#john wick enemies to lovers

[thebumblecee]

Me and @mooshkat are happy to announced:

Our co written assassin enemies to lovers AU, set in the world of John Wick, is ready.

Chapter one Chapter six Chapter eleven

Chapter two Chapter seven Chapter twelve

Chapter three Chapter eight Chapter 13

Chapter four Chapter nine Chapter 14

Chapter five Chapter ten Chapter 15

The Epilogue

#cee speaks #moosh💙 #writing #911 lonestar #tarlos #carlos reyes #tk strand #wip #au: the world of John Wick #enemies to lovers #tarlos: enemies to lover #911 ls #911 ls fic #911 lonestar fic #co wrote with my lovely Moosh who I am SO GRATEFUL for. #🐝🔪 fiigd itywm #fiigditywm #violence in chapter 3 please be careful

[thewhumpcaretaker]

⚜ 𝓑𝓮𝔂𝓸𝓷𝓭 𝓙𝓾𝓭𝓰𝓮𝓶𝓮𝓷𝓽 - 𝒞𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝐼𝐼: 𝐹𝓁𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉 𝑜𝓃 𝒶 𝒟𝒶𝓇𝓀 𝐻𝑜𝓇𝓈𝑒 ⚜

Oops, I guess it wasn't a one-shot after all. Thank you again to @evren-sadwrn for the beta read!

TW: gunshot, car chase, canon-typical violence, John and Vincent bickering constantly

Summary: John Wick and The Marquis de Gramont both faked their deaths on that fateful day at the Basilica. But when Vincent seeks John's help, he isn't expecting genuine compassion.

Vincent was fine, actually. Crying? Someone had been crying five minutes ago? Definitely not him.

So John wanted to help him, presumably out of some deranged fit of loneliness. Who really cared why. This was the best news possible. He would be reinstated in no time.

He reclined on John’s couch as if it had been his idea to do so all along, swinging one leg absently over the side while his host dashed back and forth through the house, packing. This rushing around had started the very moment that Vincent stabilized. They’d already waited too long, probably, to leave. The Table would know that he could only be going to one place if he had come to New York, and they would converge on the location. The Wick residence had just become a deathtrap.

But that didn’t concern Vincent terribly - John seemed intent enough on addressing the issue. He went downstairs with an empty duffle bag, came up with a holster around his waist and the duffle bag full, went upstairs in a t-shirt, came down in a black vest under a matching suitcoat. Vincent contemplated whether it was drab. Maybe not, maybe more like “morose.” But well-fitted, at least.

There was something coming down the stairs after John, something that growled and moved a little too quickly towards the couch, halted only by a leash.

“Hey.” John stopped by the coffee table with a harsh look that brought his bulldog to a sit. “We’re gonna be nice to the Marquis, yeah?” It whined apprehensively, casting a suspicious glance in Vincent’s direction, but stopped growling.

Vincent eyed it back with at least as much suspicion. “Is it trained? I don’t want some mutt biting at my heels in the midst of a fight. We’d be better off leaving it behind.”

That harsh look shifted from the bulldog to the Marquis.

“I need you to listen very closely. This is important. You remember what I did to Iosef, yeah? If that dog dies, you die. I have no interest in your marker if that happens. You do not treat him as something you can sacrifice to save yourself. He IS you, got it?”

“C'est un putain de – [It’s a fucking –]”

“He’s you. A vital body part, like your liver.”

“If you knew how a man who can afford the finer indulgences in life treats his liver, you might reconsider your metaphor,” Vincent shot back, smirking.

“Okay, your heart then. But just. Vital. Okay?’

As he realized the purpose of this conversation, something bitter sunk into his stomach and he felt his cheeks flush. “You don’t need to explain empathy to me like I’m a child. I have dogs, you know that, yes? Cats, horses, swans, a peacock…” He strained to remember the more exotic creatures in his collection. Did he buy that hyacinth macaw, or did he choose the palm cockatoo instead? He hadn’t seen the bird since, so he couldn’t be sure.  “Anyway, you know nothing, as usual.” Already this man was insulting him again. Unbelievable.

John just sighed. “Up. We have to go.” He extended a hand that couldn’t have tempted Vincent any less if it had been coated in live wasps. He gave John a look so icy that it earned another whimper from Dog, and struggled upright on his own.

He didn’t trust himself to speak on the walk to the garage. Every step, every tilt of the shoulders, winded him. Maybe shock had been a blessing - he realized that most of the pain had been numbed. But now it was back, tracing a stabbing, fiery line across the pectoral into the bone. It certainly seemed to be aggravated by certain movements, to get worse, but mysteriously, he could never quite detect a moment when it was better. It was a damn trick of the body that took over his vision with a total miasma of pain.

He didn’t even notice John’s hands on him until he was already being lowered into the passenger seat with surprising gentleness. The bulldog was already in the back. Had he blacked out for a second? Massive, muscled hands gripped either side of his waist securely, those darkly troubled eyes peering into his with such maddening concern. This condescending piece of work buckled…his fucking…seatbelt…for him. “Je te déteste [I hate you],” he managed, almost slurring.

“Good. We need you hateful. You want a grenade?”

“I – what? Yes, give it to me.” That woke him up quickly enough. “I’ve never wanted anything so much.”

John dropped the duffle bag in his lap and circled around to the front seat. The engine purred to life. “There’s already a blockade at the end of the street. We cut through the neighbor’s fence. Grenades go out the back after we’re past them.”

The garage door rolled slowly back and for a few short minutes, everything was okay again. Everything was giddy, in fact. It was just after dusk, the sky greying slowly from indigo to black. A quiet, peaceful evening that Vincent couldn’t wait to rip to shreds. With both windows rolled down, the night air rushed between them in a roaring channel of wind that sent John’s hair whirling. A dark little ball of fire turned over and over in Vincent’s hand, and there were more where that came from. John put the pedal to the floor, the acceleration pressing Vincent into his seat and sending a thrill through him as they shot straight through the neighbor’s white picket fence and left two tire treads in a streak across their manicured lawn.

An orderly line of cars scrambled to turn and give chase, bullets striking the taillight, the back window, the trunk. You think you can open fire on the rightful Autem Imperator? He fixed his eyes on them in the rearview mirror, pulled the pin with his teeth, and let them have all the pent up fury of the past miserable day.

Shattered glass and burning bodies. Orange roses and golden filigree painted against the sky. John flying, gliding lane to lane, firing over his shoulder, blind.

Pin. A moment of stabbing pain from the pec all the way through the throwing arm (suddenly worth it). Unfurling flames. Another pin. Another! Could he get this one through the shattered windshield into this idiot’s lap? Yes. He was laughing despite the way every breath stabbed through his chest, every stab fueling the next throw. He was drifting in John’s polished Mustang as it gave its life for him, slowly being riddled with holes but still kicking as the people who hated him spun out in confusion or died screaming in pillars of fire.

They abandoned it some ten minutes later, and jacked a boring white BMW, partly to avoid being followed and partly because it had rattled to a stop all on its own thanks to engine damage. John looked at the previous vehicle for a long moment as he lingered by the driver’s side door. “I like that car.” A simple thing to say, but so loaded given the circumstances.

“It handled like a dream. But at this point, it’s not worth fixing,” Vincent said casually. “You may as well get something even better when this is all over.” He set the final grenade back in the bag, still grinning at the memory of what he had just done.

“No. I want this one and I’ll fix it.” He put the dog in the passenger seat and turned to Vincent at last. “Get in the back this time. Laying down. Better if you don’t get spotted.”

It did sound good to lay down. “…Fine. But if you try to buckle me in again, I’ll cut off your whole hand to match that finger.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

He laid down across the backseats. It wasn’t a great fit for someone of his height, but with his legs folded, he managed. In the meantime, John was rooting around in the trunk. He found a throw blanket, probably meant for someone’s pet, and tossed it to Vincent. “Put that over your face, so no one sees you through the windows.”

“It smells disgusting.”

“Just do it.” Vincent was in a good enough mood now not to argue. He grinned up at the ceiling, finally allowing himself to relax as they pulled away. “That was rather exhilarating.”

“Yeah.” There was a hint of a smile in John’s voice.

“So. Where are we going?”

“That depends. Who’s on your side?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, we can’t unrun them. You need to solve this. Who would help you with the High Table problem?”

“Are you a simpleton? I’m excommunicated. No one will offer services to me.”

“…Is there really not one person who has a history with you? Who would help you just because of that?”

“Your naiveté astonishes me yet again, Wick. It’s a wonder you’ve survived this long.” The only person who would have helped him for his own sake was Chidi. A pang went through him at that thought. And here was John lording it over him. He swallowed hard and added, “Do you honestly think anyone has helped you just because they’re on your side? At best, people fear you. They see you for the killer that you are and wish to ingratiate themselves to you. No one would want to help you. Maybe you got lucky, found one woman who was confused enough to think of you as worth saving. But look where that got her.”

The car lurched forward with the tiniest increase in speed as John lost control of the gas pedal for a moment in his anger. “Why? Why do you go for the throat like that? I just barely start to have a pleasant conversation with you and then - This is why there’s no one who has your back.”

“At least I know it. I rely on my own strength. You on the other hand - ”

“Forget it,” he spat. “We’ll figure it out in the morning. I’ll just find somewhere to spend the night, next state over.” A tense silence fell between them.

Several minutes later: “…I’m sorry. About your bodyguard.”

Why did this bastard have to be so raw about everything? “…That has nothing to do with anything.”

“Mm-hmm.” The silence resumed, somehow even more tense, but with an entirely different flavor. Vincent found himself holding his breathe, as if John could hear the lump in his throat if he exhaled wrong. Damn him. He was determined not to cry twice in one day.

They took a scenic route into Pennsylvania, avoiding the toll roads. Vincent gazed out of small gap at the edge of the blanket, gradually beginning to shake again. From that low angle, he could see the near-perfect circle of the moon. The radio warbled on about weather next week and love confessions and affairs. He would almost find this moment peaceful, except…there was that horrific, continuous, world swallowing ache from the center of his chest. An ocean of blood no longer restrained. A fracture in the bone at the core of his body. He could not take this kind of pain, he thought. It was an absurd, even a comical amount of pain. He simply could not take it. He should say something to John, perhaps…but he didn’t. And the world began to dissolve.

At last, Vincent de Gramont passed fully into unconsciousness, and dreamed that he was buying a fine show horse. A jet black Orlov, with a star at the center of its forehead. Ribbons of white sheen glimmered down its shiny withers like a freshly waxed autobody. He mounted it for a first ride, eager to inspect his new wares. And as he did so, the spirited creature read something in his motions that was unworthy of trust, something he could neither have predicted nor suppressed. It seemed so unfair… The horse tossed its dark mane, and reared up in terror, and threw him onto the brambles below…onto a jutting tree branch that impaled him through the sternum, far deeper than the bullet had ever sunk.

(Author's note: An Orlov is a Russian horse breed.)

#john wick #john x marquis de gramont #marquis de gramont #john wick fanfic #wickblr #marquis de gramont whumpee #gunshot #angst #emotional whump #hurt/comfort #whump fic #assassin whump #ao3 crosspost #enemies to lovers

[askjohnwick]

⚜ 𝓑𝓮𝔂𝓸𝓷𝓭 𝓙𝓾𝓭𝓰𝓮𝓶𝓮𝓷𝓽 𝓜𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽 ⚜

John Wick x Marquis de Gramont, A.K.A. "churchduel", enemies to lovers.

TW: blood, gunshot wounds, crying, drug addiction, toxic dynamics

Summary: John Wick and The Marquis de Gramont both faked their deaths on that fateful day at the Basilica. But when Vincent seeks John's help, he isn't expecting genuine compassion.

❋ AO3

❋ Chapter I: Trouble

❋ Chapter II: Flight on a Dark Horse

❋ Chapter III: Blue Moon Motel

❋ Chapter IV: Disarming

❋ Chapter V: Painkillers

Worldbuilding and Inspiration:

❋ Playlist

❋ Original Location: Blue Moon Motel

❋ Original Location: Marjorie Becker

#(ooc post!) #john wick #churchduel #john x marquis de gramont #marquis de gramont #john wick fanfic #wickblr #marquis de gramont whumpee #angst #dacryphilia #emotional whump #hurt/comfort #whump fic #assassin whump #ao3 crosspost #enemies to lovers

[santinodantoniox]

SANTINO'S LETTER FOR JOHN WICK.

Sono italiano, John. Lo sai,(I'm italian John, you know it..) I couldn't miss to write you on this special occasion. I'm romantic.

John, tu mi fai impazzire, you drive me crazy. That's what I can say. I was afraid of the Babayaga, I was afraid when the first time at the High Table my father told me about the man in black. The man who kills like no one those. I was afraid but I also fantasied about that man. You. A man so fearless, so possessive, someone willingly to kill and full vengeance. That man couldn't be other than also a passionate man. Just like me. Someone who kills those who deserve to die, those who piss you off. Johnny, Johnny, my John. Now I'm not afraid anymore of that man all you give me now are filthy thoughts, hot passionate ones. Taste of your sex still lingers in me and on my lips. Even my swearing tastes of you and you, we both know, you are a man of a few words. Your look talks more than your words.

Do you still want to shoot me in my head just like you wanted to do? Before doing that one day, I would rather have you in bed like that night in New York. One life, thousands of lives, I won't ever stop to feel what I feel for you. Because the world stop before you,as fear makes your veins cold but when I look at you my blood burns, it burns for you. Every rejection, every look, every moment by your side you make the world under my feet quake like an hurracine.

You make the world disappear. At the end of the day I would be happy to die if that's by your hand, John.

John...Come to me tonight. Come to me. I love you. I have left keys for an hotel room in New York for this Friday. It's our first night together, the first time I ever had the pleasure to be with you. Remember, John? I do. Always.

Ti amo, Johnny. My spettro.

@finalvow

#john wick #john wick 2 #riccardo scamarcio #santino d'antonio #lovers #lovers to enemies #roleplay

[zutraeumen]

The Final Course

Chef Julian Slowik didn't know what to do with himself. 

He didn't know how to feel about his ruined Menu, and about the two guests who made it so.

There was no time to waste on unnecessary thoughts other than salvage what was left and finish it. Although looking at the corpses of his avid followers, he regretted that not all made it to the journey with him. They deserved to feel liberated too.

Alas, death was nothing. He was the Chef, the Man. He worked with death every day. Death was his business. How could he call himself a chef if he didn't experience death? Two cooks tip the barrel on its side. A vicious liquid poured out across the floor. 

Resigned to their fate, the diners didn't even bother lifting their feet. By now some even felt as if they deserved it. 

Servers have begun draping thick sheets of marshmallow strung together with candy floss over the diners. 

The staff continued to hustle, creating elaborate, Jackson Pollock splatters and swirls of melted chocolate and graham crackers crumbled atop the tables. 

Slowik stood still as an owl and thought. He looked around his restaurant. The ferocious beauty of his food. The havoc he had caused. The totality of his life. And somehow he knew this wasn't the perfect ending to his menu. He shook his head, dismayed.

It was time for him to be done with it, "So. Before our final course, there is the matter of the bill." 

Servers placed checks on the tables, along with little Hawthorn gift bags. 

"We're on a no-tip system, so gratuity is included. Please enjoy your gift bags. A few goodies in there -- a booklet of our local suppliers, some house-made granola, one of Doug Verrek's fingers, and a copy of tonight's menu.

Lillian Bloom reached for her wallet until Ted stopped her, "No, this is on the magazine," He noticed that Lillian was almost about to cry, "I know."

"No, it's just - I just realized I'll never get to write about this."

Richard reached for his wallet with his one good hand and gave it to Anne.

"Can you take out my Amex?" He looked at her, "Anne?"

"I don't want an apology, Richard."

The man looked at his wife solemnly, glowing with shame and subsequent regret, "Happy Anniversary."

Each tech bro tossed in a credit card -- they're going Dutch.

The movie star put down his card.

"I am your friend," Felicity reacted with a sniff.

The movie star smiled at his only friend, "Told you you weren't leaving." 

"Again, thank you all for dining with us tonight. You represent the ruin of my art, and my life, but now you get to be a part of it. A part of what I hope is my masterpiece." 

With Chef's prompting, the guests slowly begin to clap. The movie star couldn't help but give it up sincerely for himself and for a fellow artist. The cooks applauded as well.

"And now, our final dessert course is a playful twist on a comfort food classic..."

"The S'more: the most offensive assault on the human palate ever contrived. Unethically sourced chocolate and gelatinized sugar water imprisoned by industrial-grade graham cracker. It's everything wrong with us and yet we associate it with innocence. Childhood. Mom and Dad.

Chef looked at his mother, who was passed out at her table. 

"But what transforms this fucking monstrosity is fire. The purifying flame. It nourishes us, warms us, re-invents us, forges and destroys us. We must embrace the flame." 

There were tears gathering in the eyes of our diners. They know what's happening and some even began praying. Slowik grabbed a handful of hot coal straight from the grill, not even registering how it burned his palm, and slowly made his way into the centre of the dining room.  

"Please --" Anne begged shakingly.

But was she pleading for him to stop... or to continue?

"We must be cleansed. Made clean. Like martyrs or heretics, we can be subsumed and made anew."

Tears well in Chef Slowik's eyes. He paused, taking a deep breath. He had somehow found... release.

The chef tossed it in the flammable pool. A watery curtain of blue flame billowed across the floor. A warm, metamorphic glow illuminated the faces of our diners. Despite everything that had gone wrong, Chef Slowik was prepared to perish from this world that had grown so inhospitable to him, smiling face in the firelight.

There were screams of torture around him but it was as if the man ascended to Heaven already. 

That was until the Devil came knocking on the door.

And dragged him hastily out of the restaurant.

#romance #horror #the menu #julian slowik #chef slowik #julian slowik x ofc #margot mills #john wick #john wick chapter 4 #keanu reeves #john wick 4 #winston scott #eventual happy ending #eventual comfort #eventual romance #eventual relationship #slow burn #enemies to lovers

[andarthas-web]

Baba Jaga’s Bitch - chapter 10

A little reading is a dangerous thing. And sometimes, it takes a little kindness to be cruel. https://archiveofourown.org/works/42060516/chapters/109916247

#John Wick #Iosev Tarasov #Iosef Tarasov / John Wick #enemies to lovers #pining

[inklore]

undo me

premise: the relationship between you and john is anything but soft, normal, domestic. it's deeper and more complicated than that. the pleasure and relief of desire that the two of you bring each other the only things clear cut.

pairing: john wick x (f)reader

word count: 904

warnings: eighteen+ content, handjob, dirty talk, references and illusions to oral and fingering, established fwbs, blood mention, reader is in the same 'business' as john.

note: i've never written for this beautiful man and it's honestly a crime because he's so underrated and i want to hold him!

The fire that’s burning in his eyes—lust fueled, hungry, a craving only you can stop that has that underlying anger within it—scalds your senses. Makes the hand that you have wrapped around his cock ache to move faster, to twist, and run your thumb along the leaking head so you can hear that deep groan he lets out against your forehead. The noises he tries to hide with the kisses to the top of your skull that are anything but affection. 

Affection he’d never admit to and you’d never claim anything of. 

The two of you were the same. Joined in loss and hatred, and the bloodshed that you’ve spilt and tainted your skin with was second nature. Something that felt like you were born into, for, the longer you stayed in the business. The longer enemies piled as high as the bodies you’d claimed along the way of some sort of redemption. A release. A freedom from something that had no end. 

It was only when you two were together like this—when John allowed himself to be like this with you—that those enemies, the bloodshed, and freedom didn’t matter. 

Weren’t pounding at the door, threatening to take your life before you could take theirs. 

You didn’t know if he was a giving lover. Not really. When you were done, he usually finished you off, always with his fingers. A handful of times with his mouth. There were no soft kisses or devotions whispered into the crook of your neck. Pulling him towards the bed and stripping like some domesticated couple was not in the cards. Wasn’t what this was about—why it had kept happening and why you always knew his knock by heart and grew wetter the closer you got to the door. 

To invite him another night to give each other the release you needed—that closeness to another person as your hearts would allow—and then he was gone and reality was back with a vengeance. 

Tonight is no different. 

The same knock. 

The same quick work of unbuckling his pants to slide your hand down them to pull out his cock and wrap your fist around it. 

Your knees had bent, a descent ready to be made to give him a better release from his tense shoulders with your mouth. But his grip on your hip had stopped you.

His forehead coming down on yours, hair growing slick with sweat the longer you jerked him off, the more his body sank into the pleasure. His breath heavy, “want your eyes on me tonight.” He had said, an overanalysis of the tenor in it, making you want to think it was begging. A desperate plea. 

But never from him. 

And you had done what he said. 

Kept your eyes on him.

Let your eyes move along his face; watch as he wets his lips with his tongue, as his eyes screw shut for half a second when you twist your wrist at the head of his cock the way he liked. The fist he had pressed into the door behind your head keeping himself stationary. His body weight half leaned into you, giving just enough room for him to move his hips.

To fuck up into your hand.

To set the pace he needed. 

There was a time and place for you to make conversation while doing this. To ask him if he had a rough day or crack a joke. But tonight, you know he doesn’t need it. He just needs this.

You.

Your hand. 

To get off. 

For you to help him. 

“John,” you murmur softly against his cheek. Bring his attention back to you, popping whatever fantasy he’s letting burn through his gaze, so he can only see you. “Tell me how good it feels; am I making you feel good?” 

“Yeah,” his voice has lost all of its normal sternness. All of the frightening edges that have men and women running. He sounds weak, breathless, and overcome. It makes you ache. “Couldn’t–” he curses under his breath. Brings the hand from your hip to your neck to rest and tighten with each downward stroke. “Couldn’t stop thinking about you tonight. I needed to see you. Needed to-”

“To come for me.” The noise he lets out at your words has your gut plummeting. Your thighs closing in around the leg he has positioned between them. You open your mouth to tell him to do it, to come for you, to let go. But his fingers are muffling your words. Stealing them from your tongue as he presses two fingers against it. 

“Get them wet.” He demands. Watches as you swirl your tongue around them and coat them in your spit, taking them out when he’s satisfied and moving them down to where your fingers are wrapped around him. Swiping the spit against his head for you to use as more friction—easier, wetter. 

You can tell he’s close by the hitch in his breath. The fast rock of his hips, the fingers digging into your neck. 

And the way he’s looking at you, the slow trail he makes between your eyes and your mouth, you half expect him to kiss you. To press his mouth to yours in a way he’s never done before. 

A slow seeping disappointment is swiped away by arousal when he says, “get on your knees. I want you to taste what you do to me.” 

#john wick x reader #john wick smut #john wick x you #john wick imagine #keanu reeves smut #john wick x y/n #john wick fanfic #john wick fic #john wick

[animentality]

Stop calling them enemies to lovers if all they do is Hallmark style bicker.

They must have deep ideological differences, such as, one believes the other should be dead, and the other one is like, actually you should be dead.

Their vibes should be: "I don't know if I'm grabbing your neck to kiss you... or throttle you and end your miserable bloodline... but I must put my hands upon you or else I might perish."

They should be assassins of the heart and mind, conniving and cruel and lusting for each other's bodies and blood, in more ways than one.

Or just regular assassins, because assassins are sexy.

Also they should be LGBT, because the heteros do this trope sooooo bad.

If you agree with me, and you're into LGBT enemies to lovers, assassins, and also a little bit of demon fucking, you should check out my new urban fantasy book: 7 Deadly Habits of the Modern Demon Summoner, available here.

Summary below: (spoilers: it's basically just pansexual John Wick x Scott Pilgrim...and there are demons):

Although, I warn you. It's really more enemies to lovers to enemies that fuck.

Starring a pansexual demon summoning assassin with too many exes in the killing biz.

Anyway! This book has my whole heart in it. For better or for worse. I'd appreciate if you checked it out or reblogged this post! It's hard out here for indie authors.

#writing #writers on tumblr #spilled ink #digital art #illustration #also remember that being mad at me for using blaze and rudely waltzing into your tumblr living room #is frankly homophobic #dont be homophobic on christmas #your uncle frank whos a trumper from south carolina can do enough of that for you

[amaranthine-enihtnarama]

Les Petits Morts (Marquis de Gramont x Assassin! F! Reader)

(Cat and mouse, do-they-want-to-kill-each-other-or-fuck-each-other, enemies to lovers, two psychotic mfers flirt)

taglist: @the-ice-frozen-ground-red-rose

warnings: freaky behavior, blood k!nk, knife play, violence, what y’all came for (🤨), reader is lowkey a brat hehe, marquis doms ofc bless up, mentions and brief moments of violence, build-up, more story than necessary probably. Romance⁉️

Part Two is here!

Vincent de Gramont had made a grave miscalculation when it came to her. He knew the moment he’d laid eyes on her that he was in danger: her wide, brown eyes shining golden in the rising sun, her fragrant hair swooping over one shoulder, letting the skin of her neck catch the light, and, as she’d finally stepped before him, that haunting scent of jasmine and gardenias, the radiance and bohemian ease she exuded; he was immediately disarmed from the knowledge that she was a killer. She was a slippery figure, shrouded in mystery, in fear. No one knew where she came from, but everybody knew of the story of how she earned her freedom. A young girl, bloodthirsty, filled with fire, tearing open the throat of the Marquis to whom she had been promised, her bloody mouth pulled back to bare a glimmering smile in the face of her freedom. Still, she remained in her former line of work, even more dangerous with her years of being outside of The Table’s shadow.

La Belladonna is what they called her, and she gave no name. She smiled at him, gaze twinkling something wicked. He maintained composure, of course, but he couldn’t break away from that haunting, doe-eyed gaze of hers. He’d expected a woman, but not one like this. He’d imagined a savage before him based on the story that had always been told. Not someone so beautiful, so graceful…so enchanting.

“Bonjour, Marquis,” she greeted, “I do hope you didn’t mind the early morning.”

“I did.”

She laughed, turning away and taking a seat against the wall.

“Well, that’s just too bad.”

She checked her nails; a crimson manicure. Her eyes flitted from it to him. He was confused by the expectation in her gaze. He’d never once seen that look in anyone’s eyes before (except, perhaps, from one of The Table).

“Won’t you have a seat,” she questioned.

He cleared his throat, glancing over to one of his men then slowly moving over to the barrel next to her. She admired the horses with a small subdued smile, then turned to him with a sigh. He surveyed her, unsure what to make of this so-called dangerous killer. He was quite sure he’d met worse. He moved to speak, but she cut him off.

“So, Marquis, why exactly do you require my services?”

“They say you’re the best,” he responded cooly.

Her lips curved into a bemused smile. “They say we’re all the best. Why me specifically?”

He gave a slight smile. “You are able to go unnoticed. Become invisible. I want someone invisible.”

“And why is that? Don’t you have Caine? He’s the best.”

His smile fell. Her eyes widened slightly with the thrill of his upset.

“What? That’s practically public information.”

“In that case, I suppose you already know the answer to your own question.”

“Ah, that’s where you’re wrong, my friend,” she corrected, tapping his nose with a slender cigarette holder and a bright smile, “I know you want John Wick dead, I know you want those aligned with him dead. But I know you not only have Caine, but the entirety of The Table’s resources at your disposal. You don’t need someone like me; you don’t require someone so subtle, it’s certainly not your style. You are fortunate enough to have to ability of using sheer force to achieve your goals.”

She took out a cigarette, placed it in the holder, then put in between her lips. Despite himself, he stole a glance at her mouth, taking in the slight purse of her lips as she lit her cigarette. He watched smoke puff from between them.

“So…what is it you want with me?”

He met her eyes, sitting back. “You’re very observant. Good job.”

Her eyebrow twitched in annoyance, creating a tiny crack in her mask. She gave a slight smile, blowing some of her cigarette smoke at his face.

“Hm.”

He stood, brushing his nose off. “You’re right. If we were looking at this in the short term, I don’t need someone like you. But I am not thinking of the short term.”

Her eyebrows rose in interest. “I’m not a kept puppy, Monsieur de Gramont. I’m sure you recall my exit from the Table. I wouldn’t recommend becoming my boss.”

His eyes crinkled as he smiled.

“For my price, I think you are.”

She held his gaze for a moment, finishing her cigarette. She tossed the butt onto the barrel, then gave a light chuckle, shaking her head in amusement.

“Oh dear. Oh dear, oh dear.”

She stood, raking her fingers through her hair.

“I apologize, but I’m afraid I’ve wasted our time. I suggest getting some extra sleep while you can.”

Vincent watched her turn away with unease, swallowing as she started to leave. He shot a look to the men at the door, then walked after her. He moved to place a hand on her shoulder but she turned swiftly, pressing her cigarette holder into his chest, pushing him backward.

“Do not grab me, Monsieur. I cannot be bought. Only hired. I do not make deals, especially not with men like you. There is not a price you can name that would change my mind.”

“I’m quite sure the prices I can name are beyond anything you’ve heard before.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “You’re quite arrogant, Gramont. It’s endearing, but not enough to hold my attention. Goodbye.”

Vincent watched as she turned to leave, but soon slowed down, then halted to a stop. A pressure lifted on his chest. She tilted her head, twirling the cigarette holder between her fingers.

“Do you really want to offer up two perfectly fine men for the slaughter? Just for a silly little price?”

“I would prefer to avoid bloodshed altogether, mademoiselle.”

She was silent for a moment.

“Whoever told you I am a patient woman was misled you, Gramont.”

He smiled. “Whoever told you I am a relenting man did the same.”

***

Milan, Italy.

Belladonna sat back in her chair, taking a long drag from her cigarette in its holder, crossing her legs with a smile. After several months of hide-and-seek with that pesky Marquis, she’d finally shaken off some the men he had tracking her, and killed the rest. Now, she finally felt like she could just breathe, sit back, relax, enjoy her espressos and afternoons by the sea, and then, when she fancied, a night at the opera. As luck would have it, they were performing her favorite; Madama Butterfly.

She poured herself a glass of champagne as the lights dimmed, and as she took a sip her phone buzzed. Her eyebrows drew together in annoyance; she made it clear to her team not to contact her, lest they risk her being tracked again by one of the…

She frowned, reading the text. It was in french, from a sender with no number.

The Italian sun has treated you well, Mademoiselle.

Her shoulders tensed, but she kept her cool. How did he find her? And why the hell did he follow her here? She was quite sure she’d made herself clear with the last two men she got rid of: do not bother me again, or you’ll end up looking just an mangled as them.

Darkness swallowed the theater as the curtains rose, and Belladonna felt a pit form in her stomach. She’d never felt so troubled by anyone as much as she had by this man. He was bull-headed and inescapable—with all of the ability in the world to keep her in his sights. Discretely, she glanced around the balconies in her view, but only saw strangers. Where was he? Where was the son of a bitch this time?

She put out her cigarette harshly, trying to keep her composure. After finishing her glass of champagne, she sent a message in response.

You’re toying with your life, Gramont.

I could say the same for you.

She rose an unimpressed eyebrow, twirling her cigarette holder between her fingers. She set her phone down with a heavy sigh. He just had to ruin everything, didn’t he? Bothering her during her jobs, and now during her time off. Her phone buzzed again. With a clench of her fist, she ignored it.

As she paid more attention to the opera, her mind wandered. Her six-foot-four shadow quickly evaporated into a tiny shadow in the back of her thoughts, and she admired the gorgeous costumes of the singers, the swelling and rhythm of the orchestra, and rested her cheek on her fist in awe as the soprano playing Madama Butterfly began her aria Un Bel di Vedremo.

She could remember the first time she’d heard it; she’d gotten it as a gift from a lover in a period of innocent youth that had become alien to her. The lover she lost as a sacrifice of that innocence. Despite herself, her eyes grew misty from the memory. She watched the soprano’s wistful gaze, the ghost of a smile on her lips, and as she reached the peak of the aria and the orchestra swelled, Belladonna could’ve sworn she could see the singer’s eye’s glistening along with hers.

The music of the aria faded out, and she quickly wiped her eyes as the lights of the house rose. She rose to her feet, glancing around again. Her heart jumped at the sight of a tall, brown haired man in a three-piece suit leaving one of the booths. She hesitated to get worked up—every man she’d laid her eyes on had a three-piece suit on, it didn’t have to be him. Maybe she was just in denial. Although she’d never want to say it, the Marquis was successfully beginning to wear her down.

She dialed a number on her phone. The call was answered before it could ring.

“Yes?”

“The Marquis is here in Milan. There may be some of his men at the opera house. Kill them, would you? Be thorough with it. Wherever they may be crawling about. And leave me a change.”

“Of course, right away, ma’am.”

She hung up, scanning the audience again before leaving her booth. She slipped into a women’s restroom, entering an out-of-service handicapped stall and quickly removing her dress and opening the duffel bag tucked between the toilet and the wall. It was a pity she wouldn’t get the pleasure of enjoying it, it was a lovely piece. She admired it on the hanger with a sigh, tugging on a bulletproof jumpsuit and zipping it up, adding elbow and knee pads. She laced up her black military boots, then unzipped the duffel bag, placed the dress and heels inside, and pulled out the pair of pistols under the false bottom, placing the magazines in the sides of her boots. She slid a pair of blade into hidden pockets in the lower back of the jumpsuit, then tugged on a beanie and a black face mask.

She pushed the duffel bag back in its spot, then stepped onto the toilet, opened the air vent, and with a hop, grabbed onto the ceiling and pulled her way up inside. Her knee and foot made dull impacts with the metallic interior of the vents as she pulled the door up.

She pulled out her phone, going through her messages to find the blueprints one of her navigators had sent. She stalled on a message from that numberless contact, the one she’d ignored before.

You look beautiful in that dress, Bella.

A frown formed on her face at the message. It wasn’t the first of these messages she’d read in these days. Messages occasionally complimented her ways of eluding him, how a pair of earrings complimented her honey brown complexion, how bloody a mess she’d left behind. Still, none were as direct as this one.

Beautiful, she thought. It conjured up an odd feeling, imagining him saying such a compliment. Perhaps if he wasn’t such a foolish nuisance, it might’ve even excited her a touch. She quickly went to the blueprint of the vents and started to crawl towards her escape.

After a sweaty fifteen minute excursion through the vents, Belladonna finally jumped down from a window and landed on a cushy pile of discarded wood. She didn’t allow even a grunt as she got to her feet and rounded the corner, finding a grey-suited body lying in a pool of her own blood a few feet away from her bike. Her cushy hotel was no longer an option, so she had to relent for the secondary location she’d had set up. The only bother would be the chilly night ride.

///

Montemarciano

She’d made it the country house by dawn, and the sun was preparing to break through the horizon. Exhaustion pulled on her limbs, demanding she collapse directly into the earth as she made her way to the door. She let her shoulders slump as she rested a hand on the door. This place was quite literally in the middle of nowhere. She’d made sure it was no registry or map. Yanking her beanie and mask off and taking a deep inhale of fresh, crisp air, she went for her key behind the false brick when a creak sounded inside the house. Belladonna froze, gripping the brick in her hand.

It couldn’t have been the Marquis, but it could’ve been someone else even more dangerous. She stayed in a crouch, crawling towards the back door and seeing it ajar. Her eyes widened, and she pulled out a pistol. Gently, she pushed the door open and slid inside, crouching against the wall like a statue, eyes scanning the living room. There weren’t many places for an intruder to hide.

In the blue light against the curtains, she watched a large figure pass through the room and right by her. The figure entered the bedroom, and Belladonna placed the brick down silently, getting onto her feet.

She slid through the door, watching the figure in the darkness. They sat at her desk, staring out of the modestly sized window as more blue light filtered through the linen curtains of the dark room. She flicked on the lamp. The figure turned and she fired without hesitation, watching as they tumbled to the floor. She leapt over the bed, planting a foot by the stranger’s head and placing her weight into the knee that she dug into their shoulder. The figure had covered their face with their arm and swiped it blindly at her, but she easily knocked it to the ground and trapped their wrist under the heel of her boot.

Cooly, she held the gun to their face, pressing harder on their wrist. A familiar voice swore, letting out a grunt. Her eyes widened in surprise.

“Gramont,” she remarked quietly, making out the face beneath her.

He was breathing heavily, eyes darting between the gun and her face. She turned off the safety.

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t kill you now,” she said.

“Many will come after you. Worse than me,” he said breathlessly.

She smirked, shaking her head. “I said a good reason, Monsieur. Don’t waste your breath.”

He looked at the gun, then to her surprise, smiled a bit. He rose his eyebrows.

“Come now, Bella. Haven’t we had fun these past months?”

“I thought you’d be better at bargaining.”

“If you really intended to kill me, I would be dead by now.”

She paused and tilted her head.

He made a good point.

With a grin, she added. “I really intended to kill you, Monsieur, I would’ve killed you the morning we met.”

She moved the gun away from his face.

“You came here alone.”

“I came to deliver something to you.”

He tried to sit up, but she doubled down her weight onto him.

“Certainly you don’t think I intend to harm you?”

She studied his face, then chuckled. “Not alone, no.”

He let out a breath as she rose to her feet, stepping away from him. He sat up, watching as she trained her gun onto him as he stood. Vincent fixed his hair and his suit, gesturing to the door.

“It’s in the living room.”

“Mhm. Ladies first.”

With his trained on her gun, he passed through the door and she followed silently, pointing it at his head. She flicked the light switch on as they rounded the corner, and lamps lit up, revealing a spare but cozy living room. He chuckled, turning to her.

“Very cute, Bella.”

She didn’t answer, only held the gun to his face. He turned back around, going to the coffee table. There was a large black box, along with two other boxes. One appeared to be a shoebox, the other a mystery. Caught off guard, by gifts, Belladonna’s grip loosened on the gun. She squinted in confusion, almost wanting to laugh.

“What…”

“Your gown tonight was lovely, but it can’t be worn again after you left it in that filthy bathroom. I thought I would replace it for you.”

“…the fuck…”

He stepped towards her, and her gun returned to its leveled aim reflexively.

“…Is wrong with you?”

He smiled, pleased at her bewilderment, although she seemed a bit amused as well.

“What is wrong with a gift?”

“Oh, when it comes from you, several things.”

He chuckled, placing his hands in his pockets.

“We’ve been playing this game for a little while now, and I must admit that I see no end to it. So why don’t we talk it over dinner?”

“It took fourteen bodies to get to dinner, huh?”

He looked away almost bashfully, if his eyes could express such an emotion.

“I thought you’d be easier to kill, I’ll admit that too. And I believe tonight makes twenty.”

His callousness uneased her, but not as much as the glimmer that formed in his eyes when he fixed his gaze on her.

“Come now, is dinner so bad compared to these last few months?”

She narrowed her eyes. He smiled again.

“Think of it as a celebration if you want. Perhaps for your birthday? It’s this weekend, isn’t it?”

In an immediate shift, her eyes darkened, and without warning she flung a knife at his face that he barely evaded being mortally wounded by. Blood poured down his cheek as she lunged at him, knocking him against the wall, but this time he had his footing. He grabbed the fabric of her jumpsuit and whirled around to slam her into the wall with a grunt, but she quickly drove her knee into his stomach once, twice, then kicked him back with both legs, sending him crashing against the kitchen counter. The photos on the wall shook on impact. Before he could even recover she had him on the floor, and his mind quickly went back to the position she’d had him in before and he shot into action, overpowering her just enough to have her beneath him. Still, she was fast, and limber. It seemed like only a moment had passed when she’d locked her thighs around his neck and held his arm at a seemingly impossible angle. He gasped and coughed, feeling the blood pumping in his head.

“You haven’t really gotten your hands dirty like this before, have you Marquis?”

He felt around desperately, and found a saving grace sheathed in her boot.

“You’ve never had your heart race like this, feeling your life threatening to slip through your fingers.”

She twisted his arm further, and he snatched whatever he’d found out of her boot. Her laugh rung in his ears like a funeral bell.

“It’s unfortunate your first real fight turned out to be your last.”

He stabbed her in the upper thigh, and she growled lowly, her hold weakening. He moved in a flash, snatching the blade out of her leg and trying to force her onto the ground, but she began to shimmy backwards despite her injury. He grunted, grabbing at her until he’d finally pinned her down, when he saw her arm go out of his line of sight and something hard slammed into the side of his head. Despite his delirium he grabbed her arm as she hit him again, and forced it to the ground, getting frustrated grunt out of her as she struggled, but he had her.

He caught his breath, his muscles straining to keep her in place. Adrenaline was coursing through his body faster than blood as his sight cleared, and his eyes fixed onto her searing gaze. Slowly, he pressed the blade—a small one, to his surprise—against her neck, watching her swallow. Their eyes locked onto each other. Their blood rushed violently as their chests heaved. Vincent pressed his hand into her chest harder, keeping her firmly on the ground. Her eyes scanned his face with a curious glint.

“I’m not afraid to cut,” he said through puffs of labored breath.

She grinned. “I’m not afraid of cuts, rich boy.”

He dug in the blade, dragging it slowly through her skin. Her fists clenched but she gave no reaction this time. Her eyes only bored into his as the living room filled with warm sunlight. Crimson trickled from the cut, and he smeared it with his thumb as they fell still. He could feel her blood humming through her thundering pulse. Her skin was hot, alive. She watched him, then grabbed his arm, pulling him down with sheer strength. He tensed, preparing for an attack but she just held him by the lapel, a smile dancing on her lips as she leaned up slightly.

“Tell me,” she said quietly, “Has this become business, or pleasure, Vincent?”

His eyes seemed distant as his name left her lips. They drifted to her curved, full mouth, and then fixed onto her eyes. Wordlessly, he took his thumb from her neck and placed it against his tongue, watching for her reaction. She gave none. A challenge.

“Are you pleased?”

To his surprise, she giggled. Her body relaxed under his and Vincent’s head swam with confusing desires. What was this, now that he thought about it, what the hell had gotten into him to chase this girl for months? He looked at her face for answers, finding that same smile he’d seen the first time they’d met. What did it mean?

“Come here,” she encouraged, watching his eyes scan over her in a daze.

He looked at her. Her smile widened, and she beckoned him closer. But with what, he wondered, how could she command him so swiftly without words? Her eyes trailed down to his lips with what part him hoped was the same mysterious hunger that was bubbling up inside him. He leaned closer, breath fanning against her face.

“That’s right,” she said softly, reclining.

He leaned down over her, and for a moment there was stillness between them, a pull that seemed to magnetize them closer. Belladonna’s eyes widened a fraction as the feeling of it came over her, and she quickly head butted him with all the force she could muster. He groaned, clutching his head, leaving him completely vulnerable to her attacks. She managed to twist her way from beneath him, hopping to her feet and grabbing the knife that had lodged into the wall. She sniffed harshly, grabbing his hair and tilting his head up, pressing the point of the blade just below his chin. He stared up at her, eyes half blazing with unspoken fury, the rest uncertainty of what to expect next.

“You surprise me, Marquis.”

He tried to move but her grip tightened onto his scalp painfully. “Ah-ah-ah. I don’t think so. Unless you want me to drain your neck.”

With an even more furious stare, he relented. She grinned at his expression.

“I gotta admit, I didn’t expect you to put up such a good fight. The last one I dealt with wasn’t half as good a match as you. I’m impressed.”

A strange swell of pride bloomed in Vincent’s chest despite his indignation. She hummed thoughtfully.

“Dinner does sound nice, doesn’t it?”

He exhaled sharply through his nose, struggled to swallow in her hold.

“I haven’t been on a date in a while,” she remarked, “Maybe you’ll show me a good time, eh, chéri?”

She let him go, stepping back. Before he could respond, her knee collided with his head. The world went dark.

He came to in the afternoon with the sun beaming down on his face. The back door was wide open, leaving only the sound of birds and the breeze flowing through the golden-yellow grass. He popped his jaw and sat up with a groan. She was gone. If it weren’t for the blood and the dents in the wall he’d have thought it were nothing more than a dream. But he could smell gardenias, he could still taste her on his tongue. He could still feel her racing pulse beneath his thumb, hear her voice. He inhaled deeply, unsure what to think of the feeling passing through him. He couldn’t come to a conclusion, but he recalled something that caused him to smile.

She’d called it a date.

***

Paris, France. Two days later.

She was reclined on a park bench, eyes shut, taking in the sun while her black dress sparkled. He watched her a couple yards away, finding himself rather daunted. She’d told him over the phone he’d know where to find her, and it had taken barely twenty minutes for her to be tracked down. Despite their fight, she looked radiant. Completely unscathed. It was inhuman.

His phone buzzed, and he frowned as he answered. It was her. He glanced up curiously, seeing she had disappeared. He held the phone to his ear.

“Dragging our feet? I’m not a patient lady.”

His searched around for her, but she’d vanished into thin air.

“Go ahead, you can ask…how the hell did I do that?”

He listened to her soft chuckle through the phone with surprising pleasure.

“Come to me, and I won’t make you wait any longer.”

“Awe, listen to that. You’ve been so good at finding me, this shouldn’t be any trouble.”

“You are impossible,” he sighed, turning to scan the park.

“Impossible? This just part of the fun.”

The call ended, and he stared at the phone with slightly furrowed eyebrows. He looked to the bench, noticing something fluttering and went over to examine it. It was a note. He unfolded it, reading sweeping cursive. It was in french, but he knew she’d written it.

Come and get me, chéri. I am a ghost with many faces.

Vincent smiled, eyes crinkling. He pulled out his phone, making a call that was quickly answered.

“Where is she now,” he questioned.

There was a pause. “Well…sir…”

“Mm?”

“It seems like she’s at a cafe.”

“Alright—“

“She’s also at the Notre Dame.”

He hesitated to answer, but kept his cool. “I…see.”

“And the Louvre.”

He moved the phone away, smiling to himself. “A ghost with many faces.”

“Go get her,” he instructed, “Each one.”

Belladonna’s game led him across the entire city. Well, his men, but still. They called him reporting of notes that read ‘warmer’, ‘colder’, or ‘come on, you can do better than that’. Each of her clones proved to be as slippery as the original, and it gave him a thrill and a more subtle concern. He was aware what she was telling him, their game aside. She was showcasing her manpower—how perfectly coordinated her operation was. She wasn’t just a mere assassin, she had built her own network. He’d suspected help, although not to this scale of control. It was clear to him, though, why she’s wouldn’t accept any price. Leaders can’t be bought. She’d left The Table and had somehow managed to build one of her own.

When the evening had rolled in, he simply relented trying to track her down. It was impossible, he’d accepted it. Standing outside the restaurant he’d reserved, he called her.

“Alright, you win. I give up. Where are you, I’ll send a car.”

He could hear the smile in her voice. “No need. Just come in.”

“Have you been inside this entire time?”

“God, no. How boring would that be?”

She hung up. He shook his head, going inside. “Mon dieu.”

When he’d entered, she was there waiting, smoking with her legs crossed. Her lips were crimson red like her nails and her hair was curled to a dazzling perfection. Still, as he approached from behind, he could see the bruises on her back and shoulders. He stopped next to her, brushing her hair away from her neck, revealing the bandage over his cut. She turned her head, met his eyes. They glittered as she looked over his face.

“You know, if a date was all you wanted, a whole lot more of your men would be alive right now,” she said.

“Hello to you too, Bella.”

He brushed the bandage with his finger, earning a stare from her. She was smiling at him.

“Why are you here?”

She looked away as if to think, then locked her gaze onto him. “Why are you?”

He smiled in return. “I imagine we’re here for the same reason.”

His fingertips brushed down her neck and over her shoulder as he moved to take the seat across from her. Her eyes followed him, smoke passing through her rouge mouth.

“Well, then.”

She leaned onto the table, eyeing him.

“Do we really need to have dinner, or should we just get out of here and get straight to it?”

A wicked grin spread across her mouth as she surveyed him. He cleared his throat, but smiled.

“I went through so much trouble to get you that dress, I’d hate to ruin it so soon.”

She laughed. “Oh, you’ll ruin it, will you?”

He pressed his stare onto her. “I’ll rip it right off of your body and devour you.”

Belladonna took in his words, absorbing his stare in her deep brown eyes. Her teeth bared in a wide, shimmering smile.

“Not if I eat you first.”

Her cigarette burned out as they were served the first course.

She ignored the food, her eyes fixed onto him. Something about being under her stare made him feel stiff in his bones. The closer he brought her, the more it felt like reaching into a fire. Her gaze was always so predatory. It gave him a thrill of familiarity, and the chill of it, too.

“Eat,” he told her, gesturing to her plate.

She glided her finger over her wine glass, then shook her head slowly, eyes daring him.

“I don’t think I will.”

He paused in annoyance, but couldn’t help how pleased the resistance made him feel. It was plain on her face, she was playing with him.

“Don’t be difficult, now. We’re just starting to get along.”

Her teeth gleamed again. “Or what?”

The response made him pause. He set down his fork, processing what the woman who’d nearly killed him two days ago had just said to him. He leaned towards her slightly, a smile playing on his lips.

“Is that what you want, yeah? You want to be in trouble?”

A soft laugh made her shoulders bounce as she sat back. The toe of her heel nudged his leg underneath the table.

“That depends. What happens when I’m in trouble, Monsieur?”

“You don’t want to be in trouble with me, Bella.”

The warning only spurred her further. “Oh, but I love a little trouble.”

“All you American girls love trouble, don’t you?”

“It’s our middle name,” she teased, “So you’d better be as bad as you say.”

Her eyes flitted from her eyes to his face, zeroing in on his cheek. He was surprised by the warmth that seemed to emerge in her eyes as she leaned forward, tracing the cut in his cheek with her cigarette holder. A soft smile spread across her face. She almost seemed gentle.

“Such a pretty cut,” she muttered, “don’t you like it? A pretty cut for a pretty face.”

“You think my face is pretty?”

She chuckled softly at him, leaning further and caressing the slice with her thumb.

“Of course it’s pretty, chéri,” she murmured, “That’s why I made it mine.”

Wordlessly, Vincent took her hand. He could feel the slight callouses on her knuckles and the bases of her fingers that had been softened by manicures. He turned her hand, pressing his lips against her fingers and kissing her knuckles.

“Si tu me fais tienne, je te ferai tenir.” If you make me yours, I’ll make you mine.”

She turned her hand, brushing her fingertips against his lips, trailing a finger down to his chest. Her fingers wrapped around his tie, and she tugged it out of his vest, carefully pulling him over the table and leaning in for a kiss. His breath caught in his chest and his eyes fell shut from the feeling of her lips against his. With a rotation of her hand she tightened her grip and pulled him closer. He kissed her deeper, tasting a hint of champagne in her mouth and feeling her shuddering breath against his when she broke the kiss for air. She took in his intense green eyes and caught her lower lip in her teeth.

“Alors fais-moi tienne, Vincent.” Then make me yours, Vincent.

“Ah, I thought you were not kept puppy,” he said, a grin threatening to form on his face.

She yanked him, raising a brow. “I am not.”

He gingerly held onto the table with a laugh. “Then what are you doing here?”

Belladonna loosened her hold, dropping the tie and considering him for a moment.

“You may not be able to make me your puppy, but you’re in danger of making me your woman.”

His eyes flashed, and a grin spread across his face. “It’s dangerous, is it?”

“There would be many who would start ringing a funeral bell for you if they heard the news.”

His gaze lowered to her lips. Vincent took her chin in his hand.

“Is that the price to make you mine? My life?”

“It would certainly be one I’d consider.”

“Then it’s the one I’m offering.”

She laughed, looking away. He turned her face to make her hold his burning stare. For a moment, her eyes softened. She seemed to hesitate despite how far she’d escalated the entire situation. But, soon after, she closed her eyes and placed another kiss on his lips.

“Then I’ll tell you again,” she whispered, “Fais-moi tienne, chéri.”

He kissed her firmly, letting out a sigh. “Come with me, Bella—now.”

The minute he’d gotten her in the back of his limousine he tore the slit in her dress up to her torso and pinned her to the ground, undoing his tie and holding her wrists together firmly.

“You’re not getting away this time,” his voice rumbled lowly, “I won’t let you get away.”

He bound her wrists together tightly, watching her skin chafe against its luxurious material. Her breath was trembling. Her skin was already hot for him.

His cock was already hard against her inner thigh—the string of desire had been tugging at him the moment he’d read that note. She let out a heavy sigh, pushing her hips up against him and lifting her arms over her head to drape them over his neck and pull him down to her. Their lips crashed together while her hips ground against him, and a soft moan spilled from her mouth into his as her body started to wrap around him. He kissed harshly down her neck, digging his fingers into her hips and pressing it back down onto the floor.

“Stay still—stay fucking still.”

A laugh bubbled in her chest. “Oh, you’re going to have to work much harder to keep me still, baby.”

He quickly removed his jacket and grabbed his butterfly knife from his waistband. He grazed her leg with the cool blade, admiring the flames of desire that sparked in her eyes from the mere contact. Delicately, he dragged the point down her inner thigh, stopping to watch how her chest rose and fell erratically. He guided the blade lower and lower over her hips, grinning at how they slightly bucked.

“Ah, you want it?”

Her fingers tangled in his hair as she gently pulled him back up to her lips. She opened her mouth against his with a moan, running her foot up the back of his leg.

“Just take me,” she whispered.

“Fuck, stop ordering me around,” he said, lips trembling against her collarbone as he laughed, “I might start to like it from you.”

“Then make me beg.”

He nicked the cut he’d made in her upper thigh, shuddering at the gasp she let out into his mouth. Without wasting even a millisecond he dragged his mouth down over her stomach—and ghosted over her cunt—to run his tongue along the weeping slice. He grabbed onto her as he made his way from the cut to between her legs. His lips brushed her clit and her body seemed to jump a little at the feeling. Vincent couldn’t control himself. He placed a kiss close to her aching core and relished in how her body seemed to quiver at the slightest touch.

“Look at you, so wet…”

He hesitated to leave her cunt alone, but planted a kiss on her hip and then sank his teeth into her, earning a yelp and a soft, lighter moan when he didn’t let up.

“Vincent,” she whispered.

He was close to getting what he wanted, he could tell.

“Yes, chérie?”

His fingers teased through the fabric of her lace underwear—she let out a soft mewl, making his eyes widen.

“You wear these lace panties for me, chérie? You were going to give it up to me that easy, like I already owned your little cunt?”

“Vincent…”

“Est-ce que c'est ça qui te fait mouiller, mon coeur, quand tu es en dessous de moi comme ci ? Quand tu sais que je peux faire ce que je veux de toi ?” Is that what makes you wet, my darling, when you’re beneath me like this? When you know I can do whatever I want to you?

She sounded almost anguished. “S’il te plaît, Vincent.”

“Ah, now I can get a please and a thank you? Is this why you’re so fucking disrespectful to me, Bella? You want to be punished like a filthy whore, then?”

“Oh,” she managed through weak laugh, “I’m definitely disrespectful because I’m a pompous bitch. Why do you think I’m the one that can’t be bought?”

“Mm, but you can be fucked, huh?”

She smiled widely, eyes falling shut.

“Only if they’re as pompous a bitch as me, monsieur.”

He moved away from her hip and went back to her cut, sucking on it hard enough to make a hickey. Her body arched at the sting of it and Vincent could feel her getting slick in her underwear.

“Beg,” he said, taking off the heels he’d bought for her, “Beg for me.”

The words left her mouth in a whisper. “Please, please, just fuck me.”

“Je ne t’entends pas, chérie.”

He closed his teeth around her waistband, pulling it taut and slicing the underwear open.

“C’mon, baby, please?”

“Don’t ask,” he instructed, “Beg.”

In his fervency he nearly pressed his mouth onto her as he tore the rest of the fabric off and laid eyes on her pussy. His teeth sank into his lower lip—this woman was going to be the death of him.

No. No. He had to take his time.

There was nothing guaranteed with La Belladonna, it was what they all said. He couldn’t waste the moment she was wide open and willing for him. He returned to her sweet lips, kissing her slowly, inhaling her scent. He kissed down her neck hungrily.

“Fuck, I need you,” she whispered, “Please, just fuck me. Please, please, Monsieur.”

“Mon dieu, you know exactly how to beg, too. How can one woman manage to push every single one of my buttons?”

“I’m not the only one with a type here, honey,” she said, smiling, “I get what I want, too.”

His hand snaked down to rub her clit—slowly, to take in her expression, her voice. She moaned, grabbing his hair, pressing her forehead against his cheek.

“Oh, god, Vincent. Please…please…”

His fingers slid inside her eagerly, curling and pulling back then thrusting deeper.

“Mm…Vincent…”

“Yes, baby, say it like that.”

His voice was soft against her ear. She melted into the floor of the limousine, her body easing against his hand, just they way he’d imagined it would.

“I knew you’d be a good girl, Bella, I just needed to give you a nudge—“

She gasped loudly at his fingers pumping harshly back inside of her.

“—In the right direction. Don’t you think?”

Her smile even shone in the feeble light the managed to get through the limousine’s tinted windows. She turned her head and kissed him. He returned it sloppily, his head pulsing with blood as his cock ached painfully. Her lips found his cheek, then his jaw, then her tongue grazed his neck, making him shiver. She closed her teeth around his earlobe and tugged harshly. He moaned into her hair, shutting his eyes. He needed her. He couldn’t even keep his head on fucking straight enough to tease her. Months he had to wait—months of clinging onto remnants of her scent, her red-stained cigarette butts and rivers of blood that trailed behind her—months that drove him fucking mad.

“God, you fucking woman.”

He tore his belt open, undid his pants and pulled his dick out, wetting it with her slick. He rubbed the head against her pussy, breath shuddering, mouth drying; he wasn’t sure if he’d survive making love with her, feeling the way his heart thundered out of his chest.

“Take me,” she whispered, “fuck me, Vincent.”

He couldn’t hold back any longer. He slid inside her gently, but once he felt her, he couldn’t be gentle anymore. His hips drew back and crashed into hers, making her groan loudly and move her hands back over her head. His thrusts were harsh, intense, but his hands slid into her hair affectionately. He kissed her skin like it was the first thing he’d ever tasted, her sweat tasted like sugar to him.

“Fuck, you taste like vanilla.”

Her hands returned to him unbound, and they slid under his shirt. She held onto him and wrapped her legs around his hips as her breath caught with each thrust. She wasn’t sure how long she’d be able to hang on for him, to have this moment last as long as it could. His body felt perfect against his, his warmth, his scent, his taste. She’d only said words earlier—of course no one kept La Belladonna for long— but he seemed to be the man that just may have the ability—

“Put your hand on my neck,” she whispered, voice shaking.

His hand caressed her neck delicately. She let out a sigh, closing her eyes. Yes, he just might be the one.

“Harder, please,” she whimpered.

“Anything, mon cœur.”

“Faster.”

Her voice was barely leaving her throat. Vincent’s hips moved quickly as he felt her tightening around him. He moaned again, sure his voice managed to reach outside of the windows.

“Fuck, you’re getting so tight, Bella, you’re going to kill me.”

Her nails dug into his back cruelly, pushing him even closer to the edge as the pain echoed throughout his entire back. He managed to reach down and rub her clit again, feeling how swollen it had gotten as her orgasm came closer.

“Come for me, Bella, come, baby,” he encouraged, his fingers working quickly.

She cried out, her voice breaking as she grabbed onto his shoulders. She was just at the edge, her mind was spinning wildly. Her words were unintelligible to him, he’d never caught onto Italian very well.

“Oh, mio caro, sì, sì, ah, cazzo, sì—“

Her legs tightened around him as he slammed his hips against her, watching how her mouth fell open, listening to her gasping breath.

“Sì—sì come questo, tesoro, oh…oh! Non fermarti, per favore, oh per favore—ngh—cazzo!”

He groaned as her pussy clenched around him and she let out a cry, her nails digging so hard into his skin they might’ve been drawing blood. He snapped his hips into her one last time and came—loudly—as he felt for her breasts and grabbed onto them, tried and failed to stay upright, then lowered, his body pressed up against hers.

They laid for an eternity, trying to catch their breath, trying to wait for their heads to clear. Vincent managed to move first and kissed her neck, inhaling the smell of her skin, feeling her pulse starting to slow down. She let out a heavy exhale, eyes opening.

“You are…”

She trailed off into silence for a moment.

“…Magnificent.”

Vincent chuckled, kissing her jaw softly, unable to speak just yet. She smiled.

“Ti terrò in giro per molto tempo, tesoro.”

“I don’t know Italian, Bella.”

She laughed. “I said I’m going to keep you around.”

They looked at each other, and he smiled.

“Oh, are you?”

“Oh yes, Monsieur…for a very long time.”

She lifted a finger, tapping his nose affectionately.

“You keep me, I keep you, Mademoiselle.”

She ran her fingers through his hair, smiling softly. “That arrangement just might be acceptable.”

He smiled. “I’m glad we could finally settle on an agreement.”

Her laugh was weak, but her eyes shone with that sardonic humor that had charmed him so. He slowly pulled out of her, gently sitting her up.

“Come with me. I will take you home so you can rest. We’ll have dinner.”

#marquis de gramont #amaranthine_enihtnarama #my wriitng #ao3 writer #marquis de gramont x reader #fanfic authors #john wick fanfic #john wick fandom #Spotify

[inmyownlaine]

John Murphy x Reader: Enemies to Lovers Trope

Warnings: Weapons, threatening death

Word Count: 2075

Part: 1

Summary: After taking cover in the underground bunker, you find yourself trapped with your sworn enemy. As time trails on, you realize the two of you will have to stay there till the coast is clear. The worst part? There’s only ONE bed 😮🤯

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He hated you. More than anything or anyone. In fact, if he were given the option to be pushed off a cliff or spend time with you, he would jump on his own accord and do a backflip on the way down.

And you couldn’t stand to be around him. You would rather spend your time eating soggy bread, walking in wet socks, or ripping band-aids off your bare skin. Anything was better, more preferable, than seeing his face.

If the two of you weren’t spitting insults at each other with vitriol and pure malice, you were physically harming one another. There was nothing amiable about the shoulder check he delivered on a daily basis. Likewise, your perfectly placed foot was not in jest. Especially when he would trip over it and go tumbling to the ground.

It got to the point where you couldn’t walk alone. He would grab you by the arm and slam you against walls, knife to throat, as he chuckled menacingly in your ear. “You know how easy it would be for me to kill you?” he would always ask.

And he couldn’t sit with his back to you, or else he’d find the barrel of a gun nudging his temple, and you with an itchy trigger finger. You’d deliver a smug little smile, pushing it further and further into his head. “And just like that, all my problems would suddenly go away,” you would always comment.

Yet, neither of you actually did anything. It was the sheer adrenaline, the barbaric action, the thrill of it all, that led you to behave so irresponsibly. The bruises and cuts and words would not stand in your way. No amount of concerned teenagers or useless pep talks would interfere. Nothing.

Being this wicked was a lonely road. You felt like a great white approaching a school of herrings. Wherever you went, there was an immediate scatter. Active avoidance upon sight was recommended. But you were the best shot, bar none. It was the only reason anyone allowed you to have a gun.

Or tag along on their excursions.

In front of them, of course. So everyone could clearly see exactly what you were doing. The wave of terror you caused was oddly devine. You didn’t live to torture others, or to be feared by the masses, but it was such a wonderful feeling to have some sense of power. So you sashayed with pride, lips puckered in a confident pout, leading them steadfast through the unknown forest.

The chatter behind didn’t phase you in the slightest. They were probably gossiping about their childish crushes or bantering with inside jokes. Neither of which concerned you or piqued interest.

That’s when the most grating, most vexatious voice muttered in a not-so-low tone, “Such an easy target.”

There was no hesitation. The gun was already in your hands as you spun around, aiming it directly at him. Everyone gasped, ducking for cover.

Except for him. He encroached your perimeter, arms tightly crossed against his chest, practically begging to be sprayed with bullets. He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “That’s cute.”

“Don’t tempt me,” you warned him.

“Or what?”

You sneered. “I’ll finally grant you your wish. A chance to see your father again.”

He laughed aloud, minimizing the distance with every arrogant step he took. With a final act of provocation, he willingly placed his forehead on the muzzle. With both his hands in the air, mocking surrender, he glowered at you through slacked eyelids. “Then do it.”

A foghorn rang out across the woods. You removed the gun from his head and pointed it into the trees. An outbreak of panic coursed through the unit as they frantically asked what to do. Some didn’t wait for a response.

Half of the unit bolted towards the dropship. The other half formed a circle, guns outwards and ready for open fire. It became clear that you weren’t going to be battling someone, but rather, something.

It started as a mist in the faraway trees, consuming the trunks with thick smoke. Then it started to grow in every way, wider and higher, before all that seemed to lay before you was a rain cloud. One that made your skin itch, made your throat close. It was then you knew you had only a single option.

“Run!” you screamed, taking off after the others.

He was right beside you, matching step for step. It had been a while since death brushed your lips, leaving a poisonous sting, invigorating your will to survive. So much so, that the idea of tripping him (for old times sake!), tickled at your brain.

“What is that?” he yelled out, elbow covering his nose and mouth. He didn’t offer any indication, but you saw it, too. A silver wheel was bolted atop a thick metal hatch. You didn't have time to wonder about the specifics. Nor did you have the time to grimace when your hands accidentally touched; first when spinning the wheel, and second upon opening the hatch, revealing a ladder into dark descent.

“Go!” he urged you. You didn’t think twice, stepping onto the ladder and hurrying down, rung by rung. The hatch slammed shut, followed by labored grunts as he tightened it back to its original state and then some. With the abrupt overtake of darkness and the narrow pathway, you felt extremely claustrophobic.

He continued down the ladder as you froze, catching up to you in a matter of mere seconds. He stomped haphazardly, boots barely missing the tips of your fingers.

“Don’t step on me,” you warned him.

“I’ll do what I want.”

Knowing full well that he would love nothing more than to squish you beneath his weight, you pressed on till your foot met the dirt floor. It was pitch black as you fumbled around in the darkness, feeling around for any type of lantern, flashlight, or match box. He trampled behind you, presumably following suit.

“What could be worse than this?” he mumbled.

“Um, what?” you scoffed.

“Wasn’t for you to hear.”

“Cool. So you wanna climb back up the ladder and take your chances out there?” For the first time ever, he didn’t have anything to say. You took that as a victory, further twisting the knife. “That’s what I thought. Shut up.”

Ten minutes had passed and no progress was made. From what you felt, however, you could tell there was a wooden desk with a chair, a broken lamp and a dining table set. Whoever created this doomsday bunker obviously made it to be their home. You couldn’t imagine living your entire life underground, fearful of the dangers above. You stopped short when you realized you had done the exact opposite; lived your life above, fearful of the dangers below.

“This is no use,” you finally said.

“You really didn’t find anything?” his voice spouted back.

“And you did?”

There was a loud plop, followed by numerous rustles and the quiet zing of a zipper. It dawned on you that he was digging around in his backpack and the insides of your stomach burned. If you had been searching for a light this entire time, and he willingly allowed you to make an ass of yourself, it was over for him.

“I swear, if you pull out a flashlight-”

But his face illuminated with the glow of an LED light, revealing his arrogant expression. “What?”

You couldn’t even begin to convey how livid you were. Your fingers balled up into tight fists, and you had half a mind to swing on him. He pointed the light in your direction, blinding you before chuckling.

“Don’t hurt yourself.” With that he pressed on, exploring the rest that this space had to offer. You didn’t want to figure out anything more. All you wanted was the fog to pass so you could leave this hellhole.

However, you didn’t know how long that would take. Hours? Days? The thought of being with him that long made your head ache. So instead, you flopped back on the hard mattress, staring up at the low ceiling.

“What are you doing?” he questioned.

“What does it look like?”

“It looks like,” he started, “you think you’re taking the bed tonight.”

“Not really a thought. I’m here and I’m on it,” you said.

“Comfortable, are you? Not worried I’ll kill you in your sleep?” he asked.

You simply shrugged. “Who says I won’t get you first?”

The banter had gone on long enough. His face flushed as he approached you, looming over your body with his disturbing presence. You tried to act like you weren’t scared. Yet the thought of him actually hurting you wouldn’t escape your mind. If he really wanted to end it all tonight, he could.

“I’m not sleeping on the floor,” he informed you.

“Well neither am I.”

“Don’t make me do this.” You gritted your teeth. Your gun was too far away from you. This would have to be a grappling game, one that you would surely lose. Especially if he kept his knife tucked into his pocket.

“If you’re not going to sleep on the floor, and I’m not going to sleep on the floor-” He stopped abruptly and just looked at you. You looked back, not understanding what he meant.

“Scoot over,” he finally said.

“Ew, no!” you exclaimed.

“Do you have a better idea?” he snapped. “You want to kill each other over a sleeping spot or you want to make it out tomorrow?”

The answer was obvious. You huffed and wriggled to the far end of the bed, nose brushing the metal wall in an effort to distance yourself as much as possible. With your arms crossed and eyes clamped, you imagined this wasn’t happening as you felt his side sag under his weight. He repositioned himself multiple times, frustrating you further, but finally made a decision and laid down quietly.

What would they say? What would you tell them? This was beyond humiliating, it was mortifying. To be laid up next to a person you openly abhorred was not good for your reputation. You had to make sure he knew the boundary and that it would never be crossed.

“You tell no one.”

“I’d say the same thing,” he replied, “but you don’t have any friends to tell.”

“I hate you.”

“I hate you, too.”

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You awoke to a void. It took a second to remember where you were, rubbing your eyes furiously to try to adjust. There was a foghorn, some eerie clouds, an abandoned bunker- oh!- and your absolute worst nightmare sleeping beside you. It all came rushing back and you found yourself grimacing, hoping that you would be able to leave soon.

You pulled the blanket closer to your chin, itchy wool scratching the bare skin on your arms. That had always been your least favorite texture, which was a great parallel to the current situation, where you were trapped with your least favorite person. Of course, every single item and event and circumstance had to be undesirable.

The knotted threads at the end of the blanket were tangled, so you took it upon yourself to separate them out. All the while you reflected, yet again, on your predicament. Your fingers worked tediously, preferring to sort out these problems than address your own.

With one knot being completely relenting, you found yourself thinking how it wasn’t this tangled when you fell asleep. In fact, you didn’t recall having a blanket at all…

Your eyes widened as you slowly rolled over, just enough so you could look over your shoulder. It was too dark to see. Your hand reached to Murphy’s side, touching him lightly. You felt the same scratchy wool instead of his leather jacket. It became apparent that his back was to you, but closer than it previously was. And the blanket you despised so much was covering you both.

You didn’t know what this meant. No one had ever been kind to you before. You weren’t the least bit surprised. All you caused was chaos and misery. No one owed you anything. Murphy, least of all. Yet he took care of you, tended to a single want instead of treating you like a monster. Like you were nothing less than human.

“Thank you,” you whispered into the shadows. He didn’t respond. And for once, you found yourself wishing that he would.

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MAJOR shout for the TikTok, I saw it and couldn’t stop thinking about it. Created by the100babe, captioned: read flags looking green. Can’t disagree 🥴🥵

Xx Lainey

#john murphy #writing #love #the 100 #john murphy fanfic #john murphy x reader #John Murphy angst #John Murphy fic #John Murphy imagine #the 100 fanfic #the 100 imagine #the 100 fanfiction #the 100 fluff #the 100 x reader #the 100 love

[thewhumpcaretaker]

⚜ 𝓑𝓮𝔂𝓸𝓷𝓭 𝓙𝓾𝓭𝓰𝓮𝓶𝓮𝓷𝓽 ⚜

Thank you to @evren-sadwrn for the beta read!

TW: gunshot, crying, John and Vincent being generally nasty to each other

Summary: John Wick and The Marquis de Gramont both faked their deaths on that fateful day at the Basilica. But when Vincent seeks John's help, he isn't expecting genuine compassion.

John was alone. “At home,” yes, “reading”, yes, but most fundamentally, he was alone, with a deep, soft-edged hollowness aching all along the Helen-shaped absence in his life. Dog wasn’t filling that loneliness tonight. Some days were harder than others, and this was one of the hard days. The same paragraph slid past again and again, read but not processed, as that ache grew slowly to rage at the bitter remembrances that cycled through his mind in place of the words on the page.

The sound of the doorbell came as a relief. It could only mean trouble - exactly what John was in the mood for. He took the pistol from the bedside table and closed Dog inside the bedroom – a habit he couldn’t seem to shake when answering the door, ever since Iosef.

“Trouble” wore a cream-colored three-piece suit and pearly pink tie, and a face even paler than those accoutrements. It was a comically poor choice of dress for the events fate had wrought on him that day. Even if he hadn’t been bracing himself against the doorframe in a desperate attempt to stay upright, the massive bloom of red spreading from the center of his chest would have informed John that the Marquis was in dire straits, bleeding out, come to his doorstep to beg. Huh. That sight would cheer him up all evening.

John savored it for a long moment and then began to close the door.

“Wait!”

Resting on the doorknob, John’s hand paused its progress and his eyebrow shot up in a silent expression of, “This had better be good.”

The Marquis began a speech that sounded almost rehearsed. “Let’s make this simple. I am offering you the contract of a lifetime. Not a hit, but something even more suited to your habits. Your job is to thwart the High Table on my behalf until my excommunication is reversed, and I am reinstated as Autem Imperator.”

“Excommunication? For what?”

“For your idiocy at the Basilica, which interrupted my contract. Since you were too much of a coward to face me until I had already fired, you are not dead, and I am being hunted by those fils de pute [sons of bitches]. I set out for the states this morning to end you. But count yourself lucky, Mr. Wick. The Table says it’s too late for that. Your head is no longer wanted – for now. So this is your opportunity to redeem yourself after pulling that completely underhanded stunt. Which, I might add, you botched.”

It hadn’t been a “stunt” he enjoyed pulling. Here was a man infinitely weaker than himself, on a deep, personal level, who lived in desperation. And John had used his own arrogance against him. It was what he deserved for hubris, but to give the Marquis de Gramont what he deserved was to destroy him, and John was tired of destroying beautiful things. Mere boys in their 20s, not so different from himself at that age, forced into that same twisted world. He shook his head, dispelling the memory. “You’re coming to me for protection? Why?”

He clicked his tongue impatiently. “Because! All High Table services are closed to me, but you…you’re completely unaffiliated now.”

“And I’d like to stay that way. If you’re trying to make me want to help, you’re doing a piss-poor job.”

“Oh I don’t need to make you want to do anything. You always take the bait eventually, because that is who you are. You answered the door, didn’t you? Bored of your precious retirement?”

John glowered. “I worked very hard for my retirement, as you may recall.”

“Only to relinquish it again and again. You are going to do the only thing you’re good for these days: poke the High Table only to outrun them with your tail between your legs. Except this time, it will be for a purpose that’s worth something. Try to think rationally for a moment. If there was ever a question of whether to leave you undisturbed, I could speak for you. On the other hand, if you spurn me today, you’ll - ”

“Don’t threaten me.” John closed the door. Didn’t even slam it.

He went to the basement, to fetch something. Could have told the Marquis where he was going, but why waste words? Besides, it was worth making him squirm a little.

When he returned to the door, Vincent had not moved from the spot. He blinked when the door opened, as if shaken from a trance.

John made no comment on it. He simply held up a marker. The little, cold weight of the metal felt hateful in his hand. A dreaded thing, a pin at the center of a butterfly. Something he’d only wish on his worst enemy. He handed it to Vincent. “This is not for your reinstatement as Autem Imperator. This is for your survival until you’re freed from the High Table.”

He scoffed. “You think I’m willing to give you a marker for the sake of mere survival? That is not the deal, Mr. Wick.”

“That is the deal. Mark it.”

“Payment upon receipt of services. Let me in first.”

By way of answer, John stood aside, and watched the Marquis drag himself through with a maddeningly victorious smirk. He limped his way to the sofa, with John following, not letting him out of his sight for a moment.

He didn’t even have to use the needle for a finger prick. He pressed his thumb to his heart, where there was already plenty of blood soaking through the button-down, and then into the brass. John took it back and snapped it closed again, sealing the debt.

It was only then that The Marquis added, “We’ll see whether the Table thinks I owe you anything before I’m reinstated. It’s your word against mine as to what that marker was for, and we all know which of us holds more sway.”

“Some way to honor a blood oath.” If he’d actually planned on using the marker, John would have kicked him right back out again for that. But in all honesty, it was just leverage. He opened the door again long enough to glance up and down the street. “Who shot you? Did they follow you?”

“I’m not such a novice as to lead them back. Some hitman at a gas station recognized me, but we lost him. By tomorrow morning, my bodyguard will be in another country, leading the High Table away from here.” He shuddered. “Now shut the door, it’s cold.”

It wasn’t the coldest night. Furrowing his brow, John turned his attention back to his new charge, who was looking paler by the moment. He shut the door. “Lay down.”

The Marquis did not comply. “You’re just an absolute mother hen, aren’t you, ‘Baba Yaga’? Going soft?” he seethed, teeth clenched, breathing through his nose and shutting his eyes in a bid to maintain composure. John knew the look. The feeling of shoving down pain and fear, holding your breath and restraining your muscles, actively ignoring the body’s bright red flashing lights that scream “we are not okay right now.” It was hard, and Vincent was amazingly bad at it. He probably didn’t have to do it very often.

John forced down the twinge of pity that rose up at that thought. The Marquis wouldn’t want it anyway. “Suit yourself. I’m going to get a first aid kit. If you’ve moved from that spot when I get back, I’ll shoot you.”

“Anything you say.” Vincent opened his eyes long enough to smirk and raise his hands innocently, as if playing along with the demands of a child. Unfortunately, the effect was spoiled slightly by the shake in his hands.

Fortunately, when John returned, he hadn’t moved.

“Shirt off.” It was painful just to watch as he tried to raise his arms, wincing, and struggling with the suitcoat. No doubt even more painful to be watched. By the time he got to the tie, John stepped in. “We don’t have all day.”

A venomous glare. He looked ready to cut deep. “Are you so eager to touch me, John? That lonely, in this big empty house, with all your ‘love’? Pathetic.”

Anger got the best of him for a moment and he shoved Vincent by the center of his chest, directly over the spreading patch of crimson. The result was a winded kind of wheezing that afforded him enough leeway to strip away as much fabric as needed.  Pink silk sliding through his collar. The top four buttons undone. Underneath, parted flesh echoed the parted flaps of the button down.

Panting, the Marquis chuckled weakly. “Guess I’m right. I got to you.”

“Fuck. Off.”

“How bad is it?”

John had already steadied himself and started inspecting the wound. “Could be worse. Came in at a glancing angle – only tore muscle on the left side. Then it hit your sternum.”

“Je suis à nouveau épargné [I am spared again],” he breathed, with a little dimpled smile.

“Not yet. I need to pull it out.”

“Without anesthetic!? You have to be joking.”

“I don’t have anesthetics in this house. I’ve done this dozens of times. They aren’t necessary.”

“That’s different. You’re a barbarian.”

“And you’re too chicken?”

Vincent tilted up his chin importantly. “Fine. I’m ready.”

“No, you’re not. Bite down, I don’t want a noise complaint.” The discarded tie had found a new use already.

Vincent grimaced at the metallic taste of his own blood on the silk and spat it back at him. “We’d have no concerns over a noise complaint if you weren’t allowed to run rampant and uncivilized. I had forgotten how intolerable the common assassin can be. At least my Myrmidons  - ”

John shoved it back in his mouth, and tied it behind his head this time. Without hesitation, he dove tweezers into the wound and Vincent’s muffled screaming filled the room, making the air heady and vivid.

It was over in a second, but then there was the antiseptic, and the stitching took much longer.

It was all one long, meditative moment for John. He was unexpectedly flooded with adrenaline and had to force himself not to rush. There was the rage, but then there was something else, such a desire to make this quick, to offer some kind of mercy. He kept seeing Vincent’s too-wide, horrified eyes the fraction-of-an-instant before he took the shot that pointless, bloody morning in the Basilica Of Sacré Coeur De Montmartre. Neither of them dead, in the end. Just two faked deaths and a few more bad memories. Just a young man, weak, scared of John, scared of failure, driven mad by the constant push towards power, the constant belittling, the constant threat of death from all sides that was life under the High Table.

It was almost over when there was a buzz from Vincent’s coat pocket at the foot of the couch. Shit. The last thing they needed was for Vincent to get even more riled up by bad news.

“Don’t move. You don’t want to look at that right now anyway.”

His eyes were daggers. “The insolence to tell me what I want to do.” He tried to reach for it regardless but failed. “That’s my business phone. Give it to me.”

Sighing, John dove into the pocket and tossed it to him. He caught a glimpse of the screen as it passed: a contract notice. “What does it say?”

“I – nothing. Surely a mistake.” He closed the phone and tossed it aside, feigning indifference.

John picked it up. Contract for Marquis Vincent Bisset de Gramont: $20 Million. Open. International. Special alert to New York. Personal bodyguard already deceased.  “The guy who saw you must have called in a tip to the High Table…I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry? You're an embarrassment.” Vincent gave a breathy, half-hearted laugh and began to list sideways, deathly pale. John caught him and lowered him into a laying position, pulling his legs up over the armrest. He took Vincent’s wrist between two fingers and his thumb.

“What are you…”

“Taking your pulse.” It was absolutely flying, dozens of little taps flickering against his fingertips in the space of a second. The Marquis’ eyes fluttered closed at the sensation, overwhelmed by the awareness of his own blood. But his expression remained frozen, a desperate grasp for some semblance of dignity.

“You’re either in shock or having a panic attack. Probably both.”

“I am not having a panic attack.”

“Fine, then you’re in shock.”

“So fix it.”

“I’m trying. You need to elevate your legs, and you need to calm down.”

“I need to calm down,” he repeated, sarcastic. The little taps accelerated. Not helping. He jerked his hand away, his voice rapidly pitching upward into a kind of hysteria. “I’m going to die. I’m going to die.” That’s true, John thought, if you don’t calm down. “You. This is your fault, for a second time. This is why you are alone, a pathetic widower. You are cursed. Everything you touch dies, John Wick, you are poison. Good for nothing.  Je vais mourir. [I’m going to die.] This is fate. God is against me.”

This time, he didn’t take the bait. The situation was quickly becoming critical. “Vincent. Breathe.”

He was gasping now, between every other word, almost delirious. “Espèce de pion…sans valeur [You worthless pawn]! My name…is The Marquis de Gramont! You will…address me…by my title!”

John muttered a curse under his breath. Think, accommodate this asshole’s massive ego if that’s what it takes. He had destroyed many people, but rarely had someone been so fragile before him, so absolutely in need, and by extension (ironically), so innocent. Looking down at him, he suddenly viewed Vincent as something other than an asshole, something beyond judgement. An animal that lacked concepts like reason or remorse. Just something that suffered, and wanted, and needed, and that he was charged with treating according to its nature. “Marquis de Gramont,” John said calmly but forcefully, and, even though it wasn’t true, “Autem Imperator.” Please don’t pass out, he thought. Please don’t die on me. “Regarde-moi et respire. [Look at me and breathe.]” He pressed a hand into each of his shoulders, physically stopping the shaking. Physical contact, but more dignified than the hug he wished he could offer, hopefully less likely to make Vincent feel pathetic. He let his face go flat and his voice perfectly monotone, neither pitying nor dismissive, but simply a statement of fact. “Tu vas bien. Je ne vais pas te faire de mal. Ce à quoi vous survivez actuellement est extrêmement difficile. Tu te débrouilles bien. Je ne vais pas mentir, je déteste tes tripes, mais tu ne devrais pas être obligé d’être dans cette position. Cela me fait chier aussi. Alors je ne vais pas te laisser mourir. Je veux que tu ailles bien et je ferai en sorte que cela se produise. [You’re okay. I’m not going to hurt you. What you’re surviving right now is extremely difficult. You’re doing well. I won’t lie, I hate your guts, but you shouldn’t have to be in this position. It pisses me off too. So I’m not gonna let you die. I want you to be okay and I will make that happen.]”

He half expected Vincent to spit insults again, but he just stared, unable to respond. It may have been his imagination, but he thought he saw Vincent’s eyes glaze slightly, pinprick pupils finally swelling open. Leaving one hand on his shoulder, John pulled the coat over his body, arranged it into place, and resumed the firm pressure on his shoulders. A human simulation of a weighted blanket. For a moment, he shivered even more violently, adjusting to the heat, and then let out an exhale as the peak of the terror began to subside.

Then those insults began to come. “This is exactly why I hate you. This sickeningly sweet nonsense that you spout. It makes me depressed to look at you. You say this - this fairy tale merde [shit], like you’re noble. But the world doesn’t work that way. It’s an affront to my intelligence. There’s no mercy waiting for you.”

“Maybe not. But there is for you. Even if I have to make sure of it myself.”

“I - “ his voice gave out into a sob and he turned his entire head away, into the cushions.

Heavy, sparkling droplets clinging to eyelashes, half-parted, twisted-up lips pressed into the fabric, the most wrenching sounds… He looked beautiful crying, and that thought did not belong in John’s head. He averted his eyes respectfully, partly so the Marquis would be free to turn back towards him if he wanted, and partly to avoid feeding whatever god-forsaken thing had just reared its head inside him.

They sat that way a long time, in silence, Vincent’s shoulders shuddering under the rock of John’s weight, sobs escaping a torn-open chest.

And as the Marquis’ muscles finally relaxed, John felt something. He felt something for this mess of barely restrained malice and misery pinned underneath him. An urgency, all through his body, his own heart taking flight as Vincent’s came to rest. I want you to be okay and I will make that happen, he had said. That was true.

It was then that John knew he was fucked.

#john wick #john x marquis de gramont #marquis de gramont #john wick fanfic #wickblr #marquis de gramont whumpee #angst #dacryphilia #men crying #emotional whump #hurt/comfort #whump fic #assassin whump #ao3 crosspost #one shot #enemies to lovers

[askjohnwick]

⚜ 𝓑𝓮𝔂𝓸𝓷𝓭 𝓙𝓾𝓭𝓰𝓮𝓶𝓮𝓷𝓽 - 𝒫𝓁𝒶𝓎𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉 ⚜

⋆.˚ ❋ .⭒˚ OOC Post ⋆.˚ ❋.⭒˚

John x Vincent Fic - Masterlist Here

Songs alternate POV between John and Vincent. I'm still adding to this playlist so feel free to send me more songs if you have ideas!

#(ooc post) #john wick playlist #john wick #john x marquis de gramont #marquis de gramont #wickblr #marquis de gramont whumpee #assassin whump #enemies to lovers #churchduel #Spotify

[97keanu]

Premise: Part two of Vanquish: A Keanuverse Story. In this part, reader chooses to embrace one of her destinies, healing the past and becoming whole again. She uses her new found self to save someone who didn't even know he needed saving, but the path there is laid with pain and darkness. She becomes something she never thought she would, and she finds out if evil vampires can really be saved or not...

Tags/CW: DARKfic, horrorfic, vampire!John Wick, blood/violence, soul connections, past lives, reincarnation, ghosts, supernatural AU, witch!neo, slayer!Constantine, love triangle is concluded, blood drinking, virgin!reader, smut, p in v, enemies to lovers, dub/noncon, innocent/crybaby(ish) coded!reader, john is an evil vampire asshole, soon to be cock addicted!reader, semi "stockholm syndrome"!reader, reader who discovers her bad side, reader who gives into lust, hedonistic!reader, doggy, rough, aggressive, primal, oral (f receiving.), so many smutty scenes.

A/N: In this choice, you will have to give up a lot to find love, but is it worth it in the end?

Go back.

"I have always felt as if I were missing something." You say, and Neo looks at you with worry, but nods, listening.

"Neo, I need you to stop the barrier between me and Helen." You can't believe you're saying this, but you know it's what you want.

Neo doesn't say anything for a long time, and you worry he won't do this for you.

"Are you sure that's what you really want?" You can hear the sadness in his voice. "He won't stop hunting you if you do this."

"I know." You say plainly, but bite your lip anxiously. A part of you knows that this isn't the safe decision. But you also know you haven't stopped thinking about that night, the way John's body pinned you to the wall. Temptation continued to knock at your door.

"I just have this feeling about it, and I...I have to do this." You assure yourself, trying to will being right about this.

You're worried he won't understand, but Neo sighs and takes a cigarette from behind his ear, lighting it up and nodding.

"If that's what you really want, I'll do it. But there's no reversing it when it's done." Smoke seeps from his lips as he talks, finally billowing out with a long breath when he's done.

You think for a moment. Do you really want to give up everything to become whole with your past self? Is she even really you, or have you experienced things so differently that you've become two separate beings, still forced together by fate? And if so, why would fate keep cycling you together?

More importantly, you know this is just a way to get close to John in the end. You know he's no good, that there is so little light in him, but you want him all the same. You wonder if those feelings are even yours or Helen's, but in the end, it won't matter.

You decide that there's only one way to find out, and you look back into Neo's warm brown eyes and nod.

"I have to know. I can't go on being in this purgatory between myself and her." Neo says nothing and stands, pouring a cup of black coffee from a dirty little pot in the corner of his room.

"Alright, but it's going to be a long night," he takes a deep sip of the coffee. "And it's likely to hurt."

You take a breath, and calm yourself, readying for anything.

"Let's do it." You affirm, and your hands clench nervously.

˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

Neo moves a dirty, dusty rug from the center of his room. The concrete beneath it has been used for many rituals, stains and etching here and there. He draws in the summoning circle, writing it there with chalk and herbs. He carefully transcribes sigils from his own spellbook, making sure to work carefully, but efficiently.

"I don't think Constantine will take the news well," he calls over his shoulder while he works, and you sit on a rickety little stool he scrounged up.

"I know," you hate thinking about it, so you try to push Constantine from your mind right now. "But he can't make my life choices for me."

And it's true. As much as you owe him for saving your life, and as much as you love him as a friend, maybe even something more at one time, you can't let his wants come before what you feel deep inside your heart.

You know the vampire John Wick is evil, years of grief can do that to anyone, but you also believe that there's a way to get past that. And you can't deny it any longer, the way he's touched you, body, mind and soul, is something you feel you've been waiting your whole life for. You feel the need to at least try, if not, at least maybe with your soul merged with Helen's once and for all, you feel complete for the first time.

You bite the inside of your cheek nervously as Neo continues to finish the first part of the ritual, and you close your eyes for a moment, trying to internally call out to Helen, if that's possible.

Minutes pass and all you hear is your own soft breath, and Neo's quiet muttering and movements on the concrete.

Then, something stirs in your chest, and you hear her.

"Please, save him if you can, I hate to see John suffering from being a man he would despise..."

You nod to yourself, feeling more affirmed in your decision.

You try to focus on calming breaths until Neo is ready for you.

Soon enough, you're sat on the dusty, cold floor of Neo's apartment, lines of chalk and fancy ritual symbols encompassing you. The smell of incense fills your lungs and Neo walks carefully over the chalk to anoit your forehead, eyes, and heart with an oil that tingles when it touches your skin. He finishes by lighting candles that encircle you, and he begins the ritual.

"I want you to focus on the parts of you that are Helen, and I want you to welcome those parts into your own being." he pauses and looks you in the eye with an emotion you cannot place. "You may see things, hear things, feel things that you cannot explain, and it may be painful, but you will work through it. I believe in you."

Somehow, it helps that no matter what, Neo supports your choice and is on your side. You're grateful for his neutrality and assistance.

You let him know you're ready to begin, and Neo starts speaking in a language you're unfamiliar with.

You close your eyes and try to imagine what he said.

You think about your first meeting with John Wick, and how even though you were so fearful, his touch was something your body yearned for. How electric it felt, how those emotions might have been Helen calling out to him, but you're also sure that it was apart of you that desired him as well. You've been so chaste all your life, and you know that you've longed for someone to ignite that kind of passion inside of you.

You welcome that desire, that yearning, that want. And you feel your heart swell, as if there was so much weight inside of you, stirring and trying to get comfortable.

You hear Helen's voice once more.

"Come, I need to show you something."

You follow that voice with your mind and heart, and you feel yourself rising, the cold cement underneath you fading away, and your mind finding a light in the inky black darkness.

You reach out, and when your hand touches the cold metal of a candlestick, your breath hitches. You can feel the object, really feel it in this place. The candle's light flickers as you take it, and hold it close, the warmth from the small flame touching your cold cheeks and neck.

You walk, feeling as if you're walking on nothing at all, until the light begins to cast a hallway before you. It's still ever so dark, but as you move, you notice it becoming more and more solid, the scene becoming extremely real to you.

You hear the voice again.

"This way..."

You follow where you're being let, and a door opens. You see a woman who looks just like you, standing and turning to see you. She looks pleased, walking forward with a confident stride. You open your mouth to speak to her, but she gets closer, walking so close that she walks right through you.

And suddenly you're her, and you see what she walking towards.

John Wick stands in the door way, his eyes dark, no red to be seen. He smiles at you, and opens his arms as you come to embrace him. You can tell by his smile he is still a vampire, but the lust for blood is gone, the grief in his eyes is no longer masked with hate and anger. Instead, he is simply happy, kissing you everywhere he can get his lips on, and you're there in his arms, not frightened, but giggling with glee.

You watch as he turns you and holds you from behind, his mouth on your neck, kissing and sucking softly. He teases you, and you can feel the shivers of delight he gives with each kiss.

And suddenly, you understand why Helen has wanted to come back to this, these moments with John. You feel a small wave of doubt on if that's even possible, but you know you have to try.

You feel as if a breath of life has been blown into you, and when you close your eyes and lean into John, you know you've also leaned into Helen, and as you realize that your heart swells. It feels as if your chest may even burst from how much is being taken up in such a small space, but slowly the pain dulls, and you find yourself fading back into the darkness.

You open your eyes and see Neo standing over you, his eyebrows drawn in concern. You blink, letting the world come back into focus, and when you do, you notice how everything looks brighter, more vibrant.

You wonder how different things will be now that you look through your own and Helen's eyes, in unison now.

"You made it," Neo says, then looks around your form. "Your aura's evened out, but into a new color entirely. Do you feel any different?"

You stare up at him, not sure what to say, the whole world feeling much too big and large for you now.

"I..." You start, then swallow the lump in your throat as reality sets in. "I feel...complete."

A few tears fall down the creases in the corners of your eyes, wetting your hair along the way. Neo gives a soft smile, then offers a hand, letting you sit up.

You can sense him now. John is out there, and he knows what's happened. It's only a matter of time before he comes to claim you.

˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

You decide to come to him. You part ways with Neo and go out into the darkness of the night. You leave the city, Neo's apartment close to a wooded area nearby. You don't want to be interrupted this time.

You know this is dangerous. That John is not that warm and loving man that Helen showed you in her vision to you. You know that man, if he still exists, must be hidden deep. You can no longer deny the pull to him, however, and your feet keep going forward no matter what fears stir in your belly.

You walk, crunching over orange leaves and fallen twigs. The full moon illuminates your path and you feel as if your skin is ignited, sensations you wouldn't have thought possible are being made clear to you. When a critter scurries away, or an owl flaps it's great wings above you, you almost know before the creatures even know their own next moves. That's why, when John steps out of the shadows behind you, you already know he's there.

"I've seen it." You speak to him without turning. "I've seen the man you used to be."

You hear nothing for a few moments, and your breath softly hangs in the cold October air.

"You have no idea if that man still exists inside me," he finally speaks, his voice deep and controlled. "And yet, my little slayer, I find you offering yourself to me so easily."

"Helen showed me, told me of the love that still burns in your heart for her." You didn't hear him move, but John is standing directly behind you now.

"So now you know," his breath moves the hair on the back of your head. "That I am intrigued by you for that sole purpose. Do you not worry I shall use you as a vessel to get to my true love?"

"No," you know it doesn't matter now that your souls are joined. The truth is, you've always been Helen, and that is a fate you could never escape.

"So you've joined your past then..." He thinks for a moment, a clawed hand slowly running itself up your arm, ever so lightly touching it.

"Does it not bother you that she was a vampire, slayer?" He tilts his head with curiosity while softly running his hand up your shoulder to your neck, gently feeling the pulse there.

"It's a part of me. I cannot deny the past or the parts of myself I do not like. It's what makes me whole..." You know it to be true, and you look up, blinking at the bright moon that watches the scene of hunter and hunted below it. You wonder which one the moon thinks you are.

"I have been waiting for you for a very, very long time." John's voice is soft now, surprisingly full of an ache you couldn't understand. You can sense how badly he wants you, he needs you, what he doesn't want to admit.

"And now here I am," you say, your voice quivering for a moment as you walk into such a different path of life. "Asking you to give me your heart once more."

The vampire laughs softly, his hand moving from your neck to play with a loose strand of your hair.

"You ask so much of me." he pauses for a moment, then whispers out. "And would you still give yourself to me knowing that I may never change my wicked ways?"

"I know the real John is in there. Not the killer you've become."

"You sound so sure of yourself. I do not wish to set you up for failure, slayer. Even though my fangs throb and my throat dries from how badly I want you so." He can't deny his bloodlust for you, and a shiver runs down your spine as he speaks, moving aside your hair and whispering this into your neck.

"You believe I should fear you, John Wick?" You feel a confidence building in your stomach despite how frightened you truly do feel.

"Oh," John laughs as he gently scraps his teeth on your delicate skin. "You should be terrified, my dear..."

He wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you in suddenly. You cry out as he sinks his teeth into your flesh, and his hand moves to clutch your throat as he tastes you. You stand there, shaking in his grip, like a fearful deer in the wolf's mouth. Too startled and so quickly dominated by John to run, to fight back. The pain from his bite quickly turns to pleasure, building in your breast and following all the way down to between your thighs. You shudder from his touch, his mouth moving perfectly to carefully and slowly drink every drop of you he can. He's been waiting for this for so long, he couldn't have stopped himself if he wanted to, when you so freely trusted him and presented yourself to him.

A moan escapes your lips, and suddenly his free hand is groping your breast, feeling how tender the flesh is there and sending waves of pleasure through your body. His other hand grips your hip, pulling you into him and grinding your ass against his hardening cock. You have saved yourself for so long, but never knew you were saving yourself to be taken by such a predator. You hear John's soft growls as he bites you deeper now, taking more of your blood than he originally planned. You're just so sweet, so delicious, and fear mixes with your pleasure as you wonder if he will ever stop, or if he will drain you right here for being such a stupid little whore for him.

You reach up, your hands tangling in his mess of long, dark hair, and you can't help but need him in deeper, drinking you in just the right way that it sends waves of pleasure through your body. John growls become more animalistic, the need and the want overwhelming him. With the pleasure you're feeling, you find your mind foggy and dazed, the thought of letting John kill you somehow turning you on even though you know that's not what you should want.

You find yourself grinding your own hips into him, your legs parting, and John's hand on your hip slipping down, between your legs, beneath your skirt, and grabbing a handful of your wet pussy roughly. He grips your panties, pulling them up harshly so they slip in between your tender lips, finding the perfect spot to grind against your sensitive clit. He works you like that, fucking you with your own panties, and drinking deeper still until you think you may slip into the darkness of pleasure that coaxes you so sweetly. And you let him, a little lamb to the slaughter, looking up at him with big wet doe eyes that ask to be killed so gently.

Just as you think you've truly made a mistake, fear coiling in your stomach and making the pleasure you feel heightened to a degree you don't think you can handle, John pulls his fangs from your neck. He laps the wound there, and it slowly heals, but he's not done with you.

"You've made the mistake of trusting a monster." His voice is full of cruelness and lust. "And now I shall show you what happens when you do."

Your head is so light from the loss of blood, and you can barely fight back, your body so weak. Without warning he flings you into the ground of the forest, leaves and twigs scrapping your hands and knees. Your body falls without a fight, so easily manipulated at this point. You can hardly think of the reality of the consequences you've yet to face from doing such a thing.

John is at your hips once more, grabbing your ass and positioning so perfectly face down ass up. You look back at him, eyes glossy and dazed, tears you have no control of overflowing and dropping onto the dirty ground. Your cheek lays against the earth, dirt beginning to sully your perfect little face.

"It's so sweet you thought you could fix me." He laughs as he rips your underwear, the sound echoing into the quiet night.

Your bare ass faces him, the cold air teasing your extremely hot and wet cunt. He slaps your ass with a satisfying noise, grabbing it and digging his claws in just enough to hurt.

"You're going to regret giving yourself up to me so easily." His cock is now free from his pants, and he spits on your pussy, rubbing it in and mixing it with your already budding wetness, using the tip of his large cock to do so.

He pauses and watches you as you look up at him so innocently, lip quivering, tears falling, too dazed from blood loss to fight him. And then, just when you think he won't go through with it, he plunges all of his long, girthy cock into you in one harsh blow. You've never been fucked before, so the pain reels in your mind and you cry out, hands gripping the earth. For a moment, you try to crawl away from his cock, using most the energy you have left to do so. John laughs, reaching forward with one hand to grab your hips and thrust himself back deeper inside of you, using the other to grab a handful of your hair, pulling you from the earth painfully. Leaves fall off your cheek where they stuck, and you can only look up at the stars and the crimson eyes of the man who's taking everything from you.

"After this, you will no longer be able to deny me. You will no longer be able to go back to being an innocent little slayer." he thrusts into you once more, your mouth opening for a silent scream as you are filled up more and more by his cock, beyond what you ever thought you could take.

"You will be my pretty little whore, a slave to my cock, and a slut that loves to let me drain her." The worst part was, you knew it was true.

Even now, barely able to keep your eyes open from being drunken so deeply, you craved the pleasure those fangs gave you. You hate how your body betrays you, the way it feels so good to be dominated and fucked by John right now. Your legs quiver and shake on the dirty ground from how badly you want to cum. If only your sensitive little clit had attention right now.

"I want you to say it." John says, looking into your eyes as he fucks you and wrenches your hair. "I want you to say that you're mine, and I might just let you cum."

You bite your lip, trying to focus on the pain there instead of how good John's cock is, not wanting to give in. His free hand slaps your ass once more, taking a few hits out on it and leaving handprints that slowly redden. You hate how good it feels to be so degraded by him, for your body to have the sole purpose of being used up by a much more powerful being such as him. It's twisting your mind, rewriting all the training you had as a slayer and making you the perfect little whore.

Your mouth opens and cries out as John pull you up off the ground further by your hair, til your finger tips can barely touch the earth. He reaches around and grabs a handful of your breast, which he slips his hand under your blouse to do so. He quickly gets to your bare skin there, and plays with your nipple, twisting and pulling just the right way. It drives you mad, and you can barely breath as you're overcome with the sensation of that and John thrusting deeper and deeper inside of you.

"Give it up, slayer...You know how badly you crave this. Just admit you're my little toy from here on out and I'll be nice for once." His voice is now in your head, wrapping and twisting around in there, your ability to fight back dwindling more and more.

You can feel John's cock begin to swell, wanting so badly to finish you off. You grit your teeth and try to ignore how badly you want this, and how desperate you are to cum under any circumstance.

"You should decide quick, or else I'm going to use your sweet little cunt as my cumdump and be done with you." John growls, twisting your nipple so hard you cry out into the night.

"I-I'm...!" You try to fight it, try to not let him win, but your body aches, and you need this release so badly.

"You'll have to do better than that, my little pet." He snarls and thrusts in harder and deeper a few times just to break you down further.

"I'm..." Your mouth can barely whisper it out, and your eyes flutter, so tired and wanting to shut. "I'm yours..."

John grins and his hand snakes between your legs, finding your clit and stroking everywhere but it.

"That's it. Tell me what you are to me." He commands, teasing your clit. You feel shivers run along your body and you twitch, trying to move so his fingers will brush over your clit properly.

"I'm, I'm..." Your mind is blank, mouth moving and saying whatever it can form. "I'm your little whore..."

He flicks his fingers over your clit, and you jump from the attention, but moan out from how good it feels. Then you whine when he stops.

"And what else?" You hate how he teases you, and whine harder like the little brat you are when you don't get your way.

"I'm your slut..." You barely know what you're saying at this point, you know anything will come out of your mouth right now if it means you get to cum.

"Yes, good girl..." He whispers into your ear, rubbing your clit properly once more, a bit longer now, then stopping again.

"P-please!" You whimper out, your breath coming so hard and quick now as you get closer, but are denied once more.

"Keep going, tell me how beneath me you are." You feel humiliated from how easy it is now for him to take you and make you do whatever he says. You truly are but a puppet in his hands now.

"I'm your dirty little slut...your bitch..." You blink, trying to cum up with more, but every time you say one, he plays with your sweet spot, then denies you when you stop, making it so hard to think.

"Keep going."

"I'm your cumdumpster...a hole to fuck...your pretty little blood doll to drain when you get thirsty." you have no idea where all this is coming from, but you'll say anything right now as long as John keeps his cock pounding you and his hand sending waves of pleasure through your body while he pets your cunt.

"I'm a mindless little slut for your cock and I had no idea that's what I was meant for before you fucked me into submission..." You whisper out, feeling completely degraded and knowing John's working on those emotions in your mind to help make such horrible words come out of your mouth.

"That's right. And now, I'm going to claim you as mine and keep you forever until I get tired of you." Your body shudders from the thought of being so entrapped by this monster, being so completely used up and broken by such an enemy, and so easily tricked into doing so.

You feel your clit aching from the teasing touches, and your cunt is starting to get sore from how it's being used. You feel John pull you up so he can get to your neck, your back against his torso, his hard abs cool against your hot skin. He uses his hands to keep you steady, his cock still finding a way to keep you stimulated, and his hand working on your clit. He waits til you're shaking, legs ready to give out, and cunt clenching so hard and tight around his cock you think you might break. Then, just as you're spilling over the edge, those waves of sweet pleasure starting in your legs and moving out, he sinks his fangs into you once more.

Your pleasure is mixed with the pain of being bitten again, then quickly moves to heighten your cum. John's cock can handle it no more, finally, spilling his cum so deeply inside of you, throbbing and in need of making sure every last drop gets inside. You feel yourself continuing to cum, much longer than you ever could have thought possible, and darkness beginning to take you as well. You fade into an abyss filled with pleasure and nothingness, and for the first time in your life you feel bliss from being so perfectly taken.

˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

You awake on deep burgandy sheets of silk, twisted up in your legs. You kick out, the silk slippery and expensive feeling, and your foggy mind tries to make sense of what you're seeing around you. You blink, and try to use your hands to rub your eyes and make the scene make sense. It takes a moment, but you begin to see in the dimly lit room.

It's opulent, dark red and deep browns filling your vision. It's a room that looks older, but the items inside are still so prestine despite looking Victorian or earlier. You look about the bed, it's huge, and you feel as if you're on a boat in the middle of the sea. You look up and see the bed posts extend upward, red velvet curtains adorning it and creating a little enclave.

You peek from the bed to see more of the room, body moving slowly, stiff and sore. You realize as you move, someone has dressed you in a light, white and airy, nightgown. As you look from your body back to the room, one of the doors to the room opens.

John walks in, a golden tray in his hand, covered. He says nothing, but he is extremely dominant just from how he walks up to you.

He sees you recoil from him slightly, and your blood starts to pound a bit faster now. His face is stoic and let's no emotions come through.

"Here." He says, not exactly gently.

He sets the tray on the bedside table, and waits for you to move first.

Your mind is hazy, but you remember much of what happened between the two of you. You feel more naked now than when he was fucking you relentlessly. More shy, afraid of being so normal in front of him.

He watches you, a hand gesturing to the tray slightly, waiting for you. You move slowly, not taking your eyes off of him, unsure of if this is a game or a test. You slowly grab the cold metal of the cover of the tray, and pull it off with measured movements.

You glance away from him finally, to see what he's brought you.

On the tray, a delicious looking breakfast. All of your favorite foods of this meal are present on a few different sized plates, complete with a steaming hot cup of tea. You look back up at him, and your eyes narrow for a second, wondering how he would know to make such a perfect breakfast for you.

"It was her favorite too." He says simply, the slowly, as if waiting for you to say now, sits on the bed.

The bed has more than enough room, so you sit near the edge and by the table, and he at the end of your feet. He watches what you will do next.

Despite yourself, your stomach growls from the smell of the wonderful meal, and you can't take it any longer.

You begin to eat, slowly, and to your surprise once more, it tastes as amazing as it looks. You didn't know a vampire could cook so well, but you're not questioning it now.

John watches you with curiosity, and soon you get so into your meal, you forget that you should be afraid of the man at the end of the bed. You pause halfway through, your stomach getting fuller faster than you would have thought. You softly move, positioning yourself so you can look directly at John and drink your tea.

This time, you wait for him to make the first move.

"I'm sure you have a lot of questions..." He finally says, and you look at him, not giving anything away either.

The truth was, somehow, you had less questions than you thought. You know what's happened, and you feel less like two entities in one body every passing second. In fact, now you feel as if you've moved into a singular being, and with Helen's knowledge of John lingering in the back of your mind, you know how he will treat you here.

"Or maybe not..." He says with a smirk, clearly reading your mind so easily.

"I still think you're in there, the real John." You take a sip of tea, and you know the hope has not been taken from you entirely.

"Oh really?" John says with a smirk, clearly intrigued. "After what I've done to you, you still think there could be good inside of me?"

You laugh, and John looks genuinely taken back, for only an instant.

"Oh yes," you are now the one smirking. "Just because you're a good fuck, doesn't mean you can't be a good man either."

Your voice is a tad cocky, coyly acting as if the events of him taking you that night were actually your idea. And for a moment, you think that maybe it was...

"I'm hardly a man, you know that, slayer." He says and this time he laughs.

"And I'm hardly a slayer, anymore." You raise your eyebrows and take another sip of the spiced and sweet tea.

John nods, saying nothing, obviously thinking over what you've said. You wonder if you truly could stump the feared John Wick with such ease.

John stands, and walks to the second door in the room. He opens it, and from your view on the bed, you get a peek into a bright white and gold accented bathroom, much larger than any you've seen before.

"The bathrooms here, if you need it." John walks back over to you, leaving the bathroom door open.

He gathers the tray, but leaves you with your tea.

"If you need me, call out. I will hear you."

And with that, he walks out the door he came in, and you hear the particular sound of a lock being engaged. You think on what he said, the implication being not only will he hear you if you call for him, but hear anything else as well. You understand that despite the more kind aspect of feeding you today, and giving you such a gilded cage to stay in, you are still his prisoner.

You decide to get out of bed, your long nightgown flowing with your movements, and your bare feet pad across dark wooden floors. You look into the bathroom closer now, and see all the grandeur of it. The room is large, with a huge marbled bathtub in one corner, big enough to fit 5 or more with comfortably. The side closest to the door holds a sink and counter, behind them a long and tall mirror that makes the room seem even bigger. Across from the sink is a vanity area.

You walk over and inspect it, seeing it is complete with any make up item you may want, of course namebrand only. You spy a few perfumes as well on a tiny golden tray, and you test them. You surely will not like all of the scents, but to your surprise, it's the each smells you'd love to wear most. He really has thought much of this out.

You decide to undress, and as you do, you see your body in the mirror. Bruises on your knees and arms are deep purple, your ass still spotting some red marks and violet as well. Your muscles are sore as you take the dress off and all it combined reminds you of what happened before you came here.

You aren't really sure how to feel about it. You know, if you detailed what happened to any of your friends, or god forbid Constantine, they would immediately think the worst has happened. But somehow, despite the social pressure to deny how much you liked it, you know that when you walked into that forest, in search of John Wick, it was a possibility that he would fuck you so savagely. And the deeper part of you had hoped for it to happen. You look away from the remnants of his touch on your body, and move towards the bathtub.

You sit on the edge while the tub fills with steamy water, looking at the stained glass windows across from the tub. Moonlight pours through them, leaving a red stain across the room from the depictions of roses and such within the glass.

You finally are able to sink deeply into the tub, and you're able to float on your back in there, simply letting your mind and body rest in the heat of the water that envelopes you.

You wonder what happens now.

You've set out to heal your soul bond to Helen, which you've done. But now, a different bond tugs on your heartstrings.

You know that the reason you've come here, given yourself up to John, is because he is connected to you in ways you can't begin to untangle. Not now, after you've chosen to go down this path.

You can tell he wants to use you, in whatever evil way he desires, but you wonder if it could be called 'being used' when the pit in your stomach yearns so deeply for it.

You know you were raised to be a slayer. That it runs in your blood to kill monsters, like John especially. But you never really felt like that was meant for you. You were never as good at it as Constantine. You always lacked something and never even progressed past killing low level monsters. How were you supposed to ever be a great slayer when the odds were so stacked against you?

You sigh, the steam rising from the tub and the mirrors of the bathroom fogging over. You sit up, and reach for expensive looking soaps and haircare on the side of the tub, and begin to gently wash up.

The act of taking care of yourself in such a way soothes you, and you love the scents that have been chosen for you. In a weird way, this is much more calming than any of your years as a slayer. You wonder what else is in store for you, if there's something that will make you regret this so greatly, but apart of you is ready to face anything if you can see the one your heart hungers for on the other side.

You wonder if this is how hedonists feel. Giving into lust, yearning, want, and letting yourself have whatever it is that your body desires, uncaring for if that choice is bad for you.

You wash your body in thought, and as you do, you begin thinking of John's cock again. Maybe that was all it took. Being held down and fucked like an animal, and now you feel so empty without him inside of you. That's what he said right? That you would be a slave to his cock?

You let your hands wander your body in the bath, and you softly touch yourself. Small moans escape your mouth as you keep going, echoing in the large bathroom. You think of John fucking you again, and soon enough you're body is hot with desire. And by the sounds of footsteps entering the bathroom, yours isn't the only one.

You don't need to stop, or move, to know who it is. With your connection strengthening, you know John has stepped into the room. You were hoping what when he said he could hear anything, he would hear you in here touching yourself.

You've become such a naughty girl since you let go.

John approaches the tub, and right now, your back is to him. You have no idea if he came in this way, or quickly undressed, but soon enough, he is entering the warm water with you. He swims carefully behind you, and his hands, still cold, softly caress your back.

You shiver and turn to him, seeing him now, fully naked and immersed in the water as you are.

"Couldn't even finish your bath?" He teases you, voice so soft.

"Mhm..." You simply respond, and now that you're both so exposed to each other, you come in closer.

"You're so easily tamed. Don't you feel like such a whore for giving into me like that?" He chides and smirks, and all you can do is laugh.

If only he knew that you do feel like a whore, but it's not because of how badly you crave his cock. It's something you're slowly starting to choose, and each time you give into such a desire, the more freedom you really feel.

You reach for him, and feel his chest, slowly warming in the hot water. You let your hands run down it, and to your surprise, John let's you do as you please. He watches you with intrigue, and you remember how many more years of experience he has over you. You wonder if there's anything you could do to surprise him.

"You already have." He says, reading your mind once again.

"It's not fair you have access to all of my thoughts, and I have none of yours." You pout, and keep letting your hands explore his body more, slowly.

"You need but ask, Сладкая..." He speaks something in his foreign tongue and through your connection you don't have to ask to know it's for endearment.

"Why do you think you can't be saved?" You ask, and are worried to look into John's eyes.

A long moment passes, and finally you do. John looks down at you from where he's relaxed against the side of the bath, and seems to be thinking.

"I don't think someone who's killed as much as I have, taken as many lives as I do, has much to be saved left." He says this, and you can tell it's sincere.

You nod, listening, and you don't know what to say. It's true. You know after Helen died, he became the assassin he is, killing vampires, humans, and other supernaturals alike. In a way, you think, he's more of a slayer than you are.

"You're probably right." He laughs, and you blush as you realize once more he's overheard.

"If you don't like doing it, you could quit being an assassin." You say softly, running a hand upward and letting it play with the ends of his hair, still not wet from the tub yet.

"It's the only think I could do. After I lost you the first time, I couldn't do anything to make myself feel. Killing changed that." You're surprised he's confiding in you so.

"It won't change much, telling you how I feel. Knowing my feelings doesn't absolve me from the wickedness in my heart." He says, looking deep into your eyes, his now a red so dark you can scarcely tell it's true color.

"I will want you again. And I will take you however and how much I like." He says this extremely plainly, as if there's no other way. "I will not kill you, but you are mine now."

He looks at you for response, and you show him nothing.

"Do you really think a man who will use you for your body and blood, who cannot give you anything in return from a heart so shrivelled as mine is, is the correct choice?" You sense how much he believes this to be true.

You place a hand over where his heart should be. You feel only the faintest and dullest of beats.

"Perhaps, with enough of my blood beating in there, you will feel the love I still have for you, after all these years of waiting." When you speak like this, you know it's more of Helen coming out of you, but you can see from how you use such words, John's eyes seem to soften ever so slightly.

"That is a kind thing to wish for..." He takes your hand in his, and pulls you to him. He kisses your hand, and you let it open like a flower for him.

He kisses your palm, still wet from the bath, and he kisses further, reaching your beating wrist. His eyes flash up to you, the red brightening as his hunger shows.

"You let such a monster as me have free reign over you?" He whispers into your wrist, breath tickling you there. "Oh what a silly little slayer you are..."

"I'm not sure if I was ever cut out to be a slayer..." You can't believe you're saying it out loud, but it's true. You always felt you had to be, that it was what was destined for you, but it never fulfilled you the way it did others.

"Ah, so you've come to use me for your rebellious phase then...?" He jokes and laughs into your wrist before gently nipping at it with his teeth.

"You could say that..." You joke back, but in reality, your breath is caught as you imagine his fangs sinking into you there.

Your thighs squish together in the water as you try to hide your want to feel the pleasure that those teeth bring.

"Don't think I forgot what brought me in here..." John teases you, and you bite your lip as you try not to whine for him. The temptation grows.

"I know how badly you must want me to drink of you again..." John swallows, obviously hungry himself. "But I cannot, you haven't fully recovered from last time."

You can't help it, the whine escapes your lips as he says this and then licks against your pulse, pulling you into his lap as he does so.

"Would an evil vampire care so much for letting me recover?" You whisper out, confronting him despite yourself.

"One that wants to use every last drop of their blood doll does..." He chuckles and let's his teeth run up your arm, until he finds your neck, moving wet hair out of the way.

He kisses there, at that perfect spot on your neck until your moans are filling the room. He let's his hands steady you, and take your body in, exploring every curve, your waist, your back, your breasts.

Oh, how you wish he would touch between your thighs, though...

He smirks and looks you in the eyes.

"Should I be nice for once and let you have what you want?" You don't know if he's serious or not, but from the flash in his eyes you suspect something devious.

He turns, lifting you up and setting you onto the edge of the bathtub with ease. There's more than enough room for you to sit, and John looks up hungrily from between your legs.

He takes in the sight of your body and grins.

"Tonight, I shall taste of you in a different manner..."

He pulls you to the edge and opens your legs without asking, you cry out from how aggressive he is. You can see that primal look in his eyes once again, and you know there's no stopping him now. You also know, you wouldn't allow him to stop anyways. Your breath catches as his head dips between your legs, breath on your most sensitive area already, and before he can ease you into it, he's lapping at your wet cunt.

You squirm and his hands dig into your thighs, pulling you in and capturing you there. You feel caught in the wolf's mouth, not daring to move lest he bite down too hard.

You feel your pleasure ramping up as his tongue continues to tease you, alternating between too much stimulation then not enough, John waiting for you to whine before he gives you more.

Your hands move to tangle in his hair and he grabs them, moving them back. He's not letting you have even an ounce of power right now.

You begin moaning more and more as he focuses his mouth directly on your clit, sucking until you think you'll go mad.

"Say my name." He commands, and you try to think straight as he goes back to licking.

"J-john..." You whisper out, and he grabs your thighs harder, growling.

"Louder."

You bite back giving him what he wants and instead hold your breath as you try to edge yourself closer to the edge.

"Not until I hear you scream my name." John looks up at you with those red eyes, no longer stimulating you, waiting.

Fuck. He's got you right where he wants you, once again.

He laps slowly, teasing his tongue through your folds but not giving enough for you to finish, just enough to prolong your need.

"Fuck..." You whisper out, trying to buck your hips into his mouth, but he holds you down with his steel grip.

You can't take it anymore, your breathing is ragged and sharp, and your body needs release.

"John..." You whisper once more, looking down and seeing that same glare as before, knowing you aren't nearly loud enough.

"God, John!" You moan out again this time getting louder, and every time after building.

He lets you scream his name until he's satisfied, finally flicking his tongue perfectly, sucking and licking just right until you're shaking. He let's you twitch into him, your need to grind against his face given freely as long as you keep his name perched on your lips.

You finish, and he slows down his tongue in time with your breath, easing you down from your high.

He smirks at you once more from between your thighs and pulls you back down into the steamy water.

He says nothing, but slowly runs his hands on your silky, slick body. You feel content in his soft touches, and for a moment you think you might even fall asleep as he does so. He leans you back into the water, wetting your hair then applying shampoo, the smell sweet and lovely. He washes your hair with precise fingers, the feeling on your scalp sending tingles down your back. You look up to keep soap from getting in your eyes, and glance at him. He seems as relaxed as you right now.

"Why are you being so kind to me now?" You shouldn't ruin the moment by asking, but you have to.

"Just because I am capable of good doesn't mean that I am good." He whispers back. "Besides, I like to take care of my things..."

You let him finish washing you, then he helps you from the steamy bathwater, offer a hand as you step out. He hands you a fluffy white bath towel, and a smaller one for your hair. You've never felt so cared for, even though the man doing so is supposed to be such a monster. You know he's wrong. He can't hide how much he cares for you for long.

He gets you a new nightgown and helps you back to bed, your body still overly tired and weak. Another set of tea is already out and prepared, you wonder by whom, but you don't care.

You drink the liquids left out for you with fervor, your body thirsty after sweating in the steam of the bath. John walks over to a fireplace in the room, and begins to light it, toying with the flaming wood until its to his liking.

"You don't have to worry here, you know..." He says softly, still looking at the fire.

"No?" You reply.

"No...I will have your every need taken care of, but I have conditions."

"Which are?" You look at his back, his eyes still glued to the flame.

"You may not leave here. I will not allow you to see your friends. And your body is for me to consume as much or as little as I like." He says the conditions so plainly, and you wonder if you'll be able to adhere.

You say nothing and he stands, turning to leave not looking at you.

He pauses at the door, only half moving his head in your direction.

"Goodnight." He whispers, then closes the door and locks it once more.

You crawl under the covers, and the warmth from the fire keeps the cold at bay. You wonder where your life with John will lead.

˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

You lay there, head full of dreams that whisk away reality, softly breathing. The balcony doors to the room shutter against the cold of the wind. November is near now, and the weather has started to dip into a frosty tendency. You are grateful for the warmth of the room as the wind continues its wickedness outside. You sleep somewhat peacefully despite your situation.

That is, until the knocks came.

You thought perhaps a branch or some other bit of nature had summoned itself against the glass, but the intensity of the knocking grew louder. Your eyelids flutter open and you blink away sleep, trying to see what it is that has disturbed you.

A shadow cast across the room, a long, dark shadow that is human in form. You feel fear slide down your spine as you quickly look at the window to see the source, and your heart sinks.

It's him.

Constantine.

You fling yourself from the bed at once, feet slapping against the cold wooden floor. When you come to the glass doors of the balcony, you pause, wondering if you should really open it. You glance up at Constantine's face, and the love you once held for him is still a dull ache in your heart.

You open the doors.

He immediately embraces you, his warmth shining through despite the cold.

"You have no idea how long I've been looking for you..." He whispers into your hair.

You've never seen him so tender.

Your absence must have been harder on him than you thought it would be. You had only known him barely a year before you met John, but there was an undeniable bond between you two. There still is.

You pull yourself away from him.

"What are you doing here?" Is all you can say, and Constantine's face drops.

"I'm here to rescue you? What the fuck do you think I'm here for?" The gruffness and mean tone of voice you're used to is back.

"I never said I needed to be rescued." You fold your arms across your chest, stopping some of the billowing of your nightgown in the wind that blows in from the open doors.

"Why else would you be here with a vampire? I don't believe that you have come here on your own accord, you're a slayer, we don't do that..." He says this slowly, watching your reaction, looking at you as if you were a foreign object he must inspect.

"I..." You begin to speak, then close your mouth, unsure of what to say.

"Don't tell me you actually decided to come here on your own..." Something inside his words, beyond the cruel exterior, was almost pleading you to say no.

You say nothing.

Before Constantine can open his mouth to speak once more, the doors to your bedchamber open with sleek vigor.

John stands there, staring Constantine down.

Before you can stop them, they're already at each other, Constantine going to grab a stake off of his back, and John going for his throat.

"Stop!" You call out, and you realize you cannot bear to lose either of them. Your heart beats wildly and you try to think of a way to end this.

To your surprise, Constantine is able to get John pinned, his stake aimed and John's hand holding his arm to stop him from drilling it into his heart.

"Please! Don't!" You scream out, and Constantine looks at you.

"Tell me you want me to go and I will." He says, grunting with effort to keep the upper hand while distracted.

"Tell me you choose him and I will never bother you again." His voice caught, rough and pleading with you.

You have no idea how you're supposed to choose so suddenly. You open your mouth but cannot muster words to come out.

"Fine." Constantine says and soon allows John to break free from him.

As John goes in for the kill, Constantine jumps from the balcony, giving you one final look, that you know means you won't see the last of him.

You rush to the edge of the balcony, to see where he's gone.

When you check the ground, so far down you don't think you could ever make such a jump, he's already gone. The only evidence being boot prints in the wet grass and the anger on John's face.

"John...I--" before you can speak grabs you and flings you into the bedroom.

He shuts and now locks the balcony door, your one salvation to the outside world these past few weeks.

He glares at you, his red eyes full of emotions you don't think you could ever feel so intensely. His eyes lock with yours, and you can see the pain there hidden behind a sardonic grin.

"Seems you're still tethered to the past, my dear. I think it's time you make a choice."

With that, he leaves you there, tears welling up in your eyes as your heart hurts from both of them.

The door to your bedchamber clicks and you're all alone once more...

˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

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[zutraeumen]

Hawthorne Island

Adele watched as the man slowly, painfully descended the staircase, his pearly white dress shirt stained with spots of crimson red. The tie dangled under his head like a noose without the black lounge jacket, his movements sluggish, so unlike him, when he lowered himself onto the steps, breath short and arms shaking from the efforts.

She had known John Wick for a long, long time. Longer than he probably remembered from their childhood in Padhorje in 1974. 

But never had she seen him this done with life.

Perhaps back when Helen died, but then again, there was still something that kept the man above the water.

"When Helen died, I lost everything. Until that dog arrived on my doorstep. A final gift from my wife. In that moment, I received some semblance of hope. An opportunity to grieve unalone."  

He had once confessed to her in a moment of vulnerability - rare as they had been. It was at that moment she knew he didn't see her as a threat, and that had been enough for her. 

Trust among hitmen wasn't easy to come by, loyal friends were an unheard commodity, but she had hoped that he would come to see her that way one day.

There was much Jardani wasn't aware of, and she made sure to keep it that way even when they'd finally breached the mistrust. The last thing Adele wanted for him was to feel indebted to her, John had already been in enough of a pinch owing a blood marker to Santino D'Antonio.

If there was one thing Adele most regretted about her involvement with John Wick, it was that she couldn't prevent him from seeking help from that treacherous snake D'Antonio. His spineless treatment of John after he had paid his debt forced her out of the large shadow he had cast. With a $7,000,000 bounty on his head, even if he was the man you would send to kill the boogeyman, he needed help.  

After being branded Excommunicado, he told her to leave his side, he wouldn't doom another to treason.

"Krovavaya Meri sleduyet za Baboy Yagoy v izgnaniye." 

She had told him in Russian, she could still remember the way his eyes grew large as dinner plates. It might have been the first she had completely taken him by surprise. Nevertheless, being the man that he was, that is, a man of action and few words, he took it exactly as she said it and delved no further. Accepting her help.

They ran. They fought. They bled. They killed. 

Adele Cole and John Wick. 

Bloody Mary and Baba Yaga.

Two of the most renowned assassins in the field - excommunicado.

A grand tale in the making...

But like any tale, even this was nearing its end. And so it seemed like his journey would come to a close in Sacré-Coeur. 

A church of all places! 

If there was such a thing as a God, she imagined he would have a good laugh about it.

Adele would have had one, if her heart wasn't so occupied with hurting for her friend. Tears had evaded her for a long time but now they returned with vengeance as they trickled down her dirtied cheeks, already mourning what was to come.

Exhaustion gripped him greatly and it showed in the way he didn't even realize that Adele was making her way towards him. John showed no recognition of her presence even when she sat down right next to him and it sent another pang through her heart.

Adele did not speak to him, even when her mouth forcefully jugged down the words that tried to escape her.

Adele did nothing but sit in utter silence, waiting for him to sort himself out. She was already feeling as if she was intruding into his personal space and moment, thereof. But she was selfish too, and despite knowing better, still desired to be a part of it.

Out of the corner of her trained eye, she watched him lift his head up in the direction of the rising sun, and he looked mesmerized. But Adele only ever had her gaze set on him because missing the final moments of his life seemed unacceptable to her.

She would not have him die alone after all they had been through.

"Helen..." she heard him whisper softly, and a tearful smile etched its way onto her empathetic visage. Her humanity, at last, peaking through.

No matter how many cruelties he had enacted, no matter how many lives he had taken - it was all for his wife. To hold her memory intact. John Wick had been clinging to life through killing, but in the end, he learned how to live by dying. 

Killing remained killing, and violence remained violence, no matter how justified, but for the first time in years, John had done something on his own terms. He chose this end on his own. He chose how he wished to be remembered, memorialised by his loved ones, friends, and allies.

A man of honour, of devotion, of love - a loving husband.

"Do you think she will be there?"

The last thing Adele expected of him was to steer his dark orbs to meet hers, eyes drooping in the wake of blood loss as his posture waned and he decided to rest his head on her shoulder, leaning into her as if she were the only thing keeping him from collapsing. 

And indeed she was.

Unblinking in spite of the curtain of greasy, black hair, the woman held his gaze and replied gently, "She will."

There were no lies in her words, Adele had never hoped for something so much than seeing him happy and fulfilled, even if it was in a place she couldn't follow. They deserved to be together. 

He closed his eyes then, breathing growing shallow, and Adele expected no more of him, resolved to one last selfish act; she slowly let a kiss land on his brow - her goodbye to a brother in arms.

"Thank you, Adele, for everything."

Thank you, Jardani, you have saved me in ways you would never know.

The ever-present tension on his face disappeared as he completely slumped over her sitting person, lax as a dying body could be while Adele carefully manoeuvred him to span across her lap for his final rest.

Her tears had dried by then, but threatened their return as she watched over him in relative silence. The usually sharp lines of his face softened, overtaken by such peacefulness she would have wanted to see more often on him. 

She had lost a good friend that day, and the world had lost a good man.

And the Bloody Mary disappeared with him.

A nautical bell. Foghorns. Waves lapped the shore. Seagulls.

The rotund honk of the small boat jolted her back to the present, Adele should know better than to succumb to stray thoughts but she had been in this business long enough to rely on her instincts alone.

The soft wind tickled the untamed bangs of wavy black hair on either side of her face before she put one side behind her ear, only for it to stubbornly fall back. Grunting, Adele would have to visit a barber to thin it out as it began to obscure her vision too much for her taste.

A young couple stood alone on a dock. They were dressed elegantly for a big night out. The young woman stared off, a little bored. Her partner drummed his hand against his leg. His eyes darted around, a little panicked.

"Babe, please don't smoke it will kill your palate," Adele overheard the young man say to his girlfriend, she spied a hint of berating in his voice, but it was small. The girl in question was a pretty thing; slim figure, big eyes, delicate facial features...

"Then my palate will die happy."

A spitfire that one was. She could recognize another woman with balls. It didn't take her too long to realize by listening that those two weren't a common couple. They barely knew each other to have a serious relationship. Adele figured she must be a high-end escort for the brunette man. She had seen many of her sorts in more luxurious establishments than the docks.

A foghorn blew close by, startling the three of them. A small but gorgeously appointed boat pulled into the harbour.

Leaning back against the stone pillar a fair distance from the boarding platform, she watched as a few other guests began to file into the small boat. She couldn't recognize them by face but - was that Aurelio over there?!

Sure enough, the man looked down to the boot like Aurelio, John's acquaintance. Adele only met the man twice, they weren't close but she had a good memory of all the people she met. It took only a second glance to realize that this man wasn't Aurelio at all. Perhaps an estranged twin? It didn't matter.

The other guests on the other hand... 

There was that air of arrogance about them as they strutted about. They intently took up too much space, more than they needed. This misconception of magnified importance in comparison to the other 8 billion people on the planet. 

The elite. Egocentric, narcissistic... 

They made Margot and Tyler stand out like a sore thumb, but at least through his running mouth, she got a vague sense of who she was dealing with. After counting the total amount of eleven guests, her employer being among them, there seemed no one else left to board the ship other than her, so it was time to join them on the deck.

Ravel's 'Une barque sur l'océan' played dreamily in the distance.

The staff greeted them with impeccable attentiveness and professionalism the guests met with shallow smiles to uphold etiquette, dismissing the quality of the service because of their preconceived notion that they were worthy of such. They all shined with smugness and vaunted their privilege of having been personally invited by the ingenious Chef Slowik to come to dine on his island - it excited them, and must have made them feel even more special than they in reality were.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please make yourselves comfortable for our 30-minute journey to Hawthorn."

There wasn't much unoccupied space left for Adele to roam without drawing attention, so she decided to keep her movement abroad the ship slow, to get as much information about the guests and their motives as possible. However, no matter how stealthily she moved it seemed she could not escape the dutiful butlers ready to serve their customers.

They offered her a glass of wine, appearing even redder against the rays of sunshine. The butler had given her a detailed, crisp explanation of the wine and its origin that Adele had already forgotten half of.

She opted to inspect it, there appeared to be no fault in colour and there was nothing she could sniff out. But the small pink flowers gave her pause. For anyone unsuspecting, this could be mistaken as a common flower meant for aesthetic purposes but to assassins, this was one of the most uncommon poisons known.

Nerium oleander.

A small meal was served to get their mouths prepared for the evening, oyster with lemon caviar.

Not something she would consider eating, so, as the waiter turned corners she dumped it into the sea - Sorry, not sorry.

At this point, Adele would take no chances because as she knew all too well, one could never be sure with unidentifiable substances like Thallium or Polonium-210. Arsenic had also been quite popular for some time until it wasn't. The dish had seemed safe to consume but with the wine poisoned, the message was sent. 

Someone didn't want her to make it into the evening. 

The beat in her heart increased slightly at the prospect but that was just her body tuning in for yet another dangerous mission. There was more to it than met the eye, and instead of feeling angry, Adele felt it was a somewhat ironic turn of events.

"The world can't just let us retire, isn't that right John?"

The seagulls sang their songs as the boat rode the calm waves well into the evening. The weather was beautiful, and the sun's rays offered plentiful warmth, too much to handle in her black turtleneck, leaving her no choice but to either take off the lounge coat or vacate to a more shadowy spot. 

Choosing the latter, the assassin moved away to see what the other guests were up to before they reached the island. 

The front of the house lined the dock, smiling, poised. The assassin followed the others out, disembarking onto trusty land. It was very ceremonial. Adele was a bit unnerved by all the pomp.

The ride was short, but the guests were as lively as ever as they skipped in pairs of two to maître d' that awaited them at the shore, asking about their reservations and then welcoming them to Hawthorne Island until it was Tyler's and Margot's turn.

"Welcome to Hawthorne, Mister Ledford and... Miss Westervelt?"

There was a beat of silence where the lady butler looked puzzled. Margot, equally puzzled, looked at Tyler who began sputtering, "Umm... sorry... yeah, no... that was, uh... it's not Miss Westerv... she had a change of plans so this Miss..."

"I am Margot, hi, nice to meet you."

Margot made a move to lock their arms at his elbow, but he continued not to take her hint and reciprocate. Really convincing act. He couldn't even recall the surname of his plus-one, how utterly embarrassing. And it showed on his face as he offered a small, insecure smile towards the maître d' whose eyes flickered conspicuously between them.

Adele could see the cogs in her head turning as if the last-second replacement posed an unexpected complication; a ripple in the still water. 

With a guarded smile, the small lady butler turned her sharp eyes towards the redhead, "Margot, welcome..." she nodded acknowledging, followed by a cold smile offered more out of pleasantries than anything, "... we endeavour to make your evening as pleasant as possible. Right this way."

Adele scampered back to the end of the line, only now realizing that the boat wouldn't linger for their return. She wondered if she was the only one who noticed this. It wasn't a challenge to secretly manoeuvre through the wealthy pairs at all. Many of them couldn't hold a flicker of attention on anything else than themselves and such lack of awareness suited her just fine.

All the leftover pairs went by smoothly until it was her turn at the end, the only one without a plus-one and she was quite unsure what to expect of the exchange.

"Miss Cole?" Adele was possibly a head taller than the diminutive Asian maître d' but the woman stared her down none the same.

"Yes, Ma'am."

A flicker flashed, could have been a trick of light, through the lady butler's dark eyes. There wasn't much in her expression that would give away something the assassin could pick up on. Perfectly neutral; and professional. Nothing threatening... for now.

"Right this way, please," The woman guided her back to the small flock of their group before beginning to guide them through the island's premises, which Adele had studied meticulously beforehand. 

Weapon and armour were important, yes, but careful planning and information were invaluable. 

She and Wick were of one mind in this regard.

Anna Liebbrandt and her husband excused themselves but not before her client exchanged a few glances with Adele - the assassin understood. The older couple had been frequenting the establishment the most out of anyone present, so it would be silly for them to accompany the rest for a tour.

The lady butler going by the name Elsa guided them first shoreside, "Hawthorne Island comprises 12 acres of forest and pastures. We have the bounty of the sea surrounding us. Out there right now, we are harvesting scallops. You will eat them tonight."

She pointed at the lone fisherman throwing the net into the sea. The guys beside her hollered at him with handwaves, rowdy and slightly tipsy, and he answered back. Adele mentally noted that his motorboat may come useful if she needed a way to escape. 

They trotted along the set pathways to the different plants and gardens, which were seamlessly incorporated into nature. There were no modern installations, everything seemed to point out that most preparations were done manually. The maître d' kept talking even when the guests showed no real interest in it, they chattered away about their affairs in clamorous voices.

That was until they reached a singular smokehouse of Nordic fashion when the finance trio got suddenly interested, "We use the meat of dairy cows only, which we age to an astonishing 152 days to relax the protein strand."

"So," Dave began, all smiles and gestures, "what happens if you serve it on the 153rd day? All hell breaks loose or...?"

What a stupid question, anyone who had ever learnt cooking would be able to answer it, but I  guess to those three, it seemed all the better joke.

"Well, I suppose the bacteria would introduce itself to the consumer's bloodstream and spread into their spinal membranes after which point he or she would become incapacitated and shortly thereafter expire."

The assassin nudged her head to the side thinking it was quite an elaborate way of saying they would die.

"So yes, all hell would break loose."

The boys shared a nervous laugh about it while Madam Elsa turned to address the rest with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes, "Good thing we're pros, yes? Come --"      

The subtle dig at them went woefully unnoticed but Adele had to hold in a scoff because the maître d' clicked heels and resumed their little tour. Next on was something that sent off the first red flags in her brain.

Madam Elsa led them into another building, one fairly bigger than the smokehouse. 

Entering what looked exactly like military barracks, complete with bunk beds. Tiny shower spigots, like at a YMCA, and a row of toilets with no walls or doors, like at a prison. At the centre, the lady butler stopped to speak, "This is where we live."

"You actually live here? All of you?"

"All of us. Except Chef."

Esprit de corps. Lovely.

Julian Bloom's partner, Ted, commented with a swipe of his glasses, "Wow, it's free decor, no?"

"No, Mister Feldman, it's very much more than that. Here, we are family. Each day starts at six, with five hours of prep work. We harvest, we ferment, we slaughter, we marinate, we liquefy, we spherify, we gel."

Tyler smiled, inspired, everyone else, was less sure. 

Margot murmured something that had the maître d' correcting her forcefully, and some even jumped at her raised tone. Everybody went really quiet and Elsa used that to pick up where she left off, "Dinner is typically four hours and twenty-five minutes." 

That long?

"Each day ends at well past two in the morning. So yes, it's best that we all live here."

A different tech bro, the one named Soren, who decided to lounge on one of the beds offhandedly asked if they wouldn't get burned out from such ridiculous working hours but the lady butler merely looked at him, disgusted, but composed herself in time, "Burned out?"

"Yeah, sorry, sorry, like tired of doing the same thing?" Soren rephrased it, meekly.

"Chef holds himself to the highest standard and so do we. We never burn anything unless by design. Now. Who's hungry?"

It might have been subtle but Adele spied it with her trained eye. The venom leaked through the crease of her right eye, mask cracking every so slightly. There was the viper Adele suspected. The assassin fortified her guard subconsciously, looking at this bunker and its implications made her feel uneasy, her gut agreed with her.  

They encountered no other soul on their way to the restaurant, but for those with attentive eyes, the chef's house could be discerned among the trees of the nearby forest. Tyler even asked if they could visit it, which the Madam swiftly turned down. If the staff had no access to the boss' lodging, then neither could the guests.

Two guards awaited them at the entrance, one opted to open the massive, sliding door with the press of a button while the other accompanied Madam Elsa and led them further in. The room was minimalist and faux rustic. A touch sad even. A museum mood where one doesn't necessarily 'enjoy' eating. 

Her sharp eyes flitted across the large room, analysing: six guards (seemingly unarmed), two butlers with pitchers, Madam Elsa and a Sommelier, fourteen sous-chefs, two hallways, one exit, and large windows (bulletproof?).

The kitchen was open, visible from the dining area, and the bustling staff was hard at work. With Chef Julian Slowik nowhere to be seen.

It hosted reasonably big, round tables for two for each couple with small reservation cards on them. Anna and her husband Richard were already seated, but the man went somewhat pale out of nowhere and then switched seats with her client - hmm, strange.

Margot stayed back with her, not knowing where to sit before the maître d' showed her her seat next to Tyler.

"Feel free to observe the cooks as they innovate but please DO NOT photograph our dishes. Chef strongly feels that the beauty in his creation lies in their ephemeral nature." 

Then the lady butler came back for Adele and with a guiding hand at the small of her back, led her to a smaller table abutting a wall where an older lady already presided. Adele greeted her politely before taking her seat, but got no sort of response back. 

The woman across her already nursed a glass of wine and looked as forlorn as any abandoned grandmother. Another guest? Adele sighed lowly, so no small talk then. At least she had the time to look around until the other guests settled.

At her left, there was a buzzing open kitchen with focused sous-chefs working on the dishes with rapt attention to detail. They didn't even look up once to assess their customers, not even when Tyler bothered one of the cooks with his questions, he was promptly sent back to his seat afterwards with a quiet Margot in tow. 

You can take the jacket off, dear.

The Bloody Mary, for one, was utterly rubbish at cooking, and had no finer tastes or demands of her meals other than to be nourishing. Her motto: if it tasted better than from a trashcan, then it was already up to her standard. Props to growing up piss-poor.

Adele turned back to her table companion when the cheery Sommelier offered her another glass of wine, "More Lambrusco, madam? 

The madam nodded silently.

Not poisoned this time.

To avoid suspicion, the assassin agreed with a grateful nod, a guarded expression in place. She might actually consider taking a sip, it looked expensive to waste, but found her mood thoroughly soured as the last contained a portion of a poisonous plant in it. Well, one could play with that glass in the meantime, giving the illusion of mindful savouring.

The other guests all the while, engaged in their own bouts of conversations. Not even showing a remote interest in the ongoing preparations of their soon-to-be meal. While the assassin might benefit from observing the masters at work by writing down a thing or two, she had to sadly fall in line with the other toffs. 

Maybe she could ask them questions like who put FUCKING OLEANDER into her wine!

Adele was having enough of this and the evening barely even started! 

If it wasn't for Tyler and his overexcited fussing that could be heard from miles away, she would have missed entirely the crucial appearance of Chef Slowik in the kitchen, being seated with her back to the dining room made it harder to observe what happened behind her back but made it remarkably easier to fall off the radar.

Bringing the glass to her lips without drinking, she observed how the man strode in. Brooding, intense. Utterly focused as he glided from station to station swiftly, tasting. Elsa approached the Chef and spoke to him softly, without the usual edges in her carefully manufactured face. Adele couldn't hear what was said, but Slowik looked in a certain direction. 

For a second she thought he was looking at Tyler, but it was Margot instead. They locked eyes. The assassin spied recognition in his eyes - no, a sadness perhaps? A longing? The chef tersely broke eye contact and resumed his tasks. The cooks around him continued to work with an almost sinister focus.

That settled it, there was something going on backstage and both of them were definitely not meant to be there - especially Margot.

It was not her first time arriving somewhere technically uninvited (definitely the last time though), she couldn't keep track of how many times she crashed into the Continental over the course of her career, covered in blood and wounds. The face of Charon behind the counter always managed to brighten up her mood in the end. He had been such a good friend.

Ugh, where was the appetizer? She was growing hungry and depressed. Deadly combo.

Ah, like being summoned by her thought, the servers marched, trays in hand with the first taste of the menu. Sitting up properly, the assassin waited for a plate to be put down in front of her only to find out the elder lady was not given one. That ruled her out as a customer. 

"Here we have a compressed cucumber melon, milk snow, and charred lace. Enjoy."

What kind of bullshit is this?

#the menu #julian slowik #chef slowik #julian slowik x ofc #john wick #john wick chapter 4 #winston scott #ralph fiennes #margot mills #horror #john wick 4 #keanu reeves #eventual relationship #eventual comfort #eventual smut #enemies to lovers #romance

[andarthas-web]

Baba Jaga’s Bitch - Chapter 9

It's not *quite* domestic bliss, but.... https://archiveofourown.org/works/42060516/chapters/107770407

#John Wick #Iosev Tarasov #Iosef Tarasov / John Wick #whump #enemies to lovers

[iovesia]

thoughts on 'lovers to enemies' john wick?

(i've been thinking about it for too long❤️‍🩹)

oooo— lovers to enemies— why do i kinda love this trope oh em gee !! sidenote.. getting total "kill bill" by sza vibes here.

the only way i see john and you becoming enemies is if you had betrayed him in some sort of way. i'm talking next level backstabber type of thing.

john has a very small, small circle of trust: so you being in it, and then breaking it is automatically gonna put you smack dab in john's burnbook.

you and john grow up together in the ruska roma, him training to be an assassin along with you (or maybe you're a ballerina). of course you two will form a special bond, living in such high stakes and hostile environments.. you two were each others safe space.

of course, life takes a turn and john gets super involved in the russian mob, while you continue making a name of yourself in the crime world.

and making a name comes at a big cost.

john is more than heartbroken to find out it's you trying to assassinate him. at this point he should be used to it— having people stab him in the back, and try to kill him off for a wad of cash.

but seeing you standing there, gun in your hand, trigger aimed at his head.. it hurt. hurt a lot. words can't explain how betrayed he felt, and each blow you delivered to each other was like a direct punch to his heart.

#love letters. #keanu reeves x reader #keanu reeves imagine #john wick x reader #john wick imagine #*⠀john wick.