#John wick angst

[wiinterz]

once lost, now found | john wick

pairing: john wick x black plus size fem!reader

genre: established relationship, one-shot

warnings: canon!john, typical violence, kidnapped!reader, physical violence, character death, angst, fluff

word count: 1.5k

summary: being in the crossfire of john’s old life, there’s a realization that he’ll always pick you over anything and anyone in his life; himself included.

☏ ᴛᴀʏ’s ᴄᴏᴍᴍᴇɴᴛs: old one-shot!

recs | taglist | help hub | keanu reeves m.list

PATTERS OF RAIN HIT against a tin can that was laid on a concrete slab. The moon’s crescent-shaped the city into one walking circle. And street lights flickered as sounds of drunks, cars, and sobers moved around to find somewhere they could call home.

Chestnut-colored eyes peeked at a nearby building, white paint completely blocked out with graffiti, and cigarettes crushed up and tossed on the floor. Feeling your tired body being dragged to the empty building, your stomach turns as your bottom eyelashes catch your slipping tears, making sure they stayed on your waterline as the peculiar man had closed your mouth with tape. Your hands and legs were roped up, your body resting on the stranger’s left shoulder as he grumbled about your man, John. 

Hearing his grating voice complain about John, and how stupid he is to have a woman knowing his job takes anything pure from him. Your chest raises high and fast, trying to keep yourself from freaking out as he places your body down on a metal chair, the coldness of the metal shocks your body, making you whimper. 

He makes a hoarse laugh, pulling the tape off your mouth as he stuffs a shirt in your mouth, forcing you to gag on it.

He pushed your chair against a metal table, sitting beside you as he picks up a bottle of water and drink it.

“Ora aspettiamo The Babayaga.” He lets out another laugh, sighing to himself as he drinks the water, his watch ticking for a show.

John was in the middle of slicing a man’s arm off in a closed clothing store, the lights still on as dead bodies piled up around him. The more he killed, the more they ran to him, only to be shot down by his gun. 

Anger riled his soul, hurt taking over in his eyes as his mind replayed the screams that left your mouth. He wondered how did you slip away from him in such little time?

Killing the last man as he placed a sword against his neck and his gun behind it, John shoots and pulls the sword back, watching the man fall to the floor, face hitting against someone’s dead body.

John’s hair was now messed up and wet with sweat and blood, his face had tiny splatters, some so close to his eye as his blue t-shirt and black pants became stained permanently. He had lots of wounds on him, the back of his shirt slightly ripped showing a large diagonal cut on him.

Picking up another gun, he checks to make sure there was enough ammo in it. Once he walks out of the shop, he grunts, feeling like he lost a huge part of himself and dignity as the night prolongs.

He could only think back to you, worrying if you were in pain, if you were bruised or cut up. He could only imagine what he would do if he saw even a little paper cut on you by the man that caused this to happen.

His shoes scrape against the floor, knowing where to go. He knew deep in his heart who caused this, who betrayed his promise.

A groan escapes from his lips, his bloody hands falling to rest on the wall before he walks into the empty building. He stands there for a moment, regaining his strength and energy.

Once he breathes out heavily, John’s eyes ignite with despise as he hears a muffled laugh.

Making his way in, he pushes a door open down the long hallway, seeing a dim light create the ability to see. His heart stops in seconds, breath caught in his mouth as your eyelash lets a tear escape like a leaf letting a raindrop hit to another leaf.

There he stood, the man you fell in love with for a lifetime and more. He held a gun under his arm, his eyes soften at the sight of you. Your hair is a mess, your mouth is forced to bite against the shirt, and you sitting patiently and scared. 

He then looks at the man that sat beside you, looking at his expensive silver watch with gold in the middle. Silver-fox short hair, with skin pale as sand, fingernails clipped, his pinky finger long and slim as possible. His lips were light pink and plump and wrinkles appeared under his eyes as he smiled at John.

“So glad you could make it to the family dinner, Wick.” The man announces, a hearty laugh escaping his lips while John rolls his eyes, then looks back at you, motioning his fingers to see if you were okay. You motioned back to him a no, and he sighs.

“Giosuè,” is all he mutters out, keeping himself calm and collected as always as if you didn’t exist in the room. He had to do that, to keep you alive, to see you breathe. A fraction of his heart had been shut down from the death of Helen and the last thing he needed was to see you murdered; something that can be prevented.

Giosuè looks back at you, pushing your chin up a little, forcing you to stare at John while tears continue to fall, trickling to Giosuè’s fingers.

“Pretty girl, sad to see you like this.” He points out, moving his hand away as John squints a little, feeling his heart become slashed. 

“You see, you made a promise…that if and when you come back, I would be the first person to see you. You also promised me the killing of my brother and father, we made that promise when you were leaving home. To go to what? Normalcy? John Wick, The Babayaga…begs to find normalcy in a cold world, that he, made people fear him. Damn.”

Giosuè’s Italian accent comes out, standing from his chair, a gun resting in his back pocket, your eyes widened once you see it, alarming John.

“I’m mad now, because of you and your broken promises, my brother and father…hm whatever, you know the story.” He chuckles, sighing heavily once he finally reaches John, standing in front of him as John’s face stays relaxed, not a smirk, or a sign of worry.

John looks down at Giosuè and scoffs, “And you bring my girlfriend into your family affairs.” His voice showed no emotion, John went into a state you’ve never seen him in.

“She’s a pretty girl, and you know how I am…I like pretty things…I see pretty I take it.” Giosuè looks back at you and tilts his head with a smile. “You crying? John look she’s crying.” He lets out a maniacal laugh as he turns back to John whose eyes pierce your soul.

He had a different type of attitude when it came to your safety, your life before his, forever and always.

“Mmh.” The only thing that slips out from his lips, you continue to cry, trying to believe John will get you out of here safely. His hand pulls out a dart, one of the darts an assassin tried to use on him. Giosuè was too busy mocking you, calling you adorable for becoming hysterical in a situation like this.

John walks up behind Giosuè, the dart held between his index and middle fingers. He held his breath, making mental notes on how Giosuè moved his body.

As a ticking bomb, John’s fingers stifled Giosuè’s neck, the dart pushing into him. In hindsight, John hasn’t been sure if his plan would work out correctly. The only way to know was the outcome, and each ending dealt with you being freed.

Yet as Giosuè abruptly stopped taunting you, his hand quickly goes to behind his neck where John pulls the dart swiftly. Once he sees Giosuè's hand, he shoves the dart back in the middle of it, making Giosuè yell in terror. John then takes out a gun from behind him and shoots his spine, then Giosuè’s knee pit.

Giosuè’s body plummets down to the floor, and a terror of screams leaves his lips. His fingers scrape the floor, trying to crawl to you yet, John shoots him in the head, watching his body jolt a little.

John’s eyes dart back at you and puts up his gun while picking up Giosuè’s. You soaked the t-shirt with your saliva and tears, your dark brown skin bruise with purple and a bit of red from the tight bounds. Making his way to you, his right hand pulls your face up to him, he has tears ready to fall, yet he doesn’t.

His soul had become a cage of his nightmares, banging against his heart each time he saw you. If he could create heaven, he would simply make you the goddess of it. If he had a paint brush he would paint calligraphy and fill empty canvases of you and about you. His heart rang out for you, slipping into your hands and hoping you would restore whatever was taken away from it.

Taking a pocket knife out, John cuts the ropes off you, pulling the t-shirt out of your mouth as you could finally relax your jaw. His thumb comes across your face, catching pretty salts. Your breath pattern started to slowly go back to normal. Feeling his right hand pick up your wrist, he grunts at the makeshift bruises and cuts on your pretty skin.

“I’m so sorry, baby. I’m so sorry.” He lets out a staggering breath, his voice almost getting caught in his throat. He rubbed your wrists, wrists that had fibers of straw in them. He brings up your right wrist to his lips and kisses it, taking up your other wrist he kisses it up to your shoulder. Looking back at you, his hands immediately wrap around you, holding you tightly as if he relives the time he was told Helen was dying.

You take a moment to wrap your arms around him and when you do, your body is in alarm from the pain that spikes you. You rest your head on his shoulder, allowing your body to be loose on him. Your tears soaked the wounds he earned.

You held onto Johnathan as if you both were at sea, bodies laid on a raft, and the ocean roared throughout the night with tides trying to pull you in a different direction.

John pulls away, looking at you with tears, your weakened hand rests on his cheek. Pulling him closer to you, you press your lips against his, holding him for a moment as your tears intertwine with his.

“I love you, I love you, I love you.” He repeats, his words getting stronger each time, making you believe it.

You lay your body on him, permitting him to pick you up bridal style. His eyes fixated on yours as his heart beats at the same rate as yours, finally back to normalcy again.

When he went too far he returned to the same man you fell in love with years ago. When you disappeared you came back as the goddess of his dreams, the one that lit the candles in his heart when they left.

John found his normalcy once again and this time, he promised to not fail like the last.

#john wick #john wick fanfic #john wick fanfiction #john wick x y/n #john wick franchise #john wick angst #john wick fluff #fluff #john wick x black!reader #john wick x reader #x black reader #x black!reader #plus size reader #black!reader #keanuverse #keanu reeves #keanu reeves john wick #jw #keanu reeves imagine #john wick imagine

[iovesia]

heyyyyy i was wondering if you’d do like a continuation headcanon to the in the darkness headcanons basically like after they broke up what john wick would be doing aside from his usual work like i want to see him breaking downnnnn how he is holding up. like is he stalking her, keeping tabs on her, if she’s at a club would he be there too making sure she is protected and like what if she KNOWS he’s where she’s at and she knows that he watches her so she starts to act up in the club idk ANYTHINGGGG i want dramaaaaaaa i want him JELOUSSS AND REGRETFULL AND ON HIS KNEES . thank you ur my fav author ever luv u queen

post breakup, ౨ৎ ex-bf!john wick.

fem reader : continuation of this fic. angst?

john is heartbroken without you. he’s a very sentimental guy, so he can’t bring himself to throw away any of your pictures or mementos he still has. your face haunts the halls of his home, and he has no one to blame but himself.

john’s never one to dwell on his regrets too much— it would make his job a lot harder. but he couldn't stop the aching in his chest, knowing that he now wakes up alone. he won’t hear the sound of your soft singing from the shower, or your laughter in the kitchen when he used to cook sunday breakfast. 

he knows its for the better.. right?

your last conversation haunts his every waking thought. the sight of your big teary eyes, heartbreak swimming in those irises, is swimming in his mind. You begged for an explanation, to work things out— for him to just talk to you. talk. be vulnerable.

"you can talk to me, please", your voice echoes. 

and he just walked out the door.

john absolutely sucks at the concept of “no-contact.” sure he’s not speaking directly to you, but he’s always keeping an eye on you. He still drives by your favorite places the two of you used to frequent, and just watches you for a while. He manages to last just a few minutes of looking at your solemn face before the guilt hangs too low, and he drives off.

he keeps you safe from a distance, like a guardian angel. That’s all he ever wanted to do— it’s why he broke up with you in the first place. He realises how strange this is, how pissed you’d be if you caught him, but he just needs to know you’re okay.

you haven’t heard from john in almost months since he broke it off. his number stopped working, and it’s like someone wiped him off the grid. he never had many— or any  friends or family you could interrogate for his whereabouts. your friends always encouraged you to move on, find a new boy toy, or enjoy the single life.

"he always gave me weird vibes, i called it", one of your friends shrugs.

their comments get met with a nasty glare from you

john wasn’t weird. he wasn’t bad. at least not with you— never with you.

you thought you'd never see him again— until that one fateful november night. after weeks of peer pressure and pleads, you finally agree to let your friends set you up on a date. from what you heard, this guy was the exact opposite of john: aka everything you didn't want. he was blonde, blue eyed, and worked in ... accounting? actuary? something in finance, you honestly couldn't be bothered to remember.

your mind was fogged the entire time you spent getting ready. every flick of your mascara, or lift of tights over your legs reminded you of john. how he’d watch you doll yourself up, drinking in your every gentle movement and sway. 

you were too caught up in memories as you left your apartment building, and stupidly got into your uber without checking the licence or driver. You mumble the address to the driver, resting your head back against the window, shutting your eyes.

“don't you know it's rude to get into a stranger's car?" a husky voice jolts you awake.

“john?!”

josie's lil note ࿐ ♡ ˚ . sorry for the lack of angst angst, my brain is really not braining right now 😵‍💫

#divider cred. fairytopea #keanu reeves x reader #keanu reeves imagine #john wick x reader #john wick imagine #*⠀john wick. #love letters. #john wick angst

[telekinesis-mind-control-comics]

#john wick #keanu reeves #john wick movies #john wick parabellum #john wick oc #john wick rp #john wick imagine #john wick series #john wick fanart #john wick art #john wick chapter 4 #john wick chapter 3 parabellum #john wick universe #john wick au #john wick angst #john wick smut #john wick drabble #john wick franchise #john wick fandom #john wick fluff #actor #action movies #movies

[at-wicks-end]

burnout ; jw

john wick / reader 672 words ; angst other tags: mutual pining, right person wrong time, john and reader are in their 30s <3 pls do not repost!!

It shouldn’t be like this, John thinks to himself, feeling sick to the stomach. Still, he keeps his expression pleasant. He is your friend. He should be happy. He should be supportive. You look radiant.

“He proposed last Friday,” you grin, holding your hand out to show him the ring. It’s not ugly, but John would’ve chosen something different. It just doesn’t capture your personality, but he keeps his thoughts to himself. “I wanted to tell you sooner, but I didn’t want to do it over the phone since it’s pretty big news.”

You stare at the ring with a small smile in your face, but John can tell that you’re lost in thought. The unreadable look in your eyes is the only thing that pushes him to ask. “Are you happy?” He says carefully. You blink in surprise, the strange look in your eyes giving way to confusion. 

“Are you happy?” John repeats, and the smile in your face falters.

“What do you mean?” You laugh lightly, but he doesn’t buy it. “I’ve just gotten engaged, John. Of course I am.”

The noise from the rest of the coffee shop seems to disappear as he looks into your eyes, searching. You look put-together, like you always are, but there is a weariness in your posture. You alternate between fidgeting with your mug and your ring, and your smile doesn’t reach your eyes. Suddenly, that look in your eyes isn’t as unreadable as he thought.

“You look unsure,” he says softly. 

“I look tired,” you correct. “I couldn’t sleep last night. I was working through some stuff.”

Another lie. John decides to let it slide this once. “So when’s the wedding?” He changes the topic, and your posture relaxes marginally. 

“Matt wants it to be a summer wedding, somewhere with a beach, maybe?” You say brightly, and John already knows you’re overcompensating. “I wanted it to be in either spring or—”

“Fall,” John finishes, taking a sip of his coffee. “I thought you hated the idea of a summer wedding, much less one at a beach. What changed?”

“Well, Matt really likes the idea, so I guess it’s not that bad?” You shrug, and John can feel his free hand clench underneath the table. 

“You don’t seem that excited,” he points out, and you grimace. It tells him what he needs to know.

He wants to grab your shoulders and shake you so you can come to your senses. He wants to tell you that it should be him instead. He wants. 

Instead, John reminds himself of his reality: he is an assassin and you are a civilian. Being with him is a death sentence, and this is the best possible situation he could ask for. You are safe and away from him, with someone to care for you. John can keep tabs on you from afar, and everyone is happy.

That is the lie John must tell himself.

“For what it’s worth, congratulations,” he says sincerely. “I wish you two the best.”

For a moment, nothing is said. The two of you lock eyes, and his heart lurches at the way his own yearning is mirrored in your eyes. He toys with the idea of being the one to marry you instead—to be standing by the altar with you by his side, to exchange rings and vows with you, to spend the rest of his life with you. He considers confessing now, considers telling you how much he loves you so he can whisk you away from that idiot who can’t be bothered to learn what you like. 

The moment passes.

“Thank you, John.” Your voice is warm but resolute. He knows—you know—that this is the end. 

It should have been me, John thinks to himself. It could have been me.

The sunlight catches on your ring, and John rips out the seedling of hope you had planted in his heart. When the two of you part ways, he leaves his dreams of a quiet life with you.

hello!!! first jw fic here hehe hope you guys enjoy!! this is actually the alternate ending of a much larger fic i'm currently writing, so if you liked this, maybe keep an eye out for that one <3 i'll be crossposting this on ao3 as well.

#john wick x reader #john wick x y/n #john wick x you #john wick angst #john wick

[soberlovey]

john wick sillies ⁠☆

#john wick #john wick angst #john wick fanart #the sillies #hehehe #hehehehehe #wooooo #giggles #john wick chapter 4 #yahhhh #empty spaces #idk how to tag this #» 🐰 john wick’s bunny

[anundyingfidelity]

BE THERE — John Wick

Summary: John comes to your door wounded late at night for help. You wish he would stay.

Warnings: none, just angst.

Pairing: John Wick x reader (gender not specified).

☕ if you like my writing, support me with a ko-fi !

GEN MASTERLIST!

Seeing John standing outside your door in the middle of the night, in the pouring rain and wounded unlocked old memories.

You did not have any choice but let him inside your home. He was running, of course. He went through some good shit you wish he didn't. From the loss of his wife, his dog, and his quiet life... It hurted seeing him like this.

But you took him in, so here you were, stiching a cut he had on his shoulder. John groaned because of the pain and sipped the drink of alcohol you gave him so he could feel a little less the burn on his body.

"I'm sorry," you whispered, finishing your task. You sat by his side on the couch and cleaned the sweat off his face, marked by the years and the stories he left behind. "You can stay here, if that's what you want."

John's dark brown eyes scrutinized your face and every detail of you, your eyes full of worry, lips parted and how close you were to him. He wanted to stay, but he couldn't. He couldn't lose you... again.

"Thank you, but I will have to decline."

You reached for his hand, giving a sad smile.

"Look, I don't know what else is happening, but I am here. I will not go anywhere."

John nodded, thankful for your willpower to be always there for him. Even if his past would continue hunting him.

"That's the problem. I hurt people around me, is all I am good at."

Your heart ached for his words. Deeply, you wished things were different. Even if you met John outside his old business, you had no prejudices for him or his decisions. He didn't have a choice most of his life. So each time he needed a healing hand, you welcomed him in your home... and in your life.

"It doesn't have to be like that always, John... Please stay."

Your hand caressed his check and your lips kissed his skin, feeling the little burn of his beard. Hiding your face on the crook of his neck, he let you stay by his side, as close as humanly possible that wouldn't hurt.

He thought he didn't deserve someone like you. He only created problems and being with you was a big risk, considering he was being pursued. However, he decided to stay. John needed your warmth and if this was the last time he was able to see you, then he had to let you know how much he cared about you.

"I'm not going anywhere right now."

#john wick #john wick x reader #john wick fanfic #john wick chapter 4 #john wick imagines #keanu reeves #keanu reeves fanfic #john wick angst #john wick fanfiction

[writers-advocate]

tearing contracture scars | j.w.

description: john loses the only guiding light he has

cw: angst, pretty canon typical violence

you were off limits.

a weight seems to leave his shoulders when he hears his name tumble from your lips. the one whose call he will always willingly answer. “c’mon! i told you i’ve got a surprise for you.” he comes to you like a moth to a flame.

a yell tears through his throat when he sees smiles on familiar faces. they give him until midnight to give himself up.

he comes to you like a lamb to the slaughter.

“don’t you dare jo-!” a figure comes into frame, the camera goes fuzzy, and bile rises in his throat with the thud of knuckles on bone. the sound of your little cry.

time stamps indicate hours of footage. that’s what drives him to race down streets and highways, to come to you with no intel. you yell at him, scream for him to stay away. if you see his face you swear you will never forgive him for coming to you. it cuts to what he fears may be the next day and you’re crying now. bloody, bruised, broken, and yet begging him not to come. you plead with him to run, to leave you and to never look back.

he’d told you far too many times to pretend you’d never met him. to run away, move across the country and forget about him, your “bestest friend” as you called him. you did it to make him laugh. eventually it made him smile.

every time, his advice was met with a giggle, and you’d simply continue whatever you were doing. he could see the unspoken fear in your features but it wasn’t until that year, the one of his final night, that he’d realized…

it’s funny. you’d considered him a friend practically from the moment you met. you’d done things friends do. and things they don’t. stitching him back together, bandaging his wounds, staving off infection. how was he just now realizing?

you can’t have friends in this line of work.

he’d made sure you were off limits. one of his conditions when he left. it was a miracle you’d gone so long caring for him without incident and he wasn’t going to risk it.

it was all for nothing. you really can’t have friends in this line of work.

the car screeches to a halt in front of your home and he practically launches himself out to sprint towards it, gun in hand, your name on his lips.

“john!” your shoes pound against the pavement, sprinting up the long driveway. the terror in your voice is enough to pull him out of his daze and he looks up from the burning rubble at his feet.

“john where are you?!” you’re not looking where you’re going and he catches you, softening your impact on his chest. you clutch at his shirt, gasping in relief, he’s here, he’s safe.

“where were you going?” he murmurs. you don’t answer as you stare into the smoking remnants of his home, simply dragging him away to your car to get him patched up. it begins again.

the doorframe splinters from his impact. he can see the chair from the video at the end of the hall. one that he’s seen you in so many times, laughing, smiling, focusing on some frustrating task. he’s ready to call for you when he feels the wave of heat. he’s thrown back out onto the steps, and he finally processes the reason his ears are now ringing when he sits up. it’s gone. your home is gone. you are gone.

“my door’s always open for you, john.”

everything around him is crumbling, turning to glowing embers. fueling the fire.

“let’s take a picture! i need something to hang in my place, the walls are bland.”

edges of paper burn quickly around your smile.

a lingering touch. a gentle hand. a quick glance. a worried look. blind. he’d been so blind.

heartbreak claws through his chest to pave the way for something worse. something darker. and your light is no longer there to guide him out. all he can do is walk the scorched path once again.

a/n: i’ve been too horny the past couple weeks n i got sad so have this d:,)

#advocate writes #john wick x reader #john wick imagine #john wick #soft hubby #john wick angst

[marchtothefuckingsea]

Trust - John Wick

My Masterlist.

Hurt/comfort, angst, uhh lovers to enemies to lovers kind of?? , x gender neutral reader, x assassin reader

Word count: 3.8k (I got REALLY carried away lmao sorry)

Warnings: Injury, injured reader, blood, canon violence. Not proofread.

Summary: Prompted by the classic "I didn't know where else to go" trope.

I stumbled down the sidewalk like a zombie, leaning heavily on the buildings as I passed by. I clutched my arm to my bleeding side, favoring my ankle that I was pretty sure had been broken. My matted hair clung to the edges of my face, both my hair and my clothes drenched by the steady fall of rain. I shivered uncontrollably, frozen to the bone; a combination of blood loss and the cold rain that soaked into every inch of my skin. I stopped suddenly, breathing heavily. Pain washed over me and I grunted, hunching over and pressing my palm into the steadily bleeding wound.

I straightened up as much as I could before quickly ducking into an alley, allowing myself to sink down to the cold pavement with another shiver. My teeth chattered slightly and I clenched my jaw.

I recognized the area as near the infamous assassin's retirement home, John Wick. My former 'co-worker' if you will. Before our agency had all but sold me off to another they were in debt to. Transfer, was the word they used. I had, against my will, gotten passed around between agencies, somehow ended up at an enemy agency. Every time I tried to get out of it though, I was reminded of my numerous outside debts. The agencies I worked for were the only thing keeping them off of my back.

By then, John and I had both made multiple attempts at killing each other for our conflicting agencies. He seemed to ruthlessly carry out their orders, uncaring that I was his former ally. I was nothing but an enemy, now; and soon, he became the same to me.

After he nearly killed me once, it seemed to dawn on him just what he was doing. He had dropped the fight and spared me, but I didn't know just how long this 'truce' would last. I had been careful to avoid him after that, knowing that crossing his path purposely would only be tempting fate even more.

As I considered the idea of showing up at his doorstep foggily, my hand dropped from the bullet wound in my abdomen, alerting me to the fact I was starting to lose consciousness. I took a deep breath, attempting to bring myself back. I knew going to him would most likely be a death sentence, especially in my current state. He'd finish me off, I knew that much. There was no way in hell the heartless boogeyman would tend to the wounds of someone who had tried to kill him. Former ally or not.

But I was across the city from my apartment, and I also knew if I didn't get help soon I wouldn't make it to see morning. I weakly raised my hand back up to my stomach, barely able to put any pressure on the injury. I leaned my head back against the cold brick, my head swimming, and suddenly felt warm. I closed my eyes, sighing.

The hospital wasn't an option, not for people like me. They would ask too many questions. My apartment was more than a walk away, even uninjured, let alone the condition I was in now. A taxi was out of the question too. Weighing my options, it seemed I had no other choice. I knew it was a bad idea, but I was going to die anyway. If my memory served me right, his house was only a couple of blocks away.

If it didn't? I'd end up dying in some alleyway.

I staggered to my feet, gasping in pain and running straight into the wall, bracing myself against it. I doubled over, clutching my middle and panting as dots swam across my vision. I blinked over and over again, trying to clear them.

I walked unsteadily down the deserted street, keeping close to the building for support. My footsteps echoed in the silence, the busy sounds of the city now fading into the distance.

A few more twists and turns and the noisiness of cars and the wailing of sirens grew louder. I came out onto the sidewalk of a busy street, glancing around. I recognized a street sign. I stumbled to the curb, steadying myself on the light pole and not even bothering to look before I crossed the street.

A car roared up on me, the bright headlights making my head pound. The tires of the Toyota squealed as it came to a sudden stop. I heard cursing before the driver blared their horn. I hastily staggered to the other side of the street, unable to see. White hot pain filled my pounding head.

I stumbled on the curb, sticking my arms out in a last desperate (and stupid) attempt to break my fall. I couldn't muffle my cry of agony as my body came into contact with the unforgiving pavement. I rolled onto my side, clutching my side and balling up defensively. I whimpered pathetically when I felt the wound tear even more at the sudden movement.

Not allowing myself a moment of rest, I feebly pushed myself onto all fours before lurching to my feet. I leaned wearily against the building, gaining a fraction of my sight back. The dots had turned into entire dark spots and the edge of my vision had a sort of vignette to it.

Even through my blurry vision, I recognized his porch immediately. I stumbled unsteadily up the stairs, my head suddenly swimming with second thoughts. I immediately realized what a horrible, stupid idea this was. He would kill me on sight, no doubt about it.

I had been standing in front of the door, finger resting on the doorbell. I pulled away, swaying on my feet, and took a step away from the door. My legs buckled underneath me, unable to support me any longer. I barely had the energy to utter a quiet noise of pain. I squeezed my eyes shut.

The sound of a dog barking brought me back to reality seconds later, along with a man's voice. Both were faint but I was unsure if it was because I was on the verge of unconsciousness, or because they actually were further back in the house. I felt a pang of fear, struggling to my forearms. I fell back down to the porch, all my strength leaving me. I feebly curled into a loose ball in a last desperate attempt to protect myself. I fought to keep my eyes open.

The barking quieted before I heard heavy footsteps from inside the house. The door opened and I flinched, curling my arms around my abdomen.

I heard John's voice and I managed to turn my head slightly. "Are you being followed?" He repeated sharply, his eyes withdrawn and calculating.

"I don't know." I whimpered out pathetically. I coughed, the mere action of speaking irritating my lungs. I wheezed, curling into myself and tucking my chin to my chest.His body language was that of an assassin as his sharp eyes carefully took in his surroundings.

I heard his bare feet hit the floor as he took another step closer to me. A strangled, fearful noise escaped my throat, and one of my arms hastily unwound from my waist to shield my head, as if that would protect me. When nothing happened, I looked up carefully, my head pounding. He walked right past me, down off of the porch. I almost felt..afraid; but not of him. Afraid that he would just leave me here to die. That was somehow a worse scenario to me than if he just finished me off himself. I drifted in and out of consciousness, my eyes fluttering open and shut, watching the silhouettes of small insects flutter around the porchlight. His concerned face came into a blurry focus the next time I opened my eyes. He crouched beside me. I suddenly noticed him tucking something into his waistband, what I could only presume was a gun. I weakly pushed myself back with my arms, panic seizing my chest. I panted, my eyes wide in fear.

"I'm going to help you. Don't worry." His voice was softer now; it had lost its harsh edge from before. That still wasn't enough to reassure me though, and as he reached for me, I flinched back.

"I'm sorry I- I didn't know where else to go." I choked out painfully. I struggled onto my forearms, adrenaline flooding into my veins and giving me the little bit of strength I needed to brace myself up. I somehow managed to push myself into a sitting position. He hovered over me, reaching out as if to help me but not quite touching me. I leaned against the wall, slumping against it in exhaustion. I instinctively crossed my arms over my torso, weakly pressing a hand to my wound. All the energy seemed to drain from my body at once, and my eyes tried to shut against my will. I shivered. My body began to tilt to the side. I made no attempt to brace myself against the concrete, instead embracing it and slowly lying down, curling into a wheezing, miserable ball.

I watched wearily as John hesitantly reached for me again. I flinched slightly when his large hand rested carefully on my waist. I tightened my grip around my wounded stomach, using the last bit of energy I had. His eyes were trained on my face, gauging my reaction. My vision blurred and darkened dangerously around the edges.

"It's okay. You're okay." He promised when I shrank further into myself.

"What happened?" He questioned. I felt his hands begin prying my arms from my middle. I whimpered in protest but I was too weak to fight him. A faint wave of panic washed over me. I choked out a cry of pain when I felt an agonizing pressure on my stomach. I clawed feebly at his hands, blood bubbling in my throat. I coughed.

"Stop." I begged, my legs kicking uselessly. This was it. "Please." I gasped out.

"Sorry, sorry. " He apologized breathlessly. A hand reached up to stroke my cheek for a brief moment before returning to my stomach. I choked out a sob. I stilled reluctantly, my breaths shallow and painful. I knew there was no getting out of this now; I was at his mercy.

"Who did this to you?" He asked harshly, his voice faint. I tried to mumble out an answer but my lips wouldn't part and my tongue swelled in my mouth. My shallow breaths slowed, my eyes fluttering shut. I let myself drift off.

I groaned, rolling onto my side and clutching an arm to my torso. The blankets entangled me, causing me to panic as everything came back to me. I bolted up, immediately regretting it and falling onto my back with a choked whimper.

I heard the door open. I weakly shuffled over to the far side of bed, my face screwed up in pain and my breath hitching in my throat. John rounded to the other side, already seeing what I was trying to do. My pulse quickened, panic clawing up my throat as he neared. I pushed myself back with a weak cough.

His hand rested firmly on my shoulder as I braced myself on my elbows, my body shaking pathetically with each cough.

"Get away from me." I choked out, still attempting to shuffle away from him. I turned onto my side, grasping my stomach in pain with one arm. I fell back on the pillows weakly, winded. I noticed he had sat in a chair by the bedside, reaching for a glass on the nightstand.

I watched him wearily as he offered me the glass of water, my throat raspy and begging for relief.

He sighed. "If I wanted to hurt you in any way, I would have already. Drink. It's just water, I promise."

I couldn't argue with that, though I wanted to. I took the glass from him, sipping at first, hesitant of any weird tastes, before gulping it down. He hastily pried the glass from my hands.

"You're going to make yourself sick." He explained.

"I'm thirsty." I protested weakly.

"I know. Slowly." He said carefully, handing the glass back to me. I took slow sips this time, even though all I wanted to do was chug it all down. My entire body ached and throbbed as I handed him the glass back, falling onto my side in exhaustion. I wrapped my arms around myself and buried my face into the pillow. I let out a shallow sigh.

“How are you feeling?” He inquired, his eyes glancing over my form.

“It hurts.” I mumbled into the pillow.

“I’m sorry.” He apologized. I raised my head suddenly, propping my upper half on my elbow.

“It’s not your fault.” I said. “I should be the one apologizing-”

“No.” He cut me off. “No, I mean..I scared you. You were scared of me. You shouldn’t have been, you came to me for help.”

“We weren’t exactly on best of terms the last time we saw each other.” I reminded him, unsure how else to reply. The man I had worked with years ago - the assassin - hadn’t been this apologetic or caring. He had his moments, but nothing like this. It surprised me.

“I know. I regret that.” He sighed, scrubbing his face and leaning forward. He hung his head, his long hair covering his face. He was quiet, but I could hear the gears turning in his head as he thought of what to say. He never had been a man of many words, but I had known him better than anyone.

“I regret allowing you to continue this..this way of life.” He admitted quietly, raising his head to meet my eyes again and slightly gesturing over to me. I could see guilt in his eyes, and pain. Too much pain. So much that it hurt me, too.

“John, it’s not your fault. It’s not like you could have really stopped me anyway.” I gave him a half smile. We both knew how stubborn I could be. I reached over to place my hand over his in a comforting gesture. I let my instincts guide me, unsure how else to act. I had never had to comfort anyone in my life, let alone the formerly stoic and withdrawn assassin.

He flipped his hand over, capturing my cold fingers in his warm palm. I sighed. "You have no idea. I hated leaving you behind.I hated myself for getting out of that life and not taking you with me. You don't deserve it." He said, sucking in a shaky breath. He averted his eyes from mine, staring at our intertwined hands.

"I was too caught up in that world, you know that. I still am. The normal world just isn't for me." I said quietly.

"So was I. I got out of it, so can you. Let me help you." He pleaded. The vulnerable, caring man in front of me was nothing like the one I had worked with years ago.

"I can't. I can't involve you in any of this, you know that as well as I do, John. You're going to get dragged back in." I shook my head. I suddenly winced, inhaling sharply. I laid back down on the mattress, my energy drained. He hovered over me in concern.

"I'm fine." I tried to reassure him. I broke off with a cough, a sharp pang irritating my lungs. I felt the mattress dip with his weight as he moved to sit on the edge of the bed. I erupted into a coughing fit. Tears of pain welled up in my eyes. I shifted onto my side, then onto my forearms, resting my forehead on the pillow as my body shook with each cough. I felt his hand rubbing gentle circles on my back. He said soothing words that I couldn't make out.

As the coughing fit subsided, I relaxed limply into the mattress. I felt him slide his arm across my chest, gently pulling me up against him. I leaned into him, sighing. His body radiated heat compared to my own.

"Thank you." I slumped against him completely, exhausted. I closed my eyes, a feeling of safety washing over me, with his arms wrapped protectively around my injured body.

"I missed you." He said softly, resting his chin on the top of my head. I felt him dip his head down, pressing his lips to my hair.

"I missed you too." I murmured, beginning to nod off. He must have sensed my exhaustion. Still holding me to his chest, he shifted, lying sideways and carefully pulling me down with him. The movement startled me at first, but I quickly settled down, pressing myself closer to him. He laid still as I drifted off my hand falling away from his. Right before I fell asleep, I felt him untangle himself from me, pulling away. I whined in protest.

"Stay here." I mumbled.

"Are you sure?" He asked hesitantly. He may have been a killer before, but he had always been a gentleman, and apparently he had never stopped.

"Please." I turned onto my back, my arm draping across my stomach. Wordlessly, he settled back down beside me, carefully resting his arm over my own and entwining his fingers with mine. I hummed contentedly, falling asleep.

"It's too soon for you to be up and walking around!" John ordered as I limped into the kitchen.

"John, I'm fine. I'm feeling better, I'm healing! It wasn't that bad." I argued, sitting at the island with a wince.

"You showed up on my doorstep nearly dead less than three days ago, scared shitless. Don't tell me it wasn't that bad." He said lowly, turning away from the coffee maker. His face was hard as he sat across the island from me.

"I can't keep taking up your bed forever."

"You're not." I couldn't argue with that. He had slept by my side the past few nights, and they had been the best nights I sleep I had had in years. No night terrors. It helped my healing immensely.

I sighed in frustration. "I have a life to get back to."

"That's not a life." He frowned.

"I know. I don't have a choice." I said softly, looking down at the table.

"You do. Stay with me." He was serious.

"I already told you; I'm not dragging you into this. This is my problem. You're retired, old man." I added jokingly, trying to lighten the mood. In reality, there wasn't a big age difference between us. Life just had different plans. He was smarter with his, while I had gotten too caught up in the underground world; and now, it had caught up to me, and I was going to be forced to pay the price.

"Who's after you?" He asked suddenly, ignoring my attempt to clear the tense atmosphere.

"I can't tell you that." I argued.

"Yes you can."

"...My company." I sighed in defeat.

"Why?" He pried.

"I owe a lot of people, you know that." He nodded, his frown deepening. "Well..that's why I had no choice but to be passed around. That's why I had to leave. Believe me when I say I wouldn't have left you if I had a choice. You were the one person in that world I felt I could trust." I admitted quietly before continuing.

"These people I always worked for, they were the only thing keeping these other people I owed off my ass. If it weren't for their protection, they would have collected their debt a long time ago." I didn't elaborate; I didn't have to. He knew exactly what I meant. "I fucked up on an assignment. Bad. I cost them big time. That's why they want me. My own company is on my ass now." I laughed humorlessly.

"Do you still work for…." He trailed off, not daring to say the name aloud.

"Yeah."

"They're ruthless."

"I know."

"They're ruthless." He repeated. "They're not going to stop looking for you until you're dead."

"I know." I repeated in irritation.

"You can't go back out there." He said softly.

"I told you, I don't have a choice. If I don't, they're going to come looking for me. They're going to come here. I don't want that."

"That's not your decision to make."

"What, do you want them to come here? Do you want to get involved in this?" I spat at him, standing abruptly. I doubled over, gripping the countertop with paper white knuckles. I hissed in pain, curling an arm around my stomach. He was quick to round the island, coming over to me. I ducked away from him.

"I'm fine."

"You're not. Sit." He ordered. I backed away from him, stubbornly refusing to follow his orders. I was still swaying on my feet, having just evaded death mere days ago. My body ached, begging for rest.

"Listen." He sighed, softening his tone. "I don't want you going out there. It's not safe. You know what they're going to do."

"I know exactly what they want to do, and I'm not letting it happen. I've evaded all those assholes I owe for the better part of my life. I'm still here."

"You've had people helping you. Covering for you." He pointed out.

"Not always." I argued, slowly straightening up. "And I never trusted them."

"Is that really how you want to live the rest of your life?" He asked. I didn't miss the slow, deliberate steps he took towards me, but I didn't back away.

"It's a little too late for second chances, John." I laughed dryly. "I'm knee deep in all this bullshit. More than that, actually."

"It's never too late." He told me quietly, placing his hands on my shoulders. I looked up at him, meeting his sincere gaze.

"You said I was the one person you could trust?" I nodded wordlessly. "Then trust me. Let me help you. Please."

"Okay." I agreed softly.

I trusted him. I had never stopped.

#john wick #john wick oneshot #john wick imagine #john wick fanfic #john wick fanfiction #john wick x reader #john wick x you #john wick x y/n #john wick angst #john wick hurt/comfort #john wick x oc #hurt/comfort #angst #x injured reader #x assassin reader #x gender neutral reader #I've started watching the movies #well bits and pieces more like but #man his wife dies #and then they kill his dog??? #what the fuck is wrong with these people #I just wanna give him a hug

[jeandejard3n]

John Wick: Back From Retirement

#john wick #back from retirement #john wick 1 #john wick 2 #john wick 3 #john wick 4 #john wick 5 #john wick 6 #john wick rp #john wick roleplay #john wick universe #john wick oc #john wick parabellum #john wick au #john wick art #john wick angst #john wick series #john wick fanfic #john wick franchise #john wick fandom #john wick fanart #john wick chapter 4 #john wick chapter 2 #john wick chapter 3 parabellum #john wick movies #keanu reeves #keanuverse #keanu characters #keanu my beloved #the continental

[existedwithoutyourpermission]

' bullseye ' [ john wick x reader ]

| warnings ; violence..... this is john wick we're writing about, cursing, (possible?) angst

| reader's parents are gone for business her father is in. chaos ensues as they leave her to the care of john wick. | we will take the theory where john wick is alive as true here,,,, john is hired to be the bodyguard for y/n and chaos of ups and downs ensue!! ctto to my bestie for giving me a title<3 luv u girl! also available on wattpad and ao3! * PROLOGUE

#john wick #jw #jw1 #jw2 #jw3 #jw4 #john wick 1 #john wick 2 #john wick 3 #john wick 4 #john wick chapter 4 #john wick x reader #john wick angst #john wick fluff #prologue #fiction #backstory #chapter

[samdeancass]

1.5k Follower Celebration

1.5k Follower Celebration Masterlist

Requested by @jensen-ackles-girl​

T/W​: Mentions of anxiety. 

________________________________

You jerk up quickly out of bed, hair sticking to your face with swear, gasping for air and eyes wide as you tried to will away the horrors you experienced in your mind. 

John stirs in his sleep and turns around sluggishly, his hand running over the spot where you once lay. He sat up slightly, eyebrows furrowed in confusion, when he heard your heavy breathing further down the bed. Immediately, he slings an arm around your waist and pulls you close, tucking his head in the crook of your neck.

He peppers your skin with small kisses and whispers calming words in your ear until he felt your breathing begin to slow and your muscles soften against him. “I’m sorry.” He turned you around and cradled your hands in his. “You have nothing to be sorry for, baby.” 

Tears began rolling down your cheeks as the memories resurfaced once again. John gently wiped the tears away with the pad of his thumb and brought your forehead to his. “You don’t have to do this alone and I won’t let you do this alone.”

A small sigh escaped your lips. “Thank you for being here. I don’t know where I would have ended up if you hadn’t have found me. You saved me, John, and I owe my life to you.”  He brought your face to meet his and pressed his lips to yours, slow and soft, running his fingers through your hair.

Slowly, he pulled away and gave a small smile. “You never have to thank me, Y/N. You are the best thing that ever happened to me and I want to spend every minute making sure that I show you just as much. I will never let anyone hurt you ever again.” 

“I love you, John Wick. With all my heart and soul.” He smiled and pulled you in for a deep and passionate kiss, laying back down on the bed and cuddling you to his chest.

“I love you to, with everything I have.” He waited until you fell asleep before slowly reaching over to the nightstand and pulling a box out of the drawer. “I’m going to be the luckiest man alive when you agree to marry me.” He put the box back, pecked the top of your head before settling down and falling into a deep sleep.

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[kiwisbell]

helen ; chapter three

the red circle

Si vis pacem, para bellum. Or, the truth.

series masterlist | my masterlist pairing: joel miller x f!reader tags/warnings: 18+ (MDNI), john wick AU, hitman!joel, husband!joel, established relationship, artist!reader, love as worship (and blasphemy), sacrilege in the name of romance, flashbacks, graphic violence, guns, blood + injuries, mentions of rape/SA, cars, bill is here, joel is still a bit of an idiot, childhood/religious trauma, hitman!joel finally hitmans, criminal underworld, secrecy/lies, betrayal, ANGST (still unresolved oopsie), we're getting there though, exposition, conflicting emotions, joel's tattoos are sexy but they're also plot-relevant, Sleeping Together, but not like That, the typical alcohol/smoking/profanity, dividers by @/saradika word count: ~ 7.6k a/n: this chapter marks this fic being halfway done already, which is madness. also, can i just say that i'm loving the amount of people who've specifically been watching john wick because of this fic?? this is my agenda!! as always, thank you so fucking much to mya baby @cavillscurls for beta reading this fic and being, idk, generally the loml. i hope you enjoy chapter 3, my friends! i'm sorry it's been such a long time coming, but life lifed, y'know?? prev | next

“How much?”

“Two million. For now, at least. It’s open.”

“Goddammit, Tommy.”

“I told you to be careful, brother. Now look at you. You’re a loose end.”

Joel resisted the urge to toss his phone. The shower continued running in the bathroom, muffled by the closed door. 

He couldn't lose you. He didn't know life without you. Love had no name until he knew you. He'd christened it with that first kiss, maybe even in the first breath he'd shared with you.

If there was a chance Cabrera’s kid could come back for you, even if just to hurt Joel, he needed to see this to its end. There was no choice. 

“He tried to rape my wife,” said Joel. “He's lucky I’m only tryin’ to kill him.”

Tommy only sighed, and the call ended.

I married you, Joel.

I loved you.

You lied to me.

He rests his elbows on his knees as he watches you doze. The sunlight shines neatly through the break in the curtains, and you squint against it in your sleep, turning over with a little huff and bringing the duvet over your head. You’ve always needed total darkness for a half-decent sleep. 

You’ve been crying. The tears leave remnants on your cheeks, a dryness at the outer corners of your eyes, salt seeping moisture from your skin. He’s never known a thing so soft as the drag of his hand down your back. 

I loved you.

You lied to me.

You will never understand. There are reasons—too many to count—that civilians cannot know. He may have gotten you to relative safety in the Continental, but there are a hundred dangerous people in this building who have a long-standing grudge against Joel Miller or the man he worked for. A hundred people who would take you as collateral the moment you stepped outside the grounds. But as long as you remain inside, you’re safe.

He just needs to finish the job. He needs to see it through, and he’ll be out. You’ll realise he’s done it all for you.

I loved you.

Sitting on the edge of his bed, he watches the rise and fall of your chest beneath the sheets. He broke your heart last night. He watched you turn in on yourself, your eyes so cold, so far away. He listened to you scream, and inside he pleaded: Keep hitting me, baby. Keep shouting. Be mad. He wanted you loud and furious and spitting fire. If you were angry, you still cared. He could work with that. 

And to see you walk away, the fire frozen over, the fight in your marrow sucked out… 

The anguish of losing your ire still stirs in his chest. The guilt peels him away in layers. Acid. 

She’ll understand, he tells himself, you, anyone who’ll listen. She’ll get it someday—why I did it, why I lied. She’ll forgive me.

Forgive me, baby. Don’t let me live the rest of this life never seeing you smile.

“Stop looking at me,” you grumble, your eyes still closed.

Joel averts his eyes. His throat feels tight. “You sleep okay?”

You haul yourself upright and stretch out your back. Joel studies the curve of your spine and the nape of your neck. You’re the muse painters rave about. The reflections of sunlight on water at dusk. The pond of water lilies. 

“You didn’t. Your sheets haven’t even moved.”

“I can’t sleep without you.”

You give him a heavy look, your eyes bleary with sleep. “You managed all those years before me, Joel. Let’s not do this.”

“What if I want to do this?” he says, dropping to the floor next to your bed and taking your hands in his. You try to pry yourself free, but he drops his head and traps you in his rapt vigil. 

“Joel…” Your voice is still groggy, but there’s agony in the way you say his name.

“You’re my wife,” he says against your skin. “You’re the only person I’ve ever loved. You’re the girl I saw that night in the restaurant with the pretty eyes and you’re the girl I called every night just so I could hear your voice, and you’re always gonna be the only fucking girl for me. You’re my reason for everything, baby. I need you. Please… please just understand. You have to know that.”

You’re silent for a long while, your legs curled under you as your own husband kneels as if in prayer. Your throat burns with more tears you have little energy left to shed. You whisper his name.

He looks up and you find you cannot meet his eyes. So you stare at one of the patches of skin that disrupt the brown-grey of his beard. “That first night at the restaurant,” you say, trepidation colouring your voice blue, “you disappeared after the second course. When you came back, you told me you had to take a call. Was that the truth?”

Joel’s eyes are frantic in their search for an answer. “Don’t,” you snap. “Don’t lie to me again. Was that the truth?”

“There—” His voice cuts off, his eyes shuttering. “There was a target. That’s… why I was there in the first place.”

Your sob dies in your chest. It doesn’t even make a noise. You wrench your hands out of his, and he lets you, still kneeling at your bedside like a lost sinner. “Love has never been the problem. You might love me, but you’ve never told me the truth. Not from the first day.”

One of his hands wraps around your ankle. “I wanted out. I wanted out my whole life, and you’re the one who made me find the way. Cabrera, he… He gave me an impossible task. I completed it. And I gave you this ring.” He brushes his thumb over the knuckles of your third finger where your bands are still secure. “You said yes. You married me. Doesn’t this mean something?”

The sound of your hollow laugh hurts more than any words you could use to cut him. “It did,” you confess, “when I knew exactly who my husband was.”

He shakes his head, his lips parting in another desperate cast, but you’re standing up and crossing the room, gathering your toiletries for the bathroom. “What happens now?” you ask. 

Joel stares at the ring on his finger. “I’m going to talk to the Manager. You have to stay here.”

“Okay,” you say softly. Your back is rigid. “Just tell me something.”

“Anything,” says Joel. 

“If I asked to leave,” you whisper, “would you let me go?”

Joel feels his heart crack in two. He remembers the small outdoor wedding, in the heart of May, when he’d seen you walk down the aisle toward him and struggled to find the words, as he always did, that would be good enough. 

I vow to love you, he'd said, his hands trembling as he took yours. I vow to be your partner in all things. I vow to show you every piece of my soul, the way you've given me yours, and to be gentle with your heart. 

I vow to be the man you want, the man you need, and the man you love. 

He’s failed. He knows that. But you smiled at him that day, your eyes brimming with tears that turned black from your mascara, and you kissed him before the officiant said the words. 

I loved you.

“I’d do anything you asked me to,” he says, “but not that.”

Joel made a stop at the Continental Tailor before he went to find the Manager in the lounge. He paid the Tailor a bit too much for the new suit, he realises now, the sleeves a bit too tight, the pants not quite tapered. He was dressing a different body than the one he knew all those years ago. 

Joel weaves through the darkness as a crooning voice sings something about evil men up on the stage. The band is playing along, a smooth jazz tune, and the bodies around him smell of expensive cologne and perfume and vodka. He remembers with a start why he hated this place so much. 

Adjusting his jacket, he finds the Manager sitting in the VIP section on a long curved booth upholstered in crimson velvet, sipping a dry martini. 

“Joel,” he says, lifting his glass in toast. 

“Bill.”

The Manager doesn't look particularly thrilled. “You know there’s an open contract on your head. Who did you have to kill to end up back here?”

“Just a couple people.” Joel sits opposite him. “I need information.”

“And you're here on more business. Does your consort have anything to say about that?”

Joel curls his fingers into a fist atop the table. “I’m invoking my guest privileges. And she is my wife.”

Bill sniffs in amusement. “So, you did end up marrying the gal. Good for you, Joel. She's a stunner.”

“Fuck you, Bill.”

A short, booming laugh. “Nobody will so much as look her way. You have my word and all it means.”

“Doesn't mean much,” says Joel. “I’m just visiting.”

“Don't be the idiot I know you aren’t,” says Bill, leaning forward and setting his glass aside. “You dip so much as a pinky back in this pond, and you won’t get out so easy. Sometime, somewhere, someone’s going to come to you with another impossible task.”

“And I’ll complete it,” says Joel. “Emiliano Cabrera. Where is he?”

“You really wanna do this, Joel?”

“Yeah.”

“Your wife may be safe now, but she won’t be forever.”

“That’s why I’m going to finish it. That’s why I’m going to kill him.”

The Manager sighs, polishing off his martini. “You know damn well business will not be conducted on Continental grounds, Joel. You may as well go have a drink at the bar, take a load off. I can’t tell you anything while you’re inside my hotel.” 

Joel suspected as much. “Then tell me something you can.”

Bill’s nostrils flare and Joel feels some satisfaction knowing he can still push the old man’s buttons. “I’ll tell you what: the game has changed since you left it. Your only chance is to get out now, while you still can. What could possibly warrant the Boogeyman reentering the fold?”

Joel licks his teeth. Your eyes blurring with tears as your skull connected with the ground, your body going limp as he stood above you. The clink of a belt buckle echoes still in his head. If he hadn’t been fast enough—

“It’s personal.”

Bill’s gaze dips. “Well,” he says, “then, unofficially, I wish you the best of luck. But, as a former friend”—Joel snorts —“let me give you a piece of advice. Take your wife home and forget about all of this. I like you, Joel, but for her sake and yours, I’d rather never see you again.”

Joel doesn’t take it personally. “Tell Frank I said hello.”

Bill grabs a full glass from a passing server. “Fuck you, Joel.”

He nods his head, closing the lapels of his jacket and slipping the first button through the opposite slit. As the singer on the stage transitions into the next song, Joel orders a glass of bourbon and watches the bartender slide his drink over on a pristine white napkin. 

“On the house, per the Manager’s request,” says the bartender. “Welcome back, Mr. Miller.”

Pristine—save for the small red circle drawn with marker on the centre. Across the bar, Bill raises his glass in another toast, and Joel leaves the lounge, his drink untouched. 

It’s a Tuesday night, and the Red Circle is lined up around the corner. One must know someone to get inside, and that someone must be a paying member. Joel had a membership by default, being contracted under Cabrera, but it was revoked along with his other privileges once he had completed his task. 

You would hate this place. It’s throbbing bass and flashing neon lights and sweat-slick bodies rubbing up against one another. It’s brick and industrial metal and glass and the people don’t mix, either. 

Maybe part of him is hedonistic, too. He doesn’t think he ever used to be. The job gave him wealth to spend that he never cared to; when he met you, he began to understand the pleasure of material things. Gold shone when it hung around your neck and wrapped around your fingers. Diamonds glittered like the jewels in a crown when you wore them on your ears. And when he pulled you close to him for the first time, undressing you slowly, hooking his fingers in the lace panties he’d bought for you and bringing his mouth to the heat between your legs, Joel began to understand the draw of pleasure. 

It isn’t that he’d never had sex before you. He’d just… never been interested before you. Bodies always felt… too cold. They were complex. They were things to be followed, things to be killed. They were names on a piece of paper. They would bleed all their warmth and light into his palms and he would return, limping, to a house he never cared about and absolve himself of red. He’d never known the thrill of a body until he tucked his hand under the soft swell of your naked breast and put his mouth on yours and felt your heartbeat bleed into his hands. He never wanted to wash it off. 

If I asked to leave, would you let me go?

After the orphanage, Joel visited a church only once. 

He hadn’t meant to find it. He’d heard an organ humming from within. The cathedral was taller than it was wide, built for a small gathering. He’d slipped inside during a sermon, delivered by a pastor with white hair and a pair of wilting hands. Joel watched the tremors pass through his face, the agonising pulse of the vein in his throat, the way he would gulp down mouthfuls of water. He spoke with rhythm, with melody, and when he was finished, he grasped the edges of the pulpit, his head bowed in silent prayer. Joel thought he had never seen a more devoted man in his life. 

When the sermon was over, he waited his turn to speak with the pastor. He did not know why. He hadn’t felt a stirring in his chest at the word of God; he never had.

I’ve never seen you in here before, my son.

Joel shook his head, frowning at the ground. I… left the faith, in a way. When I was young. I’m… sorry.

Devotion is a choice, said the pastor, taking Joel’s hands in his own. They were wrinkled, speckled with age spots. Joel lifted his gaze to find the pastor smiling. As with all things in life. Devotion, my son, is not a birthright. We must find it. Though it may not be His word, you will know someone’s word. And you’ll find it will move you enough that you choose to follow it. To whatever end. 

Joel has been slashed, burned, drowned, whipped, beaten, strangled. He could count the telltale black spots in his eyes like dreamers count sheep. He developed a reputation because he was good at what he did. He was efficient, fast, lethal. He once killed three men in a bar with a pencil, they whispered. A fucking pencil. Word in the Underworld spread of a boogeyman who would take your life in your sleep if you wronged the wrong person, if you were just an unlucky bastard.

Their word never mattered. He’d never knelt in the blood of a victim and prayed for absolution. He would never find it, anyway. His soul was black. 

If I asked to leave, would you let me go?

No word has ever cut so deep as yours. How could he wake up every single day next to the love of his life and lie so easily to your face? How could he put a ring on your finger knowing damn well he’d betrayed your trust every second of your time together and you never even knew about it?

How could he wear the mask of your husband and dream of blood on the very same hands that touched you each night?

Joel checks his watch. It’s one o'clock in the morning. You’ve been sleeping since breakfast. You won’t sleep a wink tonight if this keeps up, but it seems you’d rather do anything in the world than speak with him. 

He doesn’t blame you.

He found his word that night in the restaurant. He’d followed it, followed you, wherever you took him. And he will follow you, his almighty word, beyond the grave, to whatever end you decide. 

He will not abandon his faith. His purpose. He will not throw up his hands and let you walk away. He’s made mistakes he cannot mend. He can’t go back to the day you met and tell you all he should have, rules be fucked. He cannot fix what he’s already broken. You cannot put a piece of tape over fractured glass, a bloodied hand over wounded skin. 

He made his fucking vows. It’s time he lived up to them.

Across the street, Joel watches, turning over the knife in his pocket by the hilt. Emiliano Cabrera and his lackeys step out of Joel’s Mustang and toss the keys to the valet. They skip the line, smacking one another around and jeering at the ladies in line, and Joel feels the hunger pull at his teeth. 

His first target is posted by the east entrance. Joel takes the alley, stepping aside trash bags brimming with used needles and slipping the Glock from the lining of his jacket. The weight of it is formidable in his hand. Under the cover of dark, he slides into a second skin, black as the names they call him. Bringing the gun to the back of the guard’s head, he watches those huge shoulders stiffen.

“Francis,” he says politely.

“Joel,” says the guard. 

“Workin’ late?”

“Why?” says Francis. “You want in?”

“Yeah,” says Joel, “I do. You lost weight.”

“Twenty-seven pounds, if you’ll believe it.”

Fuck. 

Twenty-seven guards tasked with protecting the little shit. Joel may have a reputation, but it’s been years. He was ambushed in his own home last night. And after it all, he’d let the bastard slip between his fingers. 

“Why don’t you take the night off?”

Francis lowers one meaty hand to the piece in his ear and takes it out. Turning his head, he says, “Can you at least lower the gun?”

Joel does. “Wasn’t sure you’d remember me.”

“Word’s going around. They say you’re back.”

“I’m just passin’ through.” 

“Sure, Joel.” Francis offers his hand, and Joel shakes. “You better make it quick. I don’t feel like getting fired.”

“Understood.” Joel slips inside, letting the door click shut behind him. 

Even from afar, the music lives in his chest, a writhing thing that seeks departure by way of his throat. He tries to swallow and it wriggles back up again. The bass throbs hard against his ribs. 

There’s a bathroom on the VIP floor. As he sneaks by the frosted glass partition that separates him from the public, Joel hears the squeak of locker doors. He puts his palm on the door and pushes inside.

Did you see the tits on that girl? says one man in Spanish. Emil got a pretty one.

Another lets out a booming laugh. Shut the fuck up, man. Good pussy and you tuck your tail and run.

Yeah? And you're in here because you scored? 

I’m in here because bitches prefer to choke on clean dick. What's your excuse?

Neither feels the breeze of the shadow slipping behind them. Neither of them sees the man in black lock his arm around one of their necks and squeeze until there's no air left. By the time the other has turned on the porcelain sink and begun to splash his face, the boogeyman has him by the scruff of his neck, fisting the collar of his fluffy white bathrobe. The sink continues running, and he’s choking on the warm water as Joel holds him down.

“Jesus! Fuck!”

“Where is Emiliano?”

“Vete a la mierda,” he splutters. “Let go of me, motherfucker!”

Joel takes one of the man’s fingers and bends it all the way back. His screams are muffled by Joel’s hand.

“Where is Emiliano?”

“The bathhouse, downstairs,” he groans. “Fuck, let me go, pendejo!”

Joel bares his teeth, breaks the man’s neck, and leaves him slumped over the sink, the water still running. 

The bathhouse is doused in red and blue. The water is illuminated from within, and the whites in his victim’s eyes glow where he stands half-submerged, toasting a bottle of champagne to his rowdy friends. Joel flattens himself to the wall, listening for the tread of dress shoes. The music pounds too loudly for him to hear, but he can see the shadow before he sees its owner. 

“Clear,” says the voice. 

When he rounds the corner, Joel drives his knife into the man’s throat and silences his gurgling moans by clamping a hand over his mouth. He slides down the wall, and Joel holds his gaze while the light slowly dims in his eyes. 

One. 

Two more men are waiting behind the partition, hands folded in front of them. Joel does not recognise them. Their suits are pressed, Italian; it seems Cabrera has made some alliances. Joel lies his first victim on the ground and prowls toward his next two. 

They go easily: unsuspecting, they bleed out under his blade, choking on their blood, and he leaves them lying by the foggy partition. Three. 

The music is dreamy, the crooning of two voices set to a throbbing track. In the bathhouse, he hears the sloshing of water and the singing of a group of men nearby. They're singing an old folk song, Joel realises. A song about a ghost. 

Hurry, fall asleep, or the Boogeyman will come for you…

They don't sound particularly frightened by the spectre haunting them. Joel watches them toast their bottles of champagne and grab the waitresses’ asses. It's Emiliano and his friends, all right. Joel spots another five guards around the waist-deep water and another two by the doors upstairs. 

There's a childlike self-assuredness about him—this kid. He thinks he's protected, safe, almighty as God. He sings about Joel and smiles. 

A guard leans over him and sneers. “You need to stop drinking.”

“Are you scared of the fucking boogeyman?” jeers the kid. “I’m not! Hijo de puta.”

The guard plucks the bottle from his hand and passes it off. “You wanna vomit while you run away? Or would you just prefer to get shot in the head?”

Emiliano’s haughty sniff makes Joel wonder if a bullet in the head is retribution enough. “Get me another fucking bottle!” he says to his friend. 

Joel picks up a bottle of complimentary cologne and tosses it. The glass shatters, potent liquid pooling on the shiny floor. Three guards flank the partition. The music is too loud to let the sounds of his blade in flesh seep through. 

Six. 

On the other side of the glass, coloured blue and red and slick with humidity, the singing continues. 

From the swamp he will come…

He feels the wet splash of blood on his face. 

… and take the children that don't behave. 

Another man rounds the corner as Joel is tearing the knife from the last guard’s throat. He doesn't have enough time to slash his throat, so he pulls the handgun from his holster and shoots. He crumples to the floor, but Joel’s cover is blown. 

“He’s here! Miller’s here!”

The partition explodes. Glass rains on him as he rolls to evade the gunfire, raising his barrel to strike at the remaining guards. 

Seven. Eight. 

The men by the stairs are shouting some Spanish, some Italian. The music carries on, but the song they're singing has ended. 

Joel finds the man he's been looking for: hiding behind a petrified waitress, Emiliano Cabrera looks like a goddamn child. He's wrapped himself hastily in a bath towel around his waist, and his eyes are wide as saucers. Yeah, Joel thinks, I’m going to enjoy this a little. 

He locks eyes with Emiliano for only a moment. The guards at the top of the stairs begin to fire at Joel. He ducks behind the wall as shots chip brick from the wall or plunk uselessly in the water. By the time he flanks them around the other side of the wall and brings them tumbling down the stairs—ten—the kid has already run. Joel growls at the loss of the kill and follows him into the club. 

With an eruption of deafening music, Joel bursts into the crowd. Behind him, a gigantic LED screen is illuminated with spirals in red and blue and white. Women dance in elevated cages while the crowd below becomes a sea of skin and sequins and sweat. Joel reloads, checks the clip, and resumes his hunt. 

Eleven, twelve, thirteen. Joel feels the punch of the barrel into their chests as he fires, again and again and again. The commotion is lost in the din of the music and dancing. Bodies connect and grind and Joel kills. 

Fourteen. A guard by the wall. Fifteen. Another lurking by the LED spirals. Sixteen, seventeen—two men rushing him in an attempt to ambush, eyes wild with rage and a bit of fear. Joel puts them down like sick dogs and continues to push through the crowd, his eyes locked on the retreating Emiliano, who's waving a gun about like a white flag. 

But it's no surrender. It's a beacon, a sign that the deer is spooked. Joel feels his lip curl. So frightened, he thinks. 

Eighteen, nineteen…

Your bleary eyes, blinking through the pain, limbs limp and helpless as he unbuckled his belt above you. A cut on your face, barely bleeding. The red still consumes him. 

You were so afraid that night. 

Twenty. 

Twenty-one. 

He's getting closer. The crowd parts down the centre as Joel marches toward his goal. But the music is loud and he does not hear the approach from behind. 

The gunshot grazes his shoulder, but he feels the flare of pain ooze its way down his arm. Joel grunts, knocked askew from his path, and turns to forge at his assailant. 

The man is fast, though, and rushes him. The tackle brings him down to the ground, winding him just enough to briefly stun, to send his Glock spinning along the floor. He’s taller, broader, madder. 

But he shoots one-handed. 

Joel knocks the gun aside and it misfires into the gap in the crowd. In the dispersing, he sees more guards closing in his periphery. The only protection he has is the hulking body on top of him. So Joel uses it, bringing his elbow to the man’s throat and bunching the lapel of his jacket in his fist. The guard attempts to reach for the blade in his thigh holster, but Joel reaches down and bends his arm backward until the crunch crackles in his ear. The man howls, and Joel grasps the hilt of the knife. 

Twenty-two. 

He picks up his gun and fires a shot into each of the three approaching guards, but Emiliano has fled to the first floor. Joel grimaces as he stands, blood on his fingertips where he's prodded the wound in his arm. “Goddammit,” he mutters, following his target upstairs. 

The air is dizzying. Hot. Joel never liked clubs. He hated the closeness and the bodies in cages and the way skin felt so sticky, too tight, like he needed to step outside of it. He hated the feeling of being suffocated by strangers, as if any of them could be lurking low in the darkness, waiting to strike. 

He didn't understand the lure of the scantily-clad body until he saw you wrapped in a tight black dress. He didn't know the pleasure of dancing until you took his hand one night, his old vinyl player crackling out Frank Sinatra, and lay your head on his shoulder. It felt like stepping over the threshold into consecrated territory. He should not be touching you. But you were touching him. 

Joel spots Emiliano running for the back entrance, shoving another guard in Joel’s path. 

Twenty-six. 

The final man, approaching Joel from the lounge, pulls his gun in time to shoot, but not in time for Joel to notice. The bullet shatters a glass of wine and topples a waiter’s tray. Joel fires. 

One to go. 

He has no choice but to lunge for the kid before he can run out into the street. Joel’s heart is pounding in his chest, his blood electrified. The take-down is sloppy and his ankle rolls, but Emiliano Cabrera is pinned beneath him and yelping like a kicked dog. 

“My father will kill you,” he gasps, his cheek pressed to the floor.

“Your father knows exactly why I’m here,” says Joel, “and he knows how stupid you are.”

“Hijo de puta, it was just a fucking car,” he spits. “I was just going to have some fun with your bitch. I would've given her back.”

Joel isn't quite satisfied. He turns the kid onto his back and grasps him by the jaw, forcing him to meet Joel’s incendiary gaze. 

“Everything has a price.”

The knife goes in smoothly, the flat of the blade glinting in his gaping mouth. No light flees his eyes. There is nothing but cold slate-grey. And although Joel feels no happiness feeling the pulse slow to a crawl beneath his palm, he does not pull the knife out. 

Your body, sacred, helpless, lying on the floor. A predator’s gaze. The clink of a belt buckle. Joel steps over the body and leaves, limping to the valet and slipping him a golden coin. He slips back inside his Mustang, turns on the engine, and drives back to the hotel. 

You’re tucked in the alcove by the window, staring out at the moonlit night. Your chin rests on your knees as you hug yourself close. The lamp between your respective beds colours the room orange. 

“You’re limping.” 

You haven’t even turned to face him.

“How—”

“I know how you sound when you walk.” Your temple is cool where it rests on the windowpane, your breath frosting the glass. Joel staggers to the small table and braces himself on the back of a chair as he watches you. 

You’re as warm and bright as the day he found you that night in the restaurant. Your eyes may be a little older, but the glow is the same. He folds his bleeding hands around the back of the chair. Everything around you curls in, darkens, and wilts when it confronts your beauty. 

“I’m all right.” He doesn’t deserve your concern. He’ll swallow any bullet to keep you from worrying.

You stand at last and cross the room to face him. His heart jumps like it’s the first time you asked him on a date. Like the first time he kissed you, his chest taut with tension and nerves and the assumption that you’d reject him. 

“You can lie to me about lots of things, Joel, but I know this face.” The pad of your thumb ghosts over the crease between his brows. “I’ve painted it a hundred times. It doesn't lie.”

It's the first time you've touched him in days. Joel closes his eyes. Part of him, the part that jolts back to life under the tender weight of your soft skin, means it when he says, “I’m okay.”

You seem to ponder him for a moment. “This wouldn't be the first time I patched you up,” you say, as if resigned. “Go on. Bathroom.”

He winces. “You don't have to—”

“Go. And afterward, you can tell me everything.”

The pads of your fingers memorise the ridges on the gold coin. The time is close to dawn. 

He’s no longer bleeding, and although you have nothing close to the Doctor’s prowess, you’ve managed to disinfect and wrap the wound in his arm. You can’t do anything about his ankle, but it’s a sprain; he’ll heal in time. The mangled black and blue on his tender skin reminds you of a night sky without the stars. It doesn’t seem to pain him. It only makes you wonder what sorts of agonies he’s faced—ones you never knew about.

The hurt has festered in your time away from him. He’s an open wound in the shape of a hand on your back, searing cold through to your heart. The hand sports a golden band, and it reflects in the one you still wear. You don't quite know what to make of it now. 

He looks exactly like the man you knew. Not a part of him has changed—he's still scruffy, still tired, still jaggedly gorgeous. You paint him with blurred edges, with blues and greys. Your heart still pulls when you look at him. Your chest still gapes wide open, and he digs his thumbs into the bruises. He lied to you. He broke your trust. And there's still so much of your Joel in him, from the skin to the bones. 

“It’s beautiful,” you muse, turning the coin over. 

“Technically, it’s not money,” Joel says. “It is currency. They can be exchanged for favours, information, relationships.”

“A hotel room,” you add. “Good to know I don’t have to move any savings around. Where have you been keeping these?”

“There’s a safe in the basement,” he says, “under the floorboards. When I left, I buried all of it. Weapons, coins, contacts, anything I had from the Underworld.”

The Underworld. A fitting name, if you’ve made any sense of it at all. “Do the police know about all of this?”

“Most of them are in the pockets of High Table members. Those are the ones who control how it all works. Rules and consequences,” says Joel, “is how they operate. They're what separate us from the animals.”

You lift your brows. “And who sits at this High Table?”

“Twelve leaders. They're the ones who run most of the major crime families and organisations. They control police, politicians, banks—”

Your shuddering sigh makes him stop in his tracks. He watches you lean back in the chair and bends forward slightly, as if tied to you by an invisible thread. 

“So… the girl who serves me coffee on the corner by my office could be part of it.” You frown at the coin in your hand. “She could be a witness, a runner, a messenger. She could be like you.”

“She isn't,” says Joel, “but that is the general idea.”

“But civilians are immune.”

“More or less,” says Joel. “There are… heavy penalties for harming them.”

“Penalties like death.”

“Most of the time,” he says. “And there are rules here, too. No business can be conducted on the grounds of any Continental hotel.”

“Any? You mean—”

“There's a Continental in every major city in the world. It's where we go to remind ourselves we’re civilised.”

“Civilised,” you scoff. “Civilised murder, sure. I’m buying it. And now that you’re back—”

“Visiting.”

You just glare at him, and he ducks his head. 

“—there's a contract on your head.”

Joel nods. “Two million.”

You curl your fingers over the coin in your palm as your stomach bottoms out. “That's a lot of incentive to put a bullet in your brain.”

“They won't,” he says. “Cabrera holds the contract, and he only opened it because of Emiliano. He’d pull it the second I agreed to stop looking for his son. He doesn't want me owing him.”

“I don't know if I’d call that a debt.”

“Considering everything I did for him,” says Joel, a bite to his voice, “anything short of killin' his kid is a favour.”

Despite yourself, you open your hand and slide the coin toward him. “Tell me what you did.”

His head shoots up, his brows knitted together. “What?”

“Tell me what you did to get out. Tell me about this ‘impossible task.’”

“Baby, that’s…” He rubs his hand across his jaw, and it strikes you then how deep those half-circles colour the space beneath his eyes. 

“Stop,” you whisper. It never used to hurt when he called you baby. “Tell me how much blood you thought I was worth.”

Joel’s jaw ticks. His knees barely touch yours under the table. “You don't wanna hear the answer to that.”

“Then start here. What did you do, Joel?”

The sigh he releases feels heavy. “I came to Cabrera, asking him to release me from my contract. He told me he'd let me out, no strings attached… if I hunted down his enemies.” 

Your mouth drops. “Which enemies?”

He picks up the coin and turns it over in his palm. The silence drops an anchor on the ground. Your belly churns with the movement of the golden piece as it catches the light. 

“All of them,” says Joel. “All of ‘em, in one night. That was his impossible task.”

The scrape of your chair legs across the floor is grating. But you stand anyway, your head vaguely stirring with the beginnings of a headache. 

“Oh my God.” 

You barely feel your own hand on your cheek, barely smell the iron tang of blood on him, barely see the red cutting through his pressed white shirt. “How many people?”

Joel shakes his head, his shy eyes lowered, still as the paintings you've made of him. “I… I don't know.” 

I lost count, he means. There were too many, he means. 

Your throat is just wide enough to let your breath escape. The air you take in feels poisonous. He killed every single one of them. All because he wanted to marry you. 

All because he wanted peace. 

“Is there anyone in the Underworld who doesn’t know your name?”

Joel’s repentant silence, head ducked as if in prayer, is all the answer you need.

“How did this happen?” Your voice is uniquely quiet. 

“When I was a kid,” he says, and your heart sinks, “I lived on the streets. Lived like a rat, mostly, but I survived. You know that much.”

You nod solemnly, lowering yourself into the chair once more. “The Sisters reunited you with your brother.”

His dark eyes reflect the lamplight and it resembles a flame igniting in the depths of the iris. “Found me on Canal Street, runnin’ drugs for a mobster I don't even remember. Tommy was only five, but he must've told them about me. They took me to the orphanage and started my training.”

You swallow, your temples pounding. Deep in your gut, something wild and dry begins to kindle. “They were the ones who taught you all of this?”

“They teach the word of God above everythin’ else, but yeah. They train children to thrive in the Underworld. We were taught knives, guns, hand-to-hand. Hell, they even taught us how to dance—how to move faster than the opponent. I knew how to kill someone before I could read.” Joel chuckles, and part of you thinks he actually thinks it's funny. “Probably why I’m so slow.”

You aren't slow, you want to say. You've never been slow, not from the first day. 

The kindling curls and you can feel your mouth pull at the corners. He had only been a child. An orphan. A child had no way to choose, to resist how they were raised. He hadn’t been given a choice—his life in exchange for a roof over his head. 

“Those fucking bastards.”

Joel’s laugh is mirthless. “It was a long time ago. I’ve made my peace with it.”

You angrily swipe the tears that warm your cheeks. “No adult should have that power. They should nurture and comfort and protect, not—” Your breath hitches. “You were a child. You didn't deserve that.”

Your fingers have curled into a fist atop the table. With both hands, he gently lifts your hand to his mouth and kisses your knuckles. You expect it to feel foreign, wrong. It just feels like Joel. 

“The Sisters were cruel,” he says softly. “But I made myself into a weapon. It was the only way I would survive.” He reaches out as if for a wounded deer and brushes his thumb over your jaw. “They never made me believe, sweetheart. That was all you.”

You sniffle, your head bobbing absently. You don't know what to think. You don't know how to feel. Your own husband has been through the seven circles and crawled back out only to teeter back over the pit once more. There’s an ancient weariness in the black of his eyes, an old hurt, a mansion slowly crumbling at the edges. 

“You hid this all from me, and never told anyone,” you say, the ache widening. You find you want to assume, consume, even a modicum of the pain that he's felt. 

One of his shoulders lifts in a mild shrug. “I wanted to forget all of it. I wanted to make something of the new life I’d killed for.” He meets your gaze and you swear part of the open wound in his pupils has sealed. “I didn't want any of it to touch you.”

And you remember lying in bed with him that first night, after that first time, tracing a scar on his back. White and ridged, it spread like lightning feelers from the middle of his spine to the dimples in his lower back. 

You'd put your mouth to his shoulder blade and felt him melt into you. 

What happened? 

The silence that followed could have heard the brush of a feather over skin. 

I was raised in an orphanage. In a church. They weren't kind. 

And that was that. You'd prodded and fussed and he'd said I’m fine. It was a long time ago. 

“But that's what you do, Joel,” you tell him. “You hide your hurt and you bury your feelings and you do it all because you're afraid it'll make everyone leave you.” 

Sometimes he would wake in a cold sweat, heaving, tossing aside the sheets, but he would never make a sound. You'd see him, pretending to sleep, and place your hand over his chest. His fingers would grasp yours as if marooned on the water, seeking driftwood, his hand suffocating yours. He'd keep it pressed to his heart until the beats slowed. 

You regret those times you never pressed. In a way, you were afraid, too. If you opened your eyes, if you asked him to confess, he would close the lattice and turn his back to you. You didn't want to lose him, either. 

But you did. 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, but it doesn't hold the weight you want it to. It doesn't blow out the candles in the cathedral. It doesn't pluck the scared little boy from the streets or give him a warm bed. It doesn't stop the beatings and the lashings and the pain. 

It does not pry the pain from his heart and bury the shrapnel in your chest instead. It is something he bears, as he always has, and must. It is something you cannot take from him. And you feel more helpless than you ever have. 

He shakes his head. “I know we can't go back,” he says, tracing one of the little daisy charms on your bracelet. “But it feels… good. It feels good to finally tell you. Even if we were too late.”

The sound of his voice breaking shakes your heart loose from your rib cage. 

“Come to bed.” Your voice is raw and used. “Just… come to bed, and sleep.” 

He doesn't dare look hopeful, though you can see the tremor that courses through his hand. He wants to take yours, the way he did the day he proposed, dropping to one knee with your palms flush. 

He looked a little hopeful that day, too. With rapt attention, he'd taken hold of you and said, I love you. I love you more than anything. You’re my best friend. Will you marry me? Will you let me be your husband?

You realise now why he'd let himself hope. He'd gotten out. He'd started his new life. With you. 

You can see his old scars, even in the dark. You think, in all your time together, you've learned his body as you learn the earth you tread upon. The praying hands of Dürer lie beneath the name inked in small black lettering. 

Your name. 

You gingerly reach out and place your hand on his back. Joel shudders. He does not turn to face you where you both lie on your sides. 

“If you bleed on the bed sheets,” you say to the darkness, “will management make us pay?”

He chuckles. “Strongly worded phone call at best. I’ll take the hit.”

You frown, ghosting your fingers over the tender skin around the makeshift patch job on his shoulder. “Does it still hurt?” 

“No,” he says, leaning into your touch, “not anymore.”

“You never told me about this scar on your back.” You touch the edges of the puckered skin. “I never stopped wondering. But I should never have stopped asking.”

“Don't,” he says quietly. “Don’t say any of that like it's your fault.”

The silence bleeds as viscous as an open gash into the dry air. His watch broke the day of your wedding. He told you it was all right, that we've got all the time in the world, and you'd kissed him and laughed. He’d replaced the battery since then, but sometimes the little hand lags behind, as if afraid to chug forward. Afraid to let time, of all silly, trivial things, consume your world. 

“Do you remember your vows?” you ask him. 

“‘Course I do.” 

“Do you remember mine?”

His head bows slightly on the pillow. “‘I vow to be your partner in all things,’” he recites. “‘I vow to protect your heart like it's my own. I vow to take your pain, and to shoulder it so you don't have to.’” 

The tears saturate the pillowcase beneath your cheek. You fall asleep with your arm around his waist, your hand next to his, not touching, but nearly. 

#fic: helen #kiwisbell's fics #pedro pascal #joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #the last of us hbo #the last of us #tlou fic #joel miller fanfic #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller angst #joel miller au #joel miller fic #john wick au #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x f!reader

[telekinesis-mind-control-comics]

#john wick #keanu reeves #actor #action movies #classic movies #movie franchise #john wick movies #john wick parabellum #john wick chapter 4 #john wick chapter 3 parabellum #john wick headcanons #john wick fanart #john wick oc #john wick imagine #john wick art #john wick rp #john wick universe #john wick angst #john wick au #john wick rules #john wick's dog #john wick nuff said #john wick bitch #john wick kills

[thebookbutterfly]

🦋 Chocolate Chips — John Wick x Reader

Summary: Every year you and John celebrate Helen’s birthday. This year would have been her 40th, so you decide to do something special.

Tags: #so much domestic fluff, #a teensy bit of angst, #sometimes babygirl is a 50 year old hit man, #he may kill people for a living but he is SOFT and I will not be taking any arguments about this, #slightly self indulgent

Warnings: Gender Neutral, but reader is suggested to have long hair, no use of Y/N, mentions of death obviously, no beta and no ‘ragrets’

- — - • - — - • - — - • - — - • - — - • - — - • - — -

John’s occupation put a lot of things in life into perspective. Getting into silly fights was simply not worth it. Not when every time he walked out the door the stakes were so high. That’s not to say that you never had disagreements. Just that neither of you were willing to partake in petty lack of communication.

You had known about Helen from the very day you and John had begun dating. It was hard not to. The man loved her so much it was written on every piece of him. Strangely though you didn’t mind. How could you? When that wonderful woman had brought him through so much shit and out to the the other side. To you.

Simply to say that Helen was a part of what made the love of your life himself. And so you didn’t mind his love for her at all. Especially now that his love for you was written all over him too.

It was Helen’s birthday today. You saved the date and had been sneakily preparing everything for weeks now. It would have been her 40th birthday, so you wanted to make it extra special this year. John had been out on a contract all day yesterday and so you weren’t too worried about him waking up as you crept downstairs and into the kitchen.

You removed the cake you had baked from the fridge where you had hidden it and placed it on the counter. Chocolate caramel. Her favourite flavour. The big silver four and zero candles were perfect. Along side the cake you placed a large vase full of daisies. It was perfect. All that was left to do was breakfast.

You set to work, cutting up fruit and frying bacon and eggs. You knew John would be starving when he woke up, he always was after a hit. You supposed hunting someone down burned a serious amount of calories. Lastly, you set to work on the pancakes. You knew they were Johns favourite and you were more than happy to indulge him, especially today. He always asked for heaps of chocolate chips in his. You rolled your eyes affectionately at the thought. He was a chocolate fiend but when he stared at you with those big brown eyes. Ugh. Who were you to say no to such a gentle, beautiful man?

You were just plating up the last of the pancakes when you heard soft footsteps padding down the stairs, followed by the excited skitter of Boy as he raced his dad down to the kitchen. John was silent as death so you knew the fact that you could hear him approach was deliberate and more for you than anything else.

Boy entered the room a minute before John did; tail wagging like crazy. You laughed at his enthusiasm and leaned down to ruffle his ears affectionately. John’s sleepy form shuffled in just as Boy managed to land a lick to your cheek. He smiled at the sight of his little family. Boy: seemingly very proud of himself and you: wiping the drool off your face as you stood to greet him.

It was unfair, you thought, for the boogeyman to be someone as cute as him. John was wearing a soft long sleeve shirt and his favourite pair of flannel pyjama pants. As usual he had stolen one of your scrunchies to pull back his long hair— a green one with ducks on it, this time.

You had offered to buy him some of his own. Cool ones to fit his bad-boy assassin image; you had teased. But he had somewhat sheepishly declared that he liked yours better. You didn’t mind. After all you stole a fair share of his clothes too. So you had compromised and bought a few extra for yourself, that way he could be a thief and you wouldn’t run out.

Johns eyes drifted to the cake and the vase of flowers on the counter, and he froze. You watched as the memories hit him one after the other. Boy, sensing his dad’s distress, waddled over to his side and plopped himself down on John’s foot. The contact jolted him back to reality and he lifted his watery eyes to yours. “You did all this?” he finally choked out.

You stepped over boy and slipped your arms around his waist.

“It would be her 40th. I wanted to do something special for her this year,” you replied before a bit of hesitancy creeped into your voice. “Is it okay?”

John wrapped his arms around you, tugging you right against his chest. It took him a minute to reply and your heart thundered as you waited for him to say something. He buried his head into your neck and you cradled him there with the palm of your hand on his nape. Keeping him safe— holding him together as he answered with tears in his voice.

“It’s perfect. Thank you.”

You breathed a sigh of relief. Reaching with your unoccupied hand you began to trace constellations on his back. It was a habit you had gotten from him, actually, but it had stuck with you. He had spent years with nothing but violence for company, so you relished touching him gently.

Slowly, you pulled him to face you. You pressed a kiss to his forehead and swiped away his tears with your thumbs.

“I love you,” you said softly. You held him firmly willing him to really hear it.

“I love you too, so much.”

You stood there for a second, just holding his face in your hands. Enjoying the warmth of his skin. Boy sensed the shift in mood and slowly his tail began to thump against your legs.

“You had a long night last night,” you broke the silence. “Let’s get some food in you. Then after that we can light the candles and you can tell me about some of your favourite memories of Helen. Yeah?”

John nodded, straightening, but kept his grip on your waist as he surveyed all the food you had made.

“I’d love that. Do you mind if we have a look at the photos too?” He asked softly.

“I already put the photo albums out on the coffee table,” you replied with a cheeky grin.

His chest rumbled as he laughed, “Am I that predictable?”

You beamed at the sound, poking him in the ribs as he snuck Boy a piece of bacon. Big softie.

“I think I just happen to know you quite well. You’re much less mysterious than you think,” you teased him and tucked a stray strand of hair behind his ear.

“Alright, I’ll accept that,” he said with one last peck on your lips. “Now, let’s eat before this goes cold.”

#john wick fluff #sometimes babygirl is a 48 year old man #he’s just a little guy #john wick x y/n #john wick chapter 4 #john wick is babygirl and I refuse to hear any arguments about this #john wick x reader #john wick x you #john wick fandom #john wick fanfic #john wick #no use of y/n #so much fluff #no beta we die like men #angst #send help #john wick x gender neutral reader #gn reader #gender neutral reader

[soberlovey]

out of the ashes that burn.

JOHN WICK X READER (father/daughter) (PLATONIC)

CHAPTER TWO.

warnings: mild cussing and angst

Finally, arriving to The Continental. It didn't take the longest but it took long enough.

Your eyes gazed up and down the tall, oddly shaped building that the sidewalk wrapped around.

In the eyes of the average person, usually a hotel would be a rectangular shape. But not in this case, maybe the cities reason.

You were a bit afraid to enter the hotel, but what's the worst that could happen? Just say that you found it on the ground. Its fine.

You opened the door, walking in. You may have thought this was gonna be easy. However, a guard stopped you in your tracks, holding you by the shoulders.

"Why you here?"

Oh, shit.

"Im delivering a letter to.. John Wick."

Well, that should work fine, right?

"Are you aware he isn't present at the moment?"

This is getting annoying.

"Listen, im just trying to give a letter to whoever runs this place."

The guards called someones name, still having a aggressive grip on your shoulders. The growing annoyance of these nosy guards grew.

"Hey, escort this young woman to Winston."

Winston? Who is that?

Of course, after being escorted to this strange short, wrinkly old man named Winston, you had to state the reason why you were here.

"Hello, child."

You were young, about (insert age) but not really a child. At least didn't behave like one, you thought.

"Im.. (insert fake age), im Y/N."

Winston nodded.

"Sure, and why are you here? I don't believe you're a member."

Oh, right.

"Im here to deliver a letter to.. John Wick."

Winston's eyebrows raised as he grabbed the damp, slightly opened envelope.

"Yes, did you open the envelope?"

About that..

"Oh, no sir. It was like that."

He nodded, seeming skeptical.

"Well, John isn't present at the moment. So we will call him here when he has the time."

Right, I dont really care.

"Please escort this young lady out of the building."

#john wick #john wick angst #john wick fanart #the continental #john wick headcanons #keanu reeves #john wick imagine #angst fanfic #fanfic #my fic #fanfiction #hehe :3 #the sillies #dont flop #family guy

[cuddleyhoney]

Hiiiiii Bubs I saw your new post (gonna read it in a moment) but is okay if I request something?

If so may you please do

Age gap fem reader x John wick where they go to Aurelio’s shop and she makes joke talking about John too old (bc he bends down to get something and gets sore) but her and Aurelio find it funny (the jokes reader makes) and John gets annoyed and makes her see what an old man can do 😉

this idea is so cute i will probably make this a two part series because I'm just too tired rn but this part is angsty I guess LMAO

john wick x reader age gap pt.1

On a cool autumn day, you were invited to hang out with your loving boyfriend and his work associates to "listen" to what the guys were talking about with their future cars and stocks etc..

It was quite a boring experience as you listened to the guys talk. You remained scrolling on your phone and listening lightly to what they were saying. Making glances at your beautiful lover John helped ease the awkwardness.

John stood up and stretched whilst making conversation with Aureilo, his phone fell out of his pocket onto the hard tile floor. Your reflexes tried to grab his phone for him but John was able to pick it up. He screeched a little sound of pain. He looked at both you and Aureilo in slight embarrassment. I mean he was Babayaga right? How could he get hurt from the smallest movement?

John makes a small innocent smile back at you to assure you he's fine but you make a silly remark saying "my precious little John is growing up so quickly!" (✿◠‿◠) Aurielo chuckled and so did John

The intimate gathering drew to a close, and John navigated the winding streets in silence, his fingers gripping the steering wheel. Though you had enjoyed the company of friends, an undeniable unease had crept into the car, fostering an unspoken tension.

As the engine hummed and the city lights passed by, John's thoughts became a tempest in his mind. His once-confident demeanor wavered, replaced by a gnawing self-doubt. The question weighed heavily on his conscience: "Am I too old for her?" It was a thought he couldn't shake, a shadow creeping into the corners of his heart.

The smile that had illuminated his face throughout the evening seemed a distant memory now. Inwardly, he cherished every moment spent with you, relishing the laughter, the connection, and the warmth that you brought into his life. But that fleeting interaction, the small jests, and the good-natured ribbing about age had begun to unravel his self-assured facade.

#john wick au #john wick #john wick x reader #john wick x y/n #john wick headcanons #john wick imagine #john wick fanfic #fanfic #angst