Cause another and another cominâ up out of the gutter
Till Iâm drowning in an ocean of entitled motherfuckers
And theyâre pushinâ all my buttons
But they never seem to wonder why
âYouâre safe now. I got you.â (john seed x reader)
You see nothing but red as fists and boots rain down his body.
Heâs never looked so small.
Your instincts take over, the primal urge to protect, to decimate, to destroy erasing the scarce bits of humanity youâve tried to salvage over the years.
There are five of them.
The first gets his throat sliced, from ear-to-ear, blood cascading down his chest like a visceral waterfall.
The second gets his neck snapped, the familiar sound of vertebrae cracking sending chills down your spine in such a delicious way that you salivate.
The third gets his nose jabbed into his forehead, an instantaneous death, one youâd wanted to indulge in but there are two degenerates left to deal with.
The fourth fumbles for his radio, to call for back-up, hissing out profanities about being a fucking traitor, but youâre unholstering his friendâs pistol from his waistband and stuffing the barrel in his mouth, firing a single round before he could so much as turn the dial.
The radio clatters to the ground, as does the fifth one, who has your knife lodged in his chest, right through the pulmonary artery, wide eyes staring at you in shocked, confused disbelief, mouth agape in a gargled scream thick with blood - a quick death isnât deserved, but prolonging the death of this filth isnât your priority.
â˘
Youâre at his side, hands rough with callouses producing a startling contrast as they gingerly cup his cheeks, cradling his face, like heâs a porcelain doll.
âJohn? John, baby? Can you hear me?â
His breath stutters in his chest, his heart pounding wildly against the aching cage of his ribs, his chest flooding with heat and want and desperation.
Baby.
Never in his life had something so sweet, so tender, so loving been addressed to him.
Never in his life could he have imagined someone would call him as such.
Never in his life did he think anyone would want someone so broken.
Youâd saved him, without so much as a thought for your own well-being, killing his attackers - members of the Resistance - without a grain of hesitation.
For kidnapping him.
For threatening him.
For hurting him.
You cut through the thick rope that binds his wrists and ankles, as easily as slicing melted butter, tenderly massaging the skin scraped raw from the material, encouraging blood to circulate to his numb extremities.
âLetâs get out of here, huh? Weâll clean you up nice and properââ
With the newfound freedom of his limbs, John snares his arms around your waist and crushes your lips together.
Youâre startled by the initial contact, nearly lose your balance and fall on-top of him, exactly what John wants, so he hoists you further, so youâre in his lap, straddling him, as he works at your mouth with a persistence and dedication putting Sisyphus to shame.
âJohn, babyââ
God, you sound absolutely delectable when your voice is wrecked with him.
ââ I donât think this is the best timeââ
He disagrees.
He thinks this is the perfect time.
The only damage heâs received are a gash to the temple for when theyâd knocked him out, bruised ribs and a sore spine from their fists and boots, and a bad case of wounded pride for being caught in the first fucking place, will take anywhere from a few weeks to a few years to heal completely.
But with your skin beneath his hands, your taste on his lips, your beautiful amber eyes overflowing with concern, relief, adorationâŚ
He doesnât feel any of the pain inflicted by those heathens - dead, bleeding out, a visceral masterpiece John would admire under different circumstances because when the bloodthirsty wrath is unleashed from inside you, itâs absolutely glorious - instead, the only thing he can feel down to his marrow is pure, unabashed, raw need.
âPlease,â he whimpers, needy and broken, uncaring of how pathetic he seems because you - his deputy, his savior, his guardian angel - are his salvation.
âI need you.â
You brush back the loose, dark strands of hair, fallen out of their gelled style, kiss the tight furrow between his brows with a featherlight, adoring touch.
âYou have me, sweetheart. Youâll always have me.â
John whines in the back of his throat, fusing your mouths together again, licking his way past your lips, the undeniable taste of nicotine and mint making his head spin.
Fingers slide into his hair, nails delicately grazing the back of his skull, tilting his head just so your mouths slot together perfectly, inducing a shiver, slithering down his spine, goosebumps bubbling across his skin.
âJohn⌠My beautiful JohnâŚâ
He chokes, cutting off the sob threatening to reduce him to little more than a crying mess, and buries his face in your neck.
âYours, yours, yours.â
You kiss his temple sweetly, rocking him back and forth gently, murmuring sweet, delicate nothings in his ears.
His fingers scrabble at the back of your jacket, clutching to the dark denim like if he didnât, youâd evaporate from his hands.
He realizes now he isnât scared of pain, of torture, of death; he was petrified of leaving this earth, rotting in the soil, when heâd finally found the person who made life worth living.
âYouâre safe now. Iâve got you.â
For the first time in his life, he truly believes he is.
â˘
âGood evening, ladies and gentlemen of Holland Valley. This is your friendly neighborhood deputy speaking. By now, Iâm sure some of you have heard from various sources John Seed isnât the burnt corpse found in his airplane weeks ago. Iâm using this frequency to assure you he is, indeed, very much alive. Iâm afraid the same canât be said for the Resistance members who tried to take matters into their own hands. I will say this once and only once. This is not a betrayal. This is a warning. Touch John Seed and itâll be the last time you feel. For those who think itâs an empty threat, I implore you to drop-by McCoyâs cabin for reassurance. Words just canât do it justice. Over and out.â
prguitarman
discoholicmusic
ellievsbear
amandla
