a blanket, completely enthralled by the book in your hands. Your nose is buried inside the pages and you only move to readjust your glasses every once in a while.

Soap saunters into the kitchen to get some water, noticing you in a trance-like state as he reaches for a glass. He calls your name to no avail. Eventually, he gives up and plops down on the other end of the couch and your eyes rip away from the book to him. You cautiously put the book down on your lap, hoping he hadn’t caught some of the words.

“What are ye readin’ tha’ has ye blushin’ like tha’?”

“Huh?” You pretend to not know what he’s talking about and try, nonchalantly, to cover the book with your blanket. “Oh, it’s nothing. I’m just a little warm.”

He eyes you, not believing a word of what you’re saying and you try to play it off as if your soul didn’t jump out of your skin from him interrupting you while reading the most filthy paragraphs of your life. 

Soap raises an eyebrow at you, a smirk appears on his face. Heat continues to rise to your face as his muscles bulge while he scratches the back of his neck. He always lounged around in a pair of gray sweats, chest exposed. You always assumed you were used to it until you were close enough to take all of him in. The Scottish flag on his left pec and a quote on his ribs you had yet to get close enough to read, and worst of all, the sheer size of him. 

“Yer full o’ shite,” He accuses you playfully. “Let me see then?” The two of you stare at each other for a moment before you toss the blanket at him as a distraction and take off running. He fights off the blanket and is hot on your heels as you try to hide the book in your room. 

He comes up behind you and snatches it from your hands. 

“Johnny! No!” He holds the book above his head and you’re jumping up, trying to take it from him.

“Alright, alright. I’ll give it back.” You put your hand out and he turns, running into his room. You follow him only for the door to shut in your face with a click.

“Give me my book back!” You try to open the door, banging on it when it won’t budge.

“Be quiet, I’m readin’.” He shouts through the door.

You put your forehead on the door, cursing yourself for reading such a thing when you had someone like him around. 

“Why’s there a big lad wearin’ a kilt on the front?”

Your eyes close and your hands cover your face. You stood there about to die of embarrassment thinking about how this couldn’t get any worse, until…

“His body was as hard as steel, forged frae generations of resistance against the soothern British armies - fuckin’ Brits -.” He murmurs the last bit before continuing. “Her hands ran ower his muscles as he slid his throbbin’ member intae her soaked…WOAH!”

“Johnny, stop!” You plea for him to stop reading. Your ears hurt at the sound of it being read out loud.

The room falls silent for a while and you call out his name once again. The quiet fuels your embarrassment. It feels like a thousand years go by before he opens the door and stands in the frame, holding the book at his waistline. He points at you with a wicked smile,

“Oh, yer a dirty, lass.” You snatch the book from him and stop towards your room.

“John Mactavish, you are so nosey!” He laughs as you shut and lock your door so you can read in peace.

***

You tip-toe out of your room, not quite ready to confront your roommate after the events earlier in the day. You poked your head into the kitchen, seeing his mohawk peaking over the other side of the half wall separating the two rooms. You quietly enter the kitchen, turning your back to him to try and open the refrigerator, hoping that the TV is loud enough to cover the sound of the door opening.

“Y/n, ye done being mad?” He taunts, resting with his forearms on the half wall, looking right at you. You stick your tongue out at him and he chuckles. He never took you seriously when you were mad at him. To piss you off, he’d often tell you that you reminded him of one of those little dogs, angry as hell and completely unaware of how small they were.

He motions to the couch, “Come watch a movie wit me.” You shake your head and he whines, “O’ c’mon, y/n.” 

“Fiiiine.”

You walk over and sit on the other end of the small couch, your nerves building up in your stomach. Soap is wrapped up in your blanket. You glance over at him as you rub the fabric on your pj shorts. He scratches his scruff and his eyes slowly meet yours. He wiggles his eyebrows at you, “Wha’s wrong, lass?”

Your eyes drop, heat rising to your cheeks from being caught staring.

“Nothing.”

“Lassie, there’s nothin’ wrong wit readin’ those types o’ books.” A mischievous smirk plays on his lips, “There’s nothin’ wrong wit wantin’ a big Scotsman tae throw ye around and fuck ye silly either.”

You hide yourself with your hands, not wanting him to see the horrified look on your face. He scoots over to you, wrapping you in a bear hug.

“Oh, innocent little y/n has a dark side, I cannae believe it!”

“Nooo!” You squeal, “Stop bringing it up!”

You turn to push him away but he locks an arm on both sides of the armrest behind you, trapping you. His blue eyes bore into your soul making you squirm.

“So, tell me, Ye read tha’ because ye like it? Or did ye wish it was another Scotsman ye know?” He tilts his head, looking up as if he’s trying to remember something. “His grasp on my throat tightened as his thrusts became harder, pushin’ me over the edge… Is that what she said?” You cover his mouth with your hands and he grabs your wrists in one hand, pulling them off. 

“I’ll make yer little dreams come true, just tell me ye want me.”

Your breath catches as you try to speak, “Johnny…” You’re left not knowing what to say to him. He catches you off guard, pulling you onto your back by your hips. His body forces your legs open and he rests his weight on his forearms. His lips graze your ear, “I see ye lookin’ me up and down all the time, lass.” His hand travels down your body to cup your pussy through your shorts. A wave of heat shoots through your body. “I hear ye moanin’ my name at night when ye play with yerself, now I catch ye readin’ a book about some lad wrecking a wee thing.” He pushes the hem against your clit and you grip his shoulders. 

“Jus’ admit it and I’ll be more than happy to give it to ye.” His hand grabs your jaw, giving it a taunting little shake. He holds himself above you, eyes glued to your lips, whispering, “C’mon, c’mon,” encouraging you to answer.

You find the courage to speak, the fire coursing through your body is unbearable.

“Johnny, please.”

“Please, what?”

“Please, fuck me.”

“Steamin’ bloody Jesus.” He mutters before coming down to kiss you, pressing his bulge against you through his sweats. His lips move with yours, his kiss leaves you feeling hypnotized. By the time he begins pulling your shorts down, you’re seeing stars. He throws the shorts off to the side and his fingers run over the wet patch on your panties. He lets out a shaky breath, and he takes in the sight of you. Legs spread for him with your nipples poking through your oversized t-shirt. Your big doe eyes watch his every move as he positions himself lower on the couch, throwing your legs over his back.

He kisses down your thighs, nipping at the soft flesh, until he reaches where you want him most. He leaves one last kiss on your clit through the fabric before pulling it down your legs. He groans, watching you drip for him. He parts your lips with his thumbs and licks a stripe up to your clit. “Oh, lass.” He moans, tasting you on his tongue. He leaves slow licks on your clit, savoring the small sounds he’s coaxing out of you. He looks up at you from between your legs,  as you squirm, 

“Quit fuckin’ tryin’ to get away fra’ me.” He wraps his arms around your thighs forcing them to squeeze his head and continues lapping at your clit. He was usually impatient when he was in this position, wanting to draw out the most erotic sounds from whoever he was blessed with his tongue, to drink from them like a man stuck in the desert. Of course, he would do the same to you, but at this moment he wanted to revel in what he had fantasized about doing for so long. His beloved roommate whom he dreamed of, and spent so many nights imagining beneath him had his head in between her legs. 

He closes his lips around your clit flicking it repeatedly. The attack on your sensitive nub has you arching your back. His name falls from your lips, your eyes clamp shut, one hand tangling in his overgrown mohawk and the other digging its nails into his arm. 

He goes back and forth from flicking your clit quickly and leaving long licks, lapping up your wetness. 

“Johnny,” You breathe out. His name being drawn out from you causes his cock to ache every single time. One of his hands rips your shirt up, exposing your breasts. He kneads the soft flesh, giving the mound a gentle slap. He moans when your hips move against his mouth.

“Oh, what a good girl.” He gives his head a shake, letting his tongue move with it. The motion has you mewling as your orgasm begins to build up. 

“Johnny, p-please I’m gonna-” Your words trail off as he eats you out like you’re his last meal. His scruff scratches against your thighs leaving the skin irritated as he bobs his head, licking away. His pace doesn’t slow when you gasp and begin squeezing around nothing. Your hand keeps him in place while you ride out your high. His name fills the room in a chant. Your body jerks violently as the waves continue hitting you even longer due to him not wanting to stop.

He cleans you up, groaning at the mess you made. His mouth leaves a gentle kiss on your overly sensitive clit before he rises from his position. He wipes his chin off, his eyes cloudy just like yours.

“Fuck, lass. Yer addictin’.” His rough calloused hands run over your curves. He pulls your shirt completely off and leans down to give you a deep kiss. He trails down leaving wet kisses all over your neck. He goes further, leaving hickeys on your breasts, catching one of your perky nubs in his mouth. He then licked from between your breasts and up your neck, giving you one more kiss before pulling away to free himself from his sweats. He kicks them off and kneels in front of you completely bare. The sight of him and his body has you dripping once again. His piercing blue eyes were darker than normal, his hair a mess from you holding onto it for dear life, his muscles contracting with every movement. Your eyes run over him, admiring every part of him until you get further down. 

“Oh dear god, Johnny.” You gasp. He lets go of his member and it slaps down on your stomach. He was long and thick, the head was bright red with a bead of precum threatening to fall from it. “No wonder you’re such a cocky ass.”

He laughs at your playful insult. 

“We’ll see how much talkin’ yer gonna be doing in a second.”

He rubs the tip on your sensitive clit causing you to jump. He teases you by running the length of his cock in between your pussy lips, collecting the wetness. Both your eyes are glued to the pornographic scene.

“I better never catch you readin’ one of those books again, lovie.”

“Why’s t-that?”

“Because I’m a better fuck than tha’ clown you were readin’ about.”

You roll your eyes at his cockiness. In all truth, he was a little upset that you were drooling over some scot in a book when you had him right here. His competitiveness with the fictional character was enough to fuel him. 

He positions his tip at your entrance, poking into you slightly.

“Alright, lass. Deep breath.” 

You listen, taking a deep breath and exhaling slowly.

“Ready?” He looks down at you with a gentle smile. You nod your head and he focuses back on your dripping core. “Finally got ye where I want ye.” He mutters, shifting his weight. The fat head of his cock slides into you, your eyes go wide and your mouth falls open.

[moonxknightx]

♡˗ˏ✎*ೃ˚ : BROKEN SILENCE : :;

╰┈➤ ❝ [PAIRING] ❞ John Wick x F!Reader

・❥・GENRE: Angst!!

ੈ✩‧₊˚ WARNINGS: Kidnapping, mentions of torture, trauma, ptsd, emotional and physical abuse, angst

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥SUMMARY: You are kidnapped by a mafia group seeking revenge on John Wick, enduring weeks of brutal torture for refusing to reveal his whereabouts. When John finally finds and rescues you, you're barely recognizable, shattered by the ordeal. He takes you home, gently caring for your wounds and helping you recover.

THE WAREHOUSE SMELLED OF BLOOD AND FEAR.

John Wick’s steps were eerily silent as he moved through the decimated hideout. The bodies littered around him were evidence of the storm he’d unleashed, his rage manifesting in every gunshot, every blade that tore through flesh. He had come for you, and nothing would stop him. The moment he heard you’d been taken—kidnapped, tortured—his world had become singular, focused on one thing: getting you back.

He kicked open the last door, heart hammering in his chest. The room was dark, save for a single, flickering bulb hanging from the ceiling. And there you were—tied to a chair in the center, bruised, bloody, barely recognizable. Your head hung low, limp like a ragdoll. The sight of you ripped something primal inside of him. He moved quickly, holstering his weapon, eyes scanning you for signs of life.

"Sweetheart," he whispered, his voice rough, almost pleading.

Your eyes fluttered open at the sound of his voice, dull and lifeless, yet still aware. You tried to lift your head, but the weight of your injuries and weeks of torment held you down.

His hands trembled as he untied the ropes binding you to the chair. Your wrists were raw, chafed from days of resistance. You hadn’t broken. Even when they starved you, drowned you, beat you until you could barely breathe, you hadn’t given them anything. Not a single word about John. Not a hint. But the cost of that defiance had hollowed you out, leaving behind a shell of the person you used to be.

When the ropes finally fell away, you collapsed into his arms, too weak to stand. He caught you easily, pulling you into his chest.

“John…” you croaked, your voice nothing more than a rasp, a faint echo of what it once was.

“I’m here," he murmured, holding you tightly. His voice broke, the cracks in his facade showing. “I’ve got you.”

You didn’t respond, and that killed him more than anything. You, who used to be so full of life, who laughed with such ease in his arms—now you were silent, staring past him with a blank, haunted look. He could feel the tremors running through your body as he carried you out of that hellhole, each step a reminder of the weeks of suffering you’d endured without him. Each step weighed down by the guilt that crushed him.

When he brought you home, it didn’t feel like home anymore. The warmth had bled out of the walls, leaving only a cold, empty space that mirrored the emptiness in your eyes.

John helped you into the bathroom, his touch gentle, almost afraid of breaking you further. Your skin was marred with bruises, cuts, the evidence of everything they’d done to you. He drew a bath, the steam rising in the small space as he eased you into the water. You winced, your body so broken that even the warm water felt like a new kind of torment.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again, though he wasn’t sure if you even heard him. His fingers were careful as they washed away the grime and blood, every touch a silent apology. He washed your hair, his movements slow and deliberate, as if each gesture might undo the horrors of what had happened.

But you were silent still, your eyes closed, face pale and gaunt. You didn’t cry. You hadn’t cried once since he found you. He didn’t know whether that was a relief or a worse kind of nightmare.

After the bath, he dressed you in one of his shirts, the fabric hanging loosely on your fragile frame. He led you to bed, helping you under the covers, though you lay there like a ghost, staring at the ceiling.

~

Days passed, and you began to speak again. Slowly, haltingly, like you were relearning how. At first, it was a few words, barely audible.

"Thank you," you'd whisper when he brought you food, though you never ate more than a few bites.

"Okay," you’d mutter when he asked if you needed anything, though your voice always trailed off, as if you were unsure of what you were saying.

He watched you, never leaving your side for long. He was patient, though the fire inside him still raged—a quiet, controlled fury, always on the verge of exploding.

One night, as he sat beside you, you turned to him. Your face was drawn, eyes glassy, but there was something behind them now. Something fragile, yet real.

“John…” Your voice wavered, and for the first time, he saw the tears welling up, the flood you’d been holding back. His heart clenched in his chest as you reached for him, fingers trembling.

He was by your side in an instant, taking your hand, feeling the chill of your skin.

“They… they didn’t stop.” Your voice cracked, and then the dam broke. “They kept… they kept hitting me. They tried to drown me. They wanted me to tell them where you were… but I didn’t, John. I didn’t tell them.”

Your words came out in gasps, sobs choking you as the weight of everything you’d endured came crashing down.

“I thought… I thought I was going to die. Every day, I thought this would be it. And I kept thinking about you… about how I couldn’t give them anything, not after everything we’ve been through.” Your voice wavered, breaking. “But it hurt so much, John. It hurt so much.”

He held you then, pulling you into his arms, his heart shattering with every word you spoke.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered into your hair, over and over again. “I’m so sorry.”

You buried your face in his chest, sobs wracking your body, and for the first time since he found you, you cried. You let it all out—the fear, the pain, the hopelessness you’d carried for so long. And John held you through it all, his hands trembling as he rocked you gently, whispering the same promises again and again.

“I’m done,” he said quietly, his voice low but firm. “I’m done with this life. I’m not losing you again. I’m not doing this anymore.”

You didn’t respond, but he felt the way your grip tightened on him, the way your body finally relaxed in his arms. He made the vow then, to you, to himself. The world could burn, but you were all that mattered now.

John Wick, the assassin, was no more.

———

I watched the first two John Wick movies today and I’m lowkey crushing on John so i decided to write something small…i might make more oneshots about him🤷🏽‍♀️

[twistedbloodstain]

I have two ideas for the marquis de framing that I think you’d do great writing!

1: where the reader is interrogating the marquis (meaning she kidnapped him) and through there, they start to get feelings for each other

2: reader (who had a relationship of some sort with the marquis) fakes their death because they couldn’t take the assassin world. The marquis is devastated (lots of angst hehehe). They meet again while the reader is trying to help someone (maybe John, lol)

3: reader who is part of the high table meets the marquis for the first time. Sorta like live at first sight.

vincent de gramont x reader: i could never give you peace | what’s meant to be is supposed to be

plot: the one where he finds you again.

warnings: the reader’s a medic/healer in here SORRYYY…, she knew john from before, he rats her out lolz, kidnapping except vincent doesn’t do it this time..(yay! cuz he forced someone else to do it!!!), anon im so sorry i focused too hard on one part, i will do an extra (i swear)

masterlist

“stay still.” you mumble.

mr. wick lets out a small grunt while you sew his wound back together, nothing too fatal (at least in his standards) but without the help of any anesthesia or alcohol to soothe the pain, the assassin had no choice but to follow.

“don’t worry, it's almost done.” you whisper almost finished with patching up the flesh on his back. “and..there..”

he immediately gets off his seat and reaches for his shirt stationed on a random desk scattered with medical supplies. he digs into his suit jacket and fishes out a coin and hands it over to you, you accept it eagerly and begin cleaning up.

“you need any help with transport?” you inquire while you discard your bloodied gloves and utensils.

“yeah.”

“on your way out turn left and find the guy with a gray jacket. he’s one of winston’s men, he’ll help you out. where are you headed?” you inquire while washing your hands. he hesitantly answers before offering a reply.

“paris.”

“oh.” you stop in your movements and look at him. he stands near the door way all dressed up with blood caking his temples, he still looks rugged and in no shape to do what he has to do in pairs but your opinion likely doesn’t matter to him.

“good luck, i guess.” you mutter.

“you’ve been there.” he says.

“i..have.” you hope he doesn’t press any further.

“what’s in paris?” he questions but doesn’t take a step further.

“for you?” you uneasily say, he doesn’t reply.

“a dangerous man. i..think you’ll die trying just to get what you want, mr. wick. but hey, who knows? maybe, it’s now him.” you explain.

“the guy who had the continental demolished, was it him?” he sternly asks.

“..yes, i think it was him.” you confess, avoiding his eyes.

it had been almost three years since you left that country.

three years since you left him.

you can’t even bear to say his name because if you do, all of it will spill out. how he met you, how kept you and how he loved you. 

he nods, “and for you?”

“an even more dangerous man.”

 ever since mr. wick entered and left your clinic. you've been in a constant state of anxiety. the mere thought and mention of him had you nervous, especially when you heard that he was in new york a few days ago. you thought it was all over, that he found you and was going to rip you from your freedom in this city.

the following news shocked you to your core, the new york continental being demolished was not in your bingo card as to why he’d be here. all because of an excommunicated assassin which you had tended to almost a day after the bombing.

although you’re horrified with the state of events, relief flooded you when you realized he wasn’t there for you. you’d still be safe from him.

but you can’t help but think what all of this means for him. at some point, you know that john wick will kill him, and you somehow played a part in it. you feel a tinge of regret for him but it’s quickly overshadowed with the horrors he’s done and you don’t feel as bad.

he did like you though, when you still worked at france for him as his estate medic. whenever he found himself wounded in the line of fire in an ambush attack, you were the one who tended to his wounds and saw him at his weakest. you don’t know why but a strong sense of trust was established between the two of you.

you thought it to be a friendship but fleeting glances of affection would seep through when you talked or when a large bouquet of flowers suddenly appeared in your clinic after patching him up. 

you toyed with a pin he gave you, his insignia. only he wore it proudly on his coat and truly, it warmed you to him. he did make you feel appreciated, small touches on your back and sometimes fiddling with your hands whenever you sewed his wounds, gave you butterflies in your stomach.

with you he was just…vincent.

soft words and touches with soulful eyes looking into yours, just gentleness and affection present in him. it made you indulge into it too, that he isn’t the cruel man people made him out to be. he isn’t heartless, that’s just how the world is.

a naive perspective.

a perspective that was easily shattered when you’d hear a bloodcurdling scream from the barn, and he walks out with blood on his hands and a disgusted look on his face from his clothes being stained. gunshots echoing beneath the servant’s staircases and thudding bodies being dragged into the secluded forests of the estate. you whisper to yourself those very same words even if all his actions sent chills on your spine.

but the truth of it is that, he is heartless. he is the man people made him out to be and you’re a fool thinking he could be better for you but at the end of the day, he is still the marquis.

it made you think. what if this is all a game to him? what if the moment he finds you uninteresting you become another stain on his suit? 

it’s not a secret that men like him love having delicate pretty things only to break them apart. that’s all you are his current delicate and pretty thing.

you decided to leave. you weren’t staying long enough to find out what would happen to you, feelings be damned when you’re easily replacable to him. you knew that the marquis was like a dog to a bone when he didn’t get the things he wanted, which only pooled fears into your stomach should he find you in new york.

he cannot have you.

you stare at the pin before chucking the pin somewhere in the room, you get up from your chair and begin closing the windows from your clinic.

a knock comes from the door, you chuck the remaining medical materials into a random desk and walk up to the door. wounded assassins aren’t a strange occurrence at this time of the evening but something…felt different.

your gut was telling you to ignore the person on the other side and stay still. you thought that maybe if you didn’t answer the person would go away. wanting to play things safe you don’t mutter a word that would alert them of your presence. it usually worked in some cases.

the knocking persists, much harder and louder now. your hands begins to shake and your eyes start looking around for an emergency firearm to help defend yourself, your actions frantically halt when you hear a voice through the door.

“doc?” a gruff voice asks.

you sight and put a hand on your chest. it’s just john wick. you eagerly open the door to let him in.

“john.” you greet, “come inside.” you invite him as you walk inside.

john doesn’t follow you and a confused expression takes your face, until you take a good look at him. for the first time, john wick doesn’t look wounded to you, his face and hands void of any blood, a new bulletproof suit adorning his body, a french one you notice but it still leaves you questioning things.

“i’m assuming france went successful.” you say.

“…it’s close.” he pauses before replying, seeming as if he’s finding the right words to say.

“what do you need?” you question.

“it’s winston. he’s been shot.” you freeze.

oh dear. you never really approved of the things he did but a soft spot was always present for him and charon. they helped you settle here in new york, but winston took you in even when he knew of your history with vincent. you swore to always help him in ways you could and now the opportunity presented itself.

the car sped down the street with you and john in tow. you hold your medical kit close to your lap, feeling uneasy with the thought of losing the old man. charon had been so recent and you don’t think you bear to lose the friends you’ve made along the way.

you glance at john and he looks calm and composed as usual, eerily so. a week earlier he was calm but you could feel his anger and determination simmering underneath his skin. now it looked like he was taking a walk in a park. you eye him carefully, uneasiness seeping in your stomach.

“did they give it to you?” you ask, he looks at you before clearing his throat.

“just an extension.” he answers, knowing exactly what you were referring to.

“to do what?” you ask again, john doesn’t budge and continues driving, ignoring your question. your eyes stay on him but he doesn’t look at you.

silence settles into the car and you lean back in your seat. you really wish your brought your gun with you right now. you don’t know why but you have a feeling that something is wrong right now, especially with john. he’s not telling you something.

or maybe it really is none of your business. perhaps he wanted to spare the bloody details of how he’s going to win his freedom back. you relax and try to forget the uneasiness, trying to remember that winston is the priority right now, you shut your eyes. all of your fears are gathering together and it’s making you overthink your interaction with john, everything’s okay.

the loud sound of drilling makes you open your eyes, you look at the window and you see a familiar street. 

the new york continental was being rebuilt.

your apprehensiveness returns.

“john?” you look at him once again, “who shot winston?”

“he got hit during the line of fire.” this time he replies.

bullshit. winston would have an emergency plan before the shooting started.

“in new york?” you press.

“yeah.”

another bullshit. you could see through his lies, he’s clearly fresh out of france. what was he trying to do? 

“j-john.” you voice shakes almost as if you’re begging. something happened in france, something that saved both winston and john.

he looks at you with regret in his eyes. not enough to save you for what’s about to come.

“where are you taking me?” you sputter, your heart beating fast in anxiety, “i’ve done nothing but help you, please don’t do this!”

“he took winston with him and he found out.” he quietly defends.

“please help me, i don’t want to go back!” you begin crying, tears rolling down your face, “he’ll kill me!” 

he makes no reply and continues driving. with no hope left with him, you try to open your side of the door. he immediately notices this and grabs your arm trying to stop you from leaving, you begin hitting him with your other arm.

you know that he doesn’t want to do this but it feels so unfair. you’ve saved his life only to throw yours away.

“let go of me!” you scream.

“i’m sorry.” 

you feel a prick in your neck.

you feel a heavy sensation pulling at your leg, your eyes feeling groggy still wanting to keep your lids closed. however the sensation persists and this forces you to open your eyes and sit up.

a dark room welcomes you, only a small lamp helping you take a small look of where you are. specifically, on a plush bed and a decorated room. your body feels heavy  from exhaustion which makes you lean back to the pillow behind you.

pondering what made you feel so tired when you haven’t done much for the night, you’ve sewn back together…a pair of assassins for the night? or was it three? two austrians and…who?a french? no…no..it was winston. 

that’s right.

wait.

only you didn’t treat winston.

you bolt up, your body seemingly sobers from the realization.

john brought you here in exchange for his freedom. 

you look around to see some sort of presence in the room but with the darkness it was hard to tell, nevertheless you hopped off the bed and bolted to the wooden door nearby. no wonder the place looked familiar, only the marquis would have a place as frivolous as this.

you need to leave right now. your hand reaches for the door until you find your body being slammed on the floor. a groan leaves your throat, in pain you massage your forehead and look around.

oh goodness.

a gasp leaves your mouth when you see a chain wrapped around your ankle, you inspect your foot before tracing the lines of chains, which were sourced on the thick foot of the bed you were on.

you tug it to check its strength and to see how long it actually goes. it was long enough to walk around the room but not long enough to reach the door. this is basically your fully furnished torture chamber. 

fuck. fuck. fuck.

a loud creak echoes through the room.

you really hate how things are right now.

he’s going to kill you. kill you for leaving him, how you easily made him look humiliated for being abandoned.

feeling your knees weaken you sit back on the bed and your hands shake in trepidation. the marquis’ simple presence made you scared of him, you felt tears falling down once again and you lowered your head, not wanting to look weak right now.

his footsteps are heard through the room, the door loudly closes shut, a thud echoing. he doesn’t say a word.

you feel everything leave your body. hope,freedom and life mostly.

he walks up to you until you see his shoes on the floor, a blurry sight entering your eyes due to the tears, he touches you, tilting your chin upwards and you do everything not to flinch. was he going to snap your neck?

you look at him and he still looks the same, slightly more mature.

but the same man you met a few years ago, if you jumped back into your rose tinted glasses, you’d probably see the vincent you cherished at some point if you weren’t so frightened right now.

he inspects you, his eyes wandering through your face. searching for something that’s supposed to be there, his lips part almost as if he’s about to say something but you beat him to it.

“i-i’m sorry. i’m sorry.” apologies spill out of your lips, wanting to take the chance of saving yourself, “i-i’m so sorry! i didn’t mean to.” you cry. your hand reaches up to his hand that held your chin and you grip it for mercy, his hold on you weakens.

he doesn’t say anything and leans forward to you. you need him to say something, anything, whether it meant he’d simply say he wants yuu dead.

“please forgive me, just please don’t kil-“ he cuts you off.

with a kiss.

not a firm one but a surprisingly soft kiss on your lips.

he takes your hands into his and fiddles with it, trying to find his place in them just like before, he halts the kiss and leans towards your face. the man right in front of you wasn’t the marquis, it was vincent. 

your vincent.

the one with soft eyes looking at you with relief and adoration. the gaze that looked at you as if you were the most precious thing on earth, he wipes the tears on your cheeks and the next thing he says dissolves all sense of worry out of you.

“i could never hurt you.” he whispers.

author’s note: this kinda doesn’t make sense bc im so braindead rn to expand things but basically vincent finds medic!reader through winston and in exchange for the continental and john’s freedom, john brings medic!reader back to vincent. so basically she got ratted out lolz. this would work better if i made a vincent pov would be fun but i have a bunch of prompts to work on…(tempting) + he literally chained her down to him (hshshsh marriage allegory…) i kinda want to be funky dynamic of obsessed man + “ngl what’s wrong with this guy but i vibe with it” woman

[fernpetals]

Boogeyman

Imagine being kidnapped by Yandere John Wick.

Inspired by THIS post by @gea-chan96

Masterlist

Yandere John Wick x Reader Drabble

Part II

Warning: Kidnapping, restraints,

The Boogeyman.

That's what the man had uttered to you before he fled. Well, tried to flee. He was shot in the head, right in front of you. You would not have felt bad for him, otherwise---he was simply doing what he was told to. Delivering those 'gifts' at your doorstep. But one night you caught him, because the police could not, would not.

You have been pissed at the system, the police did nothing to help. But maybe now you understand why. But it is too late. Looking at your bound feet while your wrists rub against the ropes in your futile attempt to free them, you know you are fucked. The ropes do not dig into your skin, there is a smoothness to them, surprisingly. Despite so much struggle, there is only redness, irritated skin, and no sharp stings.

All you remember was the man being shot at from the side, while you stood frozen before he finally appeared in front of you. The Boogeyman, you assume. You wish you had run faster, you wish you were not frozen, but you were petrified, and he was quick.

The bed feels soft, but that does not stop you from shaking like a leaf, terrified as you hear the distinct muffled footsteps approaching towards the room. You whimper but nothing escapes through the tape.

So that is how the victims in those horror movies felt? Frozen, petrified, heart in mouth, barely breathing?

You wait with bated breath---each moment feels like closer to an impending doom, and finally, the door knob twists.

You notice his eyes first--nothing striking on the surface but his eyes have a vacuum that pulls you, there is no cruelty that you have been anticipating, neither mirth nor anger. You are simply staring at a pair of soulful brown eyes with so much depth you think you would have staggered on your feet if you were standing.

You let out a quivering breath through the tape and try to blink your tears away. Your wrists twist against the ropes with a new-found vigour but nothing happens, they remain firm, it is only your heartbeat that spikes, now thundering until you hear it drum against your ears.

So this is how you die? Does he have a gun? Or a butcher knife?

With each step he takes, you drag yourself further away, despite knowing well that you can go nowhere.

"It's okay, it's okay, I'm not going to hurt you, see?"

As if reading your mind, he raises his hands. They are big, you notice. So he is going to strangle you instead. The thought makes the tears finally escape your eyes. You try to regulate your breath, and you really do, but it is getting worse.

"It's okay. Breathe, slow down, breathe in, breathe out." His voice nears before you feel his cold hand on your shoulder, making you flinch.

But he does not take his hand off, if anything, he holds you firmer. it is grounding, but also terrifying. You focus on regulating your breathing while your head throbs and your years ring. His voice turns muffled for a moment before you feel his hand rubbing your back, your heart rating lowering, nearing normalcy.

Snivelling, you peer up at the man looming over you, something you dare to think of as concern is itched on his face as he cups your cheek. You gasp, feeling the cool air on your chapped lips.

When did he take the tape off?

"It will be okay. You are safe now."

Now?

Now?

"I was safe in my home."

Your mouth moves in its own accord but faster than you can regret, mirth dances in his deep dark eyes, the corners of lips lips ticking up.

"And this is your home now."

He declares with finality before his lips align with yours.

****

Happy Halloween everyone!

[prismdewdrop]

dangerous territory 

Summary: jason todd may be exhausted after a long night of vigilance, but if you've stayed up late just to talk to him, he's going to make sure he knows exactly why.

or: jason and reader are both idiots and should probably just kiss, but they're idiots, so they do... whatever this is instead.

Pairing: Jason Todd x gn!reader 

Word count: 2.9k

Warnings: mention of jason's death, mention of dead animals (in reference to the plot of john wick)

Tags: roommates in love, late-night conversations, mutual pining, jason is a little bit of an asshole (affectionate), he's not beating the little shit allegations, jason todd loves reader and is soo not normal about it, pov jason todd, everyone is 18+

A/N: long-time jason todd lover, first-time fic writer!

this work was inspired by @notnotacowpoke 's roommatesverse with jason, and they've been absolutely amazing with betaing and just going insane with me over this. you can read their work on ao3 :))

please feel free to leave your thoughts in the comments or in the tags! thanks for reading <3

edit (a big thank you): omg thank you so much for the response, everyone! i genuinely can't believe my first fic on a sideblog got so much of a reaction, and I'm so, SO grateful. my inbox is open for your thoughts or requests for jason and his roommate reader! i'd love to say hi and explore this au some more!

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

"Jay?" 

The sleep-soft call melts the night and the pain away. 

Halting his lonely trek to his room, Jason Todd turns towards your voice. A fresh bruise catches at the quickness of his movement, but he tucks away the wince into the back of his throat.

You're standing at your door, peering into the dark in his direction.

"Yeah, babe?" 

A low hiss makes it out of his throat as the endearment falls from his mouth. He waits to see if you caught it. You sounded exhausted, drowsy with much-needed sleep, and even in your apartment, the city was never quiet. Whether you heard it or not, though, you don't acknowledge it, waiting to hear a confirmation from him.

His heart aches for a split second, recognizing the fatigue in your voice, like the second skin he wears every day, accompanied by the tinge of fear that keeps him alive – and keeps you waiting to hear for sure if it's him.

"It's me. What's up?" he says again, louder this time.

You open the door wider, stepping more clearly into his view, just a little past the doorway. One side of your face and body is splashed in the ever-glistening lights of the city that leaks into your apartment in a haze of light gray.

The patch of light helps, and so does his helmet's night vision.

He can see you now, and like always, a breath catches in his throat–even rumpled with sleep, you look lovely and soft.

To you, he knows that he's just a larger patch of darkness against the dimness of your shared living room.

"You're back earlier than I thought you would be," you say finally.

He can see the concern flit over your face as you do your best to scan him in the darkness, checking in vain for any obvious wounds or hurts. He watches as your concern deepens when you're unable to make out anything in the dark, still reluctant to ask him to step into the light

"Slow night," he shrugs. 

He steps closer to you, not fully into the light but close enough that you can make out more of his form. He sees the relief wash over your face and your shoulders loosen a little as you clock his unaffected stride and note the lack of any visible wounds. He doesn't mention his new bruise. And he won’t, at least not until you tell him what it is that has kept you up so late. 

"I – well, I was waiting for you to come back..." 

A pause. 

You pull your lip between your teeth, eyes darting over his face, shoulders climbing towards your ears with tension. He can practically see your mind whirring, and he can see the exact moment you decide against finishing your sentence. Your eyes drop, and your shoulders with them. 

A sigh. 

Then: a small smile.

"I just wanted to make sure you were okay. Which... you are. Clearly. I think. At least, you look—"

You stop yourself, realising that you were babbling. With a pasted-on sheepish smile and an awkwardly cheery wave, you turn towards the door. 

"Well! You must be tired, get some rest. I'll see you tomorrow morning!"

The forced cheer cuts through your fatigue for only a few seconds as you rush the words out and turn towards your room, and he sees the corners of your mouth dipping down the moment you think he can't see your face. You're not a bad liar, by any means. It just so happens that most of the time you're together, you're the only thing Jason sees.

"No."

"What?"

Confusion contorts your face as it snaps to look at him again. Your eyebrows knit together, lips pursing and pushing out into a pout. It's cute, and he's quite sure you have no idea you do this.

"I'm going to camp right out here," he gestures at the (incredibly uncomfortable) couch as he looks straight at you, challenge evident in his voice and in the set of his squared shoulders – "And I am not resting until you tell me what you need."

You frown, lips pressed together into a tight line. You're weighing his response, trying to piece together just how serious he is. Jason reaches up to unclasp his helmet, lifting it off and letting you see that there's very little humor in his eyes – just enough to soften you into spitting out what you really wanted to say — but not enough to let this go.

That's enough for you, though, even in the limited light. Only three months of cohabitation and somehow the both of you could read each other just as well as the stacks of books that crowded the apartment – well worn, annotated, so many of them in various states of disarray, torn and stained and bent, nearly all with cracked spines, but still so so beloved.

He can read you a little better, though, what with his years of vigilance and, well. Everything else that followed.

Jason knows you – the same way he knows the locations of all of Bruce's safe houses, or the exact number of times he could call Tim 'the replacement' before something heavy would be launched at his head. That is to say, concerningly well.

There wasn't a twitch of your eyebrow or a blush or a glare or an angry press of your lips against each other, or a quirk of them (he may have studied your lips especially well) that he hadn't committed to memory, that he didn't know by heart. He wonders if you know, and he wonders what you'd think if you did.

Another sigh, your shoulders sag further, and he makes a mental note to take you through some exercises to improve your truly terrible posture.

"Jason, it's really nothing that can't wait till morning, I just –"

"Come on, dude," He scoffs, not unkindly. "I know you wouldn't have stayed up so late if it wasn't important enough to keep you up."

He nods at the dregs of coffee in the mug you'd forgotten on the centre table for emphasis. There's no hiding from the world's third (or maybe fourth?) best detective that it's the special, strong type that you usually reserve for the most daunting of deadlines.

You swallow up the rest of your words and let out a huff. This time, it's more frustrated than tired, and he can see the flash of irritation in your eyes. You glance away from him, arms coming up to clasp your elbows, encircling yourself in a loose hug. Discomfort radiates off of you in waves, and as you sink your teeth into your lips again; he notes the steady rise of your shoulders towards your ears.

A flash of annoyance goes through him. Not at you — never at you — but whatever new inconvenience this city has wrought for you. Whatever it is that has you up and walking around at 3 AM in the morning after a draining day of work and study and worrying about him.

He fights the urge to step closer, to wrap his hands around your shoulders, smoothing the bare skin and loosening the tightness in them. It would be so easy — there's barely four feet between the two of you, in a few steps he could be holding you and —

He stops himself from following that particular train of thought.

Red Hood faces open gunfire head-on almost daily. Sometimes, he even takes an explosion or two to the face. Then there was the time he'd died, followed by all the times he'd almost died. And he still couldn't remember the last time he'd felt true, bone-deep fear.

But this, this was dangerous territory he was terrified of treading. Yet he was unable to deny the existence of the temptation, always tugging on something in his chest like a low undercurrent, occasionally crashing over him in a wave of desire to touch and protect and hold. To slip his fingers through yours, through your hair, over your lips, between them.

He wonders if you know how easily he can read you, see the way your mind is running through excuses and half-truths to throw him off right now, extricate yourself from this uncomfortable situation and put a safe distance between you again. He should let you do it, really. Even you know that this territory is... not for you. Which is why you were now teetering at its edge after taking these few hesitant steps towards it – him.

But still. He can't ignore the tug. He can deny the waves, stop himself with a savage jerk on his mental reins. That low undercurrent, however – he nurses it, lets it guide him. He has to. It hasn't been long since you met, but he already doesn't know what he would do without it guiding him back to you, day after night after day, painful blow after near-death encounter.

And so he narrows his eyes at you, ready to counter anything you say that isn't the truth.

He feels like a dick; he really does – dangling his well-being in front of you to get you to just stand up and say it. He does this sometimes, pushing you and inconveniencing you – borderline bullying you into being honest with him.

But he knows he's right to be doing this. You have enough fire in you to push back when need be, when he crosses a line, and knowing you, you would've stormed back into your room without a backward glance and with a slam of your door, if whatever this was wasn't bothering you so much.

"I..." You paused to glare at him, just to show him that even if you were playing along, you did not appreciate playing his games.

Jason hides his smile and just raises his eyebrows.

Hands clenching into fists, you glare up at the ceiling as you wrestle with your words, as if hoping for divine intervention.

Another sigh, this time an admit of defeat.

"Fine – but I'm warning you – it's stupid –"

"With you, roomie, I doubt it is."

"Jason, can you please stop interrupting me? I'm really trying here."

Jason raises his palms in a silent apology, an acknowledgement of his dickish behavior, saving the real sorries for later.

You nod in acceptance.

"Okay." Deep breath. "I just wanted to... show you something. And spend some time with you. You know, because we haven't been able to catch up lately and I –" You stop, voice strangling around the next words, catching yourself. You take a breath before continuing. "And I could really use your... insights."

Your voice trails off, and he can feel you wince internally as you slip into impersonal corporate speak, an effort to avoid any words that were more intimate than they had the right to be.

Jason knows. Or at least he can make a damn good guess as to what the words you'd struggled to choke off were. He knew, sure as hell, it wasn't ‘insights ’, but acknowledging the unsaid words was very much stepping into the dangerous territory. And like you had when he slipped up and called you babe, he doesn't.

If he felt anything less than what he did feel, he would have joked about it, said something like: "Aww, bestie, I miss you too". Then you would laugh and shake your head and you would slip back into the easy camaraderie that had marked the beginning of your relationship – before Jason had started noticing the precise way in which the hearts that you signed your notes off with varied in size and number depending on the mood you were in, or the way your hand reached for his every time you crossed a road together.

So instead, he says nothing. He just waits.

"I'll be in my room," you say, arms wrapping around yourself again, a blush rising steadily up your neck and onto your cheeks. You nod at his gear. "Whenever you're ready, just come in. I'll be up."

Oh. They were to be alone. In your room. Probably on the bed. No, definitely on the bed. There's no space for a desk or chair in rooms that come with apartments in this part of Gotham, especially the ones affordable for students. No, there's only one place they can sit comfortably together.

Not that they haven't sat on your bed – or his bed – together before. They have, countless times. They've cuddled and huddled, most times with a pile of snacks for company.

On the days they'd given up on any possibility of productivity, they'd marathoned all their comfort movies and franchises before falling asleep, arms around each other, legs tangled, and depending on who'd had the worst week, a head tucked under another's chin, lead gently into slumber by the comforting rhythm of a heartbeat.

They'd binged Lord of the Rings (NOT The Hobbit series; you both agreed that that was a waste of time, though Jason had stronger, angrier feelings towards it than you did), almost all the Austen adaptations (you could never decide which Emma you liked better – the one with Anya Taylor Joy had the beautiful production and a great depiction of the relationship between Emma and Harriet, but the one with Gwyneth Paltrow had a certain charm, and the leads good chemistry); John Wick that one time – he'd adored the way you'd poked him and asked him if he could do/had done some of the particularly impressive stunts (he could, and you'd been thoroughly impressed); Fast and Furious – only till the sixth one though – Jason personally thought Fast Five was where they should have ended their binge, but you were partial to the sixth one (because of the romance, you said), and Jason had grudgingly accepted it's merits. 

That was, what, at least 40 hours of just watching movies? And that didn't even include the time they'd spend just hanging out together, reading silently, or watching something on their own (though one of them would inevitably end up joining the other).

No, he's definitely been in your bed, comfortable with the tugging undercurrents of longing in every laugh you shared, the way you'd sniffled unfailingly at the last march of the Ents, and when his eyes watered at the ride of the Rohirrim, the way you'd both sighed at Darcy's confession, and when you'd turned to Jason as you watched John Wick lay waste to New York's criminal underworld in revenge for his dead dog, and ask: 

"You'd do this for me, right?"

"Absolutely."

"Okay, good. I'd maybe hire someone to do this for you, since you know. I can't kill a man with my bare hands."

You could kill a man with your smile, though, Jason remembered thinking. You killed him a little every day and brought him back just as well, each time just a little bit more whole than the last time he'd been brought back to life.

Sure, he'd been in your bed. But not like this, not when the darkness of the night had melted that thing in his chest – the thing that searched for you the moment he woke up – and brought it out from where it was safe in its cage, to the back of his mouth, the tips of his fingers, the pupils of eyes – poised right on the edge of saying, doing, showing the wrong thing.

Say no, the admittedly miniscule part of his brain that didn't leap to fulfill your every wish insisted. They've given you an out already. Just say you're more tired than you look and talk tomorrow. This isn't just treading - this is running blind and unarmed into dangerous territory. Say no.

But... they miss me, the overwhelmingly persuasive part of him that ached to sweep that particularly unrepentant loose curl into place every day reminds him. They're up and they're worried and they want me to come talk to them because they miss me. I miss them.

His heart twists. He can't say no, never could.

Jason wonders if you know that he would walk into a shootout blindfolded, without armor and with a grin, if that could bring you anything worthwhile. He turns a fond smile your way, his careful expression melting away. 

Your breath catches as the corners of his mouth lift. When Jason smiles like that, his eyes crinkle, they shine at you as if you're all he sees, and it was heartachingly beautiful in it's rarity.

Jason's smile was a golden patch of sun on a cold day; you're powerless in its wake to do anything except curl up in its warmth and bask – always longing for more and more. 

"You know I wouldn't say no to that. I'll be right there,” he says with all the seriousness of a wedding vow.

You fight the urge to linger, to drink in his smile with your eyes and infuse every inch of your body with it's sweetness. You force a small smile of your own and with a wiggle of your fingers, you return to your room, feeling his gaze settle on you until you close the door behind you gently.

He doesn't hear the click of the lock, and so when he heaves his own sigh of defeat, it's in the safety of his own room, between him and the busy silence of the city.

[guiltyasdave]

if only

pairing: Dave York x f!reader

summary: Dave loses the one person he ever cared about. (kind of a John Wick AU if you squint)

word count: 1k

tags/warnings: dark content!!! so much angst, death, grief, violence, murder, suicide, alcohol consumption, able-bodied reader, no use of y/n, no carol or daughters in this, i call him david in this because i wanted to

a/n: @almostfoxglove said let's write some angst and i said bet (thank you for the moodboard freya and SORRY i'm late!). don't say i didn't warn you, and i'm so serious, if any of those tags might be triggering for you, maybe sit this one out <3

follow @guiltyasdavenotifs for fic updates and find my full masterlist here :)

dividers by @saradika-graphics 🤍

Nothing good ever lasts. 

David York knows this. Has known it for a long time. He should have known better than to hope that it would last with you. 

Now he’s staring at fresh earth, flowers in elaborate arrangements, a stone engraved with your name. Voices in his ear, hands on his shoulder, well-meant sentiments that he doesn’t hear. 

You were always the people-person. The one who effortlessly made small talk while he could silently stand beside you, one hand tethered to the small of your back. The one whose wide smile made up for the lack of his. 

Now it’s just him. 

He arrives at the house after far too many hours, far too many pointless conversations in which he was searching for you to exchange a glance, the hint of an eye roll from him and the glint of amusement from you. Only to remember that he’s there, wearing black and letting people drone on about what a loss and still so young because you’ll never catch his eye again. 

Kicking off his shoes and loosening his tie, he sinks into the couch cushions. They smell like you, faint traces of your perfume from how often you spent your mornings curled up on the soft fabric. Wriggling your feet under his thigh where he was sitting next to you, reading the paper and jokingly grumbling over the sudden jolt of cold. His breath comes out in a sob. 

Daisy, the black cat he had finally agreed to on your last birthday, jumps up to him and settles on his chest. He welcomes the pinpricks of claws digging into his skin, the warm weight that settles on top of him. His fingers trace through the soft fur, like yours did so many times. He wonders if the small creature knows, understands that its human is not coming back.

David only gets up to pour himself a whiskey, then another. To feed the buzzing in his head until he’s numb, until the void in his chest stops feeling like it will swallow him whole. 

He tortures himself, watching photos and videos. Vacations, Christmas, your wedding, the normal days when you shoved a camera in his face for no particular reason, freezing the memory of your smiles. It’s stupid, but he’s waiting, hoping for your eyes to look up. Hoping they’ll meet his one more time. The glint of understanding that you had reserved exclusively for him, the constant feeling that there was a secret joke only the two of you were in on. 

He always knew he would love you until the day he died. David doesn’t think of himself as a spiritual man, doesn’t believe in fate, in soulmates. But if he did, he knew that you were his. 

He had wanted out. Desperately wanted to get out. For you, to be with you, to keep you out of danger. Fulfill one more task, one more impossible task. Then you’ll be out. A bitter, double-tongued promise. One he should’ve known better than to believe. 

He wasn’t stupid, wasn’t naive. But he had hoped. You had given him hope, and he’d let himself believe. It was all his fault. 

His fault, when he’d come home, and there you were. A lump on the mattress of the bed you used to share. Not moving, your limbs contorted in ways that made his stomach heave. Your eyes blank, unblinking, unseeing. And the blood. God, there had been so much blood. Soaking through white fabric, staining his hands as they flew over your body, praying, begging that there was still time, that there was something he could do. That he hadn’t failed you, like he had always known he would. His fault, all his fault. 

If only he had been there earlier. If only he had made your home safer, if only he had been more prepared. If only he had never been selfish enough to keep you in his life. If only he had never met you. You’d still be alive, then. Never tainted by him, by the darkness that he carried around like a curse. 

There’s nowhere for all the love he has for you to go. He used to pour it into you, never let you go a single day without knowing how entirely he’s yours. It stays inside him now, burning a hole through his chest. Unable to let go of it, holding it like a grudge, letting it push him forward. Down a road he knows you wouldn’t have wanted him to follow. 

But you’re not here anymore, and there’s nothing else he can do. He’s doing it for you. Once he stops, once he lets go, he’s not yours anymore. He doesn’t know who he’ll be then. If he’ll be anyone. 

He plans. Methodical, determined. No mistakes, no second chances. He doesn’t stop. Cold rage flows through his veins, fuels him, drives him, his movements. He pulls countless triggers, stabs countless knives, lands countless punches. Doesn’t flinch, doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t listen. 

Until there is no one left. Until all he sees is blood, and death, and darkness surrounds him like a thick fog. He sets it all on fire, lets it burn to the ground, but it can’t reach him. The blinding brightness, the heat of the flames. All he feels is emptiness, the void where his heart used to sit. 

It isn’t until he’s back at home that he realizes he’s wounded. He feels the ghost of your fingers where you used to help patch him up. Almost feels your breath huff against his neck. Misses the way your lips used to press against his skin when you were done. 

God, he misses you so much. It builds inside of him, flooding his lungs until he’s gasping for air, but he can’t let go of it. The grief, the anger, you. Once he lets go, lets it spill from between his ribs, you’ll be really truly gone. He can’t live like this. 

David York is methodical. Determined. No mistakes, no second chances. 

His eyes close. His finger curls around the trigger, the movement as familiar as embracing an old friend. He will not live like this.

thank you for reading <3 as always, reblog and comments are love!

[bbr0wni3]

Imagine being John Wick's girlfriend, he takes you to the hotel he always goes to, once you make yourselves at home you enter the bathroom to change, after a while you come out wearing a soft little skirt and a simple white tank top that it is almost see through as he can clearly see your bra. You start approaching the bed, with one pair of deep dark eyes following you inside the room, you stand in front of him, and you let yourself think you're so brave to let this man taste every little inch of you with only his eyes, he watches every move you make.

He begins placing a hand on your waist, touching the fabric of your clothes, he absorbs every little sensation of the soft texture that he feels like it's burning on the tip of his fingers, he grows hungry every time your sweet perfume scent hits his nose. Craving you even more on each minute that goes by.

He starts caressing softly but also provocatively the inner parts of your thighs. He feels his pants grow tighter and suffocate the aching feeling that grows between his legs every time he hears the little gasps that come out of your soft and moist lips.

You start to touch his broad shoulders, tracing circles with the tip of the fingers of your right hand, slowly going down his chest, you listen to his breath rhythm change when you do so, and as you both keep an intense eye contact, the buttons of his waistcoat are unfastened with only four of your fingers. His hands start going up to grasp intensively your ass as soon as you start raising your leg to sit on top of his big thighs, straddling him and laying your arms around his neck as you both still eat yourselves with only your passionate gazes.

[tedsbogusjourney]

Blood and Silence

genre : one-shot - hurt/comfort pairing : John Wick x female reader notes : first time writing him so I'm testing the waters with a short one-shot I wrote in a rush of inspiration. summary : Bloodied, John Wick cradles your face, his gaze raw and unguarded in a fleeting moment of quiet.

John Wick plunged his dark eyes into yours, his gaze usually cold and unreadable seemed raw and deep. Almost vulnerable at that instant. His strong hands that usually killed were delicately cradling your worried face, his thumb stroking the soft skin of your cheek as if you were something fragile, something precious. A long heavy silence stretched between you. As if he was afraid to break you. Your glassy eyes settled on the droplets of blood on his face and you blinked, lips parted. Did you need to say anything? With him, you knew you didn’t have to. The gesture felt almost intimate coming from him, a man who lived in shadows and violence. Your heart raced, not from fear, but from the intensity of his gaze. This was a side of him few ever saw; raw, unguarded, and human. His thumb stilled on your cheek, and for a moment, the world outside ceased to exist.

“You’re safe now…” He uttered, voice deep, genuine and echoing faintly in the hollow space of the church.

Your heart was hammering in your chest,a chaotic mix of adrenaline and relief. The memory of bloodshed that took place before still lingered but his presence, his touch, anchored you. You searched his eyes, seeing not just the killer, but the man beneath. The man who had risked everything for you.

"John…" you whispered, your voice trembling but soft. Almost like a prayer. His name was all you could manage, but it carried everything you couldn’t say. Your fear, your gratitude, your unspoken feelings.

His gaze softened, just for a moment, and he leaned in, his forehead gently resting against yours. The warmth of his breath mingled with yours, and for the first time since this nightmare began, you felt safe. Truly safe.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “Always.”

[princessbrunette]

I don't know if you had already answered this on your blog, but I was wondering would any of the girls be friends? Like I'm talking kitty, puppy, deer, lamb, and bunny. In my head I always pictured Kitty and Puppy being best friends and Bunny being more of an outsider because she's with Rafe.

this is interesting !! let me dissect all of ‘em <3

bunny:

you’re right — no one really wants to be friends with the poor girl because she’s rafe’s ride or die, and well — who trusts rafe? on first glance, they all would assume she’s just as wicked and evil as her boyfriend, but it would only take one interaction with her to know she’s not at all. i think with all the girls, their view on bunny shifts from being suspicious, to being pitying very quickly. whilst i don’t think they’d even get close enough to be friends, the general consensus of her would be “shes so sweet, idk what she sees in rafe.” or “we need to get her out of there!”

if she’s gonna make an unlikely companionship with anyone, it would be a universe where lamb!reader is dating one of the pogues. her and lamb come from similar kooky upbringings, and their complete opposite ways of presenting themselves would make for an interesting and hilarious dynamic. bunny teaches lamb about all the girl things she’d been deprived of, and lamb applies biblical meaning to bunny’s life lessons. she also thinks rafe is the devil but that’s a story for another day.

kitty:

whilst kitty and puppy would be a funny dynamic — and it works, as traditionally pup is with john b and kitty is with jj, my favourite friendship pairing might have to be kitty and deer. kitty feels less responsible for deer like she might with puppy, and as they both have super niche interests and ways of being, they’d have a lot to talk about.

my favourite thing about their dynamic would be the way they handle confronting situations. they’re both big people watchers, often silently floating around, wide eyed and unnervingly observant — however when the attention is drawn to them in a negative light, deer is quick to flee — upset and terrified of confrontation, whereas kitty will stay, tense up and run her mouth protectively of herself and her friend. she may be quiet but she can be lethal when provoked.

puppy:

puppy would get along with anyone, as she’s super friendly and sociable. in the most versatile way, she adapts to the needs of her friend — meaning if she’s hanging out with deer, she knows she’ll be doing a lot of the yapping whilst deer listens and observes before giving advice or an opinion. with kitty, it’s a yap off, the two of them always having alot to say. i can’t really see pup and mouse crossing paths, and i don’t think lamb would particularly take to her.

i am aware i said bunny wouldn’t be around many other readers, but other than lamb, if anyone will break through it’s pup. she and bun have the same energetic, sexually charged ditsy ways, so i think around eachother they’d be able to unapologetically be themselves and treat the world as their playground. their friendship would be less about sitting and talking and more about running around getting into chaos and spending money on rafes card. in another world they’re f4f gfs.

mouse:

i’ve spoken of this many times, but an underrated yet unstoppable duo is mouse and kitty. they enable eachother in the worst ways, mouse teaching kitty how to not get caught when shop lifting, kitty teaching mouse how to fuck, smoke cigs and mouth off (shes too shy to do the last, and lets kitty fight many of her battles)

they spend alot of time together, perhaps to the point of being completely codependent, never seen without the other. kitty was even there the first time mouse had sex, holding her hand. they bicker, but it’s because they care about eachother.

[sugardollcurse]

hi girlie! i love your writing and i wanted to know if you could write some headcanons for the beatles having cute pillow/tickle fights with their partner?

they’re just so cheeky and playful i can totally see them doing adorable stuff like that <3

𝒑𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒐𝒘/𝒕𝒊𝒄𝒌𝒍𝒆 𝒇𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒔 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎

꒰ pairing ꒱ paul mccartney x reader, john lennon x reader, george harrison x reader, ringo starr x reader

꒰ note ꒱ hi love!! omg this is the cutest request.. absolutely... HOPE YOU LIKE!!

꒰ JOHN ꒱

“Oh, you wanna start somethin’? You sure, sweetheart? 'Cause I don't play fair.”

Don't be fooled by the quote. He usually starts it, obviously.

Throws a pillow at you while you’re reading or lying down, pretending it “fell off the couch.”

You call him out. He grins. “Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

He absolutely tickles first without warning.

Like grabs your knee out of nowhere and laughs when you jolt and nearly fall off the bed.

If you fight back (and you do), he’ll act betrayed.

“How dare you. I’m delicate.”

Has this maniacal, delighted cackle when you get him in a bad spot, like if you manage to get under his arms or sides.

“You little-!” squealing but like, lennon-style: gruff and annoyed but also genuinely losing it.

It turns into a wrestle.

Every time.

He pins you and you squirm and he’s laughing through his teeth but trying to stay composed.

Afterward, he’ll lay dramatically on the floor like he’s been “mortally wounded” and reach for you. “Kiss me farewell, I’m not long for this world.”

Lives for these moments, because you make him laugh without needing to say anything clever.

꒰ PAUL ꒱

“C’mon, love, no fair hittin’ me when m’back’s turned!”

Paul’s the most playful out of the four.

Pillow fights happen everywhere. The bed. The tour bus. Hotel rooms.

Will literally start a tickle war just to make you laugh. “You’ve got the cutest laugh, y’know that?”

He’s a sucker for when you get serious, grabbing a pillow, narrowing your eyes, all that.

You’ll be mid-fight and he’ll suddenly scoop you up like you weigh nothing and just drop you onto the bed while giggling uncontrollably.

He is ticklish.

Very.

Under his ribs and around his neck. If you find out, he’s doomed.

“No no no-no! I’m serious, that’s ILLEGAL!”

Tries to pretend he’s got the upper hand but loses instantly when you surprise him.

Loves the aftermath just as much, messy hair, both of you breathless and curled up in a pile of pillows.

Will 100% nuzzle you and go, “Let’s call it a truce... until tomorrow, anyway.”

Sometimes he makes the excuse that it’s “exercise,” then uses it as a reason to tackle you again five minutes later.

꒰ GEORGE ꒱

“I’m not doin’ anything. You’re the one flailin’ round like a goose.”

George doesn’t start the pillow fight.

He plots it.

You tease him earlier in the day, make a snide little comment, and then it comes back to haunt you at 10p.m.

One look in his eyes and you know: oh no.

Smacks you with a pillow once and runs. It’s on.

He’s sneaky, hides behind furniture, pops up and goes “Boo!” with a flying pillow.

When it escalates to tickling, he gets this wicked grin.

He knows exactly where to go to make you yelp.

You get him back and he lets out this startled squawk.

Tries to be smooth about it but ends up giggling like a schoolboy when you chase him around the room.

Gets this low, breathless laugh when he’s actually tickled, it’s very real.

George is the type to instigate under the guise of complete innocence.

You’ll walk past him and he’ll just bap the back of your leg with a pillow and keep strumming his guitar like nothing happened.

“What? That wasn’t me. Must’ve been the wind.”

He’s a pinner. Uses his longer limbs to trap you in place.

꒰ RINGO ꒱

“You hit me in the eye! That’s assault! I’m callin’ the coppers.”

He won’t start the pillow fight, but the second you bop him with a pillow?

“Oh, that’s it. I was bein’ nice.”

Throws one back, then laughs like a little kid when it hits your head and you freeze in mock betrayal.

He screeches if you tickle him. It’s not subtle.

Not particularly fast, so he tries to distract you with jokes and accents.

“Oh no, m’lord, spare me the indignity-!”

You end up collapsing on top of him and he just holds you there, arms around your back, chuckling into your shoulder.

He starts tickle fights more than anyone, especially if you’re trying to be serious. He’ll wiggle his fingers and go, “Are you mad? You look mad. Let’s fix that.”

You’ll be halfway through folding laundry when he pounces. Or in the middle of brushing your teeth. Nowhere is safe.

He laughs so much it becomes contagious.

He loses all pillow fights. Will loudly accuse you of cheating every time.

Ends with him laying across your lap, still breathless, grinning up at you. “Next time I’m bringing reinforcements.”

He never does.

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