She/ they 80% of the time - 24 as of April - neurodivergent mess - demi/pan - soft of heart / full of rage - homestuck classpecter - Midsy💚 Asks are open, but my notifs suck so I’m sorry,
Alright I should probably tag my stories properly, or at least try to so
If you’re looking for my sagau series it will be under nyg which stands for not your god since that was the base inspiration for this variant
Here’s the Masterlist
If you’re looking for my Linked Universe stuff that I did a little bit ago, it’ll be under luy! Don’t think I have to spell that one out for you
Here’s the Masterlist
If you’re looking for my Obey Me! Stuff, it’ll be under ome!
Here’s the Masterlist
If you’re looking for my older writings,.. man so am I QuQ
Edit: might as well put what I’m currently working on here, bc yes I am in fact still writing even though I don’t post any of it bc none of it is anywhere close to finished.
- Honkai Star Rail character pieces
- as well as a Honkai Star Rail x Subnautica crossover
- a Fire Emblem Three Houses fic that basically tries to mold the two routes I played into one
- also a Fire Emblem Heroes fic that’s more like a collection of soap opera episodes that vaguely fit together maybe
- trying to rework my Linked Universe au or whatever, girl my notes are all over the place and completely nonsensical. All while trying to make sure everything I already posted still at least makes sense with the rest of what I had in mind.
- probably remake my Genshin stuff with my self insert specifically. I won’t replace the old fics though, dw
- writing a full ancient beast au complete with worldbuilding bc I physically could not control myself
- Marvels Loki, both the mcu and aoa versions (and whatever other Loki I find to be fair). And literally no one else from there which is kinda funny
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Heya!! can i request for yandere john wick (headcannons or give anything will work)
You probably know which Anon i am. Please forgive me i got a little too happy cuz you write so good for such good stuff!
Yandere John Wick Headcanons
Warnings: Obsessive Behaviour, Stalking, Snooping, Very Brief Implication of Smut, Just John in Love <333, No Pronouns used for Reader except ‘You.
A/N: I wanted to get these out before I watch the new John Wick film; one which I have been waiting for for the last 4 years <3
O B S E S S I V E
Absolutely an obsessive lucid yandere – he may be in love, but he’s not delusional.
Regardless of whether you came before or after Helen, John knows how cut-throat his profession is; how quickly everything can go from an is to a was.
Thus, nothing is certain. Not you, not him, not your relationship.
So when he realises he’s in love with you – a process as gradual as the construction of Earth itself – he’s never letting you out of his sight.
This might manifest as something as subtle as him visiting you more than usual, staying, longer during movie nights, trying to get you to spend the night more often; inconspicuous displays of a strengthening friendship you and John had accrued over the last couple years or so.
But, unbeknownst to you, he’s around even when you’re unaware.
An unmarked black car parked a house or two down the street, shielded by the shadows of the trees as moonlight casts a stark white against the black.
An inconspicuously-dressed civilian who’s been sat on that park bench for the last two hours as you read your book.
And, eventually, the tiny camera attached underneath your sofa, monitoring every coming and going of your house.
You know about none of this, of course.
Sure, you may have suspicions that the car down the street – one you’ve never seen before in your life – could be doing something… but who were you to judge ? There could be a perfectly logical explanation !
But John keeps enough of himself – and you – in the dark so you’d never suspect him.
I mean, why would you ? He’s John Wick ! Nicest, quietest guy on the block.
If ever he’s on a mission; John relies on that camera more than he’s like to admit.
In his downtime, while resting up at the Continental, he’ll check his phone, see that you’ve gone to the kitchen to make something or other, and wait for you to return to the sofa until he can put his phone away.
Even with his logical mind, he can’t help but fall partial victim to his superstition that, once you reach the sofa, nothing bad can happen to you.
The idea of putting up more cameras has crossed his mind.
Multiple times.
But you’re attentive. You’d notice something as small as a little blinking light a mile off.
Hencewhy he takes to manual surveillance when he’s not out earning a thriving.
He also lowkey interrogates you.
“You found a boyfriend yet ?”
You give a sharp laugh.
“If I had, you’d be the first to know,”
You already tell John practically everything that happens to you – as best friends do – but whenever you ask John something similar, he’ll skirt around your questions.
“No time for that,” he’ll tell you whenever you try to identify the new mystery partner in his life.
“You’re always so busy, John-John !”
Ah, his nickname. A mythic specialty no other has had the privilege to call him.
And John gives a rare smile.
“I’m never too busy for you.”
And you know he means it.
Whenever you need him, he’s there.
And you try to be there for him as much as possible, but given how elusive he is, he rarely seems to need it.
You want to help as best you can, regardless.
So, one day, out of the blue, you hand John a set of keys.
He’s a smart man. But he can’t wrap his head around what you’re trying to tell him.
And when he stares at you with a narrowed look, your eyes roll, the edges of your lips curling up.
“They’re keys, John,” you say. And you gesture around the living room, general in your manner. “To my house.”
And John stares at you for a moment. Then two.
“(Y/N), I’m not trained to be a housekeeper.”
“Oh my god, John–”
You have to explain to him that you’re not trying to get him to clean your house or care for it. You’re opening it up to him.
“I trust you more than anyone else to know how everything works here,” you say, a hand on his shoulder. He’s trying to keep dead eye contact with you, but the feeling of your fingers holding him with a softness he’s never known is like being branded.
“So,” you smile. “If you ever need it for anything, you can get in.”
Honestly, John has been granted few mercies in his time; makeshift alliances with murderers who were loyal to none, not even themselves, his life saved only by his ability to barter and his renowned skill for death. And never are these mercies granted without a price.
So to have you gift him a set of keys to the place you are most vulnerable takes John a while to come to terms with, shall we say.
Remember earlier when I mentioned John’s idea to install more cameras ?
Well, now you’ve given him a perfect in.
Plus, he now has access to all your personal belongings.
At first, he did try to restrain himself.
Trust me, he did.
But, as the days grew into weeks, your keys sat on his bedside, glinting under any source of light that could find its way inside.
And, as if the Gods aligned circumstance on his favour, you would be away from home for a week.
A trip to such-and-such a place – John had the address memorised even before you did.
You’d best believe that, although he initially had his reservations about 1.) you going on the trip, and 2.) using your absence as a means to snoop around your home, John is not immune to whim and fancy. Especially when it came to you.
He’s phantasmic; he leaves no trace, not even fingerprints as he prowls your apartment, looking for…well, anything, really.
He avoids stooping so low as to rifle through your underwear drawer like a stalker. Instead, he uses what he likes to call ‘environmental storytelling’ to make deductions about you.
He’s a very intuitive, perceptive individual, so the story of your everyday routing unfolds for him as if he were reading a book.
And, yes, the temptation to peek at the…less savoury pieces of your inventory did become overwhelming when he could no longer be satiated with the literature you consumed, the worn look of your favourite outfit, your secret money stash you kept in the biscuit tin in the kitchen.
To make a long story short, John walked out your house with a short of yours.
And, when he got home, he did the only thing he could think to do.
He put it on a pillow and pretended it was you.
Cuddles with it whenever he’s missing you. Or sad.
Maaay have cried into it on more than one occasion.
Maaay have done…other things to it when he wasn’t feeling upset.
He’s absolutely paranoid that you’ll find it one day, despite his aptitude at covering his tracks, so he tries not to invite you to his house as much as he can.
However, as your friendship progresses further, that’s unavoidable.
While you may not be dating yet, just know that John holds you in the highest of regards, and he’ll never let anything – including himself – hurt you.
Just ignore his eye wandering to the walk-in cupboard in the hallway; that’s just where he’s kept his imitation of you.
Reblog for more content like this! It helps creators like myself tremendously and it is greatly appreciated :-)
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Black dragons delight in suffering and ruin. While other chromatic dragons scheme for power and wealth, these dragons seek to tear down all they see and rule over what remains.
ME: *after watching the whole four john wick franchise and proceeds to watch constantine (2005) again then goes to tumblr to discover keanuverse and keanu reeves fandom*
Red dragons take whatever they desire and burn to ash anything that stands in their way. These chromatic dragons endlessly desire more—more magic, territory, treasure, or whatever else inflames their cruel ambitions.
Tysm to @saturnalia2808 and @thatgingernerdgirl for the help on this one 🫶
Let’s imagine a cozy yet chaotic living room decorated with mismatched Christmas lights, a slightly leaning Christmas tree, and stockings hung unevenly on a mantle. Snow falls gently outside the window. The Keanuverse characters have gathered for an unusual holiday celebration.
Jack Traven: Setting down a plate of cookies. “Alright, guys. I’m used to defusing bombs under pressure, but organizing a Christmas party for this group might be my toughest mission yet.”
Ted Logan: Strumming an air guitar. “Whoa, dude. This setup is most excellent! But where’s the eggnog? No Christmas party is complete without the nog.”
Neo: Sitting quietly, observing the decorations. “You know, in the real world, Christmas doesn’t exist. This is…strange, but… I like it.”
Kevin Lomax: Leaning back on the couch with a glass of whiskey. “That’s because the ‘real world’ doesn’t have soul, Anderson. Christmas is about indulgence. Family. And occasionally, cutting a few deals under the mistletoe.”
John Constantine: Lighting a cigarette, ignoring the no-smoking sign Jack put up. “And what would you know about family, Kevin? You’re as loyal as a snake. If you’re making any “deals” tonight, I’ll be watching.”
Johnny Utah: Chuckling as he tosses a football between his hands. “Relax, Constantine. It’s Christmas. Can we go one night without someone accusing someone else of being evil? Let’s just kick back and have a good time.”
John Wick: Polishing a gun at the table. “The last time I kicked back, I lost everything. I’m not here for “good times.” I’m here for quiet.”
Jack Traven: Raising his hands. “Whoa, Wick. No need to bring the intensity tonight. I hid all the sharp objects and ammo before you got here. Let’s just… try to be festive.”
Ted Logan: Grinning at Wick. “Wick, my dude. You need some holiday cheer. Maybe play some video games, or we could jam together!”
Neo: Tilting his head. “Wait. You play instruments?”
Ted Logan: Grinning. “I’m half of Wyld Stallyns, dude. We’re only, like, the greatest band in all of space and time.”
Kevin Lomax: Rolling his eyes. “Space and time? Is that what we’re doing now?”
John Constantine: Taking a long drag from his cigarette. “He’s not the weirdest thing in the room. We’ve got Neo over there still questioning his existence, Wick brooding in the corner, and you, Kevin, pretending you don’t have the devil on speed dial.”
Johnny Utah: Throwing a football at Constantine, who catches it effortlessly. “Alright, let’s cool it. How about a game?”
Jack Traven: Perking up. “A game sounds good. Something everyone can handle. No high stakes, no bullets, no Matrix glitches.”
Neo: Narrowing his eyes. “If it’s dodgeball, I’m out.”
Kevin Lomax: Smirking. “Poker?”
John Constantine: Grinning slyly. “I’m in.”
John Wick: Shaking his head. “Pass.”
Ted Logan: Spinning around. “Secret Santa! That’s what we need.”
Johnny Utah: Nodding. “Great idea. Let’s do it.”
Jack Traven: Clapping his hands. “Alright, who’s got the hats for drawing names?”
Later, everyone exchanged hastily picked gifts under the tree.
Neo: Opening a pair of sunglasses. “…Who got me these?”
Ted Logan: Grinning. “Dude, you can never have enough shades.”
Kevin Lomax: Opening a leather-bound notebook. “A notebook? How original.”
John Constantine: Lighting another cigarette. “Thought you could use it for all your courtroom lies. Merry Christmas.”
Johnny Utah: Opening a surfboard keychain. “Thanks… whoever thought I needed another reminder of my past life.”
John Wick: Opening a dog collar. “…….”
Jack Traven: Clearing his throat nervously. “Uh, that was meant to be symbolic. For loyalty.”
Ted Logan: Opening a guitar pick. “This… is most triumphant.”
The group exchanges small smiles, and for a brief moment, there’s peace. Until…
Neo: Noticing the tree flickering. “The lights…they’re glitching.”
Kevin Lomax: Smirking. “Here we go. Who rigged the tree?”
John Constantine: Grabbing his coat. “Looks like Christmas just got interesting.”
It all fades to black as the tree sparks, and the group scrambles to figure out what’s going wrong. What do you think is happening?
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Pairing : David Allen Griffin x female!reader
Genre : headcanons
Note : Keep in mind, I've never watched the movie. I'm writing this from intuition.
Warning : needles
Divider by @enchanthings-a
David Allen Griffin loved the sight of the needle piercing the flesh. The needle pierced slowly, deliciously penetrating the flesh. Penetrated the person. It was almost intimate, like sex, he thought. But he preferred the fear or the thrill before sex. It was more alive, more intense. More exhilarating when two contradictory emotions collided. When the needle penetrated the skin, it was slow. Each time, a sick rush twisted his insides, whether he was a witness, a recipient, or, most often in his case, dealing with one of his victims. Whether it was drawing blood for a health check or, more commonly, using an anesthetic to drug his victims, he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the needle of the syringe as it pierced the skin while the victim began to fall asleep, sinking into a kind into slumber before waking up later. A form of dark communion, a moment where he holds absolute control over life and consciousness.
You were an angel. All you lacked was your halo. But he saw it, unlike you and the others. You had become an obsession for him. He couldn’t stop thinking about you, about your very being. He had to watch you from a distance. You were supposed to be his next victim, but something unfamiliar stirred in him. Of course, he first wanted to indulge in the pleasure of the sensual hunt, to draw you to him. To possess you. He had met you by chance in a supermarket while doing his own shopping. Your aura had drawn him in for a reason he could hardly explain, despite the cliché of the situation. Yes, all those romantic movies with the clichéd meetings when the two protagonists were shopping or something else. He hated that kind of forced situation. And yet… he couldn’t help but approach you, despite the absurdity of a situation he initially despised. You were struggling to reach a high shelf of canned goods. He approached you stealthily and took the item you wanted. A startle overcame you as your large eyes turned to him, a mask of innocence on your face. Genuine. He could never forget your grateful smile, your deep eyes, when he handed you the item with a charming smile you couldn’t ignore. You thanked him with an adorable little laugh that shook him deep inside as you walked away to continue your shopping. A new obsession, a new victim.
Of course, he had taken care to photograph you from every angle, each one he found perfect. The photos were displayed on a wooden board, hung on one of the walls in his dark apartment, like an altar devoted to you. He would trace your lips in the photos with his gloved index finger, slowly, reverently, imagining his own lips in place of that touch. His lips against yours. Would fate bring you together? He didn’t believe in fate. If anything, he believed in force. In control. He would create his own destiny, to feel his lips on yours, not muffled by tape meant to silence your screams.
Sometimes, he would sneak into your apartment and shift things almost imperceptibly to unsettle you. Sometimes, he took objects you considered insignificant, long forgotten, their absence barely noticeable. Vacation trinkets long tucked away in a closet that you wouldn’t notice missing. Sometimes, he was a bit bolder, stealing some of your underwear. He loved watching you go about your little routines: waking up late on weekend mornings, padding across the floor barefoot, or lounging on the couch with your breakfast.
He had started leaving you small messages. Not love letters. Fragments of sentences you couldn’t understand. A word scrawled on the back of a receipt. A phrase etched faintly into the condensation on your mirror. Things no one else would notice, but that unsettled you. The message was never direct, always vague, like a whisper. He wanted you to feel a presence without being able to name it. He wanted your paranoia to grow slowly. For you to doubt yourself before doubting the world. He wanted to be felt. One morning, you found a note on your table:
You forgot to close the curtains. The light suits you so well.
You double-checked the locks. You glanced over your shoulder. You started to wonder if you were imagining things. But deep down, you know you're not.
He had followed you into the alley behind your place that night. Everything was ready. The syringe in his pocket. The glove already on. You were alone, as expected. And yet… he hesitated. His finger trembled on the plastic of the syringe. Warmth. Fragility, maybe. He couldn’t do it. Not yet. He turned away, dissolving into the shadows. He had given in. He didn’t know why. He only knew it was stronger than him.
After failing to kidnap you in the alley, David begins to punish himself for his weakness. He pricks his own skin with a needle, not to draw blood, but to feel the pain of his failure. He does this in front of your photos, as if offering his pain to your image. Each prick is a reminder that he must regain control, but it also deepens his obsession, as he imagines sharing this pain with you someday, not to harm you, but to merge your experiences in a perverse act of intimacy, to bind you to him. In his mind, it would be a merging of sensations. A communion. A perverse kind of intimacy that only he could understand.
He fantasized a scenario where you find his shrine and, instead of fear, feel flattered by his devotion. He fantasizes about confessing everything to make you see the “art” of his obsession, the careful attention.This fantasy is why he can’t bring himself to kill you; he wants you to choose him. The question about “pure love” in his mind is his desperate attempt to justify his actions as something other than destruction.
He had kept one of your scarves. Stolen, of course. Imbued with your scent, soft, indistinct, unique. He brought it to his face like an offering. He closed his eyes. He breathed deeply. There was no longer David Allen Griffin, only a being suspended between reality and fantasy. The scent brought him back to you more violently than any image. Something that urged him to get even closer, yet also to hold back from destroying you. He wanted to keep that scent with him forever. He had never felt such intoxication. He no longer knew if he wanted to love you, kill you, or simply… keep you frozen in that eternal scent.
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Summary: You work at a bank that gets targeted by armed bank robbers. You're rescued by a handsome young FBI agent who takes an immediate liking to you.
A/N: For @keanumovieclubofficial's Keanu Birthday Bash Gift Exchange.
For @pointbreakvhs 🤍 I hope you enjoy your gift.
Special thanks to @lissneon, @atomic-groupie, and @scarlettspectra for being fantastic beta readers! 🤍💚🖤
divider credits to @strangergraphics
Cash deposit, withdrawal, counting by tens or twenties, "Do you want this in fives or ones?", "Please put this much in my check and the rest in my savings."
This was your daily occurrence working as a teller at the local bank. It was monotonous and dull but at least it paid the bills and the hours were decent. Days were predictable as ever. Always a guarantee that the shift will be uneventful.
Today was not that day. Just before you could go on break, a deafening cock of a gun announced the presence of five burly men in dirty ski masks. These men were obviously not the Ex-Presidents, therefore neither you nor your coworkers knew what to expect with this robbery.
On instinct, everyone raised their hands up in surrender or hit the floor. Shouts and curses echoed in the spacious lobby before you're suddenly staring down the black barrel of the biggest robber's gun.
"The vault, gorgeous," the muffled gruff voice ordered you.
It was just your luck you were the teller closest to the vault. With the weapon pointed at your face, you told the stranger you do not have the key in the calmest tone your panicked self could muster. The clink of the master keys clatter at your feet, your oh so brave supervisor barking to do what the armed men say.
Humiliated, you squat down and pick up the keys, taunts and colorful expletives leaving the hulking man's covered mouth. Feeling your face heat up, you swore you were going to die of embarrassment before dying of a gunshot wound. With the main key pinched between shaky fingers, you manage getting to the back towards the vault—all while the bite of the metal barrel pressed against your skull. It wouldn't surprise you if you now had a circle shaped dent on the back of your head.
After multiple frantic attempts of sliding the key into the heavy lock, and continuous threats of violence from the robber, the vault swings open. You sidestep to avoid getting your face smashed by the cumbersome door before the sweaty man shoves you out of the way…and into the door anyway.
Pinching your nose, you felt it already bleeding. You make yourself as small as possible while the man tears through the stacks of money, throwing containers and papers on the floor haphazardly like a bull in a china shop. Once he seemed satisfied with his ill-gotten gains, his panting form turned back to you.
"Keys. Now." He grunts, his barely visible brow beaded with perspiration under the black wool cloth. A meaty palm extended before you.
In a split-second surge of brave stupidity, you chuck the keys towards the corner farthest away from you. You turn to escape the vault while he was occupied, but alas, you were not fast enough.
Pain shoots through your head as the butt of his gun makes contact with your temple. Crumpling to the linoleum floor, your body instinctively curls into the fetal position. Pitiful whimpers leave you as blood oozes from your nose and head, staining the tile and your outfit in dark crimson.
The last thing you saw before your vision went fuzzy was the robber picking up the keys and slamming the vault shut. The bang of the lock sliding into place echoed in your already throbbing mind. They locked you in. They took the key and locked you in and you don't know what's going to happen now. You would panic if your body wasn't so sore and exhausted from the unwarranted brutality. Resigned to your fate, your eyes fluttered shut and waited for the unknown.
The next moments are all a blur. You think you hear dampened yelling outside the vault, then a thunderous whirring of a saw cutting into the vault. Then, like a scene out of a movie, the vault door is kicked open with a reverberant crash.
Standing above you like a guardian angel was a tall young man with striking dark brown eyes, angular face, and lean build. The setting sun beyond the vault cast a warm orange glow behind this stranger, not helping with the angelic comparisons. When those same dark eyes lock onto you, instant butterflies flood your stomach, your face heating up. Good job, you're injured and you still manage to revert to teenage-level shyness in front of this beautiful man.
"Am I dying?" you ask in a daze, the pain in your head making your filter disappear.
The beautiful man flashes you a smile worthy of heartthrob magazines, a comforting chuckle greets you. "Not on my watch."
He approaches your vulnerable body like a lithe hunter locking its sights on their target. But instead of attacking you, he inched closer and took your chin in his hand. Tilting your face left and right, assessing your injuries. In doing so, you were able to get a better look at your rescuer.
He was a young man, maybe mid to late-twenties. His dark brown hair framed an angular face—the sharp features delicately softened with his still boyish appearance. A few defiant strands flopped over his forehead, almost too long. Long enough to pull on. You shake the intrusive thought from your head, happily focusing on his other attributes—not only for your enjoyment, but also to keep from passing out.
A warm hand cups your face, his thumb gently rubbing back and forth against your cheekbone. "Stay with me, beautiful."
"I should be calling you that," you whisper.
The corner of his soft, kissable lips quirks up in a cocky smile. "You got a name, or do I keep calling you beautiful?"
Face getting hotter, you answer all the questions a person with a concussion is asked. Once his brief interrogation is complete, he gets off his haunches and slips his hands under your legs and back. Taut muscles emphasized by the snug gray t-shirt cradle you closer to him. Your own arms instinctively wrap around his broad shoulders, your face nuzzling into his neck shamelessly like a cat. This man was born to be a knight in shining armor in a fairytale—sweeping you off your feet and riding his horse off into the sunset. But, you'll settle for him carrying you out of the bank to the EMT.
Not caring about dignity, you hug him tighter, clumsily pressing your lips to his cheek while whispering. "My hero…"
The last thing you see before they load you into the ambulance is a pair of dark brown eyes flashing with raw determination.
The sterile hospital room and the occasional nurse taking your vitals became your companions. You didn't die from the head injury but you're now certain you'll die from boredom. Before you could continue pondering your boring demise, one of the nurses enters.
"Your boyfriend is here to see you," she says in her monotone professional voice.
Confused, you open your mouth to say you don't have a boyfriend—until your knight in tight jeans and gray t-shirt appeared in the doorway, holding a bouquet of your favorite flowers in his hand.
You don't need to be told to play along. You emphatically nod, allowing him to enter and the nurse to leave. He places the flowers in a nearby vase before pulling a chair closer to your bed with his foot.
So many questions bounce around in your healing head, but the only one you manage to ask is: "Boyfriend, huh?"
You've never been arrested before, but his bright smile just did. "When I've got a pretty person in my arms calling me their hero and kissing on me, that sounds boyfriend-worthy to me."
"Isn't lying about your relation to a patient a legal issue?" you raise an eyebrow at him.
"I'm not worried about that. I'm aware of the rules," he dismisses with such effortless nonchalance it's almost concerning.
"You are very sure of yourself," you observe, finding his confidence magnetic.
"Have to be," he shrugs, reclining in his chair with a thoughtful expression. "You have no criminal record. Not even a speeding ticket. You've been a good girl your whole life, haven't you?"
You would melt into the floor if you weren't already lying in bed. "I-I try…how did you know?"
"Background check," he says in that same laid-back manner. "Wanted to know more about you."
"You could have just asked me," you had the nagging suspicion his investigation on you went deeper than a nonexistent record.
"I like studying people. Finding out what I can and planning accordingly without outside influence. " He winked at you. What a cocky, cheeky cutie.
"So, what conclusion did you come to?" You ask.
"That you need a well-deserved date," he answers. "With your—and I quote: 'hero'."
"You're not going to let that go," you place your face in your hands.
"Nope."
Exhaling, you let one eye peek at him through a gap in your fingers. "I would introduce myself properly but you seem to know everything about me. Can I at least know the name of my rescuer or will I have to call you 'my hero' forever?"
He pretends to thoroughly ponder your question. "Now that you say that, it does have a nice ring to it."
The nurse came back to check up on you. You didn't miss the way she lustfully ogled the puppy dog-eyed man. A flair of jealousy crept up on you unexpectedly. You grab his hand, mentally noting the pleasant way his long fingers lace with yours, dwarfing them.
The smug glint in his eye told you your action was quite the ego boost. He slipped into his role as the perfect boyfriend, pulling your hand to his lips and pecking your knuckles with those plush lips. Warmth bloomed in your belly and traveled out towards the tips of your toes and fingertips.
"We'll be able to release you soon," the nurse said after taking your vitals.
"Good," he says and before you know it, he takes your chin between his thumb and forefinger and presses his mouth to yours in a generous smooch. The nurse gives an amused chuckle before leaving.
Once he relinquishes you, you sigh. "Laying it on thick, my courageous hero."
"Johnny," he rubs his nose against yours. "My name is Johnny Utah."
Johnny Utah, you liked it. It sounded like the name of an action hero. Your action hero now.
"Well, since we're together now, I guess that means we should go on a date." you smile up at him.
He gives you his own heart-stopping smile again. "You like surfing?"
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