Keanu Reeves/ John Wick one shots

Love Me (Not) Pt.2

John Wick x Reader (Warnings- Very, very slight mentions of SMUT [but not really])

Y/n jolted awake, reaching for the gun stowed under her pillow. Aiming to her left, squinting in the darkness. After a minute or two, Y/n sighed loudly, relaxing, there was nothing there. There was never anything. Just her unrested mind playing tricks on her. 

A quick glance at the digital clock on her nightstand proved that it was just past three am. Y/n had only been home from her latest job for a few hours. She had stumbled through her front door, tried, worn and bruised. Though thankfully, there were no major injuries, the worst being a shallow gash on her side. Y/n hadn't paid much mind as to where her bags fell in the living room. Or where she had tossed her clothes as she slowly peeled the items off. A quick shower later, she had fallen face down into her bed, leaving the left side untouched, the way she had grown accustomed too, and hoped that she would get more than a couple hours of sleep.

It had been happening for months, since she had broken up with John. Or maybe since John had broken up with her. It was still difficult for her to work though what had happened. Maybe because working through it meant that Y/n would also have to work through her feelings. And to work through your feelings, you have to accept them, admit their existence. Ever since that night, Y/n had been haunted by vivid dreams, the kind that left her feeling like she was drowning in loss and confusion, where a very real sounding voice called her name "Y/n!" In a distant angry shout. The dream never went further, because right after the faceless person called out to her, Y/n would jump awake, ready to subdue an inexistent intruder.

Sucking in a shaking breath, Y/n swung her aching legs out of bed, shrugging off the sheets she shuffled towards the bathroom, discarding the oversized white dress shirt at the door. It was the same shirt she was wearing the night they ended. Unlike the pain in her weary legs, the ache in her chest is distracting, consuming. It's not real, its not deadly and can not be remedied with all the aspirin in the world. She's tried drinking it away, ignoring it, working it off, but nothing helped. Worst yet, it won't subside with time either. Her legs would heal, so will the little cuts and bruises, but the gaping hole on her inside, the hollowness that could only be filled by the man she had pushed away would never leave her. It felt everlasting, a deserving punishment. 

Y/n lets the hot water wash over her, stinging her skin, in hopes that she can, at the barest minimum drown one pain with another. Just like she had done with her last job, and all the others she had taken in the past three or four months. As she closed her eyes under the steady spray, all she could see were images of John. John kissing her. John holding her. John's voice in her ear, his warm breath brushing against her neck. Then the less than favorable, John telling her he loved her, then walking out of her apartment when she couldn't say it back.

Warm droplets slid down her curves and if Y/n tried hard enough, she could imagine the it was actually John's fingers skimming her sides. Instead of the cold marble wall, it was his strong body against hers. It almost made Y/n feel better. Almost suppressed the heart ache she had caused. Almost made her forget. Almost.  

But almost wasn't enough because the minute she opened her eyes, she had to shut them again, this time to contain burning tears with tired eyelids. Pressing herself hard against the wall, Y/n tried to hold back the scream that eventually made its way out as a defeated sob. Running her fingers through her wet, tangled hair, she slid down the wall, reaching the floor with a small splash. Slow sad breaths morphed into short, shallow sobs that shook her frame as Y/n broke down for the first time in months.

John sat on the large sofa in his living room, staring at his reflection in the blank television. Dark bags around whiskey eyes, disheveled dark hair, a healing rouge cut on his left cheek. If she were here, she'd run her fingers through his hair, brush it out of his face, telling him how much she liked when it was tucked behind his ear. John took a long swing from his glass, she wasn't here, she wasn't going to do that.