Hello my Lovely Readers, it’s time for Work in Progress Wednesday!! This round is for Chapter 6 of my fic, Blood and Gold and Bedroom Eyes featuring John Wick x Reader!! As many of you have probably seen I am solidly in the dumpster for John Wick/Keanu Reeves, and I’ve been madly working on the next few chapters of my John Wick x Reader fic. So for today’s WIP Wednesday I’ll be sharing a clip from Chapter 6 of BGBE with you all! 😀 It’s still very much in the editing stage and therefore is subject to change, but please do enjoy, I can’t wait for you all to read this one!! ❤️❤️❤️ Tags: @raspberrymama - I know you already read this excerpt but I made a few minor changes that I think you’ll love! @dreamers-wonderland
@veryflammabledaffodils
@hopplessdreamer @tomorrowsanotherday @haunteddiplomatweaselbakery @witty-wallflower I’m just tagging all of you in case you’re still interested in this fic!! If anyone else that wants to be tagged in future updates, just shoot me a message and let me know! Also if anyone does NOT want to be tagged, also please let me know!
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You couldn’t sleep, pacing the kitchen while you wait for John to return. You’re not used to being out of the action, waiting at home while someone else does all the dirty work. You wear your impatience like an ill-fitting jacket; it pulls tightly at your shoulders, plucks at the small of your back. You pour two glasses of bourbon, anticipating that John will need one when he returns from his dark task, and you sip your allotted booze quickly, needing a refill after just a few hearty gulps. You’re not exactly sure when you hear the front door open but it creaks loudly, an affront to the blanket of silence that has fallen in the glass hewn walls of the house, and though you know a dangerous enemy wouldn’t give themselves away like that you still clutch desperately at the sizeable kitchen knife positioned on the table for such an intruder. But then you see John’s familiar form splitting the shadows, the barest hint of crimson splashed on the scrub of his bearded cheekbones, one scopic hand braced against what is no doubt a wicked bruise blooming across his rib bones, and you release the breath that was caught like a vice between your teeth. “John,” you sigh, rising quickly and moving to him, assessing the damage. You’d seen him in worse states, but still you fret over him, smoothing away the strands of dark hair falling in his eyes, flicking at the slashes of dried blood spilling over his collar. “I’m fine,” John grunts, stripping off his jacket and assorted tactical gear with weary movements, laying them carefully on the couch for later inventory, “That’s not mine.” The declaration should make your own blood run cold, but it doesn’t. Instead it sparks a frisson of molten warmth to skitter hotly down your spine because this man, this dealer of death, comes home to you. “Here,” you quip as you pass him the hearty glass of Blanton’s reserve, and he eyes you gratefully before downing the bourbon in one herculean gulp. You can tell that he’s tired, but he doesn’t sit. Can’t seem to bring himself to rest. “What’s wrong?” You question, slipping your palms about the ruddy panes of his face, breathing in his whiskey-tinged musk, basking in the blessed warmth of his closeness. There’s an underlying inquiry in your words; the frenzied energy crackling between his shoulder blades, the agitation prowling on his brow, his general restlessness has you suddenly very worried that John has realized you’re not worth all this fuss. John sighs before he answers, slips his fingers about your wrist bones, runs his thumb absently against your pulse, his eyes flicking to the side to avoid meeting your gaze, “It’s like this sometimes. After a fight.” You wait for him to elaborate, raising your brows and studying him. You can see there’s a heated knot of something coiled low in his belly, tensing his shoulders, rattling through his large form. But when his dark eyes dart to your lips, catch about the dim light splaying across your collarbones, you dare to question your insecure suspicions. “The adrenaline,” John grates in that whiskey rough voice, pulling you just a bit closer with the fingers he has curled around your wrists, guiding one of your hands down between your bodies as he continues, “The intensity of it. Sometimes it has…unintended side effects. I should have warned you.” Your eyes widen, brows shooting upwards, as John presses your palm between his legs. He is hard. Painfully, deliciously hard, and you lick your parted lips eagerly as a sudden hunger flares to life deep in your belly. Unable to stop yourself, you cradle the rigid flesh there of your own volition, grinding the heel of your hand against his hardness, and you’re rewarded with a deep, gorgeous groan that tumbles without permission from John’s parted lips. “What do you need?” You ask breathlessly, your body already responding to the sinful possibilities that lay banked in his impending answer. John’s dark eyes, which had been clenched shut from your ministrations, snap open at your words which hang heavy in the air now, a challenge more than a question. Something salacious, almost famished, sparks in the inky depths of John’s gaze, and you shiver hard in anticipation as he steps forward, expertly guiding the heated tangle of your bodies. “What I need,” there was a timbre to John’s voice that you have never heard there, a deep, greedy edge that makes your knees weak, “Is your shaking thighs wrapped around me,” you gulp hard as John speaks, moving you with the driving press of his hulking form, “My name falling from your lips,” you gasp when your back hits the nearest wall, and John immediately presses the length of his body against yours, caging you in, his glinting gaze fixed ravenously on you, “And my cock buried deep in your sweet, wet pussy. Will you let me have you?” “Yes, John, I’m yours.”
