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✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
a yandere art professor John Wick x drawing model muse! reader AU... (also featuring Matt from River's Edge. If you haven't seen the movie that's ok, I will fill in the gaps as we go...) warnings: dark adult themes, violence, sex, drugs, obsession, yandere shit. plz don't read if u can't handle it ->chapter map
XV.
You stare at each other in perfect stillness for what feels like an eternity, a sparking live wire in place of your spine. Adrenaline sings through your veins; is he angry that you invaded his space, or contrite at all about this obvious fixation with you? You cannot read him.
He hid it all so well.
“John…what is this?”
“An art project?”
A total body of work, was more like it.
“Why?”
He looks down at the floor, his hands in his pockets.
“I can’t…stop looking at you, y/n. Since…the moment we met.”
He raises his gaze to meet yours; his glittering black eyes shining dark pools of agony, and your heart breaks for him, even if deep down you know this is probably a cause for alarm.
Your pulse thunders in your ears. He takes a step towards you, and out of pure instinct you back away.
He holds up his hands in a gesture of peace. “Please, don’t be afraid. I would never hurt you.”
“John…” You look around at the scope of this body of work again. “This is a lot.”
“I know.” He lets out a shuddering breath, looking to you like you could be his salvation, or his absolute damnation. “I’m sorry. I…I know.”
He takes another step towards you, as though he can’t help it, drawn to you like a magnet. But again, you retreat.
Some of the sketches feel more like scenes from your day to day, rather than what he could just concoct in the studio. There’s the coffee shop you frequent.
There’s the dress you wore last week.
A cold dread worms through the marrow of your bones. “Have you been watching me?”
He tilts his head, and you can tell he’s gauging how to answer this. “I see you around the neighborhood.”
“We don’t live in the same neighborhood.”
He answers this with silence, and your heart falls.
Again, you look around at the staggering quantity. It could amount to a drawing a day, since the start of the semester. But you have to admit…they’re stunning. You hardly even see yourself, in the way he’s arranged your form and lines. He’s transformed your paltry flesh into something wonderfully other.
“This is how you see me?” you dare ask, your voice small and fragile as hand blown glass.
“I told you, y/n. You’re beautiful.”
You’re not the sort of girl who could ever be on the cover of a fashion magazine. But to you, this is infinitely more beguiling. To be the muse of an artist like John Wick is a certain form of immortality the likes of which you thought you could only dream. It’s disturbing and flattering, all in the same package.
Yet you remind yourself that just because he likes to draw you…doesn’t mean he cares for you.
“Do you even like me, John?”
It sounds so third grade, but in the moment you don’t know how else to voice it.
“Like you?” he scoffs. “I adore you, y/n. Isn’t it obvious?” He gestures around the room agitatedly, like he’s trying to tell you something but you’re too thick to grasp it.
Yet you can’t help but think about how distant he was in class, after the Jackalope incident, and then your little blowup about Matt’s critique.
“It didn’t feel like it.”
His bottom jaw juts as he grinds his teeth thinking about it. “I…may have overcompensated a bit.”
You narrow your eyes. “What, like…when a boy likes you on the playground he pulls your hair?”
He frowns at the comparison–but he does not negate it. “I knew it wasn’t…appropriate. I tried to stop.” He shrugs, looking around the room, and he doesn't have to say it aloud. See how that worked out? “I never thought I’d feel this way about anyone, after my wife died, y/n. At first…I didn’t want to.”
Your heart aches for him at that moment; you understand that all too well. Love is wonderful…but it’s messy, and it hurts, and it requires regular offerings of blood, sweat, and tears to keep it alive, much less to make it grow. It makes life worth living–but one way or the other, it always takes its pound of flesh in the end. After enduring such a loss, you sympathize that this poor man didn’t want to open himself up to all that again.
And yet, here you are, in a room that almost feels like a sanctum, and somehow you are his icon of devotion.
You should be on your guard, for surely this is a form of mental illness–and what does it say about you that you assume a man must be ill, if he is this into you?–but no one has ever wanted you so completely, so obsessively, before.
It’s more titillating than you’d like to admit, and you have to mentally knock yourself upside the head not to give in to this.
You wonder if he's been with anyone since his wife passed, and your heart breaks for him all over again. How much of this has to do with that, you wonder? Again, you find yourself assuming this fixation isn’t actually about you, but some external circumstances that makes you convenient to him. It's how most of your relationships have started, looking back, and it never ends well for you in the end. You look around at the shrine he's constructed in this studio. So he likes your shapes in their particular order. But what does he even know about you?
You don't realize the answer is far more than you want to know.
Then another thought occurs to you. “Were you cruel to Matt…over me?”
A sigh escapes him that seems to come from the bottom depths of his soul. “I wasn’t cruel,” he grumbles, looking away at a drawing of you.
“You were definitely extra.”
He growls at this, a primal sound that more belongs in the time of the caves than here in this elegant old house. It lifts every hair on your body.
“Fine.” He approaches you with one slow step, hoping not to spook you. “Maybe I was mean to him, but I was never dishonest.” Another step, and you can only watch as he approaches you like a slow-stalking predator on those impossibly long legs, looking at you like he might like to eat you if he catches you.
“It drove me mad, thinking about you together, when I knew that boy had no idea how to handle a woman like you.”
He keeps advancing with that hungry look, and finally you remember how to move, scrambling backwards until your butt bumps into something solid. Too late, you realize he's backed you into his paint-stained worktable. You regain some sense, skittering around it just as he tries to close the distance between you.
He’s being lazy about it, you realize. A man built like that could snatch you up in a second–he is but a panther toying with a mouse.
“John…wait.”
“I’ve been waiting,” he grouses, leaning on the table, letting you put it between you. He grips the edge of it with those huge hands as though holding himself back, the muscles playing in his bared forearms, his cuffs rolled up from doing the dishes. You cannot help but stare. This man should not be allowed to be so ridiculously good looking, when he is possibly so very unstable.
He’s so beautiful. Fuck is he beautiful, but this…is borderline insane.
When he speaks his voice is low and full of gravel, rough with desire, the sound of which makes you press your thighs for some relief. “I know I’m not a good man, y/n. But I would be so good, to you.”
After the magic of earlier in just sharing a meal with this man, talking easily over food and wine with his dogs at your feet…you're afraid you believe him. There's a part of you that wants that, so badly. The logical part of you, however, cautions that it’s surely too good to be true.
You’re afraid you’re like a moth to the flame, unable to stop yourself from self-immolation. You just barely escaped something terrible happening to you via Matt’s friends. You have got to be smarter than you were then.
“John…maybe…I should go home to think about all this.”
“Don’t go home,” he pleads, though it somehow also sounds like a command. “Stay here with me a little longer. We were having a nice time.”
It’s true. You were, while blissfully ignorant of this smoking gun just down the hall. With your heart in your throat you know you shouldn’t even be entertaining the thought…but here you are. “What happens…if I stay?”
Like…do you want to wear my skin?
“Anything you want,” he answers gently, doing his best, you can tell, not to scare you. “If you haven’t noticed, I’m a patient man.”
You were smart enough not to go to Matt’s apartment where his predatory friends hung out, and your instincts were right. You know you should listen to your instincts now. Why is this harder? You shake your head, at yourself as much as him.
“No. No. I'm going.” You turn to make for the door, and you were right about him. He is fast as lightning, and when he grabs you up the most embarrassingly girly little squeal escapes you. You flail, knocking a stack of papers askew, some fluttering to the ground. His arms are like iron bands around you, not hurting you but there is no escaping his hold. All you manage is to turn, so that your back is pressed in an agonizing line against the solid wall of his front.
He is warm, and strapped with muscle, and it should not feel this good to be engulfed by his larger frame.
You push on his arms around your waist, to absolutely zero avail.
“Y/n, please, calm down.”
You scan the worktable, hoping for some tool to help you that might startle him without doing any real damage. You don’t want to hurt him. You just want him to let you go. Your eyes settle upon one of the unearthed papers, and that’s when you freeze in your struggles, going still as a stone.
“Oh my god.”
It’s a paper filled with sketches, of the sort a sculptor might make before executing a project. It has views from the front and sides, various variations of designs.They’re plans for a mask–in the shape of a wolf’s head. The same stylized masquerade style half mask that you’ve been seeing in your fractured memories and your hazy dreams.
Exactly like the one that still rests on your nightstand.
“It was you.”
You cannot raise your voice above a whisper, your fingertips like claws digging into his arms. You don’t know why you go limp in his grasp, your head rocking back on his shoulder. Shock, surely, or a reluctant acceptance. His voice is a low grumble beside your ear, his nose nuzzling in your hair. A wave of gooseflesh erupts across your body, and the most shamefully delicious thrill shoots down your spine.
“You’re finding all my secrets tonight, aren’t you Little Red?”
Your Lone Wolf has got you, and you’re afraid there’s no escape.
