âWELL, THERE IS A HOUSE IN NEW ORLEANS THEY CALL THE RISING SUN AND ITS BEEN THE RUIN OF MANY A POOR BOY AND GOD I KNOW, IâM ONE.â
Welcome to The House of The Rising Sun.
Front Desk:
POLICIES â I am not responsible for your media consumption. By continuing, you are agreeing to my terms which are:
â Do not repost my work
â Do not send hate for what Iâve written
Most of my fics are dark in one aspect or another, itâs important to read the trigger warnings!
Booking Information:
Iâm quite picky about what I write, I prefer it to be something I feel genuinely connected to otherwise I just feel like I canât write it as good as it deserves. That being said, I may deny a request, but please please please donât be discouraged to send requests! I will always try to write something for you, whether itâs a drabble or not đ«¶đ«¶
I write for female reader mainly, but will write gender neutral from time to time!
My requests are always open.
Current guest:
Kirsh (Alien: Earth)
John Wick
Reservations (upcoming):
Avoidant!reader x Kirsh request // WIP
Frankensteinâs monster vol. 3 // WIP
Kirsh punishing reader request // WIP
Guestbook (masterlist):
(Below the cut)
Kirsh (Alien: Earth)
Fics
Some Velvet Morning
some velvet morning, when he's straight, he's going to open up your gate and maybe tell you about Phaedra and how she gave him life and how she made it end. // "severe obsession involves intrusive, distressing thoughts and impulses fixated on a specific person or object. The compulsion to act persists. Perceived rejection or threat to the obsessionâs focus often triggers rage or possessive violence." Kirsh is obsessed with you.
Yandere!kirsh x innocent!labassistant!reader
See the #some velvet morning tag for the moodboard
Turning and Turning in The Widening Gyre
you're a theology student sent to do a study on how synthetics interpret religion. Your subject is Kirsh, he believes religion is humanityâs greatest contradiction. Your debates very quickly spiral into a full blown ideological war where you both weaponize your worldviews against one another.
weird!kirsh x corrupted!reader
See the #turning and turning in the widening gyre tag for the moodboard
She Saw My Silver Spurs and Said Lets Pass Some Time
strawberries, cherries and an angels kiss in spring. His summer wine is really made from all these things. // You, an innocent mess, are oddly infatuated by Krishâs blood (summer wine); he, curious about the severe contrast between something so obscene and someone so sweet, indulges that infatuation.
dark!kirsh x clumsy!reader
See the #she saw my silver spurs and said lets pass some time tag for the moodboard
Dream a Little Dream of Me
stars shining bright above you. Night breezes seem to whisper âI love you,â // you fear someone is watching you sleep at night, so you go to Kirsh for help not knowing that heâs the voice whispering in the dark. Soon, you begin second guessing whatâs real and what isnât.
Yandere!kirsh x reader
See the #dream a little dream of me tag for the moodboard
â
Series
you ought to be thy Adam, but rather you are the fallen angel // After a failed attempt of creating an adult hybrid, youâre placed under Kirshâs care. Under his cruel guidance, you learn how to speak, how to think, and how to exist, but learning the world through Kirsh means inheriting his cynicism, his philosophies, and eventually, his hatred.
Weird!kirsh x hybrid!reader
Vol. 1 Breathless Horror and Disgust
Vol. 2 Wretched Outcast
Vol. 3 Wedding night â coming soon!
See the #Frankensteinâs monster tag for the moodboard
â
Drabbles/headcannons + requests
Kirsh dealing with crybaby!reader // headcannon // request
Stigma â You and Kirsh exist in your own bubble // drabble // request
Weird!kirsh x weird!reader
Anatomy (stigma p2) â Kirsh surprises you with a gift only you would love // drabble
Weird!kirsh x weird!reader
Little Lamb â Kirsh takes it upon himself to care for you. // drabble // request
Daddy!kirsh x little!reader
After hours â You and Kirsh canât stop flirting // drabble // request
Kirsh x reader
Poor, Pathetic Animal â Kirsh takes too much pride in bullying you // drabble // request
Weird!kirsh x reader
Coriolanus and Aufidius â One day, youâre going to kill Kirsh, but maybe youâd like to have some fun first // drabble // request
Weird!kirsh x weird!cyborg!reader
Pretty girl â Somehow Kirsh fell madly in love with a walking catastrophe of pink ribbons, kindness, and sunlight, and never once regretted it. // drabble
Kirsh x girly!reader
Russell Adler (Call of Duty)
Fics
Mad World
and I find it kind of funny, I find it kind of sad, the dreams in which Iâm dying are the best Iâve ever had // the CIAâs mistake wasnât erasing and replacing your memories, it was making you blindly loyal to Americaâs monster and assuming he wouldnât have his fun with you.
Dark!adlerx bell!reader
See the #mad world tag for the moodboard
John Wick
Fics
Grief in the Continental
after Helenâs death, you and John become trapped in a toxic cycle of grief and dependency.
Dark!stepdad!john x stepdaughter!reader
See the #grief in the continental tag for the moodboard
Drabbles/headcannons + requests
Sincerely, j.w â when he gets sick of you running away, the baba yaga carves his initials in you to make sure no one knows to aid in your escape. // drabble
Yandere!john x reader
Below are my older fics, I canât promise you theyâre good. Theyâre from like two name tags ago.
đ»đžđżđđđ đđžđđ
attention
you told him if he didnât give you time of day, youâd find other ways to get his attention. Maybe that was a bad idea.
his artifact
Zemo carves his initials into you.
secrets
Helmut has a crush on a cute little angel that he just canât have, but that wonât stop him from trying.
expletive
a series of one shots and drakes that follow Helmutâs difficult journey as he tries to tame his pretty little dame, who just so happens to have the mouth of a sailor.
Stephen has his eyes on you and he wonât take them off.
tough luck
she didnât want him to run, he didnât want her to fear. Nobody said itâd be easy, they knew it was rough but tough luck.
đ”đđ¶đŸđ đ”đŽđ đđžđ
over the edge
you make a game of edging Bucky on repeat as a punishment of embarrassing you in front of Steve, but what you had not known, was that by not letting him over the edge of his orgasm, you were pushing him closer to another edge.
đđžđżđžđđŽ đ”đžđżđđđŽ
where I belong
Yelena was a bad woman, but you canât deny the way she holds your hand and grabs you, she has you by the heart.
he watched Bucky love you from afar, felt his need for you and the wave of emotions that crushed him when he saw you with someone else. Then, he got sick of it and did what Bucky couldnât do.
you toy with Erik during dinner with Charles. Later on, Erik has something to say about it.
unmistakable, shameful warmth
It wasnât Erikâs fault you had a crush on him, and it also wasnât his fault that Charles didnât give you enough attention. It was too easy and he just couldnât help himself.
đ đŒđ¶đŸ đșđ đŒđđžđ
everything to you
he was the devil and you were the innocent woman who didnât know any better.
Please help my daughter's sweetheart alleviate her suffering.
Because of the tent life and the spread of infectious diseases and many epidemics, she deserves a better life like other children; she has the right to play and study.
We cannot afford to buy medicine due to our difficult living conditions. Please save my daughter; every donation makes a difference in Habiba's life.
Every morning, Adam and Habiba dream of going to school, but due to serious financial difficulties, I can no longer afford their education.
Education is their only hope for a better future. Any support or even sharing this message could help keep their dreams alive.
Thank you for caring đ€
Help Ayaâs Family in Gaza
Hello. I am Halina, a friend of Aya in the United Sta⊠Halina Kraft needs your support for Shelter and Hop
summary â Somehow Kirsh fell madly in love with a walking catastrophe of pink ribbons, kindness, and sunlight, and never once regretted it.
pairings â Kirsh x girly!reader
warnings â I donât think thereâs any honestly. Maybe some dd/lg undertones but I kinda doubt it. But maybe.
word count â this is pretty short, could honestly be considered a headcannon. Like 1.4K
a/n â this is entirely just for me. Enjoy.
No one understood it. Truly, genuinely, not a single soul.
Kirsh was just⊠Kirsh. And you? If someone were asked to describe the exact opposite of a synthetic like Kirsh, they would point at you almost immediately then, in the very same breath, they would ask the question that had been circulating around the compound for months now, ever since people realized just how attached Kirsh had become to you.
Why?
Truthfully, and even embarrassingly, Kirsh did not fully understand it himself. He was a synthetic. Not knowing things bothered him like an itch he could not reach, a problem without a solution, a question without an answer. Madness! And yet, every time he examined you, every time he attempted to categorize and define exactly what made you so fascinating, he somehow walked away more confused than before.
You were a disaster. A magnificent, dazzling, over-stimulating disaster.
You walked in heels so impractical that a Victorian woman would probably faint dead away at the sight of them. Your nails were always done, always. Long, elaborate, pretty things covered in charms, glitter and intricate designs that Kirsh could not begin to understand. Never plain and God forbid simple. Then there was the makeup, you love art, and apparently that extended to treating your own face as a canvas. Eyeshadow and highlighter bright enough to catch the light from across a room, heart shaped blush swept across your cheeks, tiny pink freckles painted beneath your eyes. Every morning you reconstruct yourself into something softer, brighter, prettier (as though being you was not already enough). You insisted you âdidnât do anything with your hair today,â despite the fact that it had somehow been twisted into an elegant arrangement involving approximately seventeen bobby pins, enough hairspray to violate several safety regulations, and skills Kirsh remained convinced were a form of sorcery. And good god your clothing. You never dressed down. Every outfit was designed to be catch eyes. Pinks, creams, ribbons, lace, bows, soft fabrics. You entered a room and immediately became the brightest thing inside it.
You also talked. Constantly. To Kirshâs immense horror, you possessed the remarkable ability to begin conversations with absolutely anyone. You asked people about their day, you remembered details about their lives, you told stories, you shared interests. You were sweet in a way that seemed almost manufactured, endlessly curious, you know? Endlessly kind. You were the kind of person who left little gifts for others simply because you thought of them. The kind of person Kirsh should have found insufferable but somehow, impossibly, he became hopelessly fascinated.
You were very, very girly, and he could not get enough of you.
Was Cupid real? Before meeting you, Kirsh would have dismissed the existence of some naked baby with a bow and arrow shooting love across the skies outright. Now he was running out of alternative explanations.
Because whether this was some catastrophic malfunction in his programming, some bizarre synthetic defect, or whether he had genuinely been struck through the chest by a glitter-covered pink arrow with your name carved into it, the result remained the same.
Kirsh was irrevocably and irredeemably, madly in love with you.
the contrast of you two walking together should not have been as funny as it had been. Those who were brave enough to, laughed quietly to themselves at the sight of you, often dressed in something pink and extra soft in your pretty platform heels, practically skipping alongside monochromatic, emotionless Kirsh. A thundercloud standing beside a sunrise. Kirsh never smiled; you never stopped.
At first, everyone assumed you were simply another overly friendly person attempting to make conversation with the compoundâs most notorious opponent of small talk but then Kirsh kissed you in front of everyone.
The resulting silence was so complete that even Atom bristled. What a cultural shock that was.
Naturally, or rather I should say, synthetically, Kirsh was not a fan of public displays of affection. Why would he be? They were unnecessary, inefficient and entirely avoidable. Ironically, you unfortunately held the exact opposite opinion. If you wanted to hold his hand, you held his hand. If you wanted to kiss him, you kissed him. If you wanted to sit in his lap, you sat in his lap. The concept of embarrassment appeared to have passed you by entirely, and God help anyone who tried to shame you for that.
You were innocent, you were kind and beautiful, and Kirsh had every intention of protecting that. For if anything had dimmed your light, how could he ever appreciate the sun ever again?
Kirsh possessed many virtues and patience was not one of them where you were concerned. Somewhere along the line, Kirsh had developed an overwhelming inability to tolerate people treating you poorly. Yes, it was probably unhealthy and maybe it was excessive but he did not care. He spoiled you. Whatever you wanted, he found a way to provide it, whatever made you happy became important to him. Simple as that.
These days, Kirsh no longer spent much time wondering why he chose you. The question hardly mattered anymore. All he knew was that you were extraordinary. Loud where he was quiet, bright where he was dark, warm where he was cold. You were a neon sign blazing against he, a midnight sky.
Kirsh had no intention of ever leaving your side.
âHi, hi, handsome!â You, giddy as always, nearly skipped through the automatic doors and into his laboratory, pink lunch bag in hand, ânoon already! The dayâs going by so quick. Howâs your work going?â
Kirsh, who had been in the middle of a tedious and meticulous dissection, lifted his head to watch you, his pretty girl, approach. âHello,â he lifted his hand to take the goggles off, but you stopped him.
âNo,â you pouted softly, finding your home in his lap. You grinned at him and tapped his nose, âleave it, you look cute in them.â You scrunched up your nose and Kirsh pondered to himself which one was actually the cute one.
âCute,â he echoed, brows lifting as he tasted the word. His hand closed around your waist, meanwhile his other gently pushed the exposed creature across the table so that you may set your lunch down in its place.
âWork is going well,â he continued, âbut these will be coming off,â you pouted again as he tore the goggles off his head and set them aside then angling his head back to you, âwhat are you eating for lunch?â
You hummed and shifted in his lap to open up the bag. It was a ritual of yours, you enjoyed presenting your lunch to him like some model runway of salami and crackers. âBehold,â you started, pulling out a Tupperware container, then holding up displayed before you palm like some makeup influencer, âleftovers.â
âHmm,â he raised a brow, âlooks delicious.â
You shot him a look. âYou donât need to lie to me. I know youâre disgusted by it.â With that, you peeled back the lid.
Kirsh watched, abandoning the pretense. The synthetic flesh stretched over his features tightened almost immediately, betraying him with a faint twist of revulsion at the smell. It was almost insulting, really. Mere moments ago, he had stood unfazed in the presence of a long-dead extraterrestrial carcass, yet your lunch managed to offend his senses.
You settled comfortably in his lap, entirely unbothered, and began eating. Kirsh observed the process with the same enthusiasm one might devote to monitoring paint as it dried. The fork moved from container to mouth. You chewed, swallowed, repeated. Fascinating stuff.
When you finished, you snapped the lid shut and tucked the container back into your bag. Then you tilted your head up toward him.
âCome spend the night with me tonight?â You batted your lashes at him, an utterly unnecessary performance. As though there had ever been a version of this conversation where he denied you anything.
He smiled, an imitation of warmth, polished and synthetic, as if someone had sculpted the expression from the same plastic as your lunch container. It never quite touched his eyes, but you found yourself grateful for the gesture all the same.
âOf course,â he murmured, his hand trailing along the curve of your waist before settling against your thigh. âAnything you want.â
a/n â the way I spent like an hour trying to edit that one painting to be a W instead of an H. Notice how I didnât use ai? Yeah ITS NOT HARD ITS JUST TEDIOUS. I also remember writing something similar for Zemo like years ago. Anyways enjoy.
Since losing his wife, John had long since stopped caring about his love life. The part of him that once made room for romance seemed to have died alongside her. He didnât date, he didnât entertain passing attractions, he didnât look at beautiful strangers or spend sleepless nights wishing for companionship. Sex felt distant and insignificant compared to the grief that had hollowed him out. If there was anything that still made him feel alive, it wasnât another person, it was the hunt, the purpose, the chase. Though, different context, because those he hunted, he killed once he had them in his grasp. He found far more satisfaction in murder.
Then he met you. What began as a passing interest became curiosity, then curiosity became concern, and concern became attachment. That attachment became, very quickly, extremely unhealthy.
At first, his precautions were subtle, a car that seemed to appear nearby whenever you were out, security measures you never noticed because they were designed that way. It was reasonable, necessary. The world was dangerous, and he was just protecting you from all dangers you couldnât see, but not long after that, protecting you was no longer enough, knowing where you were wasnât enough, having guards nearby wasnât enough. Every moment you spent beyond his reach became another opportunity for something terrible to happen. Another chance for the universe to steal from him again.
Eventually, John stopped trusting the world with your safety altogether. So he took you. Makes sense, doesnât it?
It wasnât a kidnapping, John refused to call it that because there was no dramatic chase through dark streets or ransom note left behind. One day your life belonged to you, and the next it didnât. Thatâs it. Done deal. To John, none of this was cruelty, in his mind you were protected, fed, clothed, comfortable, and loved. No one could hurt you, no one could threaten you, no one could take you away from him. It was perfect, you were going to be happy.
But that was Johnâs perspective. From yours, there was no difference between protection and imprisonment. The house was a cage no matter how luxurious it was, the guards were jailers no matter how polite they behaved and every attempt to leave was met with firm refusal and every conversation eventually circled back to the same unavoidable truth. You were not free.
John Wick had kidnapped you. Whether he intended it or not, he had become both your protector and your captor, the warden of a prison built from obsession, grief, and the refusal to lose another person he loved. Your relationship with him had hardly been what most people would call a relationship.
For weeks, perhaps even months, John had existed at the edges of your life like a shadow. He came and went as he pleased, often disappearing for hours or days at a time before returning without explanation. When he was present, he rarely spoke, conversations with him were brief things, usually consisting of a few clipped sentences before silence reclaimed the room, but despite how little he talked, he touched you often. A hand settling against the small of your back as he guided you through a doorway, fingers brushing loose strands of hair from your face, a thumb grazing your cheek, a reassuring squeeze to your thigh whenever you became agitated during one of your many arguments.
John was not a particularly affectionate man by nature, that much you had learned quickly but in his own deeply flawed way, you knew John loved you. It had taken time to realize it, not that you had accepted it, but eventually you did come to understand that his actions were not born from malice. He genuinely believed he was caring for you. He worried when you were sick, remembered things you mentioned in passing, brought you books he thought you might enjoy, made sure you ate, made sure you slept but understanding that didn't make your situation any less frightening. You have fought from the very beginning, you tried to escape more times than you could count, you tested locks, memorized guard rotations, slipped notes where you thought someone might find them, you argued until your throat hurt and refused every explanation he offered. You were, in every sense of the word, a nuisance. A stubborn, relentless thorn lodged firmly beneath the skin of the great Baba Yaga himself.
John Wick could hunt men across continents, he could track targets who spent fortunes trying to disappear. Entire organizations feared him, yet somehow, he couldn't make one infuriating person cooperate.
You simply refused, refused to listen, refused to obey. You just wouldnât listen. Even when he told you, this is better, youâre safe, Iâm protecting you.
His last straw when your latest escape attempt. You had gotten surprisingly far, and someone, a man whose name you couldnât recall anymore, even stopped to help you. You very quickly regretted accepting his help, because he didnât live long once John set his eyes on him.
And this sparked, in Johns eyes, a brand new issue. This man, who was now a smear on the wall, hadnât known who you belonged to. If he had, he never would have stopped to help you!
this was about preventing another tragedy, about ensuring that nobody would ever mistake you for someone unclaimed, someone alone, someone they could simply take away, but regardless of what he called it, the impulse came from the same place. Ideas had a way of burrowing into people, and John Wick, for all his discipline, had become dangerously attached to one specifically.
He needed to, not that you were cattle for slaughter in any way, tag you.
You were far too insubordinate to actually wear whatever necklace he bought you, and while he had tattoos of his own, he didnât particularly want you to get one, but that could have very well have been an excuse he told himself, because, not as deep down as youâd think, the idea of taking a knife to your skin did thrill him. John didnât think he was a sadist, but heâs been wrong before so he didnât dwell on it.
He didnât really dwell on anything really, certainly not the way you whimpered, whined and cried as he slowly dragged the tip of his blade into you soft, pliable flesh.
John watched your face, saw the way your eyes fluttered closed, the way your bottom lip trembled and he pushed it aside, focusing instead on the task at hand.
He had chosen the spot carefully, the space beneath your collarbone, where the bone jutted out slightly, a delicate valley of skin. He wanted it to be visible, a constant reminder of who you belonged to. He wanted it to hurt, not just because he took pleasure in your pain, he did, he derived far too much pleasure than he should, but also because he wanted you to remember, to never forget that the more you run away, the more harsher precautions heâll take. For your safety. Why wonât you understand that?
John could feel your heart racing, your body tensing as he pressed the tip deeper into your flesh. A small bead of blood welled up and he began to slowly move the blade, oh so carefully carving his initials into your skin.
Yes, it was a brutal, primitive act, a far cry from the elegant, deadly ballet he was known for, but couldnât you see that you made him do this? He didnât want to, not really. This is your fault, not his. In a way, he was the victim.
You cried out, a sound that shouldnt have been music to his ears but was, and your body bucked, trying to dislodge him, but John was unmovable. He held you down with ease, his gaze never wavering from the task. John worked quickly, efficiently, his movements precise, calculated, just like they always were, he knew exactly what he was doing, exactly how much pressure to apply, exactly how deep to go to ensure it scarred and remained with you long after it healed.
This was just another job, really. But he wasnât going to kill you. Oh, heâd never.
After he finished the last stroke, he stepped back to admire his handiwork.
âIâm sorry, Iâm sorryââ you cried, still reeling from the fear and the pain, âIâI justââ
âI know,â he replied calmly, finally having something to say after all this time, âyou just wanted to go home,â he finished your sentence, âbut you are home.â
âJohnââ
âCome,â he stood back and held his hand out, âletâs get you cleaned up, hmm? Our dinner is going cold.â
