#also they're gonna be very mr and mrs smith coded because that movie shaped me as a person

[xhollowfaerie]

john wick drabbles #1

a/n: oops... I'm definitely gonna be super late turning my essay in... ANYWAY here's the little starter I managed to write for my JW fic in between waves of pain lol. i go pass out now tags: john wick x oc, undercover assassin oc who poses as a florist and makes bouquets for John to take to Helen's grave every week :^) oh also she is plus sized <333

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Ding.

“Here you are, Mister Wick. Same as usual. Daisies, white lilies and purple hyacinths.”

“Thank you, Camille.” “You're very welcome.”

John's gaze seemed to linger on her for a moment as he held the bouquet with a sorrowful smile before nodding and making his way out.

Ding.

Her eyes trailed after him, a predator stalking its prey.

But not tonight. Tonight, she had a different date.

Pound me the witch drums, the witch drums

Dark red curls bounced as she turned on her heels, a white outfit of elegance cloaking her hourglass figure.

Down, down, down the steps her heels clacked.

Pound me the witch drums

The hidden room revealed itself as she pushed the correct tiles of the flower-shaped mural, air filled with floral scents.

Bottles and vials lined the walls, some simmering, some bubbling. She stopped by one of them to admire the white substance bleeding out of a flower into a beaker, hissing with every drop as it sizzled aggressively before slowly turning black. 

Camille’s burgundy lips curved, caressing one of the petals.

“As deadly as you are beautiful.”

Her vanity waited, covered in vines, flowers and foliage, perfumes and cosmetics galore; only the most expensive, high-end products littered her space, joined by ominous vials and three items held in their own glass case - two lip products and a bullet. She removed one of her dainty Saturn-shaped earrings and set it in the empty grove within the golden frame of the case, watching it open with a satisfying click before returning it to her ear.

Pound me the witch drums

Better pray for hell, not hallelujah

She sat down at her vanity, admiring her guise in the mirror with a mixture of disdain and reverence, parting her lips to apply the contents of the first lip product; a sheer gloss, coating the plumpness of her mouth in a milky-white substance before completely evaporating within seconds. Once it was fully dry, her hands removed the second, effortlessly tracing the shape of her lips with the eerily-shaded black-green lipstick; as it oxidized, the color turned a rich burgundy. She set the items back inside the case, leaving the bullet untouched as she stood up and checked herself in the mirror, arranging the few rebel strands of her classy red curls.

“Mmm. One day, John.”

After I kill you, this will all be dead and gone.

But now it was time to go kiss another poor bastard to his death with her traceless, custom-made poisoned lipstick that would evaporate in less than an hour off of his cold, unknowing lips before anyone would even find his body. 

Her antique pearl handle Colt, Camille’s most treasured pocket revolver, rested as it always did, snugly fitted inside her favourite beige Chanel hand purse. Her white heels announced her departure, swinging a faux fur boa around her before flicking the lights off.