Back On My Fuckery

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.

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Masterlist Masterpost

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.