#john wick au

[zimtlove]

He's not used to wrapping gifts but he tried for you 🥰

In the name of fanservice, amen

[boredth]

You're damned. Forever.

[knifknightkorner]

Danny is an ex-hitman and retired vigilante. He moves to Gotham with Jazz after they discover that she has cancer due to their parent's experiments.

After Jazz is gone, Danny finds comfort in the little dog that Jazz gifted to him. But that too is taken from him.

The Bats catch wind of Baba Yaga coming to town, out for blood.

Fic link

[greenmanalishi]

[persephone411]

POV: John wick is your attractive Latin/History/Literature professor who may or may not be a vampire

[joannasteez]

almost blue (1)

pairing: cody rhodes x black reader warning: explicit descriptions of violence and sexual activity. minors please do not interact. readers eighteen and older interact only please. descriptions of alcohol consumption and the use of deadly weapons. authors note: JOHN WICK AU!!! so excited to share this! i had this sorta kinda in my back pocket for a while, while trying to build up tanks of blood, which you can find to read here. not everything in this is super true to the world of john wick but the most im using as inspo is the aesthetic anyways. also a one off mention of john wick lol. that and some of the names for certain things. italics in the beginning represent flashback perspective music inspo: almost blue by chet baker word count: 4800 tagging: @333creolelady @harmshake @theninthwonder @kill-the-artiste @empressdede @southerngirl41 @2-muchsauce @crxssjae

new york. the continental hotel and it's flatiron shape. september 2019. the rain, this soft unsteady pitter patter. a gentle gray coloring the sky. the air cold and biting. the city filling its brim with a sleepless droning. 

and amongst the deathly sort of decadence—gold trim and blood red carpet floors—bath water disturbs till its sloshing to overtake the tub. a messy spill against the floor. his lips working over yours. fingers kneading deep enough into skin that it stains with the print of his touch. nails tender in his hair and your body melting in till the heat of him breaks over your skin. his everything settled into the wisp and charm of your voice as his pleasure becomes whole. too great.

—but his memory tires from old moments like these, a shell of itself as it attempts in vain to restore to it's former glory. has been in a perpetual state of exhaustion for sometime. but this straining is singular. a throbbing at the forefront of his skull. a tight pulling pain at the nape of his neck till it's creeping wild at the tip of his spine. forcing him to grow ill as he works to reminisce. body wistfully undone. and what words do the men of our time say about insanity? to be in a perpetual state of trying, doing, in hopes of something new. and so on he went, flirting with this disaster, this run of nostalgia, so much so that memory has forsaken him, taking these little complexities —the new york rain and the taste of your lips— along with it. 

but cody can handle the load and reload of a glock 26 as fast as he does it well. a deft maneuvering before the barrel raises and he pulls the trigger, the recoil driving sharp. a bullet through the skull and the splattering of blood. whoever meant to kill him, now dead in his wake. 

but what cruelty this is. a traitor to his own body. living with nothing but the means to kill and tattered memory. with him still, only, all of the things left unsaid—

you'd smelt of vanilla. the yearning about his tongue deep and yet to be settled. his lips a shadow as they feathered against yours. his questions overdone with a frightening passion. "where are you ten years from now?" 

your fingers slipped over his skin, as easy as they would over porcelain. a delicate taking over wet soapy muscle till it clawed over his shoulders and against the heat of his cheeks. "somewhere warm and comfortable. retired".

where ever you were, is where he wanted to be. "am i with you?"

a reversion, just barely perceptible, but there all the same. something like fear, like hesitation, pushing against a situational sort of tenderness in your eyes. the warmth slowly but forcibly outdone by the cold. lukewarm. just like the fate of too old bath water. not enough of either extreme. lukewarm. 

"seems more like a question for you to answer".

"answer it anyways".

and he couldn't feel your lips anymore. too much air, too much distance. caution thick. woven about your words. the tones. the inflections. "ten years from now, you'll be somewhere as warm, as comfortable and retired too".

"am i with you?" 

to draw such a long length of need into the air. passions and hopes and dreams. cody knew. it would've been easier to take the sear of a bullet, the ripping tear in of a knife or the crack of something blunt and unforgiving to his skull. those things easier than the down trod of such a silence. your eyes having gained more and more distance. fear peaking soft and brown before the quick slip over of indifference. like you didn't care for his whispered words sounding too much like forever. and recovery from bullets and knives and blunt force was tedious. sewn up skin and the reformation of fine motor skill. but this. the way you suffered him to feel the drift away of your body and the simple, delicate, eager push in of your touch. something in his heart—amongst the lukewarm water—failed. this low dropping into a less lively place. 

new york. the continental hotel and its flatiron shape. june 2024. a peak of the sun amidst more grayish than white clouds against an icy pale blue sky. the air breezy with a teasing smell of rain. like a stray tendril before some great unraveling. the city as sleepless as it's ever been. 

and amongst the deathly sort of decadence—scarlet sage in bloom and the ever present air of readymade violence—cody sips at a short glass of brandy. an edgy spike to his tongue as it settles. everything of the continental he possessed now lost to time and the overwork of his sore tired memory. lost to a bout of corrosion done by words left unsaid. because he did not remember your answer after the persistence of his "am i with you?” all thats left, this great blurring. of words and the finer littler complexities. your lips and your eyes and the soft ways of your touch. and maybe it came to be this way for good reason. using such a burn to his ego to fuel the fire of his rage. revenge for memories unforgettable. around the glass of brandy, his hands feel stronger. less careful in how they hold. caution be damned. he sips again to finish. his finger buttoning his suit jacket, making way from the bar and across the communal space of the hotel. 

warmth at his ear and a twitch in his trigger finger. something like eyes resting over him. watching him.

he continues to a connecting hallway. elevators and mosaic floors. maybe the brandy wasn't the best idea, but neither was coming to such sacredly awful ground. lovers trauma and all that bullshit jazz. 

the fourteenth floor is quiet. his steps carpeted by soft wool. a second twitch in his trigger finger that leads into the sharp driving heat reminiscent of staggering gun recoil. a sweet burning in his arm, the muscles knowing, remembering. but he has nothing of use on him. nothing to snuff out and quiet that vicious call of death. his hotel room styled with a modernistic flare to it's luxury. clean and unadorned. a simple reflection of his own style thankfully, but nothing extravagant to weaponize. he would have to, if needed, to make due. a slim ball point pen, sleek and multifunctional, rests next to a complimentary bottle of wine. "enjoy your stay", in cursive. cody feels the warmth at the tip of his ear again, something greater than a simple bout of paranoia. his fingers slip the pen into his pocket, a reversing in his steps to triple check the locking function of the room doors.

and he shouldn't be so wound up should he? conducting business was, is, has always been forbidden on hotel grounds. 

his fight or flight saying otherwise. breathing over his skin overwhelmingly warm. lingering wearily. intuition always a nagging son of a bitch but never wrong. it's never failed him. 

cody showers, stands amidst the icy rain of too cold water. cody showers, because warm baths terrify something in his body. the possibility of turning stale and lukewarm. too distant and uninviting to be either extreme. like eyes and soft lips he can barely form well enough to reimagine. 

and the bed sheets are welcoming. slipping along his skin with a delicate relief. but still, something feels wrong. a heaviness to the air that precedes this faithful old tryst with life. with death. the ring of his phone working to unburden him suddenly, but for only some seconds. the number blocked. he answers, rushing to fish that ball point pen from his dress pants. sleek and multifunctional in his grip. but the urgency in his maneuvering cuts short with the slip in of something dangerously angelic. memory sore and exhausted no more, but now rushing back to him fervid and unrelenting. a tender charming tone in his ear that disrupts the stalwart build of his resolve. september 2019. june 2024. five years of an almost complete pain. icy feeling wind with the teasing of a torrential down pour. almost there but not quite. the anger and the pain never red enough. the sadness almost blue. 

"the loft in tribeca" you start. cody commits it all to memory. the words, the tones, the inflections. shuffling to rough his pants on. pen in his pocket. phone wedged to his ear as his fingers rip off the casing of a pillow. body easy as it maneuvers to protect his six o'clock, leaning against the wall. his eyes scope along the room. an over examination. waiting. "if you're not dead in the next 30 minutes, meet me there". 

the call drops. 

the slow unlocking click of his hotel room door. his muscles burn with remembrance. eyes sharp. his ears attune. the shells of them warm. cautioned steps approach the entry way of the bedroom but they fail to go unnoticed. thudding against the soft carpet. and if not for the possibility of his demise, cody would laugh. surely this was amateur hour. boots and inconspicuous were no more suited together than suede in the rain. and he'd made that rookie mistake before. back when he was a rookie. but the high table were no idiots, sending rookies to bring his head in, unless they hated him that much and felt he should feel the brunt of that hatred with some disrespect. and disrespect it was. 

cody's breath holds. his head thumping against the wall before he makes a swift crouch to his knees. a gun rounding the corner, and a bullet flying aimed for where his head had knocked in. a simple quick diversion. nothing special or particularly extravagant, but enough to give him seconds to maneuver. and oh this is disrespect in deed. dominik mysterio the source of his current heavy breathed, adrenaline rushing circumstance. cody knuckling the hold of the still upward pointed gun with a punch before another sinks into domink's abdomen. a short grunt breaking from the scrappy, ill-sophisticated, mullet wearing piece of shit. and surely dominik is more of a piece of shit when his heavy boot toughs into cody's jaw. racing for the gun. 

but cody is quick. has felt and faced harsher things. if anything, its more of an irritation he feels than a full measure of pain. it was hard maintaining good skin considering the life he led. he spits against the carpet. iron on his tongue. red staining the clean line designs. he reaches for dominik's leg just before he's in reach of the gun. pulling him near and flipping him over quickly. a rough hand in the silk of domink's mullet as he rains down punches with the other.  cody ill satisfied as he hears the sloppy singing of grunts from the younger mysterio. and as his frustration mounts, swindled by the audacity of the high table, dominik gains an advantage. his hips shifting up to propel cody, his arms lean and tight and trapping over cody's and rolling. 

"you three piece suit, hugo boss wannabe wearing motherfucker", dominik's face bloody and angry. his fists balled and quick as he comes down against cody's face. 

the impression of the pen presses into cody's thigh. memory and dexterity working like a trained muscle. amidst the  barrage of fists, cody reaches for the sleek ball point pen. clicking the tip and rushing it into dominik's side. harsh vicious stabs till the pain takes hold enough for him to hesitate. plunging the inky tip into his neck, where blood flows to gush. breaking up out of his skin. choking on air and the pain of a slow to come death. 

"bulletproof three piece suits asshole", cody roughs out. kicking dominik for satisfaction. 

if you're not dead in the next 30 minutes, meet me there

the loft is the same. unadorned by that uncanny but natural weathering of time and neglect. warm homely autumn inspired tones with splashes of green and hand carved wooden furniture. cody ever the horrendous sucker for hand carved shit. an intimate union of labor and passion. ever the reflection of a once lively relationship. carefully cultivated, ending poorer than a bastard dying with his eyes wide open. because when you go that way, you deserve it. but cody? his passions didn't deserve that violent abrupt end. and yet here he is, creeping past the entrance. a painful stuttering of footfalls as he goes. muscles sore and his skin on fire. 

dominik mysterio was a warm up. a warning even. the call must've went out. a bounty worth enough for people to try him. the train ride to tribeca interestingly violent. a woman with a knife, a man with a gun and another thinking his bare hands were some great unstoppable force. and no, cody did not make quick work of them. not as quickly as he would've liked. but he managed. and at the very least, he'd suffered a slitting cut to his cheek and a laceration to his chest. that piece of shit running the blade right through his tattoo. some maybe secondary bruising and a bad headache. but he's not dead. not like the idiots that tried and failed to kill him. 

the loft, much like the continental hotel, is agreed upon neutral ground. a place for trysts and the sharing of information. or rather, thats what it used to be. now, cody isn't so sure. 

and his limping is pathetically loud. shoes a heavy clack against the floor. makes him bristle annoyed. you stand just behind the kitchen island. wine bottle opened. a glass in hand as you sip. more beautiful than he remembers. soft looking still, your eyes casting over the rim as you sip, undeniably deceptive. 

a gun lays easy on the coffee table sat between two couches. too easy. but his displeasure gets the best of him. he shifts for it quickly. a swift up of his hands positioned about the gun, aiming for your face. 

you knew his whereabouts. so much so that you knew the whereabouts of the people trying to kill him. taking the chance to trust could cost him his life. and cody quite likes his life. 

"you had me scared a little bit". a gentle float of words. a finger dancing along the rim of the wine glass. a daring stare down the barrel of the gun. "i thought you got bested by a second rate mysterio". and when cody doesn't move, captured by pain, caution and the mystique of your presence, your eyes roll. his form fixed and perfected. trigger finger cool, but his heart unsure. "cut the melodrama. put the gun down cody". 

"you knew i was being followed", he clips. jaw tight. 

"i mean...duh...", you give. dry and teasing. finishing your wine. "half of that was me, and lets not be silly", covering the length of distance between your bodies slowly. a stalking patience. a fierce feline approach. "you shot a bullet through the skull of one of thee most important men. finding out don't come cheap when you fuck with the high table". 

"everybody seems to forget I had to bury my father", the barrel of the gun kept high with perfect aim as you near closer. "killing that sack of shit was just me evening the score". 

"i didn't kill your father cody". 

was that sincerity? empathy? a sudden waft in of warmth after years in the cold. it felt unreal. true but unreal. and he was sure it wouldn't last. 

"obviously", cody bites out. 

your forehead nestles against the barrel of the gun. his memory overwrought. his senses in a frenzy. a horrible mixture in his skin of pain and elation. steeped with the fear of having to endure another sudden vanishing. angry that such an endurance was his portion in the first place. 

"so then why is the gun still pointed at me?"

his fixed form eases. your hand slipping the gun from his hold gently. fire over his skin as you touch him for the first time in five years. a deft maneuvering about the cold heavy metal to expose the contents of the magazine. amusement coloring your eyes and spreading over your mouth for a teasing little smile. 

"they're blanks anyways", emptying the magazine as the faux bullets fall to the floor. your hand settling down the gun and its magazine on the coffee table. leaving him in an exasperated awe as you head toward the kitchen. "just wanted to see how thin your patience has worn". 

your chin jutting over to the couch. hands full of medical supplies as you pad over to him softly. his body aching and slow as it rests into the tender leather seating, but moving without delay still. always under the gentle charm of your voice, his being falling under this servile sort of subjection. making him bristle silently within himself. all that time and distance amounting to nothing for his resolve. 

cody surrenders. mind over matter no longer needed. succumbing to the full weight of his pain. hair messy with red droppings of other peoples blood. his muscles sore and the hammering about his skull diligent and taunting. 

"my pain has always been a funny little joke to you". 

you pull the coffee table closer to the wide spread of cody's legs. your own slipping over to straddle the strength of one of his thighs. your body warm and comforting against his skin. an old feeling blooming in his chest. you were doing this on purpose. he's sure of it. to see him waver and yield to the charm of your presence. gentle touch dabbing to rid his cheek of dried blood before you went about cleaning the wound. his fingers itching to form to your body, desperate to push dull nails into your skin again. to form in and caress with the intent to renew his memory. 

your eyes flit to his crotch. "its a lot more than little. give yourself some credit", you muse. applying butterfly stitches. 

the air is thick. forces him to maintain a steady breath. memory overwrought once more. a mighty rushing in that heats him whole. your hands working his button up open. the lax take of your palm to his belly forcing a throb to the crux of his thighs. the closing in of the distance makes for easy intimacy. a registration of the lesser noticeable, more complex things. the prick of your nails telling familiar stories, as they work to rid him of the shirt all together. tender and caring, similar to how they used to be. your eyes roaming and thinly glazed over. he spares a glance at the wine bottle. halfway done. your ministrations functional but indulgent of the moment. of his skin.

a quicksand sort of state of affairs. if he doesn't pull himself together now, he would fall into you. full consumption. and he can't possibly risk his life because he's half hard and overdone with sentiment. 

"how long have you been following me?"

you apply something like a salve after cleaning the nasty chest wound. an anesthetic. how sweet of you. to suddenly take his pain into consideration.

"a few months". 

"why am i not dead?"

your body adjusts a top of him. somehow closer. your knee nearly running into his crotch. "yet", you give. beginning the process of suturing. "the question everyone wants to know is why is cody rhodes not dead yet". breaking shortly to peer over him. a full examination it seems. heat rising in his cheeks. "cause he's no john fuckin wick. so why is he still here". pressure of the needle feeding into his skin. your lip tucking under your teeth in full concentration. "people don't know resilience is the bane of even your own existence. a little meat puppet made to take push pins". 

he scoffs. "this doesn't feel like a compliment if it is". 

you finish off the suture. a hesitant but delicate maneuvering off his thigh to rid of the medical supplies. the heat of you gone in an instant. "its an observation". the uncorking pop of that half drunken wine bottle. a generous crimson pour that you sip at. 

"on what basis exactly?" 

a whipping swing of kitchen cabinet doors. a bottle of brandy and a short glass. for him it seems. and the pained parts of him grow excited at the possibility of a simple taste. anything for a temporary fix. something to numb the burn in his bones. 

"very close encounters".

and no you don't dip into the leather to sit beside him when you return. you assume a much more compromising position. a full straddle of his legs as you gift him his little amber colored remedy. and if at any moment he ever thought he needed it and actually didn't, let this be the moment where that edgy spike to his tongue becomes essential. something to help him as he searches for a secure hold at control. and of course he drinks it all. an easy burning slip against the back of his throat as he feels the heat of you settling back into him. once dormant urges awakening in his fingers. supple thighs lined up over his kevlar woven dress pants. the baggy button up you'd decided was good enough for his visit thin and something like revealing. the other details left to his imagination. and God was that prone to running at any moment. tripping and falling away from him well enough till his crotch became to uncomfortable to bare the perfect fit of his pants. your empty hand returning to where it'd been. roaming tenderly against slow but steady bruising skin. his nose picking up the sweet wine on your breath. the glaze about your eyes. thighs over him, clenching slightly. 

"you were always a little too indulgent with the wine", cody gives. 

your eyes flitting to his crotch again. bulge more prominent. the teasing of your nails inching over past his navel. your throat humming. "and you with me". 

"don't think much of it". an attempt made in vain he thinks. feeling the hard throb of himself as soon as the words leave him. "it tends to happen. adrenaline from almost dying multiple times", his thigh knocking up into yours to grab at your attention. tipsy eyes drifting to the cold blue of his. "now spill. why am i still breathing?"

"because the number isn't high enough yet". another sip of wine before turning to rest it at the table. your hands free to run over the muscle of him. about his shoulders till your thumbs are caressing at his nape and the hard cut of his jaw. and that nearly drives him to insanity. the weight of you resting right where he pulses with life. "i take your head now, i'd be settling. and the game of it all ain't that fun right now anyways. its too amateur hour-ish for me. i wanna battle it out with the adults". 

"im flattered", cody deadpans. 

you smile. thumb soothing over his lip. "as you should be". 

"why else", the pulse about his blood wild. an unadulterated beating that coaxes to life the run off of his imagination. his touch a staggering grip at your jaw. pulling your eyes to him. lowly sat pretty brown eyes with a penchant for doing him inexplicably dirty. but they draw him in all the same. his stomach empty. filled with nothing but the slosh of brandy. cody feeds into the daze of it. the possibility of a buzz. your lips a breath from his. desire on your tongue by way of the sweet smell of wine. "talk".

your hips shift over him. a rut into the fabric. friction to appease the ache, he's sure of it. thin panties and the desperate curl in of your nails. running into his scalp. trying to persuade him with tender touches and the charm of such wanton need. and its working. fuck, itsworking well. had worked some time ago and doing well now just the same. because cody, despite such deadly skill, was not immune to this type of torture. could not battle it with stalwart patience or dapper precision. and as you rut against him again, mind clouded by wine and your own intent, his fingers burn to touch you more. not so simple and plain but disgustingly greedy. his lips smooth against the seam of yours. amber brandy and red wine a near perfect melding together. 

"fuck", you relent. your nose knocking soft into his. laughing with a wry sort of amusement. "it would stroke your ego to a nice little finish if i did say it wouldn't it?"

cody hums. slips his hold till its anchored about your neck. measured in its pressure. his tongue licking to wet his lips. the slight of it forcing a tremble into your body. 

maybe his suffering isn't a lonely one after all. 

you whimper. taking a hard swallow. 

"vindicate me", cody rasps. 

your struggle is apparent. surfaces with a tear that stains your cheek. body undone by the defeat of such an intimate admission. 

"i miss you", fragile and nearly unclear. 

he smiles mirthless against the soft ways of your skin. his nose buried into the dip of your neck. "i don't trust your sentiment".

"it's true cody". 

"she says, after admitting she wants to kill me".

"better me than someone else". your fingers abandoning him to grip into the leather of the couch. a tight take to it that fastens your body into him. your mouth lax as your lips slip over his. the tease of a kiss filled with too much tension to bare. "touch me", you give. a plea and a command all the same. 

his fingers working in swiftly, a firm obedience, cupping your cheeks to steady the wild go of your tongue as it snakes to slip at his. a frail whimper singing from your chest and the return of your sharp nails. digging against his scalp to bring him impossibly closer. nearly suckling his tongue whole as your hips rut at him again. a less cautious shifting as you look for harsher friction. the pain of a murderous sort of labor and the pleasure of touching you again warring over the tenderness of his skin. coaxing him to groan and wince. strong, tired fingers forcing your hips to rock over him. an easy, stable grind along the hard bulge of his cock that leaves you living without the proper brilliance of words. reduced to the struggle of too pleasured moans. 

your teeth prickling and sharp as they snag against his lip. fingers deft, undoing his zipper. the heat of him hard and throbbing dangerous. his headache out done by more pressing matters, hazy and his senses going numb with lust. palms persistent, sinking into supple flesh. and fuck does it feel good. even better when his patience thins. fingers stretching the fabric of your panties till they tear. the slick way of your arousal making for an easier pace. a sweet teasing slip through your slit. his imagination wild and unfettered. even the thought of slipping in to have his full way with you enough to twist the base of his belly. groaning into your mouth.  

fire in his fingers as they pull against the fat of your ass. sweltered skin sweet in his palms. forming with every push and spread and pry that he gives. 

your mouths depart. a hesitant slipping away. breaths heavy. your face hiding in the dip of his neck. your pussy messy. bewitching even as you grind mindless into him. an undulating heat over his skin. "cody", a mantra as it travels to slight the beating of his pulse. 

the tell tale trembling in your body. a breath away from bliss. and he can feel the build in his bones. the return of an ache thats been transformed. throbbing and restless. an urgency he works to relieve. and with it so does your mouth. less desperate to consume him. melting to linger at his lips. breathy and stuttered. 

"right there angel", he gives. a whisper against your lips. corralling the last bits of resolve to break. your hips stuttering but caressing faithful still. coming undone. rutting greedily to grasp at the last bits of pleasure.

and here he finds that charming sort of relief. an unfurling warmth about his skin. snatching your body into him as he strokes against you and throbs, coming undone. release pooling and spurting against the baggy button up you'd worn to tease him with. 

your lips finding his again. needy still. and he accepts without wait. ready and willing. your moaning along his tongue delicate and wispy. reminiscent of a memory once forgotten. new york. september 2019. cody cups your face again. thumbs dusting over the apple of your cheeks. on a mission to stain himself with this moment. sweet red wine mixed with aged brandy. 

she was getting to be a lil too long so i had to break her up! but how do we feel about our little hitman?

[a-zimt]

Vampire Wick for World Dracula Day (May 26)

(Just posting my drawings again to keep them here.)

[cuddleyhoney]

John wick x reader headcannons

Intense Eyes: John’s gaze is incredibly intense, especially when he’s in the mood. He has a way of looking at you that makes your heart race, his eyes darkening with desire and sending shivers down your spine.

Teasing Touches: John loves to tease you with light, lingering touches. He’ll brush his fingers along your arm or thigh, creating a delicious anticipation that drives you wild.

Whispered Words: John has a deep, gravelly voice that he uses to his advantage. He’ll lean in close and whisper dirty words in your ear, his breath hot against your skin, making your knees weak.

Steamy Showers: John often invites his partner to join him in the shower, where the steam creates an intimate and sensuous atmosphere. The hot water cascading over their bodies heightens the experience, making every touch and kiss feel even more electric.

Gentle Care: Despite his tough exterior, John is incredibly tender when he showers with his partner. He takes his time washing their hair and body, his strong hands moving slowly and deliberately, turning a mundane task into an act of love and affection.

Shared Moments of Vulnerability: In the shower, John lets down his guard completely, showing a side of himself that few get to see. The vulnerability of being naked together under the warm water deepens their emotional and physical connection.

[palalife]

John Wick AU 🔫 entirely unplanned quick doodle after watching the movie and I did in attempt to draw cooler Akechi (I failed)

(Read from right to left)

No need to know a lot (bc I don’t remember lore that much):

- Excommunicado: who is expelled and has a price on their head in the criminal underworld

- The High Table: the council that controls the order of said world

- Akechi is a hit man assassin that’s extremely hard to kill and very good at killing people, very famous

-PT is a major family power in the criminal world. No one outside knows what Joker looks like.

So yeah I feel P5R to John Wick isn’t a big jump lolll

Something would be fun to draw but maybe later: since Akechi has a price tag on his head, everyone is chasing after him and Joker gets super mad and jealous because Akechi is his 😡 how dare these people trying to touch his bf

[zimtlove]

Tell me it's time for all this New Year's stuff already

[boredth]

A fuckin' pencil straw

[leosxrealm]

lando norris x male! assassin! reader

don’t have a fic but i do have a moodboard for it. based on this

[greenmanalishi]

[imagine-lcorp]

Bullet for My Valentine (Part I)

A/N: Hi my little darings, well as promised (a bit late, I know...) here's one fic of the ones I wrote as a thank you, to all of you who helped my friend by liking their little FB post, and even if you didn't have the chance to support them, I hope you enjoy this little piece. This has been in my WIPS for ages. Let me know what you think!

Lena Luthor x R/John Wick AU //Word Count:2,759 

-------------------------------------------------------

Lena's lunch time started with a bang.

She didn't think too much of it at first as she was sitting at her desk and about to enjoy her food. But then another couple of bangs followed and she knew it hadn't been just loud sounds. She called Jess immediately but even her amazing assistant was unaware of what was happening.

"I don't know, Miss Luthor, I'm trying to call security but it seems-" A louder bang interrupted Jess, and she yelped in response.

"Jess!" Lena called, but she could hear nothing on the other side.

She left the phone, making a run for her purse, which she had left on the couch of her office. Inside, she recalled with regret, she had left the watch Supergirl had given her in case of emergency, and this one was very much it. Lena reached her it and rummaged frantically on her bag until she found the watch, but her office doors burst open before she could press the button.

You had kicked them open, keeping your gun raised as you entered and pointed at each corner of the room until your eyes found her.

"Don't move." You ordered, keeping your eyes on her to take in every single detail available to you. You noticed the watch and quickly understood what she was trying to do. You cursed mentally as you tried to catch your breath.

This wasn't how you had planned your day.

It had started as a quiet morning. You had been sitting in the kitchen table of your apartment, sipping from your cup while you read the newspaper.

The headlines praised the Girl of Steel once more, for keeping National City safe after fighting another group of rouge aliens and for helping locate several warehouses that participated in shady business. You had scoffed a bit at it. If only the Girl of Steel knew the intricate system that truly ruled over the cities she protected, she would have needed ten more like herself to barely grasp its surface.

You kept reading the news, dwelling for those moments of peace that life conceded you before you had to travel again, looking for your next target, unaware that your day was about to change drastically.

The bell of your apartment door had rung a couple of times before you answered and were surprised to find no one at the door. Instead, as you looked outside you noticed an envelope on the floor with a red wax seal you recognized instantly. You reached for it and opened it.

Inside you only found one thing. A little note that read: Quod Debitum Sanguine, you have one hour (Y/N). That was all you need to know to get ready. There was a debt you had to repay.

"Miss Luthor, if you appreciate your life and that of your friends, you will not press that button." You raised a brow at her and green defiant eyes looked back at you.

"And why is that?"

"Because they will die, and you too, if you don't listen to me." You kept the gun up and pointed at her hand. You were ready to risk a piece of her if that meant at least she would remain alive.

"Lower the gun and I might consider it."

She was trying to bargain and although you didn't have time for that, you felt like you had to play your cards as best as you could.

"Your father sent me, Miss Luthor." You said, and that seemed to confuse her enough that her attention was completely on you. "I wish I could explain further but we're running out of time."

"Where's Jess? My assistant?"

"I told her to leave. All your security has been compromised." You lowered your gun slowly, raising the hand that didn't hold the gun to show her you had nothing else on your hands. "I mean no harm. I know it doesn't look like it but you can trust me."

She seemed to ponder it for a moment even against all logic and reason of what she shouldn't. What finally convinced her you meant no harm was the way you handed two men as they entered her office with guns raised at her. Lena saw them come after you first but your reflexes were faster. You dodged one coming right after you as you shoot the other in the chest. The latter fell right to the ground as the bullet hit him. The one that remained tried to point his gun at you but you were faster and shot him twice, once in the foot and once in the stomach, leaving him too to agonize on the floor.

"There's more coming." You said regaining your composure, unfazed by the splatters of blood around you, and looked at her. "We have to go."

"Where are we going?" It was all Lena said before following you.

Whatever was happening, she figured it was best to have someone like you by her side, although she had preferred for you to use a less violent method. However, she quickly understood that wouldn't have been possible as more and more men keep coming for you while you were on your way down to the building. You took down a dozen before taking the elevator that lead to the underground parking lot and she didn't know if to be impressed or fear for her life, this time for real. But you had had many chances to end her and yet, you were doing the opposite, keeping her alive.

"You said my father sent you. How? Who are you?" She asked while you waited for the elevator to go down and open its doors.

"My name is (Y/N), (Y/L/N), I met your father years ago, I owe him." You kept yourself a bit busy counting the bullets left on the cartridge of your gun.

"Well, he passed away quite a few years ago too. I doubt he would care for you to pay him back." She said and you smiled, shaking your head.

"It's a bit more complicated than that." You said without adding more.

"I still don't know why I can't call for help."

"I know you have very powerful friends, Miss Luthor, but they are no match for this." You said as you changed the cartridge of your gun, getting ready. "Your head is worth a lot of money at the moment, all the people coming after you, they won't stop at anything until they put a bullet through your head."

"Some of my friends are bulletproof." She replied crossing her arms. "They could help us a little."

You scoffed. "If you mean the almighty Girl of Steel, they have Kryptonite bullets already in store for her."

Lena frowned and looked at you with suspicion. "How do you know about Kryptonite?"

"I have a lot of explaining to do, I know, but now is not the time or place." You looked at the elevator panel, there were only a couple of floors before you reached the parking lot. "I have to take you somewhere safe first."

"Where, exactly?" Lena watched as you raised your gun. The elevator had arrived and it was a moment before the doors opened.

"You'll see. Now, find cover." You said and as soon as the doors parted you lunched forward, essentially shooting everything that moved your way.

After managing to leave a little trail of bodies in the parking lot, you decided you had to hurry up. You had been hit by a bullet on your left arm, nothing too serious, a scratch for you really, but you still felt yourself losing energy. More assassins were on their way, no doubt, and you had little time to carry out your plan. Lena didn't ask more questions as you broke the window of a car and opened it. You both needed a ride and you didn't care what the options were. You and Lena got inside the car and you drove to the only place you knew was safe enough for the both of you.

"Welcome to the Continental. How may I help you?" The receptionist smiled as you approached her desk, looking you up and down discreetly.

"Good morning." You said with a little smile. "One room please." You took something from one of your jacket pockets, placing the object on the counter, sliding it to the receptionist.

Lena, who was standing a step behind you, looked at the exchange with curiosity and amazement. If she had seen you entering her hotel lobby looking like that, full of sweat and with bloodstains all over your clothes, with a car almost destroyed outside due to the mortal chase you had barely managed to escape, she would have called the police immediately.

Instead, she saw the receptionist take a thick golden coin from your fingers and slide it under her desk and look at you both with the most charming smile.

"A double room would be alright?" The receptionist asked and silently hoped you wouldn't call the laundry service. The big stains of blood on your clothes wouldn't come off easily.

"That would be nice, thank you." You nodded. "The doctor?"

"I'll send him to your room." The woman said and handed you a key. "Enjoy your stay."

You thanked her once more and walked to the elevators, with Lena following behind as she had done since she left her office with you.

The world had changed around her in a darker shade she didn't think was possible. You were a cold blood assassin protecting her and the people around you, the people there in the hotel, that she guessed was a fancy facade, barely batted an eye at your appearance, as if they were used to seeing people in that state all the time. A million questions were swirling in her mind, but she decided it was best to ask once you had been attended by the medic, that arrived shortly after you reached your assigned room.

She got checked first, and you were glad she hadn't been hurt too badly, only a few bruises and little cuts from all the debris you had left behind.

"Are you ready to tell me what's going on?" Lena pulled the chair where the doctor had been stitching you up and sat with her arms crossed. Her determined expression told you she was quite done with everything going around.

You grunted, feeling still sore from the chasing and the fight of the morning, and poured yourself a glass of bourbon the reception had so kindly sent for your pains. You poured some in another glass for her, placing the glass in front of her.

"Long story short, someone has put a price on your head. A bounty of 30 million dollars to the first mercenary that puts a bullet through your head." You took a mouthful of your drink and looked at her, waiting for her reply. She didn't touch her glass.

She raised a brow at you. "Who?"

"I don't know...yet." You shrugged. "But I'm sure we'll find who soon."

Lena looked at you with very inquisitive eyes. "And why are you protecting me?"

You sighed. It was time for explanations. "We are both here because of Lionel..."

You started in the criminal underworld as a young and reckless amateur but full of ambition. You had been always good at it, managing to survive in this ruthless world since you were a child. You had been lucky one of the crime bosses that ruled over National City got an interest in you.

You had raised quickly to the ranks and when you were old enough to fend for yourself you realized you wanted to be a bit more independent. Your boss didn't like the idea that much but decided to give you the change, not believing you could make it outside his business and he had been quite right once you left his side. Trying to get a contract, a killing order, was difficult even if it was open for everyone. You needed contacts and a chance, and it came in the form of Lionel Luthor.

There was a moment, years ago when his business started to struggle. Government officials were on his tail, trying to take him to the court over inconsistencies in his security protocols, trying to accuse him of espionage and such. It was all nonsense. Behind it all there was one person moving the strings, a very high official also involved in some shady business, and Lionel hated them enough to want them dead.

"I went to your father and offered my services." You poured yourself another finger of bourbon. "He refused, but I made him an offer of my own. If he put the contract and allowed me to take it, I would offer him a Marker. A sort of promise, sealed with blood, that would allow him to ask of me anything in the future. I would do it, with no questions asked, with no refusal, to repay his kindness."

"So he did." She finally took the glass you have poured for her and looked at the bottom of it.

"Yep." You took a sip of your glass and shifted in your seat.

"So what? Did he ask you to protect me before his death?" She tilted her head and took a sip of her drink. "How considerate."

You scoffed. "Believe it or not, he kind of did. Apparently he included his assets from all of this in his last will. He left you my Marker and a last request for me." You sighed. "If there was ever a contract opened for you, I was to protect you from everyone that came after you until they pulled it off, or in its defect, kill the idiot that opened the contract in the first place. That would automatically cancel it, unless there is another person to push it forward."

You downed the last of your bourbon, placing your glass back on the table, and looked at her.

"And you're doing this just in good faith? Because you have a debt with my father?"

"I am." You frowned slightly. "Look, miss Luthor, I sure all this seems a bit surreal but here's something you have to understand. This world has its own rules, and those rules must be obeyed. Some of those rules are, one, no business within Continental grounds, and two, that every Marker must be honored."

You explained raising two fingers at her.

"The first rule is very simple, and it will explain why I brought you here. This hotel is a sort of save haven for people like me, the golden rule demands that everyone who stays here must not participate in any contract, no matter how tempting. So it means you're kind of untouchable right now. No one will dare to kill you unless they have a death wish of their own."

"You can do that?" She said surprised. "Bringing a target here?"

"Honestly, I don't know but so far it seems it's working for us." You leaned back in your chair. "Now, about the Marker...I have to complete your father's request so you, if you'll be so kind, can seal the other part of the Marker and finally free me of it. Otherwise, I'll be considered excommunicado, meaning I'll lose all kind of privileges and protection and be killed on sight. If I don't get killed first, of course."

"Well, I would very much like to help you and free myself of this." She put her glass on the table too and looked at you with the most unimpressed expression. "Unfortunately, I don't have your Marker. My father never mentioned such thing, and I don't think I've seen it."

"I know." You nodded slowly. "You must claim it first, with management."

"I have to call the Manager?"

At that moment, the black landline phone in your room started to ring. You both turned to look at it and you grunted as you pulled yourself from your chair to answer, you were barely feeling better. You raised the speaker to your ear and listened. Lena observed you hum and reply, some times with a yes or a no, and end the call shortly after.

"Well, you won't have to call him. We are booked for dinner with him tonight, at seven." You returned to your chair and sighed. "Let's make sure to wear something nice."

She scoffed and downed the last of her drink. It was turning to be a very interesting day.

[a-zimt]

Just posting my drawings again to keep them here.

[realitidoll]

Pretty little angel.

Stepdad!John Wick

TW: stepcest, smut, dark themes.

 

“Shh, pretty baby. Your mom’s sleeping, we wouldn’t want to wake her up, would we?” John lowly whispers in your ears as he thrusts aggressively in and out of your pretty, sensitive cunny. You shake your head no as you desperately try to fight back tears. You can’t stop yourself from letting a few whines and whimpers escape your lips. 

John isn’t someone who talks a lot, but when it comes to sex with you? He talks you through it, throws a few praises here and there. Sometimes he enjoys degrading you just to see tears forming in your pretty eyes. “You’re such a naughty slut, but it’s okay. You’re still my pretty angel.”

Before your mom brought your new stepdad home, you were her innocent little angel. A few weeks after meeting John for the first time, you would often find yourself grinding against the plushies he gifted you in the middle of the night. Of course, you were too old for these kind of toys, but it didn’t stop you from enjoying them. You were full of sin; greed, lust… but could anyone really blame you? 

You can’t really remember how it happened, but one night you just found yourself lying naked under him, his huge cock stuffed deep inside you, tears falling from your eyes because your tight virgin cunt couldn’t handle that kind of size. Since that night, it has become an usual occurrence between you and your lovely stepdad to play naked under the covers whenever your mom wasn’t home. 

“P-please be gentle… it hurts!” You managed to say in-between moans and cries. You knew John had heard you, he just kept harshly pounding you. In fact, his grip on your thighs tightened when you asked him to be gentle. You were sure you’d find a few bruises there in the morning, but of course you wouldn’t mind. Bruises were a constant reminder of who you belonged to.You love the pain he causes from fucking you hard into oblivion. You beg him to slow down, to be gentle, but in reality, you just love it. It hurts so good. 

His big hands leave your thighs and he leans over you, hands now holding him up. John gently places his lips on yours to shut you up, his pace not slowing down. “What would your sweet, naive mom think of her pure, innocent little angel if she saw you like this?” He taunts. You couldn’t help but clench around his cock upon hearing those words. Everyone still thinks you’re an innocent, pure girl. Everyone, but John. 

“J-john… I’m going to-“ not even able to finish your sentence, your tight cunt clenches harder on his cock and you feel that familiar knot in your stomach. His thrusts get sloppy and faster.“I know, baby. Me too.” He says as he kisses your neck. You both feel your release come at the same time. He doesn’t instantly pull out which makes you feel a tiny bit overstimulated. Finally, you feel empty as he pulls out. Panting can be heard coming from the two of you. John looks down at your cunny and smirks as he watches his semen and your fluids drip down your thighs. 

“Goodnight, pretty girl.” He whispers as he kisses your forehead. He hands you a little plushie he got you a while back, and you snuggle against it. You hate when he leaves at night, but you know your mom would freak out if she walked in your room and saw you two lying naked in bed. Half asleep, you find the strength to mutter a slight goodnight back to him as he leaves the room.