#john wick oneshote

[twistedbloodstain]

I have two ideas for the marquis de framing that I think you’d do great writing!

1: where the reader is interrogating the marquis (meaning she kidnapped him) and through there, they start to get feelings for each other

2: reader (who had a relationship of some sort with the marquis) fakes their death because they couldn’t take the assassin world. The marquis is devastated (lots of angst hehehe). They meet again while the reader is trying to help someone (maybe John, lol)

3: reader who is part of the high table meets the marquis for the first time. Sorta like live at first sight.

vincent de gramont x reader: i could never give you peace | what’s meant to be is supposed to be

plot: the one where he finds you again.

warnings: the reader’s a medic/healer in here SORRYYY…, she knew john from before, he rats her out lolz, kidnapping except vincent doesn’t do it this time..(yay! cuz he forced someone else to do it!!!), anon im so sorry i focused too hard on one part, i will do an extra (i swear)

masterlist

“stay still.” you mumble.

mr. wick lets out a small grunt while you sew his wound back together, nothing too fatal (at least in his standards) but without the help of any anesthesia or alcohol to soothe the pain, the assassin had no choice but to follow.

“don’t worry, it's almost done.” you whisper almost finished with patching up the flesh on his back. “and..there..”

he immediately gets off his seat and reaches for his shirt stationed on a random desk scattered with medical supplies. he digs into his suit jacket and fishes out a coin and hands it over to you, you accept it eagerly and begin cleaning up.

“you need any help with transport?” you inquire while you discard your bloodied gloves and utensils.

“yeah.”

“on your way out turn left and find the guy with a gray jacket. he’s one of winston’s men, he’ll help you out. where are you headed?” you inquire while washing your hands. he hesitantly answers before offering a reply.

“paris.”

“oh.” you stop in your movements and look at him. he stands near the door way all dressed up with blood caking his temples, he still looks rugged and in no shape to do what he has to do in pairs but your opinion likely doesn’t matter to him.

“good luck, i guess.” you mutter.

“you’ve been there.” he says.

“i..have.” you hope he doesn’t press any further.

“what’s in paris?” he questions but doesn’t take a step further.

“for you?” you uneasily say, he doesn’t reply.

“a dangerous man. i..think you’ll die trying just to get what you want, mr. wick. but hey, who knows? maybe, it’s now him.” you explain.

“the guy who had the continental demolished, was it him?” he sternly asks.

“..yes, i think it was him.” you confess, avoiding his eyes.

it had been almost three years since you left that country.

three years since you left him.

you can’t even bear to say his name because if you do, all of it will spill out. how he met you, how kept you and how he loved you. 

he nods, “and for you?”

“an even more dangerous man.”

 ever since mr. wick entered and left your clinic. you've been in a constant state of anxiety. the mere thought and mention of him had you nervous, especially when you heard that he was in new york a few days ago. you thought it was all over, that he found you and was going to rip you from your freedom in this city.

the following news shocked you to your core, the new york continental being demolished was not in your bingo card as to why he’d be here. all because of an excommunicated assassin which you had tended to almost a day after the bombing.

although you’re horrified with the state of events, relief flooded you when you realized he wasn’t there for you. you’d still be safe from him.

but you can’t help but think what all of this means for him. at some point, you know that john wick will kill him, and you somehow played a part in it. you feel a tinge of regret for him but it’s quickly overshadowed with the horrors he’s done and you don’t feel as bad.

he did like you though, when you still worked at france for him as his estate medic. whenever he found himself wounded in the line of fire in an ambush attack, you were the one who tended to his wounds and saw him at his weakest. you don’t know why but a strong sense of trust was established between the two of you.

you thought it to be a friendship but fleeting glances of affection would seep through when you talked or when a large bouquet of flowers suddenly appeared in your clinic after patching him up. 

you toyed with a pin he gave you, his insignia. only he wore it proudly on his coat and truly, it warmed you to him. he did make you feel appreciated, small touches on your back and sometimes fiddling with your hands whenever you sewed his wounds, gave you butterflies in your stomach.

with you he was just…vincent.

soft words and touches with soulful eyes looking into yours, just gentleness and affection present in him. it made you indulge into it too, that he isn’t the cruel man people made him out to be. he isn’t heartless, that’s just how the world is.

a naive perspective.

a perspective that was easily shattered when you’d hear a bloodcurdling scream from the barn, and he walks out with blood on his hands and a disgusted look on his face from his clothes being stained. gunshots echoing beneath the servant’s staircases and thudding bodies being dragged into the secluded forests of the estate. you whisper to yourself those very same words even if all his actions sent chills on your spine.

but the truth of it is that, he is heartless. he is the man people made him out to be and you’re a fool thinking he could be better for you but at the end of the day, he is still the marquis.

it made you think. what if this is all a game to him? what if the moment he finds you uninteresting you become another stain on his suit? 

it’s not a secret that men like him love having delicate pretty things only to break them apart. that’s all you are his current delicate and pretty thing.

you decided to leave. you weren’t staying long enough to find out what would happen to you, feelings be damned when you’re easily replacable to him. you knew that the marquis was like a dog to a bone when he didn’t get the things he wanted, which only pooled fears into your stomach should he find you in new york.

he cannot have you.

you stare at the pin before chucking the pin somewhere in the room, you get up from your chair and begin closing the windows from your clinic.

a knock comes from the door, you chuck the remaining medical materials into a random desk and walk up to the door. wounded assassins aren’t a strange occurrence at this time of the evening but something…felt different.

your gut was telling you to ignore the person on the other side and stay still. you thought that maybe if you didn’t answer the person would go away. wanting to play things safe you don’t mutter a word that would alert them of your presence. it usually worked in some cases.

the knocking persists, much harder and louder now. your hands begins to shake and your eyes start looking around for an emergency firearm to help defend yourself, your actions frantically halt when you hear a voice through the door.

“doc?” a gruff voice asks.

you sight and put a hand on your chest. it’s just john wick. you eagerly open the door to let him in.

“john.” you greet, “come inside.” you invite him as you walk inside.

john doesn’t follow you and a confused expression takes your face, until you take a good look at him. for the first time, john wick doesn’t look wounded to you, his face and hands void of any blood, a new bulletproof suit adorning his body, a french one you notice but it still leaves you questioning things.

“i’m assuming france went successful.” you say.

“…it’s close.” he pauses before replying, seeming as if he’s finding the right words to say.

“what do you need?” you question.

“it’s winston. he’s been shot.” you freeze.

oh dear. you never really approved of the things he did but a soft spot was always present for him and charon. they helped you settle here in new york, but winston took you in even when he knew of your history with vincent. you swore to always help him in ways you could and now the opportunity presented itself.

the car sped down the street with you and john in tow. you hold your medical kit close to your lap, feeling uneasy with the thought of losing the old man. charon had been so recent and you don’t think you bear to lose the friends you’ve made along the way.

you glance at john and he looks calm and composed as usual, eerily so. a week earlier he was calm but you could feel his anger and determination simmering underneath his skin. now it looked like he was taking a walk in a park. you eye him carefully, uneasiness seeping in your stomach.

“did they give it to you?” you ask, he looks at you before clearing his throat.

“just an extension.” he answers, knowing exactly what you were referring to.

“to do what?” you ask again, john doesn’t budge and continues driving, ignoring your question. your eyes stay on him but he doesn’t look at you.

silence settles into the car and you lean back in your seat. you really wish your brought your gun with you right now. you don’t know why but you have a feeling that something is wrong right now, especially with john. he’s not telling you something.

or maybe it really is none of your business. perhaps he wanted to spare the bloody details of how he’s going to win his freedom back. you relax and try to forget the uneasiness, trying to remember that winston is the priority right now, you shut your eyes. all of your fears are gathering together and it’s making you overthink your interaction with john, everything’s okay.

the loud sound of drilling makes you open your eyes, you look at the window and you see a familiar street. 

the new york continental was being rebuilt.

your apprehensiveness returns.

“john?” you look at him once again, “who shot winston?”

“he got hit during the line of fire.” this time he replies.

bullshit. winston would have an emergency plan before the shooting started.

“in new york?” you press.

“yeah.”

another bullshit. you could see through his lies, he’s clearly fresh out of france. what was he trying to do? 

“j-john.” you voice shakes almost as if you’re begging. something happened in france, something that saved both winston and john.

he looks at you with regret in his eyes. not enough to save you for what’s about to come.

“where are you taking me?” you sputter, your heart beating fast in anxiety, “i’ve done nothing but help you, please don’t do this!”

“he took winston with him and he found out.” he quietly defends.

“please help me, i don’t want to go back!” you begin crying, tears rolling down your face, “he’ll kill me!” 

he makes no reply and continues driving. with no hope left with him, you try to open your side of the door. he immediately notices this and grabs your arm trying to stop you from leaving, you begin hitting him with your other arm.

you know that he doesn’t want to do this but it feels so unfair. you’ve saved his life only to throw yours away.

“let go of me!” you scream.

“i’m sorry.” 

you feel a prick in your neck.

you feel a heavy sensation pulling at your leg, your eyes feeling groggy still wanting to keep your lids closed. however the sensation persists and this forces you to open your eyes and sit up.

a dark room welcomes you, only a small lamp helping you take a small look of where you are. specifically, on a plush bed and a decorated room. your body feels heavy  from exhaustion which makes you lean back to the pillow behind you.

pondering what made you feel so tired when you haven’t done much for the night, you’ve sewn back together…a pair of assassins for the night? or was it three? two austrians and…who?a french? no…no..it was winston. 

that’s right.

wait.

only you didn’t treat winston.

you bolt up, your body seemingly sobers from the realization.

john brought you here in exchange for his freedom. 

you look around to see some sort of presence in the room but with the darkness it was hard to tell, nevertheless you hopped off the bed and bolted to the wooden door nearby. no wonder the place looked familiar, only the marquis would have a place as frivolous as this.

you need to leave right now. your hand reaches for the door until you find your body being slammed on the floor. a groan leaves your throat, in pain you massage your forehead and look around.

oh goodness.

a gasp leaves your mouth when you see a chain wrapped around your ankle, you inspect your foot before tracing the lines of chains, which were sourced on the thick foot of the bed you were on.

you tug it to check its strength and to see how long it actually goes. it was long enough to walk around the room but not long enough to reach the door. this is basically your fully furnished torture chamber. 

fuck. fuck. fuck.

a loud creak echoes through the room.

you really hate how things are right now.

he’s going to kill you. kill you for leaving him, how you easily made him look humiliated for being abandoned.

feeling your knees weaken you sit back on the bed and your hands shake in trepidation. the marquis’ simple presence made you scared of him, you felt tears falling down once again and you lowered your head, not wanting to look weak right now.

his footsteps are heard through the room, the door loudly closes shut, a thud echoing. he doesn’t say a word.

you feel everything leave your body. hope,freedom and life mostly.

he walks up to you until you see his shoes on the floor, a blurry sight entering your eyes due to the tears, he touches you, tilting your chin upwards and you do everything not to flinch. was he going to snap your neck?

you look at him and he still looks the same, slightly more mature.

but the same man you met a few years ago, if you jumped back into your rose tinted glasses, you’d probably see the vincent you cherished at some point if you weren’t so frightened right now.

he inspects you, his eyes wandering through your face. searching for something that’s supposed to be there, his lips part almost as if he’s about to say something but you beat him to it.

“i-i’m sorry. i’m sorry.” apologies spill out of your lips, wanting to take the chance of saving yourself, “i-i’m so sorry! i didn’t mean to.” you cry. your hand reaches up to his hand that held your chin and you grip it for mercy, his hold on you weakens.

he doesn’t say anything and leans forward to you. you need him to say something, anything, whether it meant he’d simply say he wants yuu dead.

“please forgive me, just please don’t kil-“ he cuts you off.

with a kiss.

not a firm one but a surprisingly soft kiss on your lips.

he takes your hands into his and fiddles with it, trying to find his place in them just like before, he halts the kiss and leans towards your face. the man right in front of you wasn’t the marquis, it was vincent. 

your vincent.

the one with soft eyes looking at you with relief and adoration. the gaze that looked at you as if you were the most precious thing on earth, he wipes the tears on your cheeks and the next thing he says dissolves all sense of worry out of you.

“i could never hurt you.” he whispers.

author’s note: this kinda doesn’t make sense bc im so braindead rn to expand things but basically vincent finds medic!reader through winston and in exchange for the continental and john’s freedom, john brings medic!reader back to vincent. so basically she got ratted out lolz. this would work better if i made a vincent pov would be fun but i have a bunch of prompts to work on…(tempting) + he literally chained her down to him (hshshsh marriage allegory…) i kinda want to be funky dynamic of obsessed man + “ngl what’s wrong with this guy but i vibe with it” woman

[wishful-thinking-is-dumb]

Platonic Yandere John Wick - The Pickpocket

In which you try to pickpocket him.

You don’t know how you ended up in this man’s car, soaking wet from the rain and with a bloody nose. You sit in silence, and so does he. He doesn’t say a word to you while you sit there.

You thought he was drunk, they way he was stumbling down the street. Easy pickings, you had thought . You could take his wallet and he would barely notice.

But as you skillfully reached into his jacket pocket, the barrel of a gun pressed against the side of your head. You froze, your stomach dropping in fear. You were thrown to the ground, face first.

Your face hit the pavement, and a knee was pressed into your back. The man wasn’t drunk, he was injured in some way. You couldn’t tell because he was wearing a black suit, you couldn’t see any blood.

He still hasn’t said a word, gun pressed against the back of your head. You can’t move, his wallet clutched tightly in your hand.

“Who are you?” He asked, no emotion in his voice. He was cold blooded, like he would shoot without a second thought.

He sees that you have his wallet him your hand, and he huffs and rolls his eyes. He’s a bit relieved that you aren’t here for a job, but that you are some random pickpocket.

He takes his knee off of your back and he rolls you over so he can see your now bloody face. The gun is still pointed at your head, as a warning to stay still. You don’t notice that his finger isn’t even on the trigger anymore.

He reaches for his wallet in your hand and you immediately let go, in shock of what has just happened. You are terrified, and your face hurts. You think your nose is bleeding, or maybe it’s the rain?

He puts his wallet back in his pocket and he grabs you by the scruff of your sweater and pulls you to your feet with little effort.

“Please don’t kill me..” You say quietly, you fear that if you scream he will pull the trigger. He still has the gun pressed against you, now lower on your jaw. He doesn’t respond to your plea, looking over your face.

“How old are you?” He asks, still no expression or emotion in his words. The tears start to form in your eyes at this point, and he still doesn’t react.

“To young to be pickpocketing in this part of town.” He answers for you, the gun on your jaw if slightly pulled away, but you know that it is still there.

“Do you have any idea who I am?” He asks, glancing behind him for a moment before he looks back at you. You quickly shake your head, you’ve never seen him before. He scoffs, seemingly disappointed in you for pickpocketing him. Now your all caught up in his work, and you’ve seen him.

“You have no idea what you’ve just gotten yourself into.” He mutters as he starts to drag you back down the street, now gripping onto your upper arm. He pulls you along with him, the gun no longer pointed at your head, but you still don’t dare struggle.

He moves rather fast, as if someone is tracking him. He constantly surveys his surroundings, ready to use his handgun. You still think he’s gonna kill you, he’s taking you somewhere where on one will see him do it. But that’s what you think is going on.

“I’m sorry.. -“ you mumble, but he cuts you off by harshly shushing you. He pushes you against a wall and gunfire rings out.

You flinch and cover your ears as he uses himself as a shield for you. He fires back, and he hits the attacker dead on. The unknown attacker falls down dead, a bullet hole in his forehead. You breath out, eyes wide. You have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into.

“You’re fine.” He states to you, turning your gaze away from the body at the other end of the street by gripping your chin in between his thumb and pointer finger.

He stars to drag you again, to a part of the city with less people and less cars. He drags you to a sleek black car. A 1969 Ford Mustang Mach 1 to be more exact, he pulls the keys from his pockets and he unlocks the car.

He puts you into the front passenger seat first and he buckles you in himself. He closes the door and goes around the car to the drivers side , he gets in and buckled himself in. There is a moment of silence, and he puts his handgun in his waistband. He sighs, seemingly exhausted.

Your hands are shaking, you are in shock of the situation. He turns to you, getting a handkerchief out of his breast pocket. He reaches over the centre console and grips your chin again. He gently cleans up your bloody nose, no emotion on his face.

“You’re a mess..” he mumbles, you flinch when his hand pulls you closer so he can get a good look at the damage.

“Nothing broken, you’re fine.” He finally states, he puts the handkerchief in one of your hands in case your nose starts to bleed again. He starts the car and he peels off if the curb.

[monsoonsosoon]

imagine meeting John Wick at a classic car show...

rock music drifts through the crisp air as you stroll amongst the rows of beautiful cars, admiring their gleaming paint jobs, when you spot a particularly eye-catching one parked at the end. it's a grey Mustang, and you're just drawn to it for some reason. it stands out amongst the others

you approach it, in awe at its pristine state. the owner obviously takes great care of it. you lean into the open window, smiling as you take in the gorgeous interior and leather seats. caught up in admiration, you don't notice the handsome older man approaching from behind. the owner of the sports car...john wick.

"like what you see?" a deep voice mutters, startling you. you quickly rise from the window and turn towards the voice.

"oh, I'm sorry sir! I just...really love your car," you say softly, cheeks heating up when you make eye contact with him. wearing a brown leather jacket, a simple black t-shirt, and dark jeans, he looks deliciously rugged.

he chuckles as he leans against his car, looking down at you.

"no worries, I appreciate it. she's my baby," he responds.

"I-it's a Mustang, correct? 1970...?" you ask as you fidget with the hem of your shirt, squirming under his intense gaze.

"close. she's a '69," he replies warmly. you nod in reply, too shy to speak, creating a bit of awkward silence. he digs into his pocket, pulling out a set of keys.

"wanna go for a spin?" he asks, "you seem quite intrigued by her," he says with a small smile.

your eyes widen at the prospect of riding in the beautiful vintage sports car with an even more attractive older man. you bite your lip before nodding excitedly.

"i'd love to...thank you, mister..."

"wick. john wick. But you can just call me john," he replies cooly.

he walks towards the passenger door, pulling it open for you. you give him a shy smile as you settle onto the cozy leather seat. your heart pounds as he walks around the car to the driver's side. you take in his handsome features as he enters, catching a whiff of his alluring cologne.

you blush at his eye contact.

the engine roars to life, and your heart flutters at the powerful vibrations pulsing through the car. you grip the cool metal of the inner door handle, bracing yourself for the ride.

"hold on tight," john utters gruffly as he presses on the gas.

[the-abyss-of-fandoms]

John huffs as his hair falls into his face for the 5th time as he digs for his S/Os soon to be garden: For the last time….

Dog looks at John every time he huffs and mumbles:

Y/N notices John getting irritated with his hair as he works leaves the kitchen heading towards John

John notices their approach: What’s wrong

мое сердце? (stops moving their head as Y/N moves his hair back and puts something in his hair)

Y/N smiles happily at their work: There you go now you look cute and your hair won’t get in the way.

John looks at Y/Ns phone as they take a picture of him to see what they had done to him:

[thenervousmedic]

Got inspired to write again, mostly from @boredth's Vampire-Wick art (sorry for the tag <3) Seriously, go check out their work, their art style is immaculate and there's lots of fun AU stuff there too!

It’s just a short nearly 2k ramble for our beloved supernatural assassin. It was supposed to be a Halloween fic but i'ma little late aaaa happy late Halloween!

Summary: With a blood shortage hitting the Vampiric underbelly of the city, John finds himself no longer paying attention to the movie you'd come over to watch. [Fic below the cut] _____________

There are things you've learned since meeting John… little things. You weren't ignorant to the world sitting under your feet, not at all, the nightlife of the city had always been on your radar even if you personally didn't go digging into it.

Smartest decision of your life, really, to not go poking where others would readily risk themselves with delusions of grandeur; assume they won't be torn up and spat back out like any other powerless shmuck.

Still. What little you did learn was never not interesting, you'll give it that.

A lot of werewolves are more like weredogs than anything, there is still very much a way to summon demons (though not many are of the right bloodlines to do so), and vampires are very rarely accurately portrayed in the media.

He was staring again. You'd picked up on the subtle things, the minute expressions and inflexions in tone with his speech, so it didn't take long to realise this was the wrong type of staring. “... John.”

“Mm?” The way his eyes snapped to yours, narrowing as though they'd been a million miles away before his name had hit his ears.

He's usually so careful. So organised. The vampire population is substantial enough in the city that hunting is a thing of the past, with places like the Continental having under-the-table dealings with blood banks and hospitals, taking what they can spare. But lately… 

Shortages always hit hard, if he were a lesser man he likely would have already chosen an innocent bystander to tide over his hunger until the next stable arrangement could be made. But he wasn't. He couldn't be the lesser man, the world couldn't afford it.

“Are you going to tell me what's wrong?” You ask with almost trace amounts of caution. You were afraid of him, which was… good in a way. Smart. That doesn't mean it doesn't hurt a little to hear the mild concern flickering in your voice.

“Running low on rations is all,” He huffs, putting on a tired-looking smile that slips away as quickly as it had come, a courtesy really, trying to turn his attention back to the TV.

“Running low?” Oh, the concern in your voice was so painfully sweet. Like you'd been told someone was off their medication, the way you sat up a little for a more serious conversation, the movie was now a backburner to the topic at hand.

“Decrease in donations, increase in demand…” He has to take a steady breath, leaning his head into his hand to pinch and knead at the bridge of his nose. He's been listening to the steady cadence of your heartbeat over the dialogue in the film and the way it picked up ever so slightly was far more effective of an appetiser than he’d expected. “I'm sorry, I should've called off tonight.”

“No, it… it's fine-” You start, almost immediately backtracking with a quiet “Well it's not ‘fine’, obviously, but-”

So you were right, he was having some thoughts. Involuntary ones, albeit, and clearly not something he wished to subject you to. It made you ache in a way you didn't quite understand, not quite pity or sympathy, but something.

“I can help.”

The words slip your lips before you can really think them over, and you can almost see the way he bristles at whatever images that sentence puts into his head.

“No.”

“John-”

“No. I am not taking from you.”

“You're not taking, I'm offering.”

He has to look at you again to confirm you're really saying the words that he's hearing, and not just making up a narrative in his thirst-addled brain to justify his runaway thoughts. The thudding of your heart had picked up considerably, and though he knows you can't hear it, probably can't even feel it, the sound to him was a thunderous drumbeat like tinnitus. But the look on your face. The look on your face.

Determination in the twitch of your brow, worry in the backs of your eyes. Stubborn. Kind. But not stupid.

He didn't need to tell you that it’d hurt or that there was a risk of taking too much, he knew you’d gone through that conversation in your head already and weighed the pros and cons.

“You don't have to.”

“I know. I want to.”

John is no fool. There are implications he hasn't the mind to dig into right now but the truth of the matter is food is scarce and if he turns down a willing participant then there's no guarantee he'll find another before getting to the inevitable breaking point even his nigh-impregnable discipline has.

The look of resignation on his face must hurt you so, with how your shoulders gently slope before you pull off your jumper and work on rolling up your sleeve.

“Let me.”  His hands came to you with a sort of gentle reverie you hadn't seen from him before. He’d never treated you as delicate or fragile, but the way the roughened pads of his fingers took your wrist with nary a squeeze was almost feather light, pulling your sleeve back down to re-roll it much tighter, sitting like a makeshift tourniquet around your upper arm.

The pad of his thumb pressed to your wrist, feeling the consistent pulse inside before it pressed a little higher, and again a little higher, working up the inside of your forearm with measured precision. Searching for something.

The right spot to bite. Just below the inside of your elbow, that ever-so-soft zone between your sliding muscles that would repair fairly quickly and have the least risk of harsh damage. Somewhere the bruise that’ll likely last almost a week won't be a hindrance on your day-to-day.

John was one for eye contact, it could be both sweet and unnerving depending on his expression, but the way he looked now- Eyes affixed to your skin, still clearly restraining himself, and not once glancing up at your face as he moved to sit closer and angle you more comfortably…

“Sharp scratch.” His soft rumbling tone brought you back to your senses, tensing with a hiss through gritted teeth but making sure not to flinch when his teeth sank in.

You’d pricked yourself with pins and had many-a blood tests and injections, but those were small, thin, metal barbs. These were fangs. It felt like getting stuck with two shards of frosted glass, even with how gentle he was being, the spark of pain and flare of heat from angry flesh brought a little water to your eyes.

It took everything in him not to draw. To just allow the pressure to do the work as the thick liquid welled and spilt into his mouth.

He was so fucking thirsty, and this… gods above this outclassed bagged blood by a million miles. It was warm and full, untainted by excess adrenaline, with a flavour he knew likely existed in other willing prey but could only in this moment associate with you. 

His eyes rolled shut with a long languid breath, that hard line of his furrowed brow turning up and dissolving. The hand still holding your wrist up softly squeezing and relaxing, kneading as if on reflex, while the other he'd placed on your thigh to lean over only relaxed some weight onto you.

The worst of the pain was over, and though it still hurt the only thing you could focus on was how his frigid lips had made a seal over your skin and, though there was no sucking, his tongue had started to lave back and forth over the punctures between an occasional swallow. The anticoagulants in his saliva thin your blood, keeping the stream steady while a relaxed hum rose involuntarily from the back of his throat.

Your eyes had fallen closed too, you couldn't recall the point when they did but you could still hear the television playing. Your own heartbeat. Both the quiet gulps and sighs coming from him and, less pronounced but no less present, the near-silent breaths leaving his nostrils to ghost over your arm.

Was it minutes? Was it hours? It was hard to tell with your head getting light.

At some point, the warmth spreading from your shoulder and chest, pooling deep in the pit of your stomach, had been replaced with a strange coldness, like an ice pack. Your limbs were a touch shaky and your skin had gone pale, a pallor John seemed to take note of when he pulled his mouth away to check on you, pupils blown wide, jaw slack and hung open.

It's as though he’d stolen your heat, the fresh feeding having put some colour into his skin and warmed the usually corpse-like coldness of his hands, you could almost swear you saw huffs of vapour from his parted lips. “Dizzy?” He grunted, looking you over as he lowered your arm and moved your free hand to the bite to keep some pressure on it so he could go fetch a cotton ball or two to stem the flow and let it seal. “Lay down.”

With a quick trip to the kitchen and the foyer, a pair of towels were spread on the couch cushions under your arm, the wound was dressed with the gauze pads and secured with tape, and he'd set a bottle of high-fructose fruit juice into your hand. “You'll be tired. More so than after a blood draw, our bites contain a mild sedative. Makes prey… docile,” He murmurs, seemingly hitching on the word ‘prey’ as though it wasn't intended to be said aloud.

This was not what you were expecting when you come over for movie night.

When did the film end, anyways? Did the disc skip and start buffering, or had you just spaced out the whole time?

Everything is a bit hazy and not quite piecing together.

Sipping at the bottle, you make no attempts to get up and move, just watch him carefully as he walks back across the room to flick a button on the player. “... Can we watch The Thing?”

There was a pause, the slight reflectiveness of his red eyes catching the dim lights of the room in sharp contrast to the loose and almost content way he looked as he glanced back at you. “... Yeah.”

_____________

Hope y'all like that. here's the AO3 link if anyone wants it <3

[smuttyfantasyrecs]

John Wick

🦋 alone together 🦋

@ficsnroses

🦋 compliant 🦋

@thatfanficstuff

🦋 can it wait 🦋

@reevesdriver

🦋 bedroom window 🦋 wedding bells 🦋 burning desire 🦋

@fanficsrusz

🦋 dirty little secret 🦋

@fics-not-tragedies

🦋 santa baby 🦋

@fortheloveoffanfic

🦋 I licked it so it's mine 🦋

@ladyreapermc

🦋 motorcycle man 🦋

@keanuvibe

🦋 worn out 🦋

@iworshipkeanureeves

[snapeussy]

So, if I were to write a one shot where John wick starts seeing a person whose dog keeps escaping and ends up at his house and they fall in love and also the dogs are like best friends and it's all just fluff and dogs, would anyone actually read it??

[bluelolblue]

Lustrous Heartglow

Summary: It's Santino's and John's first Christmas together as husbands in their private home. With no one to interrupt them, they enjoy their time under the firelight, trying out some gifts, lost in each other and turning this night into something a lot more deeper, filled with endless pleasure.

Rating: Explicit

Relationship: Santino D'Antonio/John Wick

Note: This fic is a gift to @mrssimply for our 1 year anniversary of becoming friends! January 25th, I'm a little late with this gift since it took me longer than I thought (and the fic got long ehehe) but I also wanted it to be good and I really worked hard on it ;).

Thank you for being such a good friend, support, comfort and a beta reader to me, it means a lot to me and I really appreciate it more than I can express it. It's been a whole year already, I still can't believe that time passed so quickly and now we're here! I'm very glad I got to meet you and become friends with you :). You've helped me a lot, even before we knew each other when I was reading your fics, got me through rough times, really helped me a lot. Thank you again, I'll forever be thankful and I can't wait to share more with you! As another way to thank you, this is 11k words of lovely moments with our favorite dolls heheh, I hope you'll like it! >:] ❤️

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Snippet

The snow seemed to not slow down, heavy snowflakes coloring the outside of the private Wick D'Antonio mansion. While it looked beautiful, and it finally felt festive, the Camorra prince preferred staying inside with his husband by his side to stay warm with him.

The living room was nice and cozy with an added fireplace, making the room look more nostalgic and unique. It served a perfect purpose now, not only to keep the room heated, but to heat some other things up.

Not only that, but a special, hand picked by Santino, soft, fuzzy and white rug highlighted the area. It was in the middle of the room, near the fireplace and it was purposely placed there.

Their living room, aside from the bedroom, was one of their favorite places to spend time together. On the couch with warm coffee, tea or wine… or on the rug.

The blanket served no purpose at the moment, tossed messily on the side for later, and the sound of wet and slow kisses, followed by occasional praises and sighs of pleasure from the D'Antonio filled the room.

“Good, you're doing so well,” Santino praised, smirking down at John who was kneeling in front of his lover’s parted legs, glancing up at him as he pressed worshipful kisses over his thighs and hips. However, it wasn't that simple.

“Can I touch you now?” He asked quietly and looked up innocently at the Camorra prince who was sprawled on the couch as if he was sitting on a throne. John gave one more testing kiss on his inner thigh, too close to Santino's balls and his lover had to correct him.

Santino tugged on the leash, making the other man gasp and lean back to look at him. “No. Not yet. You said you'll be good and patient for me, remember?” He purred and caressed John's face, brushing his thumb near his lips.

“Yeah,” the other man sighed and nodded, adjusting on his knees as his dick, trapped in the cockcage, twitched as it desperately tried to grow more and the butt plug that shifted against his prostate made everything feel more intense. But John loved it. Loved that it was also pleasing his husband.

The Camorra prince smirked and hummed in satisfaction when John sucked a bruise on his inner thigh, claiming him and it was something Santino wanted.

“How do you feel? Think you can handle it?” He teased and pulled on the leash again.

John groaned, his fingers just inches away from Santino's balls and cock. “I'm okay. I think I can…” He paused to breathe out a soft moan when he instinctively moved his hips to feel the plug. “J-just… want to feel you.”

His partner chuckled softly at that, ruffling through his hair as if he were a dog, and he was his dog now. Leashed and waiting for commands. “Oh, John,” Santino murmured and patted his head, “You will, but don't rush me. You won't get anything like that. I gave you permission to mark me all you want, that should satisfy you, no?” He tilted his head playfully.

“Yes… right,” John agreed, even if he was very tempted to take his cock in his mouth and suck him even if he was half hard.

It seemed like Santino read his mind when he reached for his dick, slowly stroking himself, just an inch away from John’s cheek.

“Go on. I'm waiting.”

Read the rest on ao3

[cocaineskarsgard]

romancek oneshot is almost done.

[blackwolf-chan]

Blood and Cuddles♥️ (John Wick x reader)

TW: Swearing

You were sitting on the couch, watching the Titanic and eating ice cream with John. You two were just snuggling until you felt a sudden sharp pain in your abdomen. You quickly hopped up and booked it up the stairs to the bathroom and slammed the door. John had a confused look but decided to get up to check if you were alright. As he made his way up the stairs, he could you whimpering. John walked over to the bathroom door and softly knocked.

"Y/n? You alright, hun?" He asked with a concerned tone. There was no response other than the painful whimpers and groans from inside the bathroom. Luckily the door was unlocked so he can peek in and see if you were alright.

"Alright, I'm coming in" he gently said as he peered in. You were sitting in the empty bathtub, softly crying in pain. He walked in and knelt down beside the bathtub.

"You ok?" He asked

"It's just mother nature treating me like shit again" you said as you sniffled. He softly caressed you cheek with his thumb. It was his unique gesture reassuring that everything will be ok. John always loved to make you smile and feel safe.

"Maybe we could snuggle on the couch with some chocolate and a more relaxing movie. What do you say? He asked with a warm smile. You smiled and nodded. He then got up, picked you up bridal style and carried you back downstairs. You took two painkillers to help relief the cramps and then relaxed in John's arms.

You two enjoyed each other's company while watching "The Sound Of Music" and eating chocolate. You two were lucky to be with each other. Soon, you feel asleep in his arms and snuggled into him. He held you close.

"I love you babe. Always have and always will." You heard John said as you fell into a nice sleep

[kavalyera]

Mornings

Pair: John Wick/Helen Wick

Warnings: None

Word Count: 514

In another universe, we are living our best life.

Early morning, Helen is next to him on the bed. She snores, John knows that since early on in their relationship. It never really bothered him since it never compared to the noises of the underworld— his past which still lingered in the blank space of his eyelids when he closes them. Each blink a subtle reminder that he’s only here because of them.

John is usually first to wake up. Not from the alarm clock they set after agreeing on a certain together, but from the light of the sun peering in. It hits at an angle that’s directly shining into his eyes.

He turns to look at Helen, asleep in her white singlet and face buried in the pillows. Her sounds of sleep muffled into the cloudiness of their bed.

John can’t get up, he realizes quite quickly.

Helen’s leg is wrapped around his, knee curling at his thigh. It should be an uncomfortable position for Helen, but she’s still sound asleep. John removes the blanket off of him to fully understand how Helen’s leg is wrapped around is and how he can remove it without disturbing her. John puts his hand on her leg, slowly unwrapping it and laying it back down.

Mission’s a successful one like always, now John gets up from bed. He stretches his back and arms before going downstairs before the alarm clock goes off and wakes up Helen.

These mornings go like always, since they moved in together in New York. A rather suburban place in contrast to what people think of New York— a strictly urban landscape where the skyline can pierce the clouds, so easily reminding the gods that humanity can build better places than in the ancient world.

Mornings are a ritual. A habit and a routine that isn’t really written but it’s always done even when it’s not said.

John puts down two bowls, then cereal, then milk. The early morning lights peer in through the windows. Cars pass by and John can watch them as he puts in spoons for the two bowls. The home is quiet. Silence in every room as the warm temperature of the morning starts to settle in and diminish the colder condition of the night.

“G’morning, John…” John watches as Helen slowly comes down the stairs and to the kitchen. She seats herself next to John on the dinner table in the kitchen.

“Good morning, Helen.” John says back.

“Did you sleep well?” Helen asks him before spooning cereal into her mouth.

“I did.”

John’s been having sleep problems. Since a few weeks ago. But nothing pills and doctors can’t help. It’s been getting better. Hours adding more and more each day. John just has to sleep at an ordered time.

“That’s good.” Helen remarks before she’s off to eating. “You know, I was thinking about getting a puppy since we don’t really like children.”

“A puppy?”

“I think we can name her Daisy, no?”

“No, sounds perfect.” John says. “Daisy.” He repeats.

Mornings aren’t that bad.

[twistedbloodstain]

vincent de gramont x assistant!reader: because i dropped your hand while dancing left you out there standing. | the marquis catches a glimpse through you.

plot: the one where the marquis saw right through you.

warning: violence, gunshot, gunshot wound, doting

masterlist

12:00 AM

you got into the right side of the passenger backseat, usually it was the marquis’ place but he’d gotten into the left side and god knows he’s not scooting over for you.

it was his car after all. you sighed to yourself, attempting to veil the proof of your exhaustion. you had gotten up at 3 AM that morning for work and now it was midnight and the work was still unfinished.

“one last meeting, then the both of you can go home. you can welcome your plush bed and the warm purrs of your sweet fluffy cat.” you assure yourself. the man beside you seems worn out as well, the pair of you had been chasing meetings and appointments all day long. each meeting took at least 1-2 hours but with the marquis’ firm insistence to see an opera play which took about four hours, you can’t help but feel annoyed that this man’s taste had gotten in the way of your sleeping schedule.

the two of you were on the way to an estate of a newly made ally of the marquis. it would take at least thirty minutes or an hour to get there, you pondered what time you’d be able to finally rest.

you glanced at the marquis, gazing at the car window with a drink in hand. he appears to be holding on to the cusps of consciousness, he needs to appear sharp and alert with the help of an alcoholic drink. he kept quiet and the roaring of the engine was heard inside the vehicle. and it’s going to remain that way, you tell yourself.

god what you’d give for a quick power nap for this very hour, although you’re quite sure you’d sleep through the next day. however, sleep shouldn’t be your priority right now, the marquis needs you to be vigilant and sharp as well, no matter how tempting it is to sleep through this entire car ride.

“fuck, i feel like i’m about to pass out.” you complain to yourself, the temptation presenting itself more sweeter than it had been a few seconds ago.

you steal a quick glance at the marquis and he’s still..occupied looking through the car window. you might as well indulge in a quick nap, hopefully he won’t mind…right? and even if he does mind, no amount of verbal chastisement can amount to a quick rest.

you lean your head against the window, catching glimpses of the city lights and few pedestrians on the street. your eyelids fluttering from the sudden burst of light from other cars, tucking your hands on your lap. you drift to the sleep you’ve been yearning for.

a shaking wakes you up from your slumber, jolting from the action, you open your eyes wide open and see the driver shaking your knee.

“we’ve arrived” he announces.

you fix yourself sheepish from your unconsciousness, you quickly glance at the marquis to make sure he isn’t annoyed and thankfully he doesn’t seem displeased. the alcoholic drink was absent from his hand and he was checking something on his phone. you glance at your watch to check the time.

1:20 AM

you hope that arrival time was only a few minutes before that and it didn’t take several minutes shaking you conscious. realizing that you dropped your journal on the flooring of the car, you hastily pick it up and fix your sleeved shirt into place.

“shall we go inside, sir?” you meekly inquire to the marquis.

he slowly faces himself to you then checks his watch. he meets your eyes then clicks his tongue.

“yes.” he shortly answers before unlocking the door.

you follow his lead and you unlock the door of your side of the car, you get out of the vehicle. the estate was rather grand but not as grand as any of the marquis’ properties. the entrance was classy and elegant, with a staircase leading to the main entrance of the grand mansion and the lights were numerous but weren’t all illuminated; you could count at least five working lamps in the round plaza. out of your instinct, you look back at the marquis to see if he was out of the car as well.

“christ i feel like a doting mother to her child.” you mutter to yourself.

you let him lead the way, waiting for him to walk in front of you before you continue walking. the tiredness seeps into your body and senses again. you wonder if this would take an hour or two. but before the marquis trudges in front of you. a gunshot echoes through the plaza, the bullet bounces off the ground next to where the marquis is positioned, missing its intended target.

your voice shrieks, filled with dread and volume. one of the guards screams for the marquis to get down but he doesn’t, he looks astounded from what’s just happened, that someone is attempting to kill him. instead, you are the one who folds onto the ground scared for your life, yanking the marquis through his coat to get down on the ground with you.

“jesus christ, get down! are you trying to get yourself killed?!” you screech at his face, forgetting yourself, the weight of how dire the situation was pulling your senses down. in a different circumstance, he might’ve screamed back at you but right now he was silent. from shock or he didn’t care at what you just said to him but he remained stuck to the ground.

more bullets begin to shoot from every direction, some of them you can hear bouncing off the ground and some hitting the car, where you and the marquis are taking cover from the line of fire. great, now you’d either die being shot by a ricochet bullet or just get shot point blank. amazing.

“oh god. oh god. i’m going to fucking die. i’m going to die here.” you begin to ramble, tears are pricking your eyes and the sound of gunshots overwhelming your senses. you lean your back against the car and ball up weeping.

you could hear the heavy sigh the marquis made beside you, feeling shame fill your gut because you’d displeased him. oh fucking god, you’re about to die and you’re concerned about the irritation your boss has for you right now, that you’ve shown yourself weak in this very moment. this is fucking stupid, i should’ve never applied for this job. you slightly glare at him because of that.

“not everyone goes through this, you fucking asshole! sorry if i look fucking weak right now because i think i might die right now?! screw you and your french operas! screw that fucking painting you stare at the louvre! you can go fuck yourself if you think less of me right now?!” you wanted to scream at him, but decided not to, taking into measure it would only irritate him even more and wouldn’t do anything to help you.

your boss remained low to prevent stray bullets, he wasn’t sitting on the ground anymore but one of his feet was planted on the ground and his knee knelt on the floor. he looked at you, your face pale from fear and full of dread.

“you’re not going to die. we only have to wait this out. i assure you nothing bad will happen to you.” he attempts to reassure you but the tone of his voice is nothing but not assuring, it remains cold and firm as if stating a well-known fact. he was so sure that nothing bad would happen.

“you better be right, because if we die i’m going to search through the depths of hell just to strangle you for being wrong.” you think to yourself, “i might be dead but i can heal in hell.”

it continues on for several more minutes, you find it hard to know whether the gunfight was turning to your favor, considering you saw a few of the marquis’ guards dead on the ground but fewer enemies seem to shoot back as time progresses. finally, the gunshots start to dwindle until none remains, you look at the marquis wondering if it was safe to stand up. the marquis leans his hand against the car then calls out.

“thomas, are we clear?” your boss calls out, expecting the familiar voice of the captain of his bodyguards to immediately reply but there is none. silence ensues and dread slowly cements itself in your stomach, you pondered if thomas was already dead to answer the marquis.

“yes sir, the opening's clear. we’re good to get out of here.” thomas replies, his breath labored from the previous encounter.

relief floods your head and you let out a relieved sigh, glad that it is over. the marquis gets on both of his feet and looks around, his brain likely coming up with punishments for his new enemy for what he did tonight. you sniff then slowly rise in front of your boss, thankful the horrible occurrence was over.

for a moment you thought that everything was finally okay, but as you rose up, you caught a sight of your boss’ face stunned and alarmed while looking at you…except he wasn’t looking at you, he was looking at the person behind you.

before you could turn around to react, a final gunshot rang through the plaza and this time you couldn’t hear the sound of a ricocheting bullet to compensate for it. fuck, fuck, fuck. god please no. please no, a frail prayer to the above.

you look down and you notice a bright red spreading through your torso, the blood’s seeping through my shirt, you thought. you grasp your body and sink into the ground once again. god, it fucking hurts, you panic in your head. you hear another gunshot ring into the air, you pray that it wasn’t directed to you, when you look up you see the marquis wielding a gun, you assume he has shot the perpetrator, hopefully dead. you don’t often wish someone ill will, but right now it’s not fair for me to die and him to live. you let out a labored sigh and groan from the pain, as you try to lessen the blood loss. whimpering and tearing from the immense agony you felt from your wound, suddenly you feel a pair of hands on your shoulders. you look up and it’s the marquis, unscathed and safe.

well that’s not fair. i’m definitely hunting him through hell. you promise to yourself, trying to find amusement for this situation. the marquis on the other hand was someone you’ve never seen before.

he has repositioned your head against himself, attempting to find comfort for you whilst you bled on the ground. you could hear bouts of shouts from the guards that survived but couldn’t understand what they’d been saying. the marquis gazes at you with concern. an odd thought to your head, you must be imagining this with the both of you locked in a daze.

“you’ll be okay, mon amour. hold on for a little, it will be safe for you soon. you will live.” he utters to you, one of his palms rubbing circles to the pulse on your arm. it sounds like a promise, like a vow. an oath made during his frail moments. this sounded much more assuring than what he’d said earlier and it…

it sounded like he cared, like he actually cared about you because he does. not because of any loyal service you’ve given him but because he can’t seem to bear the idea of you gone. it almost sounded like he was assuring himself that you wouldn’t die right now, that he wouldn’t let it happen.

oh what has the world become? in a short span of time you’ve been scared for your life, relieved for safety, basically a clusterfuck of emotions, got shot by a dude that’s more dead than you are right now, slowly bleeding to death and most peculiar of all you’re dying in the arms of your boss and it seems like he cares about you.

you could feel black spots appearing in your vision, blocking the very lovely face of the marquis and the glimmer of the night sky. with your bones weary from work and your blood soaking through your clothes, slowly you flutter your eyes shut. the last thing you hear is the marquis barking an order, for you or for someone else, you could not tell. right now it didn’t matter, not when you’ve embraced the arms of death.

a sudden burst of light shines through your eyelids.

you open your eyes and it’s welcomed by the bright sunlight coming from the windowsill. you’re laid on a plush bed, likely not yours. you could only dream of having this bed. the room you’re situated in is regal and glamourous, you figure out that you’re in one of the rooms of the marquis’ home. wait, what?

then it all starts surging back to you, the gunshots from foe and ally, dragging the marquis to the ground with you and bleeding on the ground of the plaza. oh my god, i’m alive. i’m alive.

you thank whatever god that might exist out there, grateful that they’d spared you from dying. a gasp exists your mouth but rather labored, my throat is hoarse. i need water. a gleam beams at the end of your eyes, you look at glass and pitcher of water beside the bed, on the nightstand. you suddenly sit up and pain pierces through your body

“fuck!” you curse, wincing you lift your shirt and see bandages wrapped around your torso. it was bandaged properly but soon you’d need to get wrapped again, the blood was starting to show on the fabric.

slowly you scoot to the end of the large elegant bed, trying to minimize the movement that your torso might’ve done in normal condition. once your feet hanged over the bed, the nightstand was a bit farther than you expected from the bed, i’ll have to talk to the housekeeper about this, it’s called a nightstand for a reason. it’s supposed to be beside the bed not half a meter away from it! thankfully, there was a chair nearby you could grasp onto. you grabbed the pitcher and poured it on the glass, filling it to the brim. you drank it, greedily gulping the smooth liquid that served remedy for your dry throat. after finishing all of it, you set the glass back at the nightstand then scoot back to the headboard of the comfy bed, which was bombarded with pillows. the bed looked sweet enough for a princess like sleeping beauty, thankfully you woke up sooner than later compared to the fairytale princess.

you contemplate how long you’ve been out ever since you got shot, with the sleepiness and the severity of your wound, you pray it didn’t take longer than a few days, you had duties to fulfill and tasks to accomplish, of course but going home seemed more pleasant than doing some work. you missed the warm fluffy pet you had at home, you pray that the automatic feeder had provided enough food for your cat.

you decided to head home, you didn’t want to over-welcome your stay at the marquis’, surprisingly you’ve never spent a single night here for sleep. the only people who slept in the manor was the marquis, himself in addition to the household staff and his security team. sometimes the guests the marquis invited were offered to stay but it happened rarely and mostly out of ill contempt. you’ve entered some of the bedrooms but never laid on one, your boss’ home seemed more like palace than house and you often speculated he was picky with who stayed in his home.

you opt to get out of here, right now. maybe call for the person who bandaged you up, to get your wound treated again. you get up from the bed again and weakly trudge to the door, holding on to pieces of furniture nearby in case you fell.

you pull the door with all your strength, i did not realize how fucking heavy this thing was, how did the guards open it in such an easy manner? you might never tell. when the door was slightly ajar, peeking your head through the opening. you notice two men guarding the door, weird you think to yourself, but before you could say anything one of them notices you and jolt, his eyes wide,

“ma’am, good to see you awake. do you need anything?” thomas, the guard inquires to you.

now this is weird beyond levels, they’ve never spoken that polite to you. sometimes you occasionally joked with them but it was never this…formal. not to mention, this was thomas. he’s supposed to be protecting the marquis 24/7 not watching over the assistant.

“um…i need adeline, the senior housekeeper? i was just about to go to her for my stuff and then head home.” you answer to him, also weirdly polite.

“afraid, you can’t ma’am.” he replies, this perplexes you. why in the world not? a silence answers thomas, hopefully this wasn’t the marquis’ doing. you literally almost died and he won’t even let you leave…the recovery room? much less let you leave the manor and go home? anyways, it has rendered you temporarily speechless and annoyed,

“can i ask why, thomas?” you question him, trying not let your annoyance show.

“doctor’s orders. also out of experience, you just took a bullet to the torso, think you might need to be under observation for a while to make sure your gunshot wound doesn’t get worse, would hate it for you to die right now, ma’am.” he explains to you, it sounds just right but it feels weird the way he says it. normally there’d be a tinge of humor when he entertained your questions but it was nonexistent right now.

god what in the world happened?

“uh..okay. i appreciate that thomas, could you please send for adeline here then? and if it’s possible, the doctor too.” you reply to him with a weak smile. he simply hums in return and leaves you.

you let out a tired sigh and walk back to bed, you were getting out of here one way or another. right now, you need to process what the fuck just happened to you. you need to think if the amount of money the marquis pays you was worth dying for to stay under his employ. you sit on the edge of the bed and bury your face in your hands, hoping that adeline arrived first before the doctor.

you anticipated that adeline might help you get out of here through the back door of the house. the marquis’ house as armed and protected it was didn’t seem safe to you. i need the comfort of my home and a new job.

no matter how protected the marquis was, if you were going to die working for him. it might now be worth it, you might consider leaving france and heading back to your country. i also need a vacation. the only rest i got from him was 3-5 hours at best and therapy. i need therapy, preferably retail therapy. a cat works too.

a knock erupts from the door, you face the door and urge for the person to come in. thankfully, it was adeline. you slowly get on your feet as adeline approaches you.

“hey adeline, it’s so nice to see you.” you smile at her.

a moment of hesitation appears on her face, as if contemplating if she should’ve gone here or speak to you.

“it’s nice to see you, alive and safe ma’am.” she doesn't return a smile and meekly answers.

why was everyone so polite? adeline always welcomed whenever she spoke to you, is this usually what happens when you get shot? or do they know something i don’t? god did the bullet hit something fragile in my body? am i living on borrowed time?

you kept quiet, unsure how to continue the conversation. adeline doesn’t even meet your eyes. you feel upset and empty, this has never happened between the both of you. the last time you spoke to her, it was on good terms. both of you chattering gossip about the people in the manor. it was always good to talk to her and you presumed she felt the same. maybe it was entirely one sided.

“is there something you need? something to eat?” she probes to you.

“no, i think i’m good.” you quietly answer her. from what you’ve experienced with her, adeline had a soft heart and she had opened it you, why had she shut it close now?

“do you need someone to rebandage you? i can call the doctor for you.” she asks again.

“i already did.”

she looked up and you could feel her stare all over you. likely confused why you asked for her.

“then why did you ask the guard to call for me?” she demands. her voice felt harsh, she’d never spoken like this to you. cold and sharp enough to cut through skin.

“i was going to ask if you knew where my stuff were.”

“it’s safely stored in your locker downstairs. is there anything else? we placed some lemon water beside the bed in case you woke up.”

you hesitate, the last sentence pricked your skin. “how…how long was i out?”

“almost two weeks.”

“fuck.”

well that’s not good. you definitely need to get home to see if your cat’s still alive. hopefully he didn’t stay waiting for you at the door, you’d rather he escaped than have him starve.

“that sounds like a long time for a gunshot wound.” you mutter.

“it’s actually not.” she states matter of factly.

“oh.” you realize. “i think i need to get home right now, my family’s probably worried sick that i haven’t talk to them for weeks. any chance you could sneak me out?” you tinge your voice with concern and softness at the end.

she stays quiet, before answering to you. she’s hesitating what she’d normally say to me, she’s choosing her words carefully.

“i can’t. i assume you’ve been told what thomas knows about being shot? you need to recover.”

“adeline, i really need to go home right now…i-i don’t feel safe right here. i want to go home.” you reason with her, she had a hard exterior you prayed it could soften right now.

“i can’t.” she replies. clearly you were going nowhere when she’s firm in her decision. you decide to get petty in a way that often annoys her.

“adeline please, i need time to think, preferably away from this place.”

“you won’t get that. you’re staying here.”

“is that so? under whose orders did that come from? you’re being unreasonable here adeline, if it’s from the doctor or thomas who is sort of unreliable by the way, i’ve seen him get shot thrice but managed to beat up at least three dudes. i can get a doctor to help me treat this wound. so for god’s sake adeline who told you i can’t leave?!”

“the marqu-“ she screeches at you before cutting short. realizing she almost said that, she arranges herself and changes her answer. “the doctor. the doctor says you need to stay here.”

but you had heard it before it was finishes. the marquis. the marquis doesn’t want you to leave yet. why? god knows. likely he wants to speak to you, something about punishment or consequences if you ratted him out or something. you’re too tired to think something logical.

“no. you said the marquis. why does the marquis want me to stay here?”

she stays silent. as if her tongue had been cut at that very moment. you try to understand, but it’s hard to tell without the why.

“adeline…why? please answer me.” you pleaded.

she doesn’t say anything but looks at you. then at something behind you, like the answer was always in the room all along. you don’t follow her gaze too exhausted to play a guessing game.

“you can go now adeline. thank you.” you said feeling resigned.

adeline leaves the room and shuts the door. you slowly walk back to the nightstand pour another glass of water. your throat was still hoarse and dry from the lack of water for two weeks. you sipped the liquid, tasting a lemony flavor in the water. you remembered how the marquis wouldn’t drink anything but lemon water, he preferred it because of something about it’s health benefits but it always annoyed you because he would suddenly need a glass of it in the middle of nowhere. the first time he ordered you to fetch him one was in the middle of a meeting, he had refused to drink the bottled water on the table. you ran down for fresh lemons and plunged it into a glass filled with bottled water just to spite him. you chuckle at yourself at that, remembering the times you’d taken a shortcut at some of his orders.

wait. wait. you pondered why did they give you lemon water? you’ve never drank it here. hot water usually satisfied you, and adeline knew this. not to mention, when there was lemon water, either the marquis was near or he just left the room. it’s like he spawns out of nowhere. nevertheless, it was odd. the marquis ordering to keep you here and his precious lemon water in your room?

this is getting weird and suspicious. you decide to just call for the doctor, maybe once he clears me i can go home. odd he hasn’t arrived yet, deciding to either go to him or ask thomas to call for him again. the doors of your room burst open, you see a pair of medical professionals, a nurse and a doctor. not surprising, but what makes your forehead wrinkle in confusion and makes you frown was that the marquis was following right behind them.

you couldn’t bother to hide your shock from the marquis and stare at him as if he was the most eerie thing you’ve ever seen.

you sat on the luxurious chair, trying to listen to what the doctor was saying. he had mentioned something about avoiding vigorous exercise and constant movements to avoid ripping your stitches. while he lectured you on what to do, the nurse changed your bandages and by the end of his disquisition, the nurse was finished treating your wound.

the doctor gave you a bottle of painkillers in case you felt a sudden intense pain before he and the nurse left. you thanked the both of them for treating you before they left the door.

now, it’s time to face the elephant in the room.

the marquis.

he had sat there the entire time while the doctor rambled about the do’s and don’ts for your safety. he hadn’t spoken a single word ever since he entered the room, he sat across you on a refined cushioned chair. he seemed calm as ever, you wondered why had come here. if he was here to order you to appoint a reservation for an opera at 3 PM, you might strangle him right away wounded or not.

then again, the memory is still fresh in your mind. he had saved you, sort of. he didn’t get to prevent the perpetrator from shooting you but he did provide the medical treatment to keep you alive plus he shot the dude who shot you, so points for that.

as usual, he was staring at you. it’s become some ritual of his whenever you enter the room to the point you just ignore it. it hinted that it was harmless as you’ve observed for the past two years. but there was something different about it this time.

before, you’ve assumed that he stared to invoke submission and resilience from you, to establish himself as higher than you, but now his gaze wants to invoke a word from you. why? you wouldn’t know. the enigma that is your boss, is a puzzle too difficult to solve.

“how are you feeling?” he breaks the silence, gladly you look up wanting to get the conversation over with.

“i’m fine, sir.” you reply amiably.

“that’s good to hear.” he mutters. there was also something weird about the tone of his voice, he kept quiet after as if reliantly expecting a reply from you. but you don’t so he speaks up again.

“you’ve been asleep for almost two weeks, some of us have feared you might never wake up again.” he claims.

“glad that’s not the case for me sir.” you respond.

“yes, god was kind to you that night. the bullet missed any vital organs but you bled out, too much i might add.” he conveys as if it’s something humorous, you notice a slight tugging at the corner of his lips.

“yeah, that was really lucky.” you agree with him.

this needs to end. you could tell he was just being polite, his words were simply pleasantries as your employer. he might see this as a semblance of duty as your boss and maybe because he feels bad you took a bullet for him. emphasis on the “maybe”.

“i just wanted to thank you for what you’ve done for me. getting me treated until i woke up. so..thank you. thank you for saving my life. i owe you for it.” you graciously thank him, thinking of every event that you might have to thank him for. just to lay the foundation before you say what you actually want to say.

“you’re welcome.” he mutters, his eyes not meeting yours. you don’t know what’s going in that pretty head of his but..was he ashamed? ashamed. that word associated with your boss tastes different on the tongue. no, he can’t be.

“um..in addition to what i just said, i think i might head home now. like you said i’ve been gone for two weeks, my family’s probably going crazy worried about how i am right now. plus i think i got the wound covered, thank you for your hospitality.” you state to him in a gentle way, careful not to let your tone insult him in some way.

your effort to hide your weariness to achieve that polite demeanor in front him somehow fails, because after you said that the marquis looks back at you again and doesn’t say anything. was there something wrong with what i said?

he stares at you and doesn’t reply, he suddenly gets on his feet and walks to the larged illuminated window in the room. you follow your eyes on his frame, you’d assumed that he might’ve just agreed with you and left. you thought his visit was a mere courtesy so why had he stopped talking?

“sir?” you call out to him, the ticking on the clock appearing more dire than before. the same feeling you got during the car ride to the louvre two years ago, surges back to you.

but silence greets you.

“did you hear what i said?” growing more anxious by the second, you try a firm approach. still you were apprehensive on what he might have to say.

but no words answer you.

“is there something wrong with what i said?” you question, your tone laced with worry. this is bad. a quiet marquis is a pondering marquis. whatever thought he’s got cooked up was never good.

“you cannot.” he declares.

finally he answered, although not what you wished to hear.

“why? is there something wrong with me?” you firmly ask.

“sir?” you add, then the silent treatment flows into the room again. he stays quiet while you prod him with questions.

“it’s not…safe.” he states.

“for…who? for you or for them?” you reflect, someone might be out for his death right now, and perhaps torturing the assistant might get the required information they need, it’s also a possibility the marquis has sent out a bloodbath. it’s happened before and the times it occurred you’ve opted to reside a few hours in the manor, also to prevent being tortured for information, repercussions are still plausible. retaliation was always in mind.

“it’s not safe for you.” he faces you, the statement was like moisture on a window, blurry and murky. difficult to see what’s through.

your mouth falls open, “what? it’s you they were aiming for, not me. they wanted to kill you. it was you they wanted to shoot. you were the target. i honestly don’t think they’d go after the assistant to finish the job. right?” you begin to ramble.

“yes, you’re right. they wouldn’t.” he disclosed to you, “i know that bullet was intended for me, the man was supposed to shoot me. god knows i know.” he whispers.

“and look what happened to you. what they..did to you.” he says as he slowly walks towards you. “you…you weren’t supposed to get hurt. i don’t think i can forgive myself for that.” he says softly as he looks back at you.

everything in your body shuts down. what the fuck is happening? you remember the concern he had when he cradled you into his arms, assuming it was because he’d seen you as a work friend that’s really helpful to him. even if he could easily replace you with a few seconds whether you were alive or dead. but this? what was he saying? this is different. it doesn’t feel right but it’s happening.

it all starts to dawn upon you. the fancy bedroom. he wanted me to be comfortable, even if the selection of people he would’ve accepted to stay were little to none. the lemon water. he visited me while i was recovering, he sat by my bed waiting for me to wake up. what he called you that night while you bled on the pavement, on his arms.

“you’ll be okay, mon amour. hold on for a little, it will be safe for you soon. you will live.”

mon amour.

my love.

he called you his love that night.

you realize.

he leans down in front of you, you lean back from your realization. more questions are popping into your head, so many you want to ask but nothing leaves your throat. you look up at him and he’s been doing the same, looking into your eyes. you can see the regret,concern and affection that’s festering in his eyes.

“you’re right. it was meant for me, but you had it instead. you…you took a bullet for me. who does that for someone? how many people in the world can say that they’ve taken a bullet for me? one. there’s only one. and she’s sitting right in front of me.” he divulges to you, he says it like he’s been keeping it for thousands of years while he kept his mouth shut in anguish, like he was itching to confess to you the tender words as if they were the most sacred secrets known to man.

as if the words kept him trapped in a prison with no way out, but now he’d said it and he was free.

you were shocked. too speechless to say anything. this might be the most difficult thing to process so far into your life,that your boss is fostering affection for you, because you took a bullet for him.

“believe it or not, mon amour. you’ve become more precious to me than anything this life has to offer, i want to keep you safe and right now the only way is to keep you here.” with him he firmly states to you with affection and devotion which you could sense in his tone.

you wanted to object but he continued.

“for a while, until you regain your strength. do you understand, mon coeur?”

mon coeur.

a french endearment.

my heart.

he called you his heart.

author’s note: first time posting a fic that isn’t a bunch of headcanons, with this being posted the upcoming fics may vary from the reader’s pov or the marquis’. this took me at least three days and a cold to finish, (no regrets) but how come part two took three days but part three, a whole nighter?? ;) the next one’s a bit interesting. feel free to share your thoughts!

part one part 3 part four part five

taglist: @dcgoddess @1mawh0re

[wishful-thinking-is-dumb]

Platonic Yandere John Wick

John Wick x Continental Employee Reader

It was a quiet Saturday morning at the Continental, it wasn’t very busy this time of year. Besides all of the shady hitman and crime lords that stayed here periodically. Well, it was only hitmen and crime lords that stayed here due to the hotel being a neutral zone. There were dire consequences to anyone who broke the code.

You somehow found yourself employed here after you got mixed up in a bad situation. You were good with computer, and the man at the front desk thought it would be a lovely idea for you to put your skills to use.

Your job on paper is the IT department, you are the whole department. You help Winston, the older man at the front desk, with any computer issues that he might stumble upon. You help with the Wifi, cable and anything to do with electronics.

But The Continental also offers a new service to its VIP members, a resident hacker. Guests can hire you do do some freelance work for them. You’ve done a couple of jobs, hacking into emails and encrypted hardware for hitmen.

It was stressful work, and the people who hired you have made sure that you won’t be a loose end. You haven’t spoken much since you found yourself in the Underworld, but at least you have free food and a room.

You are in the lounge, trying to figure out what’s wrong with one of the lamps, it wouldn’t turn on. You are pulled from your thoughts when Winston approaches you, you stand up from where you are sitting on the carpet.

He looks over all of the wires that you have pulled from the lamp, he frowns a little. But at least you promised him that you would clean up after you were done messing around with the lamp to see if it could be saved.

“No luck?” He asks, a polite smile on his face. You shake your head slightly, glancing down at the lamp laid on the floor. He sighs a little, seemingly disappointed that the lamp was unsalvageable.

“A shame, it was an antique.” He states as he watches me start to clean up, getting all the screws and wires out of the way. You don’t reply to his comment, and he doesn’t expect you to respond either. You don’t talk much.

“Don’t worry about cleaning up, I’ll get William to do that.” He says, that smile still on his face, it never quite reaches his eyes. William is one of the bartenders in the lounge, he usually is in charge of generic upkeep in the lounge when there aren’t any guests around.

You huff as you stop cleaning up your mess, standing up and facing Winston again.

“Do you need something?” You ask him quietly, wanting to get to the point. You aren’t one for small talk. Winston sighs in mild amusement, he finds your blunt demeanor endearing.

“I do need your assistance. One of the guests requires your services.” He says in his customer service voice. You nod a little as William approaches and starts to tidy up your mess, putting the broken lamp into a garbage bag.

“I’ll go get my computer..” You mumble, walking out of the lounge and into the front lobby.

“Where are they?” You ask Winston quietly, there are a couple of people hanging around in the lobby.

“Mr. Wick is in conference room 2 on the second floor.” Winston replies, handing you your computer from where he keeps it behind the front desk. You take the computer from him and nod.

You enter the elevator in silence, you press the button for the second floor and you wait. The air in the elevator is thick, you are anxious. You hope that you don’t get a target on your back by helping this man. There is always a risk.

You exit the elevator and step out into the hallway. To turn to the right, past a couple talking to each other and into Conference Room Two.

You close the door behind you, and at the end of the long table, is a man in a black suit. It’s John Wick, what could he possibly want from you.

He nods in greeting, seemingly thrown off by how young you are. You couldn’t be more than 19, how did you get mixed up in this line of work?

You give an awkward smile, and you sit to his left at the table. You open up your computer and you turn it on. You are unnerved by the way he is looking at you.

“What do you need done?” You ask him quietly, booting up some of your hacking softwares. You glance over at him before you look back at the computer screen.

“I need you to trace this frequency.” He says, sliding you a USB drive. This will be a little difficult, tracing a frequency from an audio clip? You could be here for a while. You take the drive and you connect it to the computer, you pull the audio clip and drop it into one of your softwares.

He watches as you type away on the computer and as you compare frequencies from all over the globe.

It takes you about half an hour to tell him the rough location of the frequencies origin.

“Munich, Germany.” You mumble, turning the computer screen to him. He hums, and he hands you a large golden coin. The currency of the underworld.

“Don’t you think you’re a little young to be in this line of work?” He asks quietly, his accent Russian-American. He tilts his head a little towards you, waiting for your answer.

You shrug, looking away from him and turning the computer screen back towards you. He frowns a little at your non answer.

“I’ll talk to Winston about letting you go, you’re to young for this.” He says firmly, standing up from his chair. You close the computer and turn it off.

“I’ll be back in a couple of days, I’ll discuss this with Winston before I leave.” He pats you on the shoulder as he passes you, he leaves the conference room and closes the door behind him.

[lettyfanfics]

Filmes

Masterlist Principal

The legend of tarzan

John Clayton:

Puro amor selvagem

Prince of Persia: Sands of time

Dastan:

Childhood Love

Metal Lords:

Hunter:

Heavy crush

LOTR/Hobbit

Legolas:

O nosso cantinho na floresta (Smut)

Aragorn:

Insecuraties

[soberlovey]

oc headcanons

erin; you guys im not trying to be like adding mental illnesses like potions but erin does have anxiety. like not "im tweakin" anxiety but biting nails anxiety. no. erin is not gay, trans or anything like that. shes 13 (faking her age to be 21) and a drinking scumbag who likes wee bottles of alcohol. she is not kryptonite gender. (No offense to anyone in the lgbtqia community.)

she has a good vocabulary, but cant write or draw for shit. she can read but her handwriting is garbage. This is her average self portrait

maggie;

maggie lost her dad at like 5 years old thats why shes a whore who likes john wick

maggie and erin like to play minecraft together, but maggie hits endermen because theyre black (satire)

maggie is a normal business woman who works within the continental who is so awesome and likes to gamble at casinos

maggie once stole john wicks upgraded contract photo and edged to it for 6 hours (half the night)

maggie is awesome at drawing.

[phthalology]

With respect to author E. K. Johnston, any poll about fic length which has as its first two options “500 words” and “5,000 words” is completely skipping the important ecosystem of 1,000 - 2,000 oneshots that illustrate missing character moments or tell little plots or feature the most blindingly vicious angst you’ve ever seen or have the action choreography of a john wick movie