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lazy-kari202 · 17 hours ago

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DULCE PERICULUM. | CHAPTER VII - WINE

before me nothing but things eternal, and eternal i endure.

(John Wick x Reader, Santino d'Antonio x Reader)

full work

With every other step taken, it became increasingly harder to ignore the fleeting feeling of anxiety within your body.

Left, right. Another left. Passing through the city streets as they pulsed with a life of their own. An accustomed rhythm in your footsteps echoing across the concrete, passing by each stranger.

The leather boots did a good job at keeping your feet comfortable on your short walking adventure, you prayed for Gianna once more again for the help in your outfit choices.

You had expected a challenge, yet not like this. Not to this extent.

It was not the body that complained this time - it was the mind and the thoughts running rampant within causing the annoyance, the ringing headache of overthinking. So much so that you had indicated your driver for the day to let you off a couple of blocks before you got to the destination, in hopes of the brisk winter air aiding in clearing out the doubts.

All it did was to make you shiver further.

It was impossible to hit them all at once.

The bastard knew it, as per his smug attitude throughout the morning. It was in the way he talked, not even holding back on any information - he knew there was no piece of it that would help you achieve this. He knew exactly what he was getting you all into. He knew he would never be truly free.

This is what you got for underestimating the Russian.

Tarasov had deliberately given Wick a task that even he could not complete, even with all of Camorra’s soldiers behind him for support. After all, why would he want his most precious assassin exonerated? To leave all of his talents on the table, without a guarantee of someone else, at some point in his life, poaching him?

Even though you knew John had nothing left to do with this brutal life of his - if it had come to the point of asking Camorra for help.

He must have really loved her. More than he ever thought of loving you.

You should have known that when you opened that door.

All the passing years, and you had managed to keep the events that led to you parting ways a secret to Santino - the details of them, at least. For someone who had an entire mob under his pinky finger, someone who was so meticulous to usually cover all of his tracks, yet he had not pried deeper into just how and when.

The importance of details had dissipated the moment he had seen your appalled face, hints of dried tears lingering at the edge of your eyes. No words came out of your mouth, they did not need to, as you had thrown yourself into his arms for the comfort of his presence, his warm body pressed against yours.

You had not told him much. You did not need to.

Santino was a man who valued their promise and he was not going to send whoever needed help astray.

What kind of man would he be, had he not accepted to help a man who was desperately clawing his way out to reach his one true love?

Santino had understood. After all, he was bound by the same fate. A fate that he so wished to be true that he was willing to live and let go.

However, you had to admit one truth - he may not have been fully cognizant of just what you all had stepped into, by the way the odds were looking.

Engulfed in your thoughts as your too short of a walk came to an end, with the sight of the entryway to the New York Continental appeared in its’ full grandeur - complete with a red carpet, the marble exterior stretching up in iconic architecture. A quiet architectural marvel hidden in plain sight in Lower Manhattan, a good fit for the affluent neighborhood.

A bit more subdued than the Continental you had been used to, but it would have to do the job.

The doors opened in a silent reveal, suddenly grateful for the central heating that made you feel cozy at an instant, your cheeks slightly red from the outside breeze. The expansive lobby greeted you, hints of light jazz echoing through the high-reaching marble columns, in contrast with the dark green furniture scattered across. The luxurious finishes of dim lighting, men and women on their best behavior lounging, waiting for a special other. Visiting the Continental always came with it’s surprises, as you would never fully discern just who had been involved in the New York underworld, with the hotel guests often a mix of civilians as well as people who were in the game.

Throughout your life, you had often wondered what it was like - to not have the slightest idea that the stranger calmly sitting next to you in the lobby had strangled a soul to death with their mere hands just hours prior. To be so disconnected, so ignorant yet not by choice.

Must be nice.

A hand digging through your purse for the small stash of coins, your fingers grasped one to hide it under your palm - up until the moment you approached the front desk, to a familiar face.

“Welcome back, miss,” Charon offered a stoic smile, his tone calm and collected as always, looking up from the typing that he had been finishing up.

“Business or pleasure?”

“I will not be staying, thank you,” you politely replied, happy to see a harmless, familiar face for a change that day. “I wanted to ask if the manager was in today at this hour.”

Charon gave a knowing look, his hand outstretching softly towards the marble staircase just towards his back left.

“The manager is always in.”

Moments later, you were two gold coins short yet a decadent drink stood between your fingertips.

A dry Chardonnay sparkled in your crystal glass, your fingers laying flat on the base in a subconscious haze, gently swirling the liquid. The candlelight on the marble table catching your eye, the flame almost hypnotizing as it shone in a golden hue on your features.

Situated in the corner booth, sultry red leather a contrast to your black suit - you had the overarching view through the speakeasy, a cacophony of the after-lunch rush of people chatting at the bar, green and red ambient lights mixing to create an air of secrecy.

Knowing the manager personally certainly had perks.

“I did not expect to see you here so soon,” Winston spoke, awakening your senses, sitting right across from you. He would raise the dirty martini he was holding in a small toast, you reciprocated the gesture momentarily.

“Are you complaining?”

“I would not dream of it,” he would answer after taking a much awaited sip of his first drink of the day. He had hoped it would not be a long one, yet he had always been proven wrong - with unruly guests, civilian troubles and potential rule breakers, the Continental could sometimes be a relentless tide of responsibilities.

However, you had been a breath of fresh air always, in any room you stepped in - even when Winston could see traces of unspoken troubles beneath the surface of your thoughts.

“I am at a loss, Winston. È impossibile.”

Looking through his glasses, one hand on the book that he had been captivated under before you stepped into the bar, his full attention diverted to you then.

“Did you tell Santino?”

It had been hard to gauge Winston’s feelings towards Santino at times, often finding him unnecessarily childish - but beneath it all, you knew he knew that Santino meant well. There was a certain splendor that came with having the power and wealth he had at a very young age - even he could not have denied that.

At least, Winston was confident that you were safe with him, at all times.

For him, nothing else came close in importance.

“I will, tonight, when I get to the apartment,” you clarified, taking another sip to savor. Upon the gold coin tip, it was no surprise that the bartender had treated you to one of the finest wine they must have had in stock.

“Viggo knew too. That bastardo knew just how to get under my skin - he knows what he is asking for cannot be done. Not with a million of my men.”

Winston nodded softly, not at all surprised at the mob boss playing tricks. It was a man’s world, where everything could be fair and permitted, surrounded with the right excuses.

However, this time - it was life or death for John, a man with, quite literally, no other way out without your plan succeeding.

And, of course, you had no plan. How could you? How could you gather two dozen of people without blowing up the cover, who all hated each other’s guts and even more so, wanted Viggo to be dead?

A potential answer dawned, head tilting slightly even though you had already known exactly what he would have said.

“We could use the Con-”

“No.”

A sigh escaped your lips, mumbling a lo pensavo, a hand raising slowly in self-defense. “Just trying my luck.”

“There must be a way without breaking all of my rules, my dear,” Winston said, a small smirk on the corner of his lips, an attempt to lighten your mood.

“You just have not turned the correct stone yet.”

You could only nod in agreement, pensive eyes meeting his blue ones, a fleeting pause before asking a question that you had harbored for far too long in your being.

Did you really want to know? Ignorance is bliss was a common motto around the uninvolved. Maybe, for once in your life, it was worth it to listen to the unaware, do as they do.

You did not.

What you knew, in this world of yours, could not hurt you. It could not break you apart. Every piece of information was money, time and effort well spent.

And as the words slipped into thin air in a fog of hesitation, you felt it—an undeniable certainty within your being that this moment would haunt you with regret, for days to come.

“Do you know anything about her?”

The sounds, laughters and clinks of glass seemed to disappear from earshot.

Much to his expectation, he knew just exactly who you had been asking for. Catching him mid-sip, Winston allowed himself a second to collect his thoughts - it had been the inevitable, after all, a simple matter of time till you had asked someone.

“Only what John mentioned to me - that they met at a restaurant.”

That, you already knew first hand.

“Anything else?”

Winston’s expression grew kinder, leaning back towards the booth to get comfortable in contrast to the subject at hand causing slight discomfort.

He would never want to hurt you.

“She is a photographer. That is all that I know.”

“Ah,” you would exclaim, your voice betraying you in a small crack and your gaze contemplating, staring at your hands resting on the marble bistro table - mind elsewhere. Your fingers involuntarily tracing the diamonds on your bracelet.

“If there is ever a sliver of doubt in your mind,” Winston started, voice gentle and filled with sympathy, “you are doing the right thing here.”

And, deep down within you, you knew you were doing the right thing. You knew he was right, there was never a moment where his words rang truer.

Why, then, you would ask yourself, did it poke a wound so deep? Why did the thought of his freedom to run to the one he loved, caused lingering, burning pain at the core?

The answer to your questions had been in your own eyes all along - laced with a certain sadness of betrayal, of remembrance.

Winston could see it clear as night and day.

In a fleeting moment, all he could offer you was the quiet solace of a shoulder to lean on, a company of an old friend - the sole presence a steady anchor amidst the storm of your chaotic mind.

He wished, oh, just how much he wished - he could take it all away.

“Go home to him,” he whispered, leaning closer for good measure, his hand softly placed on your shoulder in guidance.

Winston knew he had to bide his time, knowing that the right moment to unmask the truth would eventually arrive.

Even if he had to wait an eternity.

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lazy-kari202 · 18 hours ago

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DULCE PERICULUM. | CHAPTER VI - CLEAR

supremest wisdom, and primeval love.

(John Wick x Reader, Santino d'Antonio x Reader)

full work

This was the place.

It must have been. It existed in your memories, the forgotten crumbs of moments laying bare right in front of you.

Through the tinted windows of the backseat in the armored vehicle, an extension of Camorra’s constant protection over you - your eyes staggered momentarily on the grand 18th century wooden doors, encrusted in the brick and stone that stretched for floors upwards.

Hidden in plain sight. Evil, crime and all that was unholy, being led by the seemingly normal, historic building. Did the ordinary pedestrians, many who walked near or across the stronghold every single hour, have the slightest idea of what was transpiring inside? The extent of detail flowing through plans to spill yet more blood or to transport even more drugs? The bourbon and whiskey consumed by men after an operation that paid well?

Would they change their morning commute had they known?

With the amount of corruption running rampant in the city that never slept - people would always go out of their way to blissfully ignore.

It was not much different back in il Bel Paese, and you would be damned to be a hypocrite as a pin of the underworld yourself. Camorra’s limbs extending all over the crevices, stones and doors adorning the narrow streets of Napoli - yet, people still drank on the streets, chanting the songs of their victorious football team, melodies leaving their way into hurled curses on some nights. Almost every restaurant in the town owed something to a Camorra boss somewhere, with money flowing into eventually the lifestyle that you led, but did not ask for. Yet - people still frequented the establishments, ordering the finest the fair city had to offer.

And, to think, this was only where it began.

It often hurt to think just how vast and interconnected this web was, jumping from city to city, port to port. Just how many souls were involved. The notion of Camorra almost seemingly incorporated into real life itself - becoming one with the city, with the population, with the beliefs and the traditions.

It was embedded in the pavement stones of Roma, in the bronze of the angels that protected the holy land. Gleaming in the intricate cuts of pink and green marble adorning il Duomo, ever withstanding centuries. Etched onto the mosaics in their lazy trail across cliffs, into the deep, turquoise eternity.

A sentient presence among all corners of the country, blurring the lines of morality wherever it touched in the outside world.

Until it bled the people dry.

Until men were beaten to a pulp in the dimly-lit back alleys on a cold winter night, limping to get home till morning come - because the count had not been right. Until bullets started whizzing in the air upon a missing kilogram. Until an innocent died at a road ambush in the countryside.

For you, it had not taken years to grow accustomed to the ruthless truth of the source of your estate, the grandeur. Of your place in the world.

It was all you knew, your only version of reality, from the moment you gained consciousness.

Was it rightful? Earned? All you had to do was to be born into it, into the right family with the right connections. At least that was what the Camorra told you, when they took you under their wing.

Sometimes, in this life, there are choices.

Sometimes, they have already been made for you.

Everyone in the underworld was tied to each other by an invisible thread, that would get pulled on or snipped off sooner or later.

Tarasov had been no different. It was the same, when it came to members of the mob, they were all the same - except they were Russians.

Direct, straight to the point. In times, even more ruthless than what your clan could become. A little too reckless at times, yet devout to tradition. To the century-old ways of living and letting die.

Like every crime lord you had the luxury of being in their vicinity in this lifetime - they always got what they wanted, one day or another, late or early.

As the car stalled in the empty space, the chauffeur respectfully waiting - you would take out your phone, nimble fingers typing a quick sono qui to the one who waited for you back at home.

I have made it.

He had briefly mentioned plans to take a couple of days to travel to Piacenza, to his father’s estate, where he resided with the looming sickness, far out in the countryside with an army of doctors and guards. Time had not been on his side, and would never be at his age. As much as Santino wished health on his father - decay was the one thing he could not change, even with all the power and funds he had. It could not be stopped.

Time.

It either healed you, or it broke you down.

“Grazie, amore,” came his fast text momentarily, making your lips curl upwards in a moment of courage.

“Buona fortuna.”

Packing up your tote and thanking your driver, the suited guard on the passenger seat exited quickly to help you down the backseat of the tall SUV. Clicking heels across the concrete took you to the doors, guards giving you a quick once over and opening the gates to the dark, moody entrance covered in the deepest mahogany paneling.

The door closed right behind you in a fleeting moment.

“Welcome to New York,” your escort that appeared out of the shadows would speak in a heavy Russian accent, earning a nod from you. “Viggo had been waiting for you.”

“Thank you,” you responded, walking through dimly lit halls leading up to an elevator. The seemingly short ride up would take you to the top floor, exiting out in a grand foyer with windows overlooking the silhouette of the city, filling in the moody room with slivers of natural light behind crimson velvet curtains. The distant crackling sound of a fireplace echoing in the tall ceilings. Finest examples of taxonomy glared at you from the walnut-paneled walls, doors opening up to you as a known voice welcomed you in. The guard staying right outside, clicking the door shut - sealing you in for the job.

You had been here before, but not like this. Everything felt so familiar, yet so alien. The passing months and years seemed to long, yet it was closer than you recalled. The days had flown by, memories fresh yet forgotten, human beings being lost in the cacophony of everyday life.

The dreams, however, did not cease to remind you from time to time.

Dreams that took place in this very room, a fleeting moment in time, etched onto unknown corners.

Where you had met him.

“It’s always a pleasure to have you in our fine city,” the older Tarasov spoke in the deep accent, slowly getting up from his vast mahogany desk, polished shoes tapping against the hardwood as he took your outstretched hand to press a fleeting kiss on your knuckles in greeting.

“Thank you for having me,” you offered with a respectful smile as you unbuttoned the coat with a single hand, gesturing the armchairs sprawled across the burning fireplace, the center of his office. “May I?”

“Please. Coffee?” he asked, as he walked to his perfectly stocked personal bar that was places as yet another center of attention, dark walnut and black marble blending in seamlessly, contrasting the bright bottles and glasses.

“Or better yet, as is tradition - some vodka?”

“Grazie,” you would politely declined, even though you knew the jetlag would get the worst of you by the evening as you took your coat off with habitual ease, draping it across the armrest and sat with your legs crossed, waiting on the mob boss to join you for the long-awaited chat.

Business. That was what you were there for. The atmosphere was eerie, in the early lights of the quiet and calm morning, with Viggo pouring a small drink for himself as the glasses clinked. It was always unsettling and intimidating to get into the conversation - after all, with men this powerful, all bets could be off the table. Unpredictability came with the occupation most of the time.

Your eyes would trail to the tall windows, lazily letting in sunlight - now partially covered in thick, velvet curtains. Unobstructed views that many could only wish for.

That had been where he stood as you had stormed in the room, one of the times where the anger had manifested externally.

With his hands in his pockets, deep in thought, his hair slicked back in what you would discover to be his signature style. His dark stare catching you by surprise from the first time your eyes met, it did not matter if it had been a millisecond.

The first time you saw the man behind the rumors, in flesh, in this very room, mere years ago - the details of the snapshot of a moment carved in stone.

There had been no curtains back then.

A man of fine taste, Viggo tended to change things up every once in a while. The furniture had changed, no expense spared - yet the comfort was there. As comfortable as you could get with a mob boss who had districts under his thumb, that was. Your body straightened itself as Viggo took a seat in front of you, setting his crystal glass on the nearby drink table. He had donned a thick gray suit to combat the icy New York cold that morning, complete with a red shirt and burgundy tie tucked into his three piece.

His presence could be felt, just as much as his style and décor choices, as he spoke, albeit his voice was of a leisurely nature.

“Before business, let us be friends,” he offered with a slight smile. “Tell me, how’s life been on your side of the world?”

“As you know - business as usual,” you would start, as old-fashioned as you could be sometimes, taking out a small notebook from your purse. “Trying to help a friend out.”

“Ah, yes, of course,” he nodded, taking a sip of the drink. “I gathered you are here to ask something of me. Must be very important if it had you travel all the way over here.” Tarasov leaned back, sitting comfortably with the glass resting in his hand.

By that point, you had understood the sarcasm slightly laced in his voice, yet you had a feeling it was not targeted at you necessarily - but for what you stood for.

He believed your efforts were futile, a hint of a smirk stretching his lips.

He believed it could not be done.

“Santino requested I help with the fulfillment of task. I need names, Viggo,” you spoke, clear, articulate yet soft, looking to meet his eyes.

“And your word to honor what you promised John.”

The man first looked amused, letting his drink rest on the coffee table, learning towards you. “Now, why would you think I would not?”

“Just covering my bases this time.”

“I am a man of my word,” he added, voice lower, his jaw clenching slightly. “I suggest you do not pry that further.”

The air in the room tightened.

“Absolutely,” you replied with a knowing yet kind smile.

It did not make sense to ever anger a Russian mob boss.

Much to your slight surprise, the man offered a light chuckle, shaking his head in disbelief. “I will give you whatever information I have - not that I have much,” he would concede without much of a fight required.

“But, just so we are clear,” he would start, elbows on knees as his icy stare got closer to yours, “ - there is a reason this is called an impossible task.”

“It simply cannot be done.”

Another crackle of the burning wood would echo across the wood paneling, the orange flames illuminating the side of your face, lips tilted upwards as you opened up your small notebook, looking through your lashes as the words flowed.

“Let’s see what we can do, Mr. Tarasov.”

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lazy-kari202 · 18 hours ago

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DULCE PERICULUM. | CHAPTER V - BLACK

to rear me was the task of power divine.

(John Wick x Reader, Santino d'Antonio x Reader)

full work

The twinkling lights, like comets in the vast dark sky, ever so lit behind the haze of clouds, almost winking at you.

It did not matter just how many times you had witnessed the beauty of the ever-reaching skies, lingering lights and stars coloring the navy black with meek brush strokes.

It did not matter that you did not know just how many more dawns you could witness in your life.

The unrestricted view from up above, mile high - would always be a sight to savor.

As the plane prepared for a landing soon, approaching the state from a downwards approach due to high winds - a quick look at your phone showed you the time.

5 in the morning. In mere moments, the sun would show it’s bright lights over the horizon of New York City, regardless of the grime and muck that ran amok the paved streets.

It was the crack of dawn. Where had the time gone? How was it morning already?

The emanating smell of brewing espresso acted in confirmation, a quiet commotion of preparation in the kitchen of the private charter.

Yet another morning coffee without him, you would think, as the thin porcelain set with coffee and breakfast pastries was gently placed in front of you on the polished walnut, the experienced attendants whom you had gotten to know over the years offering you a warm smile and a buongiorno, signora.

Your mind wandered to him - just what he was doing at that very moment across the pond, which suit he had chosen to tackle the day on. Which cologne out of his collection would he choose? Was it a woody scent to enhance his commanding presence in the room, or a casual aquatic he for business as usual?

Maybe he got a hint of your exquisite scent on his pillows in the aftermath of your intimate night. One of many, certainly not the last.

The thought made you quiver, your eyes landing on the deliberately assembled pieces of a constellation you carried on wrist, the escaping rays of light from the overhead light making the encrusted diamonds shine in fragments of rainbows across the cabin.

“Promesso, angelo mio,” he had whispered, softly kissing your knuckles as he had slipped the ornate jewelry on, reeling in the bright smile on your lips. “I promise you.”

“I vow to give you all the happiness in the world.”

You knew he would.

A gentle shake of the plane ended your trance, fingertips subconsciously tracing the edges of the marquise diamonds.

The coffee had not been enough to pull you out of your slightly groggy, dream-like state. A sigh escaped your lips, the remnants of not being able to sleep even on the comfortable plane evident in your eyes, in your slight aloofness - unnoticeable for any outside observer as the makeup applied a mere hour ago stayed fresh and hair slicked back, put together as always.

It was the façade you put forth in the world that people would remember you by.

When the mind refused to let the body relax, it had been common practice in your circle to put on an act until it worked, and until it all made sense.

From the very first moments, it seemed, it would be one of those trips where thoughts twirled in your head, running rampant with the past and future mingling, most of the times not getting along.

A thin satin-striped black pant suit had been the outfit of choice for the first day of this journey, with a crisp white blouse tucked under. One of your handmade wool coats hung in the closet nearby - chosen by none other than Gianna herself as you often would ask for her help in packing. Choosing your own outfits and making your own bags for any trip was not a common occasion as your trustworthy staff never ceased to elegantly fold clothes ready for you, and all you usually had to do was show up in the d’Antonio family hangar. Yet, for important trips just like these, another woman’s touch always came in appreciated.

“Do not catch a cold,” she would warn you as a sister would, her hands trailing across the vast rack of neatly pressed suits, the navy, black and tan, a harmonious blend of colors all around the dressing room. Her heels clicked on the marble flooring as she picked out the calf leather boots from the separate shoe rack, pairing them with your trusted woven leather tote bag to hold the essentials.

“Ci provo,” you had reassured her, hanging the black double-breasted wool coat next to the suit on the standing rack in the middle of the room to indicate the chosen ones.

“Do you miss him at all?”

The question had taken you by surprise, raising the hairs on the back of your neck as well as your one eyebrow as you turned to look at her in a seemingly confused look - even though you had known exactly who she was talking about. It was no use trying to fool Gianna d’Antonio, as she gave you a knowing smile - a kind one, willing to listen and understand, moving to take a seat on the armchair next to your vanity. In the meantime, her fingers were working on folding a cashmere scarf for good measure, yet when her eyes found yours again - she waited patiently, intently.

It had always been those green eyes within the d’Antonio clan, the piercing hues in them always proved to get them exactly what answer they wanted.

That time, it was like she already knew it before anything would come out of your mouth.

Did you really miss him? It honestly had been a question you found yourself asking often. The tug of war between your mind and your maimed heart that Santino had spent years fixing, engulfed your soul as you reminisced of just what happened, trying to formulate an answer - mostly for yourself.

It was slowly dawning in your being that some questions would never have a proper answer, even when you had spent years mulling over them.

“I do not,” you would reply, your voice not failing you. It had some truth into it, after all.

“Not after what he has done to me.”

So, why, in the uncharted, tucked away corner of your heard that was meticulously sealed off, just why did it still hurt?

Why were you putting your own life at risk, just so he could have one with the one he loved, the one he chose?

Gianna, to your surprise, had given a nonchalant shrug, followed by a capisco. She could say a lot of things about her brother, majority of them being insults - yet, there had been one thing even she could not deny.

“He adores you,” she had offered, her beautiful hair in bouncy waves as she had stood up to open your jewelry cabinet. “He has adored you from the moment you came into Camorra.”

“Even when all you wanted was him.”

One of the top drawers opening to reveal compartments of sparkling pieces, her fingers did not waver as they had known exactly what to grab. Santino must have asked her help - how else would she have known?

But oh, she had. She had always known a lot more than she would let on.

“Metti questo,” Gianna decided with a smile as you approached, extending your wrist to put the decadent bracelet on.

“Let it bring you good luck from us.”

Lost in the haze of your thoughts, the landing was soft as ever due to your short dozing off - your body only jolted awake with the attendant laid a fleeting touch on your shoulder as a kind wake up call, the aircraft under you taxiing to the private hangar.

The first pink rays of the waking sun, right on cue, emanated within the cabin as it casted a beautiful gleam across the white leather seats - all empty but two - the very minimal security, and yours truly.

Out the corner of the window, the silhouette of the city that had become another home blinked at you - unbeknownst of the hurdles that awaited you.

As you were helped with your belongings, you fastened the belt of your coat to brace the cold, expressing rounds of gratitude to the people that always took care of you - and you began your descent down onto the concrete of the hangar, the wind hitting you like a whip. Your trusted heels would not budge as they led you to the black armored vehicle waiting for your arrival, ready to take you to your first destination.

As the car drifted down the vast highway with habitual ease, John's old words echoed in your head - when Viggo Tarasov was involved, any destination could very well be your last.

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lazy-kari202 · 18 hours ago

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DULCE PERICULUM | CHAPTER IV - RED

justice the founder of my fabric moved.

(John Wick x Reader, Santino d'Antonio x Reader)

full work

Santino d’Antonio was a man of sheer principle.

Very few things could ever dare come in the way of stopping him, if he decided exactly what he wanted. The world was a simple place, after all, to men like him. There are rules to be followed - and there were men who set the rules for all to obey.

Santino preferred to be the latter.

He knew, from a very young age, that his actions would matter more than most people who had walked this soil before him. Indoctrinated, that some day, one very mighty day that he would come of age and rule the empire his family left him. That the ring adorning his father’s finger would soon be shining on his, the mere sight of it making men take a bow. Taking in Camorra’s teachings, day by day, age by age - the elder’s words gradually surrounding every aspect and second of his life.

A man devoid of routine and disciple could not be trusted to be the maker of the rules.

He liked his suits pressed, every inch of them carefully sewn and constructed - all custom made. He liked his men to report to him with a job well done, as soon as it was complete as he did not particularly enjoy to be the deliverer of punishment, unless the circumstances called for it.

He liked sipping his morning cappuccino early at dawn, watching the sun rise over the Mediterranean.

On the dot, the same exact time, each and every morning.

And one of the dearest ones to him, the one that perhaps brought him the most peace - he adored dinners shared in candlelight with you, his beloved, every single night that he could.

He enjoyed the flavor of the world’s most exquisite red wine trickling down his throat even more when he shared a glass with you. He liked sitting across from you, each night, on either an expansive dinner table or an intimate booth - whatever the night called for. He liked drowning in your eyes as the dessert course was served, savoring the sweetness.

He liked seeing how the wary candle flames illuminated your ever-so-gorgeous face.

“Santino,” came your calming voice, as if calling for him through the void, finally reaching light.

“Sì, amore?”

“Will Tarasov honor his promise?”

Strands of hair fell on your face as you posed the question in genuine conversation, a gentle movement of your fingers pushing them back, then leaning towards the wine.

“He better.”

A small grin adorned your lips, taking another sip as your gaze shifted towards the starry night across Rome, shining over your city.

“One thing I know for sure - men like him will never leave the work, amore,” he would slowly say, the gleaming crystal glass in his hands, crimson liquid shaking ever so slightly after his sip.

His eyes, though, seemed to be the slightest bit of troubled, a little aloof, yet calm and calculated as his gaze wandered over the ornate Caravaggio adorning the vast penthouse wall.

The Taking of the Christ.

It was one of his favorites. One of yours, rather, brought in by his request from the Metropolitan Museum of Art all the way across from the New World, back to where it belonged for eternity. He had noticed your eyes linger on the gleaming armor, masterful brushstrokes to create illusion of light, of hope, of dishonor as Christ was taken upon betrayal of Judas. It had been a marvel to you to see Christ’s halo, ever so gently painted with specks of gold, still be visible even against his upcoming miserable fate - it was an incessant topic of excitement over the dinner that followed the museum visit, your eyes shining move than gold ever could within the glimmers of the intimate flames of the restaurant.

The next day, he had the artwork installed at the Continentale.

He had made a silent pact with himself to keep that spark in your eyes.

After all, it was sometimes the small pleasures that mattered for Santino.

The penthouse echoed with his voice, the waitstaff replenishing bread and empty glasses like ghosts in the shadows - delicate, efficient, barely there.

“You think he can do it?”

“Sì,” your lips let go, not doubting for one split second. Maybe it was the past speaking, etched along the words in their everlasting effect. Deep within you, the voice knew that John would come out of this ordeal at the end of the day. He would find his way, claw through the concrete and raw earth if he had to.

Limping, bruised, bloodied, yet walking still.

Scarred, scathed, yet alive nonetheless.

Alive, and most importantly - a free man.

“Senza problemi,” you added for some good measure unbeknownst to you, nimble fingers cutting yet another piece of your food to savor. The most decadent of dishes as always, the intricate porcelain with gold specks, the polished silverware easily gliding through the veal as you took a bite.

Yet nothing could be done without his help. Without your carefully constructed plan, meticulously arranged meetings, no detail overlooked.

All of it done to aid none other than John Wick.

What would he do without you by his side?

It was a thought that rarely crossed his already convoluted mind, but when it did, it came down on him with a wave of emotions. Feelings that made his heart flutter for the briefest second, his jaw clenched taut for a fleeting moment.

The very life he led molded him into an expert of separating his emotions, dissociating the past from the present. It would not be the first, definitely not the last time that he buried memories to keep from resurfacing.

Santino knew of the past, your past, fragments of memories shared with him over the years. He knew that there was once a time your eyes gazed intimately at another pair but his.

He would be lying to himself thinking that the mere idea did not haunt him when times rolled around, when the name was mentioned.

A capo would be a fool to show his true colors for anyone to pry.

Yet, as he slowly made his way over to your end of the marble dining table - his body language, the mimics and the small movements he was habituated to hide, seemed to tell another story.

Was it jealousy? Need? Greed to keep you right there where he wanted, where you could be safe and protected?

Pulling out the closest plush dining chair to take a seat facing you. His striped three piece, casually chosen for the leisure of an evening meal with a lover at home, parting gently to reveal his crisp white shirt as he leaned over. Head tilted ever so slightly.

The glints in his green hues as his gaze lingered around your features accentuated by the fazing moonlight seemed to indicate a mixture of all.

His thumb slowly reached to lift your chin, now properly facing him. Gentle touches from hands that have bathed in blood. Knuckles that have broken bones caressing your cheek in the softest of touches.

His invaluable artwork, sitting right in front of him, looking up at him with expecting eyes laced with curiosity.

He could not help but wonder just how much longer could he protect you in this world you both were thrown into mercilessly, by blood or by oath.

Your body softened under his touch, habitually, gazing into his eyes and leaning with ease, finding yourself positioning closer to him, your black boatneck dress doing all the favors to your frame.

“I need you to be very careful when you’re in New York again,” Santino spoke with a clear, stern yet whispered soft voice. The ever-so-stray strand of curly black hair adorning his forehead, his clean-shaven skin smooth under the moonlight. The fireplace towards the center of the room cackling as the wood burnt, casting a gentle orange shadow to contrast the silver light of the night.

“Tarasov is one beast, his enemies are another.”

Getting the so-called “impossible task” ready would not have been an easy feat. Santino had no doubt in his head that you would the plans to imminent success, one by one, assembling all the targets right where you wanted them to be. However, like any lower would - he worried.

A nod came from your side as a response, smiling tenderly yet softly at him, leaning your head into his palm as his warm fingers embraced your cheek. Your hand found its’ way to rest softly on his thigh, freshly red manicure in stark contrast against the navy wool.

“Non ti fare problemi per me,” you would say. “I will be just fine.”

“Bene,” he would respond after a short pause of looking for truth in your eyes.

You spoke the truth to Santino - yes, you would be fine. You always turned out to be quite alright after even more dangerous situations that this life had put you through, if your lucky streak did not fail you this time.

To you, deep down, this all seemed to be a twisted return of fate. A little laugh of the heavens above, having a little fun with the both of you. Helping the man who led you astray all those years ago.

It may have been an unthinkable back then, yet it indeed was happening the moment you would step onto that private jet in the hangar the following day, with Santino, as charming as ever, waving you off with the smile on his face.

And only then, would you realize.

John was going through all of this trouble, this mayhem - all for her.

Something he never would have done for you.

“Come here,” Santino would whisper, attempting to silence the rampant thoughts running through with a loving kiss - the familiar exquisite scent of the sea salt, pine and bergamot enhancing your senses.

It felt right.

It had always felt right with him. His warm touch, gentle embrace - his touch so delicate that he seemed almost afraid to break you.

As you wrapped your arms around his neck to pull him closer, you could hear the light as a feather taps of dress shoes against hardwood as the waitstaff promptly took the cue to excuse themselves, the doors clicking shut.

Santino’s rugged hands found your thighs, deepening the kiss as he roamed up to your waist, peppered touches becoming demanding.

The wine fresh on his lips, enticing and inviting to taste more.

And so you did.

You yearned to taste more of him as he effortlessly lifted you up to carry you towards your bedroom, your patent leather heels slipping onto the floor, your hands buried in his hair, nails that would dig onto his back in the following moments of the night.

Santino never ceased to remind you of his attraction towards you, and yours towards him. Times like this, he liked to use it to his advantage, to serve a noble cause.

And as your eyes rolled back out of sheer pleasure - the world besides Santino ceased to exist for a split moment.

He was the only truth. He had been the only truth, the one that mattered. The sole constant in your life, the only one that could make you feel in bliss.

And he vowed to never let you forget it.

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lazy-kari202 · 2 days ago

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This is how I imagined my short rook flirting with Emmrich

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lazy-kari202 · 2 days ago

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Oh how I yearn for him..

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lazy-kari202 · 3 days ago

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lazy-kari202 · 5 days ago

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thinking about the 141 when you get nipple piercings and they can’t touch your nipples for four months

For clarity, I do not have my nipples pierced. Don't ever plan on it, but we can imagine that we did and what the guys think. I did do a little research, and I saw a wide variety of healing times, so instead of four months, I kept any mention of the healing process vague. The concept is the same though. I had a lot of fun with this one y'all. Enjoy it. :)

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Presented in four double drabbles.

Task Force 141 x Reader (can be read as gn!reader)

Content & Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): established relationship, brief dirty talk, suggestive themes, swearing, fade to black

Word Count: 800

ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist

John Price

"You're not putting a shirt on."

“What are you talking about?”

“We’re at home. And I want to see them.”

“I’m putting a shirt on,”

John is quick, snatching the shirt out of your grasp. You start to protest, but John tosses it onto the highest shelf in the closet.

“You’re childish.” You gesture at the rest of the shirts on hangers. “And I have other shirts!”

John shrugs. “I’ll hide them all.”

"I fucking swear, John."

"Or tear them all up."

You smack his chest but John only chuckles. He’s having a go at you. A laugh.

"If I can't touch them, then I bloody well better be able to see them."

"You're ridiculous."

John carefully caresses a nearby path of skin near the piercing. "You got them for me," he purrs. "And I want to see them on display at all times." His hand settles on your waist, drawing you in. He leans in, lips lightly pressed to your ear. “Especially when my head is between your legs.”

Heat rapidly warms your neck, heading for your cheeks. John notices your sudden flustered demeanor.

“That sound good to you, love?”

You nod, and John guides you to the bed.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

"I can't touch them?" asks Kyle, sounding disappointed.

"Nope."

"Not at all?”

“Eventually. But not right now.”

Kyle frowns at your chest, his gaze on the shiny metal. "Do they hurt?"

You wince slightly. "Mostly sore. The pain killers help."

Kyle nods and then glances up at your face. "How do you care for them?"

You rattle off a list of things and then hand him the paper the piercer gave you. Kyle takes it, looking it over as you go over everything, repeating it verbatim.

The small frown on his face turns into an upward smirk. "I can help with this,” he says, voice almost sultry.

"You can," you say slowly, taking the paper and placing it on the counter.

"So I can touch them. If I help.”

"Not in the way you're thinking, Kyle," you scold, knowing exactly where his mind is drifting off to.

"But I still get to touch them?"

"Only to help me,” you correct. “Not for any other reason.”

He sighs, voice a little breathy as he speaks to himself. “I can wait to suck on those gorgeous nipples.”

“Kyle Garrick! I heard that!”

He snags the paper off the counter, hiding his grin.

John "Soap" MacTavish

“You’re having a laugh.”

“Am I?”

"I can't touch them?"

"Nope."

"Not even a little bit?"

"No, Johnny. Not even a little bit."

Johnny lays on his side facing you with one elbow propped under him. He rests his head in his hand. Johnny’s gaze is locked on to your bare chest and the new metal there. The piercings are only a few days old, and they’re fucking sore.

"They're sensitive right now," you continue, wincing slightly when you move, adjusting the way you recline on the bed.

"Aye. I see," he murmurs, leaning closer, gaze narrowing as he focuses on your new piercings. The middle of his brow creases as if he's intensely considering something.

"What is it?" you ask. "You look very serious."

Johnny's gaze doesn't leave your chest. "I'm thinking about all the ways I'm going to play with those beauties."

Heat rushes to your face. “Be fucking for real right now.”

His mouth morphs into a sly smile. Johnny’s gaze shifts from your chest to your face. “Need a distraction?”

“What are you on about?”

Johnny shifts, forcing your legs open as he slots between them. “A distraction,” he purrs. “From your soreness. And my thoughts.”

Simon "Ghost" Riley

Simon stands behind you, watching you in the bathroom mirror from over your shoulder.

"Do you need help?" he asks, gaze unmoving.

"I'm fine, Simon."

He is quiet a moment before he speaks again. "I can’t touch them?"

"Not for a month. Possibly more. Healing is different for everyone."

You hear his annoyed grunt but his gaze doesn't leave you. It remains firmly planted on your newly pierced nipples.

"How sensitive are you?" he asks, taking a tiny step closer. Simon’s hand rests on your waist as you gently clean around the piercing.

"I’m sore. Nothing terrible."

Simon's head dips, lips pressing to your neck as his arms drape around you. "I can't touch them." It’s not a question, more like he’s speaking to himself.

"Nope,” you murmur.

Simon’s sigh has a hint of a growl in it. "Just means I'll have to give extra attention to everything else." His hands descend, and you bite back a groan as he touches you.

Simon's lips press to your ear. "I'll give you attention everywhere.” One hand comes up to trace a line near the piercing. “Except here.” His hand drops away, returns to between your legs. “You’ll be begging for me.”

taglist:

@glitterypirateduck @km-ffluv @tiredmetalenthusiast @miaraei @cherryofdeath

@ferns-fics @tulipsun-flower @miss-mistinguett @ninman82 @eternallyvenus

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@itsberrydreemurstuff @cod-z @keiva1000 @littlemisscriesherselftosleep @blackhawkfanatic

@sammysinger04 @kylies-love-letter @dakotakazansky @suhmie @kadeeesworld

@keiva1000 @jackrabbitem @arrozyfrijoles23 @lovely-ateez @waves-against-a-cliff

@ash-tarte @marispunk @gingergirl06 @certainlygay @greeniegreengreen

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