#john wick x black!reader | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

joannasteez · 10 months ago

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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?

#cody rhodes #cody rhodes fanfiction #cody rhodes fanfic #cody rhodes fic #cody rhodes imagine #cody rhodes smut #john wick au #hitman!cody rhodes #black female reader #dominik mysterio #judgement day trying to kill cody #they dont know hes kinda into the pain thing #cody trying to avenge dusty in every timeline #dom isnt a second rate mysterio #i just needed to get that piece of dialogue off #cody rhodes x reader #cody rhodes x black reader #jd mcdonagh #joannasteez

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nasty-quillz · 2 months ago

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Keepin' It Sleazy: The Stalls

Ao3 Mirror

A/N: The lines for Pov shifts didn't translate so if those small things irritate you like me, go to ao3

There is also an art commission, done for this fic. I used an OC for imagery and description of the reader. It's available on the at CinnaBun and on ao3.

tags: degradation, dirty talk, non traditional a/b/o dynamics

summary:

When an Alpha is without an Omega, they are sen't to Government mandated facilities, called "The Stalls".

Government funded Gloryholes for Omegas to access Alphas to slake their heat with.

John had lost track of his cycle since Helen died. He was mourning, then on a rampage. No one could expect him to remember his approaching rut. Or what it would mean without Helen.

No one except the Federation of Alpha Assimilation.

They were at his door a month after he killed the Tarasovs. They informed him he failed to register another Alpha to rut with and therefore he was being taken to The Stalls.

He’d tried to argue, but without any family and with him being out and of practical breeding age, they weren’t trying to hear it. He thought he could just kill them, but knew The Table would take him calling the Cleaners again so soon after his…visit as a declaration of his return and he just wanted peace.

So he let himself be lead to the government issued transport wagon by leering Beta guards. They were rough as they solved him in and slammed the doors behind him.

Before John knew it he was in The Stalls.

They locked him in a Stall that was only slightly bigger than a handicapable stall in most public restrooms, almost completely naked, save for the metal collar around his neck, that connected to a long steel chain that was fed through the wall at neck level.

A Water cooler and basket of protein bars and fruit sat on top a mini fridge John knew was stocked with fruit that were meant for good semen production and replenish the energy he’s expend getting fucked by Omegas.. A chair with restraints sat against the back wall and a small cot rested in the corner.

He stood there taking in the sparsely furnished Stall, before he let himself take in the wall the chain led to.

John approached the wall slowly, stepping carefully over the chain, doing his best to ignore the heat beneath his skin and his throbbing dick and full balls.

Just below the chain was a one way mirror, that John could see his reflection in. One either side was steel hand grips, and below the was a round smooth hole level with John’s aching dick. It was big enough so Omegas could access all the Alpha had to offer.

The thought of an Omega waiting impatiently on the other side of the wall, ready to use him like a whore both set his teeth on edge and inflames his rut addled mind. He reach down between his legs to grasp at himself. He wrapped his hand around the base of his cock and squeezed the flesh where his knot will form. With his right he strokes his leaking erection, growling as the pleasure lit across his body.

He hadn't thought he'd have to deal with this ever again after he married Helen, but clearly he was wrong.

John stood in front of the one way mirror and tried to take a deep steadying breath. When that failed, he grasped himself firmly and beat his dick with abandon.He let the Rut wash over him with each stroke, feeling his climax build rapidly. That deep pulling bliss that mounted in his belly and demanded release like a snarling animal.

When he stroked back down his turgid flesh, he squeezed his knot and watched thick precum dribble from the tip of his dick, where it poked out from his foreskin.. He used it as lube as he roughly fucked his fist. Some savage part of John’s brain wished it were Slick— Wanted an Omega to fuck down on his dick, but he pushed that thought away as he tried to focus.

A sound echoing from the other side of the Stall, put a stop to that.

John stopped touching himself to listen and through the gloryhole, heard steps grow louder, before a woman’s voice filtered through some hidden speaker.

“Don’t stop on my account Sweetheart. Sounds like you were having a good time, why don’t you keep making all those whorish noises for Omega.”

John growled, not wanting anything to do with the woman.

She “tsked” and suddenly John was yanked forward by the chain of his collar. He’d just about smacked into the glass if he hadn’t caught himself. When he tried to back away, there was no give. The slack of the chain was gone.

Frowning he tried for a warning growl, but before he could, his senses were over run with heat pheromones. He let out an involuntary rumble in his chest.

“That better isn’t it, Alpha? No need to worry you pretty lil head. Just relax and let Omega breed on that big fat dick.”

Suddenly John felt a hand on his dick, stroking over it deftly. He looked down to see a delicate brown hand with pink manicured nails.

“God Baby you’re bigger than what I’m used to. My Alpha back home’s dick isn’t nearly as big and his nut isn’t as thick or as copious.” The disappears on the other side of the Stall and a loud smack is heard “Mmm and you tasted divine. Maybe I’ll just Sample you for now. Don’t wanna spoil my appetite for my favorite knothead, later.”

Before he knew it the woman’s hand was back on him and tugging him forward to feed himself through the gloryhole. John seized as he felt the familiar touch of a wet mouth wrapping around his tip, but there was not stopping the moan it dragged from his throat.

The unwilling noise encouraged the Omega. She slipped her tongue under the Alpha’s foreskin and licked around the head. He tongue swirled and lapped at the pre steadily flowing from the manhood in her mouth.

When she took him down half way, John growled and began thrusting into the Omega’s violating mouth.

He didn’t want to— Didn’t want her touch, but it felt so good. He knew the scent of her heat was muddling his ability to resist. He wanted to pull out. To shove away the strange Omega forcing her touch on him. In the end though, instincts won.

He fucked his faceless asailant’s mouth mindlessly, instincts letting him revel in the faux domination. His interrupted momentum from earlier returns quickly, mounting as the Omega used him.

Wet gurgling and glucking noises filled the space and John with a mean satisfaction. The arrogant woman couldn’t take him all the way and was forced to choke on his dick.

The Omega worked his hips forward until the sweet hot sensation finally broke and stars shot across hos vision. With a groan, John came in the Omega woman’s mouth. She moaned like it was the best thing she ever tasted and content heat pheromones burst from her as she sucked his cum down greedily.

John started to purr low in his chest, proud to have please the Omega—

No!

The hitman shook himself of that train of thought quickly, only noticing the Omega standing up at the last second. There was a tug of his collar and then the slack was returned to the steel chain.

“Hmm such a virile Alpha. Your nut tastes divine and you were so roughly enthusiastic,” her voice purred through the speaker, smug tone unaffected by the scratchiness of her voice.

It set John’s teeth on edge with, with the urge to put her back on her knees, but he could do nothing as he listened to her exit the room.

John held a small sliver of hope that there wouldn’t be another Omega sent in, before it was swiftly put down, by the sound of heels clicking on marble floors.

As the person grew closer, Omega pre heat pheromones were all he could focus on, until the sound of a long zipper was heard. Rusling fabrics hit the floor and a gorgeous tawny rump pressed itself through the hole. It exposed her fat round asscheeks and the glistening swollen brown folds of the Omega’s pussy.

She was fully on display and John moaned at the fertile scent that permeated his Stall.

“Get on your knees and eat my pussy, you fuckin’ slut.” The demand was mean and desperate, accentuated by the soft rolling of her hips backwards.

John tried to resiste, but he was fully rutting now. He dropped down to his kness and and buried his face in the Omega’s lower half. His nose nudged at her ass crack, while he beard dragged across juicy cunt lips. It dragged a moan from her at the lewdness of it all.

John grasped bouncy flesh and pried them apart to reveal her slicked asshole. He opened his drooling mouth and almost complied immediately, before a dark thought struck him. John spat on her glistening hole, because he could. A whine dragged itself from her mouth that broken into a keen when John’s thumbs spread his new abuser’s gooey pussy lips apart and dug in.

She was a swearing mess as she humped back into his mouth, filth spilling from her lips.

“That’s it, you slick slut. Eat my pussy like the desperate bitch I know you are. Slurp all my slick up you whore.”

John groaned making stranger frantic in her pleasure.

“Your fingers use your finger! Put them in my other—”Ooohhh!” She trails off as three of JOhn’s fingers slip into her spit slick covered asshole. It leaked around his digits as he plunged them in, making a squelching noise that had John dick twitching between his legs, despite himself.

He shamefully reached to stroke himself as he fucks the Omega’s twitching hole and eats her pussy off the bone.

She’s not too far gone to not notice the thick scent of John’s cum get thicker as he drips onto the floor from his stroking.

“Fucking Alpha slut. Getting off on having my pussy on your face. ‘S’all you’ll ever be good for, being a mouth or a dick to fuck.”

The Alpha in John roared at being demeaned by an Omega, but the other part was drunk on the satisfaction of her pre heat slick and the satisfaction that came with pleasing an Omega. He added a finger and fucked her asshole faster, trying to get her off as fast swiftly as possible.

As he did, John pulled his tongue from her dark cunt and angled his face differently to pin under it. He gently but earnestly worked it over as his fingers drove in and out of her.

John revelled at rolling the sticky swollen clit under his tongue, letting the preheat scent dull his disgust , until the Omega was cumming on his tongue. Her pussy gushed against his face, smearing his beard and mustache in her cream, as her ass squeezed his fingers.

When she was done, she moved on wobbly legs, standing up and pulling up her Givenchy skirt.

John watched dark hands smooth the fabric out and looks up to see a silky black bob obscure the Omega’s face as she look down to right herself m. He dropped his eyes as she stood up straight and turned to leave.

“Thanks, whore,” was tossed over the deplorable woman’s shoulder as she walked out.

John kneeled there, unfulfilled, knot aching, knees in pain His head was foggy and st some point in the midst of eating the last Omega out his fangs had dropped. They ached where they sat in his mouth, longing to sink into Omegan flesh.

His instincts told him he wanted to mount and knot and breed, but he knew he wouldn’t get to for a while.

The Federation like to re-establish Omega Dominance with the Alphas brought to The Stalls. They wouldn’t send him anyone who would breed on him for a while. It was going to be him being used and abused by any O with an itch to scratch.

Mentally, John tried to prepare himself for the biological torture he was going to suffer, as he was fucked through his Rut here. He took and deep breath and attempted to center himself. He could do it. He would Do it.

And suffer John did.

He spent days getting sucked and fucked by countless faceless Omwgas. Each one as degrading and deplorable as the last.

Some would suck his dick for hours, without touching his knot once. They just wanted to taste his potent Alpha seed. It worked like an aphrodisiac to heating Omegas.

Some stroked and squeezed his knot, using their own slick, until he spurted on their tongue, laughing and squeezing harder when John started snarling at them through the mirror.

Some just forced his knot to pop, to suckle and lick at it, until they were delirious from the Rut pheromones it produced.

The worst of them, would bring the Alpha mates along.

There were some that just wanted another Alpha to spit roast them, while their Alpha knotted their pussies. Or stuff whatever other hole their Alpha couldn’t.

Others would have her mate knot them, with John’s cum in them instead of their own, berating them for not being as virile as John. For not being good enough to even knock them up.

They knew what they were doing. Two Alphas in such close proximity during heats and ruts? It set their instincts and the learned survival behaviors haywire. They enjoyed their distress. It wasn’t a surprise really. Any O that brought their mate to The Stalls weren’t the good kind of Omega to begin with.

The cruelest O’s made their Alpha’s dick. Made them swallow him down to the root and watch in sadistic horny glee as his knot locked behind their teeth, knowing how degrading it was to their instincts.

If they were articularly sick, they would use their own slick to prepare their mate, before they fucked John. Just as John’s knot was ready to pop, they would pull off and guide their Alpha’s untrained hole. He hadn’t realized whose hole was fucking on him— Hadn’t been able to stop. And when he did, it was only because of the gushy wet sound of the Omega’s pussy around the broken Alpha’s dick.

It was the ultimate last step to Bitching an Alpha. It guaranteed they’d be no use to any Omega outside the one who’s Slick was used.

Otherwise they’d be on their knees begging crying for a knot. Those Alpha’s were never to be taken to The Stalls again.

John had knotted the Alpha, as she bred on their knot, moaning about them being good whoring Omegas who just needed an Omega’s guiding hand.

And the worst part of it wasn't the poor Alpha begging for his knot.

No, it was the fact that John actually got off on it. More than he wanted to admit.

When that mated pair left John begged for another Omega to fuck him. Begged to for anything to erase the Alpha pheromones and shame from his Stall— From his mind.

That was days ago. No one had been let in since.

John was nearly at the tail end of his Rut. He was at the point where his biology was at its peak and they hadn’t let an Omega breed on his knot—

John’s brain stopped that train of thought, before throwing it off the rails entire.

The hadn’t let him sink his knot in an Omega.

Keeping hold of himself— Of his nature desire to be dominant was important. John knew that, but….

He hadn’t been in Service in days.

No one was directed to his Stall.

After that last pair, he’d been hooked in place as Beta attendants came in and scrubbed him clean, as others came in and restocked his Rut Provisions. When they left he expected to be back in Service, but still nothing.

It was well into the Evening and John was in agony. The skin where his knot formed was a violent purple and his dick hurt to touch. Being this far into rut after constant Omega stimuli was forced on him, only for none to be granted—

Forced on him! John grasped at his head, tired of fighting warring instincts and the propaganda spouted at him.

He just wanted to let an Omega breed on his knot—

John growled, head aching. He wanted to sink his knot into an Omega’s slick cunt!

He hadn’t been given the luxury of it during his tenure here and John knew it was pushing him into Faux Rejection Syndrome.

All he could do was sit against the wall, wishing for a way to empty his aching balls.

That is until he heard the door open on the other side of the wall.

He didn’t even realize he was on his feet and snarling at the glass until he he heard your purring voice.

“Oooh such a dominating Alpha. It’’l be so much fun breaking you in.” You voice was a silky purr through the speaker.

You admired the fruits of your labor, snarling and naked, collar gleaming around his neck. You sigh thinking of what he’ll look like in your collar, with your mark on his neck.

You worked hard to orchestrate his acquisition. Weeks of planning and constant checking with the Federation to make sure John didn’t register a new Omega for his Rut.

As Director of Omega Health and Safety you were to review which Alpha’s were assigned to which level of The Stalls dependant upon the severity of their rut. So as soon as the man’s profile came across your desk, you ensured he got sent to your personal facility. You and you staff frequented these Stalls during your Heats and nothing .

You sent your personal team, who you knew would follow orders to remain untied as John Serviced them. You needed that knot untouched by another Omega’s pussy for your plan.

Now here you stood, completely naked , long waist length black and blue bejeweled ombre locs cascading down your back. You looked at his with dark lustful eyes, before looking down as he dick, that jutted through the gloryhole.

It was thick and long, just the way you like it, purplish head long exposed from it’s foreskin. Around the base was a matching purple that made you wince in sympathy. “My poor Alpha, not a single O bred themselves on your knot, did they? How could they be so cruel,” you purred with fake sincerity.

Kneeling you take him in at a different angle. From your new vantage point you have a clear view of his nice full balls and can watch the cum bead and drip from the tip of his dick like a faucet. There was a small puddle forming on the floor, between your knees.

It was so obscene and made you slick between your legs.

You cracked your neck, gathering your hair to throw it in a messy bun atop your head, before a dark hand reached between your legs to gather some of your slick. You were almost leaking as much as John, heat freshly kicked off this morning.

You grasped John at the base, savoring the way he whined at your touch. “Doesn’t that feel good,” you murmured, leaning in close. You released pheromones to sooth his frazzled psyche, as you kissed the tip of his dick. The feel of his cum glazing your lips is exhilarating as is his taste when you lick it from your luscious lips.

“God I can’t wait for you to nut in my mouth. You’ll do that won’t you? Like a good Alpha.”

John growled at you, clearly fighting his disdain for his circumstance and his instincts telling him he wanted to please his Omega. Looking up at him, you saw his head pressed to the glass, as he tried to grit his teeth. Having none of that, you took him in your mouth and watched him shudder through the one way mirror.

As your mouth sunk down on him, your watched his eyes roll back. You hummed, tongue working him over, while you worked a slicked hand over the skin of his knot. John’s hips thrust forward, wanting deeper into your hot sinful mouth.

“Omega~” John’s voice was ragged as he moaned. “Omega p—please!”

It sent a thrill through you watching this potent Alpha crumble. You pulled away and stroked him, taking extra care to focus on the place where his knot will pop. “Please what Alpha? Doesn’t this feel good. Or does my big strong slick slut want something else?” You squeezed his base, slipping your hand through, to fondle his heavy sac.

They’re so full, I know he’s going to make a mess, you thought dreamily.

“F—Fuck! Omega please— I’m gonna— “

John erupted across your face, shooting thick sticky shot after shot of nut across your dark face. His groan filled your ears and you felt your own deadened instincts preen at pleasing your Alpha. It makes you smirk, licking the man’s seed from your lips, as before leaning up to lick and suck him knot.

The Alpha behind the partition shuddered as you toyed with his dick.

“Aww my poor Alpha. Can’t even wait for me to breed on you. Just wanna sit around and pop ya knot like the pretty whore you are.” You kissed his knot sweetly while you crooned at him.

The noise that clawed its way out his throat became a whimper as you toyed with oversensitive flesh. Your other hand pressed into a small panel on the wall. It released a circular band is released into your palm.

“I guess it can’t be helped though. It’s what you were made for afterall.” You stand, admiring his raggedly indecent appearance through the glass. Skin flushed and damp with sweat. Mouth panting and pupils blown wide. You almost felt bad as you slipped it on, around his deflated knot.

The noise he made was wretched.

Sighing, you turned around and nudged your ass into his still hard girth and grabbed the chain to his collar. Leaving some slack for him you locked it in place, before maneuvering his fat tip to the dark gushy lips of your pussy.

“C’mon Alpha. Prove to me you know how to use this pretty dick. Then I’ll let you knot my pussy.”

John grunted, but thrust forward, sheathing himself in your smothering heat. You moaned loud and indecent as you were filled to capacity. It felt good to be so full. Like you were complete. Your heat always left you feeling empty as if you’d never be full.

But John’s dick? It was bigger than any Alpha you’d ever used. And he smelled so good.

You held onto the chain as the Alpha fucked you viciously, grunting and growling incoherently, as the scent of heat and slick filled the room. Each thrust left you near dizzy, the only issue was angling. The wall prevented the man from reaching the deepest parts of your gooey insides and you know if he could your see stars .

You would cum like this, but it wouldn’t be near as satisfying as it would with that perfect slut him out angle.

But that could be rectified.

You clenched gooey muscles around the hitman’s dick and reached down to rub circles into your slick clit. Pleasure build rapidly and you could tell John was close. Little did he know his orgasm was about to be vastly different than what he’d experienced since his captivity began.

You unclipped his leash in preparation, but kept a tight hold, with the hand not working your clit. “That’s it Alpha, surrender all that nut to me. Make a mess in me,” you moaned as your orgasm washed over you.

You creamed on the Alpha as his hips stuttered and he made a punched out noise, that morphed into a whine. As his cum filled you, you looked back as his eyes rolled and he wobbled. You savoured the hot sticky feeling of being full, as John lost consciousness from knot denial.

You slowly allowed the chain to lower him to the floor, pressing a button on the wall to call for assistance.

What fun indeed.

John woke up hazily to a warm wet feeling wrapping around his dick and something harsh strapped to his face. He groaned, head rolling from side to side as he pried his eyes open.

As his eyes tried to focus, he made out the steel cage of a muzzle protruding from his face. He tried to remember where he was, when wet hot heat engulfed his cock.

The delicious feeling snapped his mind into focus and on instinct, he reached to force the source of the sensation further down, only to find he could move his hands.

Yanking his arms he found they were held by metal restraints.

Vision finally clear, he looked down to see a dark skinned, blue haired woman staring up at him adoringly, mouth steadily swallowing his dick.

Suddenly John remembered where he was and growled at the intruder.

That only encourage you to take him all the way down, making John involuntarily fuck into your throat. John swore at the tight constrictive feel of your esophagus and tried to plant his feet to gain more leverage, only to realize, that they too were shackled into the breeding chair.

He snarled down at you and you only moaned, clearly not affected by his ire.

He can only sit there as you enthusiastically give him the sloppiest neck, he’s ever had. He takes you in since he can do nothing else.

Long blue and black locs fall from the bun atop your head. Gold jewelry is littered throughout. He can see a gold septum ring in your wide nose.

He only caught a glimpse of it, because said nose meets his pelvis when you deepthroat him.

He came, without any warning, shooting down your throat with a groan, watching you pull away at the last second, to avoid getting your jaw knotted.

He watched his cum spray across your dark face, blue lipstick tinged saliva connecting your smirking mouth to his twitching cock.

He tried to fight the whine that left his mouth at his aching knot taking form again. It was agony. He wished you would stroke him with your slick again. If he could just feel your warm slicked palm on him, he’d be able to think clearly—

John shook his head, but it did nothing to clear his thoughts.

His odd behavior didn’t go unnoticed either.

You stood, smiling beatifically, caressing the muzzle. “Oh John, it’s so hard isn’t it? You haven’t been bred on your entire Rut.” Your hand runs down from the cage to pet over his unmarked neck, glad to see his previous Omega didn’t mark him.

You massaged over his bonding gland and reveled in his intoxicating scent, as it filled the Stall. “It’s ok Alpha. I can make it all better.”

You watched his dazed pained face, knowing that the last two knots just about broke him. You won’t need to do much anymore. His instincts are drowned out by the most prevalent one and that’s the need of an Omega on his knot.

Wasting no time, you climbed into the Alpha’s lap. John was disoriented, but he felt l the wet lips of your pussy, grazing his dick. He tried desperately to fuck up into your gooey warmth and almost gave in immediately, but you wanted him submission first.

Grabbing the muzzle, you made him look at you. “Tell Omega, what you need Alpha. Tell me what I want to hear.” His eyes were hazy and instead of that deep growl he’d been giving you, it was a subvocal whine leaving his throat.

“P—Please.”

The word leaving his lips was like pulling teeth.

You pressed white coffin nailed fingers between your legs, avoiding touching the Alpha at all. With slicked fingers, you massaged them over his bonding glands, mixing your scents and staking a claim.

John’s voice was wrecked and the dark eyes managed to be fever bright. “Please. S—Sit on my cock. Need you to breed on me.”

You grinned at him, before giving him what he wanted.

You slid down his dick, savoring the new angle the man’s dick penetrated you. It hit split you open and in a wonderful revelation you realized that it still wasn’t all the way inside you. Groaning, you looked at John as his head dropped back against the breeding chair. His mouth was open in a bliss behind the muzzle, black hair He was a sight to behold.

“It’s ok, John. We’re gonna make it fit,” you said as you worked your fingers under the straps of the muzzle.

You steady your knees as you bounce up and down his dick. Its feels amazing, being filled to bursting. And him stroking you out fiercely made your legs shudder and twitch with the pleasure pain of it. John’s moaning, begging for you to let him knot in you this time.

His hips moved as best they could with the way he was shackled. It drove you wild. On each down stroke he met you with his own upwards thrust. Your pussy was creamy around him, loud and squelching in the quiet of the Stall.

And John looked like he was on cloud nine. His face was flushed in ecstasy and awash in passion. You wanted to kiss him. Needed to.

Finally the leather of the muzzle gave way and you tossed the muzzle away.

John’s tried to lunge for your mating gland, but you caught him by the hair and fluttered your cunt around his dick. “Not yet, Alpha. You haven’t let me take that big pretty knot yet.”

The hitman whined, fucking up into you forlornly making you drag him forward to kiss him. The kissed him , rough and deep. Licking over big fangs, before sucking on his tongue. Beneath you John’s hip sped up, fucking his dick into your gooey center.

You broke away to moan and John took the opportunity to beg against plush lips.

“Please I need it. Don’t make me do it again. Let me stay inside, Omega.” His words sere practically sobbed out as you fucked him. It made you moan, the pleasure of having the man at your mercy pushing you closer to the edge.

“Do it, pop your knot Alpha. Plug my pussy up, c’mon.” You licked back into his mouth, bouncing on him, forcing you pussy to take those scant few inches. It slammed the fat tip of his dick into your cervix. He fucked up into the squishy ring to the womb and you were gone.

Your orgasm rolled through you and you pulls from the kiss to moan out loudly, never having an Alpha touch you so deeply.

John growled louder than before and you heard a loud metallic sound before big rough palms were holding you down on his dick.

You had a second to be be startled before you were overcome the with feeling of his cum flooding your insides and his knot spreading and locking your pussy on him. You watched his face as he thanked you, over and over.

With a last coherent thought, you pulled his hair to bare his neck to you and sunk young fangs into his pale neck.

You feel the bond snap into place and become aware of his very existence. You sat there, full and panting , in the silence of the Stall, as you came down from your high.

Pulling away, mouth a little bloody, you grabbed your new mate by the chin and met his fucked out gaze.

“Good Alpha.”

#black fanfic writer #black reader #black reader smut #john wick x black reader #john wick x black y/n #john wick smut #alpha john wick #omegaverse #non traditional a/b/o dynamics

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johnwickb1tsch · 1 year ago

Text

you’re the worst thing (i’m addicted to)

a john wick x Helen'sSister!Reader fic You are Helen's baby sister. When you meet John Wick at Helen's graveside, he invites you to dinner to celebrate her birthday. Set a few years after the first movie, 2-4 never happened. Use of y/n. Warnings: canon typical violence. Future reference to threat of noncon, (not John! because he's our assassin sweetiepie). Mourning. Smut. Grey areas. Questionable decisions. Sweetheart!John, BAMF!John Depressed!John - If you can handle the movie you should be fine here...

Part 1.

“Hey, Hels.”

There is no answer, only the warbling of a bird in a distant tree. The day is bright and blue, spring has come again in all her glory. It doesn’t seem right, somehow, that the sun should still shine, and the birds should still sing.

Because she is gone.

It’s been two years, but you still haven’t really wrapped your head around it.

You still have your last text message thread with her in your phone. It’s as though you could just punch a few buttons and still talk to her. Always, she would answer you, no matter what she was doing. Sometimes you want to type in I miss you and hit send, just to see what might happen.

But then, maybe it is appropriate, that today should be such a beautiful day. On this day, forty-two years ago, your sister was born. Roughly ten years later, you followed. As a direct result, your mother died of complications in childbirth.

Your father still blamed you, but Helen never did.

In a way, Helen was your mother, more than the woman who bore you.

It makes it all hurt so much more.

“Happy birthday, by the way.”

You look down at the stone, this massive granite behemoth. You find it rather ugly, to be honest, but it will certainly stand the test of time, nuclear war notwithstanding. Loving Wife, reads the epitaph below.

You know it was true.

You know that perhaps John Wick is the only person Helen loved more than you. But the inscription still seems too brief. Short changing her, somehow.

But then, John paid for the stone, so you suppose he got to pick what it said.

You were ensuring her memory lived on in other ways.

“I finally did as you asked,” you tell her. “I’ve used the photos you left me in a painting. We're going to be in a show together. I wish you were here to see it.”

There is a mean part of you that suspects your submission was only accepted because it contained work from the late, great, photographer Helen Morgan-Wick, but you shove that down into the seething pit with all the rest of your fears and doubts. You didn't use them for the attention. You did it to feel close to her, and because she asked you to. One final art project, the note had said. She knew you too well, knew that the only thing that kept you from toeing the line of the abyss was a good artistic obsession.

You knew she’d planned to leave a project for John too. A puppy, she’d said. You’d shared a laugh over it, through tears, the last time you’d been together. You never found out how that had gone. John hadn’t attended a family gathering since Helen passed.

Too painful.

You didn’t blame him one bit.

“I miss you, Hels. I feel so lost without you.”

“Amen.”

The sound of another voice behind you nearly makes you jump out of your skin. You turn to find him, in one of his signature tailored black suits, looking unfairly scrumptious despite the dark circles under his eyes. He hadn't made a sound in his approach. He never did. The man moved like a ghost and looked like a dark dream. You'd always found him insanely attractive.

You'd never done anything about that, of course. But goddamn, you had eyes.

“Hi, John.”

“Hello, y/n.”

You’ve never run into him at the gravesite before, though you have seen the wilted offerings of daisies left by the stone, and you always had assumed they’d come from him. You haven’t seen him since Helen’s funeral. He hasn’t changed much, really, though there is a sharpness to his aspect you’d never noticed when Helen was alive. An edge to his gaze; how can eyes so dark convey so much? Despite yourself, it sends a little thrill down your spine that you absolutely know you should not revel in.

Maybe you haven’t seen him in person after Helen passed, but you’ve gazed at him plenty through Helen’s lens. There had been so many photographs of him in the collection of prints she’d left you. Nothing risqué, but the way he’d looked at her even through the camera had been nothing less than intimate.

There were times, late at night in your studio, when you’d pretended he’d been looking at you that way.

“How…have you been?”

He offers a grim shadow of a smile and a shake of his head that you understand all too well.

“Nice to be with someone you don't have to pretend with.”

“Yeah.”

You both stare down at the grave, meditating on your loss of this woman who touched you both so completely.

“Do you think she can hear us?” you ask, unable to lift your voice above a whisper.

There is a long pause from her widower, the man she left behind.

“Not really.” He lifts his face to the sun, eyes closed, as though maybe he can feel something of her presence. “But you should talk to her anyway. I might be wrong.”

You smile at that.

“Do you ever talk to her?”

“All the time,” he admits with a huff of self-deprecating laughter. “But then, I might just be losing my mind.”

“Ah well. That makes two of us then.”

You gently lay down the bouquet of Gerber daisies you'd brought for her. Helen’s favorite. If you ever have a garden, you will plant some for her. As it is, you have to buy them from the store. You remember the patch of daisies she’d cultivated in the garden of your childhood home. Their cheerful faces and soft petals. They had been your mother’s favorite too. When you were a girl Helen would sing to you and braid them in your thick hair. You couldn’t know at the time, how precious those perfect days had been.

The wave of sorrow hits you like a freight train, the weight of your loss a crushing force. You start to cry, hiding your face in your hands; you would prefer to do this alone, but you cannot stop it.

You feel an arm about your shoulders. It surprises you—John was never a touchy-feely man, never one for hugs, always preferring a wave or a handshake. Only for Helen, did he ever display any sort of affection. They had always been touching, holding hands or sitting hip to hip on the couch, his strong arm slung protectively around her shoulders. You didn’t want to say you’d been envious of that, but…perhaps you’d wondered, what it might be like, to be so cherished.

When he pulls you against him you only manage some token resistance. “I’ll mess up your suit.” You sound pitiful, even to you.

“I have an excellent dry cleaner.”

His dry wit had always amused you. This time, it breaks you, and you give in. He is solid as an oak, and as it turns out, his chest is an excellent place to cry on. Under the shelter of his chin you wring yourself dry, until it feels like you have nothing left inside you. His large hand rests lightly upon the back of your head, shielding you from the world. He is warm, and his cologne is subtle but heavenly. Sandalwood, maybe, and something spiced. Cardamom, perhaps. A hint of pepper.

You don’t particularly want to move, even though you absolutely should. Yet his hold on you has not loosened, and you tell yourself that maybe John Wick needed a hug just as badly as you did.

“People keep telling me that it gets easier, and I just want to punch them in the face,” you sniffle.

A huff of laughter escapes him. You feel it stir your hair on the top of your head. “Yeah. I get that.”

Finally you pull back, though not as far as you should. You’ve never actually been this close to him before, and you look at each other from a foot away. Sometimes proximity can shatter the illusion of someone’s attractiveness—but not this man. The impossible angle of his cheekbones, the soft scruff of his beard…is it just you, or does the edge in his gaze soften a little, when he looks at you? It makes your legs a little weak, and you kind of hate yourself for it.

It has nothing to do with you, stupid, you tell yourself. Where you and Helen weren’t exactly twins, you did resemble each other strongly. In profile, you’d been mistaken for her in public plenty of times before. If anything, it was probably unnerving for this poor man who missed his wife so much, to hold you, a sorry facsimile, in his arms. Out of pity, most likely.

Helen had been the good sister. The upstanding one, the kind one. You? You can be such a twisted little thing.

“Sorry,” you sigh, noticing the smudge of makeup on his lapel.

He doesn’t even glance down, that intense gaze still fixed upon you. “Don’t be.”

Unbidden heat blooms from your cheeks to your toes, finding yourself the subject of that gaze. You’ve got to go, before you really embarrass yourself.

“I'll leave you alone. It was nice to see you, John.”

You turn to go, hugging yourself against the early spring chill. Why did you have to feel so bereft, without his arms around you? You take a few steps before he calls after you, “Y/n?”

You freeze in your tracks, a thrill jetting down your spine. “Yeah?” you dare, turning to half look over your shoulder.

“I…was thinking about going to Helen’s favorite restaurant tonight. Would you like to join me?”

Your heart beats double time in your chest, as you slowly turn to face him. You should say no. There’s a thousand reasons you should say no. This was your sister’s husband. It doesn’t matter that he’s the most handsome man you’ve ever seen, and that he’s been kind to you, and that he’s looking at you like he might drown if you say no.

“I would like that,” you answer, and your heartbeat thundering in your ears sounds like the hammering of nails into your own coffin.

Part 2

#john wick x you #john wick #john wick x you fic #john wick x reader #john wick x y/n #keanu reeves #keanu reeves x reader #im going to hell #john wick fic #title from a black keys song i fucking love them

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slippinninque · 1 year ago

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✨💕Slips' List 💕✨

Hello! Welcome to my master list!

(updated 01/01/2025)

About me: Ya'll can call me Slips! I love to write and can be a bit slow at posting, so please be patient with me! I write with black, fem women in mind as the reader.

Current Inspo: Alex Cross (Cross), Terry Richmond (Rebel Ridge)

Thinking of: Jatemme Manning (Widows) Fontaine (They Cloned Tyrone), Shigeru Kimura (Bullet Train), Koji Shimazu (John Wick 4), Oj Haywood (Nope), Kratos (GOW) Terry Richmond (Rebel Ridge)

Requests: OPEN! (please be patient with me, I am a bit of a slow writer lol)

Things to keep in mind: MINORS DNI, Be Nice, and Be Responsible For Your Own Consumption. I do not give permission for my work to be reposted here or onto any other platform. I do not give permission for my work to be use for any AI learning/purposes. Also, please feel free to reblog and comment--I would love to know what you think!

✨Works / Blurbs✨

Fontaine, Seduced

Fontaine Fluff

Mwuah (Fontaine fic)

The Bad Day (Fontaine Fic)

Fontaine Likes Pretty Things

You (Learned To) Like Pretty Things, Too

Pillow Time (Fontaine fic)

Sleepy Snap Shots (Fontaine fic)

Fontaine Likes to Wrestle

A Lil'Bit Special (Fontaine fic)

Fontaine The Handy Man

Winter with Fontaine

Riding With Fontaine

Supportive 'Taine

'Taine loves Love

Fontaine x Rainy Day

Fontaine Unleashes His Inner Ramsey

Bear Hug (chester fic)

Fontaine, Sunned

Fontaine Thinks You're Beautiful

Fontaine vs Usher

Now & Later (Fontaine fic)

A Different Perspective (Fontaine fic)

Kiss Me Through The Phone (Fontaine fic)

Private Dancer (Fontaine fic)

Sweet Tooth (Fontaine fic)

Special Directives (Lloyd Hansen fic)

Cruisin' (Fontaine fic)

Pendulum (Fontaine fic)

Fussy (Fontaine fic)

Red Handed (Jatemme Manning fic)

Skimming(Jatemme Manning fic)

Just A Lil' Fun (Fontaine fic)

Home Makin' (Jatemme Manning fic)

Tanoshi Yoru (Koji Shimazu fic)

Songbird's Blues (Shigeru Kimura)

You admit your crush (Fontaine fic)

The Power of Patience (Shigeru Kimura fic)

The Sudden Goodbye (Koji Shimazu fic)

Nosey (Jatemme Manning fic)

Never Far Behind (Koji Shimazu fic) prt.2

Jatemme x Small Falls Surprise

Loan x Tommy (OC fic)

Spinning The Block (Jatemme Manning fic)

Busted(Chester fic)

Girl Time! (Koji Shimazu-ish fic)

Taking a Nibble (Jatemme Manning fic)

Fontaine x Jodeci

Ongoing (Alex Cross fic)

Seconds (Chester fic)

Taking A Nibble (Jatemme Manning fic)

Toasty(Fontaine fic) A Small Exchange (Terry Richmond fic)

Winter with Fontaine prt. 2 A Neighborly Favor (Terry Richmond fic)

💕Asks / Submissions💕

Some Place Warm (Fontaine fic)

Taquiner (Fontaine fic)

"how would Fontaine react to his girl’s’ pregnancy glow?"

how Fontaine would be while in love

Jealous Fontaine

Ain't No Sunshine When She's Gone (Fontaine fic)

TLC (Fontaine fic)

Fontaine Admits His Crush

Early Birds (Fontaine fic)

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astoldbyaja · 4 months ago

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Osaka Sunbird

One shot on what would happen if Koji Shimazu didn't die after his fight with Caine. What if a past love actually saved him?

Koji Shimazu x Black Female OC

In Another Life

Koji Shimazu gasped hard, his body jolted almost as he saw a white ceiling. Was this the afterlife? He moved to sit up but the sudden pain to his body made him still. His vision was a tad blurry, he didn’t have his glasses on.

“Akira…” he rasped lowly. Where was his daughter? He remembered fighting Caine, the final blow, and his vision going dark in his daughter’s arms. “Akira!”

A high-pitched noise made him look to the side, it almost sounded like someone was shushing him? He saw blurred flowers painted on walls and that alone was familiar to him. He was in one of his hotel rooms. It wasn’t demolished? There was silence now and he tried to move his hands only to see his wrists chained to the bed. What was going on.

“What is this!” he shouted, a panic overcoming him mixed with confusion of his surroundings and fear he didn’t know where his daughter was. “AKIRA!” His chest hurt but he didn’t care. Suddenly the door of the room slid back and a black figure stood there. Koji was still as he saw the slim figure of someone in a black mask with two white dots side to side and a big wide smile painted beneath.

“You are like a baby, not knowing when to be silent!” the female voice hissed. The African accent made Koji recoil. He was familiar with that tone.

“Gemini Abara… what are you doing here?” he rasped. The woman crossed her arms.

“Protecting you. Mother heard John Wick had been here and knew there would be trouble so she tasked me with locking down your hotel and cleaning it up so you can get back to running it.” she said almost with a pout. Koji was heavily confused. Why would she be here after all these years.

“My daughter… Akira, she is injured.” he said swiftly. He needed to know if she was alive. Gemini gave a curt nod.

“I have birds out looking for her right now.” she informed. He sighed with mild relief, hoping that she was safe. She knew of many safe havens to go to if the hotel was ever under siege. The masked woman struts over to him before reaching into her suit pocket and pulling out his glasses. She put them on his face, uncuffed his hands, then went over and pulled up a chair and sat down, crossing her legs and tapping her black boot up and down.

“My staff?” he asked.

“Those who can be saved will be saved, the dead will be buried all expenses will go the Abara Family. As of right now your hotel is simply... under construction.” she informed. Koji shook his head.

“I should be dead.” Koji said and Gemini nodded.

“I wanted to let you die. You brought my mother nothing but pain yet she told me to do all I could to bring you back. Luckily Caine still decided to spare your life. I guess you both having a daughter gave him a change of heart.” she said venomously. Koji inhaled some and looked down at his body finally having the will power to sit up. His body was bandaged and the bullet wound he had was cleaned and bandaged.

“And what will the High Table think of one of its own going against them?” he asked. The woman was silent as the sound of heals on marble floor came gently down the hall. Koji looked toward the door and Gemini stood up as the door slid open. His eyes slowly filled with emotion as a woman entered. She was aged like Koji, but her milk chocolate skin showed no cracks of age. Her once long curly hair was now shoulder length and black. Her body was still very much in shape as she stood with poise. She was in a red dress and red headdress.

“Amara.” Koji said breathlessly. The woman looked at her daughter and just nodded. Gemini bowed and exited the room leaving the two alone. Amara looked at Koji with warmth in her soft green eyes and slowly approached.

“Hello Koji.” she said gently moving to bring the chair closer to sit down beside him. Koji looked almost mesmerized as the woman smiled at him. “Considering everything, you look well.”

Her voice was like music to his ears, a melody he had missed for over twenty years.

“Amara I- ” he was a loss of words. Slowly Amara shook her head.

“Don’t speak. I have everything taken care of here.” she said assuredly. Koji still shook his head.

“Your brother sits on the High Table. They’ve released the Marquis to capture John Wick. The hotel was deemed deconsecrated.” he said. Amara just placed her hand gently on his chest gently shushing him.

“It’s alright. My brother owed me a favor and a marker.” she replied. Koji raised his hand and slowly placed it over hers, even going so far as to gently hold it.

“You wasted a marker on me, Amara-”

“Some things go further than markers… like brotherhood and a love we once shared for each other.” she said. Koji stared at her stunned before the door slid open again. Gemini came in.

“Intombi ka-Osaka ifunyenwe.” she informed. (Osaka’s daughter is found). Amara nodded.

“Mziseni apha.” she commanded and Gemini nodded and closed the door. Amara looked at Koji with a smile before slowly standing.

“Your daughter has been found and she will be here any moment. I leave you to repair your hotel and restore it to its excellency. Your doctors should be able to take your medical care from here.” she replied. She began to withdrawal, but Koji quickly took hold of her hand before she was too far away.

“Amara… thank you.” he said. The woman smiled and gave a brief nod before moving to the door. “And you are wrong…”

She paused and turned to him curiously as he just shook his head.

“The love we once shared is incorrect. My love for you will always burn bright in my heart.” he said. Amara stared at him for a moment before smiling lovingly at the healing manager. Her hand came up to gently graze his soft skin. Oh how she missed his touch.

“As my love for you.” she said before turning and moving out the door. Her footsteps echoed in his mind as they grew faint, just like when she left all those years ago.

Amara walked down the halls of the hotel with power and strength. As she passed through the hallway, figures in red suites and masks moved to stand behind her silently falling in line two by two to escort her through the halls. As they got down to the lobby which was being cleaned and decontaminated, an injured Akira was being held by the side by one of her guards. As she limped through looking around heavily confused as to what was going on, she was passing the woman in red.

She knew this woman, Lady Amara Abara, sister of the High Table Roman Abara and sister of Poison Master, Satin Abara. The Abara Family was very well known and for a member to be here confused the young concierge. But Amara would not look her way as she walked.

Koji lied back against the bed thinking of the woman who was just here. The woman who could bring him to his knees in seconds. Memories of the past rolled into his mind.

“We were fools to think our families would allow us to be together. Our paths did not involve each other.” Koji said and Amara closed her eyes, tears streaming down her face.

“For being powerful people, we are completely powerless when together and that will result in weakness.” she admitted.

“Goodbye, Amara.” he said.

“Goodbye, Koji…”

The door slid open and Akira was brought in.

“FATHER!” she cried out and Koji looked at her with tears in his eyes as the two embraced. Overwhelming joy filled his body as his daughter was alive and well. He pulled back to look down her body.

“Your wound.” he said. Akira shook her head.

“There are medical staff here… Father I thought you were… How?” she asked. Koji slowly looked toward the door.

“It seems we owe a large gratitude to Lady Amara Abara and her Sunbirds.” he said. Akira looked at her father’s face seeing that look of longing. She has noticed that look many times when discussion of The Abara Family came up around him. She wasn’t a fool, she had known for a very long time her father was not truly in love with her mother, even if he treated her with love and respect. She remembered her mother telling her there are two kinds of love: loving someone and being in love with them. Her father loved her mother, but he was in love with another. She finally looked back at the door remembering the look of strength on Lady Amara’s face as she led her assassins from the building. It was her. She looked down slowly before looking up at her father.

“Maybe you will see her again.” she said. Koji looked down at his daughter giving a gentle smile.

“Maybe… in another life.”

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

Author’s notes

So if you’ve read my Pink Blossom, I feel this is just another life of where Grace and Ujio found each other. Now I do have a chapter started about the youth of Koji Shimazu and Amara Abara, but I’m still deciding if I want to work on it. But we will see hehe

Taglist

@slippinninque

#Koji Shimazu #Koji Shimazu x black reader #Koji Shimazu x blackfemreader #Koji Shimazu fic #John Wick 4 #Koji x black fem reader #koji x blackfemreader #Hiroyuki Sanada

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run-clever-boy · 1 year ago

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I’m (kind of) new!

I'm a relatively new writer here! (I also repost absolute ramdom things *cough* peter capaldi *cough*, so my blog is a bit cluttered lol) I would love anyone to request fics or at least help me with the ropes! I have never published any writing before so comments are appreciated!

PLEASE READ: All fics that are requested i have recieved and I am working on them! I publish the fic directly with the ask so that way it is easy to find. I promise I recieved them. ALSO: IF YOU REQUESTED AN IAN MALCOLM ANGST/FLUFF FIC IM SO SO SORRY I ACCIDENTALLY DELETED THE ASK, MESSAGE ME PLS (Also I love all the requests <3)

I write for the following characters so far (character list below the cut), however I am not opposed to maybe adding a few more!

Masterlist here!

Doctor who:

9th doctor

10th doctor

11th doctor

12th doctor.

(No doctor who spoilers please, currently in beginning of 13’s run)

BBC Sherlock:

Sherlock

Not opposed to more just don’t really have any ideas

Harry Potter:

Sirius Black

Remus Lupin

Severus Snape

George Weasley

Fred Weasley

again open to more just no ideas

Marvel:

Loki

Stephen Strange

don’t know a lot about the mcu specifics but bear with me

Random:

Willy Wonka (2023 only! I can’t write about the others just because of personal icks)

John Wick

Theo Dimas (maybe theomabel pairing) - Only Murders in the Building

Ian Malcolm

TED LASSO.

OC's!!! (New!) - each name will have a link to their character description

Elise Shepard

Please Please Please help me out here! Can’t wait to see the amazing things created here. I will write 18+ content and many warnings will be provided. I mostly write one-shots, drabbles, quite a few reader inserts (Y/n). Not a fan of multi-chapter fics but may write if persuaded. Thank you!

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introvertllux · 9 months ago

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Whispers of Redemption (Chapter One)

Genres: Action, Thriller, Romance

Warnings:

Graphic Violence

Intense Action Sequences

PTSD and Trauma

Emotional Distress

Age Gap Romance (John is in his mid-40s, Sera is in her late 20s- early 30s)--> Will have the ages solidified in the story to make things more clear (might have to make John younger I read they wanted him to poetically be 35 years old).

Word Count: 4,689

Disclaimer: I DO NOT own any rights to John Wick or anything related (Just my OC! characters).

Chapter one: Aftermath and Peace

The sky over New York City was a somber gray, a fitting backdrop for the mournful scene unfolding at the cemetery. Winston and the Bowery King stood in silence, their expressions shadowed with a mix of sorrow and respect. They were positioned in front of John Wick's grave, where he was now eternally beside his beloved late wife, Helen. The headstone, a simple yet dignified marker, bore the inscription "Loving Husband," fulfilling John's final request.

John's dog, a loyal companion left behind, sat quietly by the grave, its mournful eyes reflecting the loss of its master. The dog's presence was a poignant reminder of the bond between man and animal, a silent witness to John's relentless struggle for peace. The Golden Retriever's ears perked up occasionally as if listening for the familiar steps it would never hear again.

The Bowery King, a figure of strength and resilience, broke the heavy silence. "I never thought I'd see the day," he said, his voice a blend of disbelief and sorrow. His gaze remained fixed on the gravestone as if trying to reconcile the legendary assassin with the peaceful words etched in stone.

Winston, ever the picture of composed authority, stood with a straight back, his eyes slightly moist with unspoken emotions. The Bowery King turned to him, a question lingering in the air. "Do you think he's in Heaven or Hell?"

Winston's response was measured and thoughtful. "Who knows?" he said softly, his voice carrying the weight of their shared history and the uncertainty of what lies beyond. The Bowery King chuckled, a low, ironic sound that spoke volumes of his own views on the afterlife and the life John led.

With a final, respectful nod, the Bowery King turned and walked away, his coat billowing slightly in the breeze. Winston remained, his gaze fixed on the grave. He stepped closer, his hand reaching out to touch the cold, unyielding surface of the headstone. The moment was intimate, a private farewell to a man who was both a friend and a son in spirit.

"Farewell, my son," Winston muttered in Russian, his voice breaking ever so slightly. The words were laden with a deep, paternal affection that John, perhaps, never fully realized. As Winston stood there, the weight of his words hung in the air, a testament to their complex, profound bond.

______

Undisclosed location, Upstate New York (Monday)

John woke with the dawn, the first light of day casting a soft glow through the windows of his secluded cabin. The air was crisp and fresh, carrying the earthy scent of the forest surrounding his new home. Outside, the world was cloaked in a gentle mist, the landscape appearing as a dreamscape of rolling hills and dense, shadowy woods. The serenity was palpable, starkly contrasting the chaos he had left behind.

He donned his running gear and stepped outside, his dog, a playful and loyal Golden Retriever named Max, bounding eagerly at his side. Max's golden fur shone in the early light, his eyes bright with uncontained excitement. He nuzzled John's hand, seeking a moment of affection before their run. As he patted Max's head, John smiled a rare and genuine expression.

*Picture of Max*

The early morning silence was broken only by the rhythmic sound of his footsteps and the soft rustling of leaves. The mist clung to the trees, creating a mystical aura that seemed to envelop him in its embrace. John took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the cool, clean air, feeling a sense of calm.

John and Max ran along a well-worn path through the forest, damp ground and yielding beneath their feet. The towering trees' branches interlaced like an intricate canopy allowed slivers of sunlight to pierce through, casting dappled shadows on the forest floor. Birds chirped softly, their songs a gentle reminder of the life teeming in this secluded haven.

As they reached a small clearing, John slowed to a stop. This was his sanctuary within a sanctuary, where he could train and maintain the skills that had kept him alive. The clearing was modest, surrounded by tall grass and wildflowers, with a few simple targets for practice. Max sat patiently, watching as John went through his routine.

John began with hand-to-hand combat drills, his movements fluid and precise, each strike and block a testament to his training and discipline. The physical exertion was a release, a way to channel the restless energy that still coursed through him. Next, he moved to marksmanship, drawing his pistol and firing the targets with unwavering accuracy. The sound of gunfire echoed briefly through the trees, then faded back into the tranquil silence. Max's ears twitched at each shot but remained calm, trusting in John's control.

By the time he finished, the sun had risen higher, burning away the last remnants of mist. John wiped the sweat from his brow and called Max to his side. Together, they returned to the cabin, the morning's peace settling around them like a comforting blanket. Max trotted happily alongside, occasionally glancing up at John, seeking reassurance in his presence.

______

In the late morning, just as the soil began to dry from the dew, John turned his attention to his vegetable garden. The plot was modest but meticulously maintained, a patch of order and life amidst the natural wilderness. He knelt down, his hands moving with practiced care as he inspected the plants. Tomatoes, peppers, herbs, and leafy greens thrived under his diligent attention.

Gardening had become a therapeutic ritual for John to reconnect with a more straightforward, grounded part of himself. Each plant was a testament to his patience and care, a small but significant triumph over the chaos that had once ruled his life. He delicately pruned the plants, ensuring they had room to grow and flourish. The rich scent of the earth and the vibrant colors of the garden provided a sense of satisfaction and peace.

As he worked, John found his thoughts drifting back to his past, the people he had lost, and the battles he had fought. The garden, however, anchored him in the present, reminding him of the life he was trying to build. The rhythmic tasks of watering, weeding, and nurturing the plants helped him find balance and purpose.

Max lay nearby, contentedly chewing on a stick, occasionally glancing up at John with adoring eyes. The bond between them was a quiet yet profound comfort to John. With each careful motion, John felt more of the tension ease from his body. The garden was more than just a food source; it symbolized his healing and a promise of the peace he sought. He stood up, wiping his hands on his jeans, and surveyed his work with a quiet sense of pride. This was his sanctuary, where he could begin rebuilding himself, one day at a time.

Max trotted over, his tail wagging slowly. John knelt down, scratching behind the dog's ears. "Good boy, Max," he murmured. Max responded with a joyful bark, his eyes shining with unwavering loyalty and affection. John smiled, feeling a rare moment of contentment.

As John continued to his garden, a gentle breeze rustled the leaves around him, and memories began to surface, unbidden and vivid. The rhythmic motions of gardening seemed to unlock doors in his mind, allowing the past to flood in with startling clarity.

The first memory came from the High Table, a shadowy council controlling his life for so long. He could almost feel the cold, oppressive atmosphere of their clandestine meetings, the weight of their expectations, and the constant threat of violence that hung like a thick fog. The faces of the influential figures, masked in shadows, their voices echoing in the chamber, left an indelible mark on his psyche. Each figure, a specter of power and control, returned the suffocating sensation of being a pawn in their deadly game.

His thoughts drifted to Helen, his late wife, and the heartache of losing her. He remembered the quiet moments they had shared, the tender touches, and the deep conversations that made life feel full and meaningful. The memory of her smile, warm and genuine, pierced through the darkness, bringing both solace and pain. The garden was a small way of keeping her memory alive, a tribute to the life they had dreamed of together. He could almost hear her laughter, feel the warmth of her presence, the gentle way she had made even the darkest days seem bearable.

John's mind wandered to the intense battle with Vincent Bisset de Gramont. The scene replayed with brutal clarity: the clashing of steel, the deafening gunfire, and the raw, visceral struggle for survival. He could still feel the adrenaline coursing through his veins, the acute awareness of every move, every strike. Vincent's face, twisted in arrogance and desperation, was etched into his memory. The final moments of the duel, the precision and inevitability of the kill, were both a triumph and a curse. It was a reminder of why he had to leave that life behind. He remembered the feel of the cold metal in his hands, the weight of each decision, the fleeting moment of victory overshadowed by the endless cycle of violence.

As he pulled a weed from the soil, another memory surfaced, one that was both tender and bittersweet. Sera. Seraphina Jones is a bright light in the darkness of his past. He remembered her intense stare and those large, expressive brown eyes that seemed to see right through him- Bambi he affectionally used to call her. Their connection had been almost romantic, a bond forged in the crucible of shared hardship and fleeting moments of peace.

In his mind's eye, he saw her dancing, her movements fluid and powerful yet graceful. She had been a beacon of hope, a glimpse of what life could be beyond the blood and violence. Their conversations had been deep and meaningful, touching on dreams and fears that neither had shared with anyone else. He recalled how she had tied her pointe shoes, her fingers nimble and precise, and the times they had sparred together, her determination matching his own. The way her face would light up with passion when she spoke of her dreams, the unspoken understanding that passed between them, was something he cherished deeply.

The memory of their parting was a jagged wound. The High Table's intervention, the forced separation, and the knowledge that she had been sent to the Expanse program to endure unimaginable hardships. He had tried to keep her in his heart, but the brutality of their world had left little room for such fragile connections. He remembered the last look they shared, a silent promise of reunion that seemed impossible to keep.

Max nudged his leg, sensing his distress. John knelt down, wrapping his arms around the dog, finding solace in his companion's uncomplicated loyalty and love. Max licked his face, a simple gesture that spoke volumes about their bond.

John's hands stilled in the soil, the weight of these memories pressing down on him. Max, sensing his master's unease, came over and nuzzled his leg, offering silent comfort. John looked down at the loyal dog, his eyes reflecting a gratitude and connection that words could not capture. He knelt and buried his face in Max's fur, drawing strength from the unwavering loyalty of his canine companion. "I'm okay, Max," John whispered, though the words were as much for himself as for his dog. He needed this reminder of his humanity, the reason he had faked his death and sought this peace.

The past was a part of him, a series of scars and lessons that had shaped the man he had become. But here, in this garden, with Max by his side, John could find moments of peace and clarity. He took a deep breath, the fresh air filling his lungs, and continued his work, grounding himself in the present, in the life he was striving to build away from the shadows of his past. With each careful motion, he felt more of the tension ease from his body, the garden's therapeutic rhythm offering a respite from the ghosts that haunted him.

__________

As the day wore on and the sun climbed higher, John and Max returned to the cabin. John fed Max, watching with a small smile as the dog eagerly devoured his meal. The simple act of caring for Max brought a sense of normalcy and purpose. John then focused on his needs, preparing a simple yet hearty breakfast.

The small kitchen was filled with the scent of sizzling eggs and freshly brewed coffee, mingling with the earthy aroma of the forest that drifted in through the open windows. John ate slowly, savoring each bite, a stark contrast to the hurried meals of his past life. Max lay contentedly at his feet, occasionally glancing up with adoring eyes, his tail thumping softly against the floor.

After breakfast, John cleaned up and returned to the garden to check on a few more plants. Then, he noticed something unusual at the edge of the garden, partially hidden beneath a low-hanging branch. Curiosity piqued, he walked over and crouched down, carefully lifting the branch to reveal a small, intricately carved wooden box.

John's heart rate quickened as he picked up the box, its weight solid and reassuring in his hands. The craftsmanship was exquisite, the surface adorned with delicate patterns that seemed to pulse with a hidden energy. He carried it back to the cabin, Max following closely, sensing the shift in his master's mood.

Inside, John placed the box on the kitchen table and sat down, his eyes narrowing as he studied it. There was no prominent latch or hinge or visible way to open it. He ran his fingers over the carvings, feeling the subtle grooves and indentations. There was something familiar about the patterns, something that tugged at the edges of his memory.

As he examined the box, he noticed that the carvings formed a series of interlocking shapes, almost like a puzzle. He pressed gently on one of the shapes, and to his surprise, it shifted slightly. Encouraged, he began manipulating the other shapes, each sliding into place with a satisfying click. It was a complex, delicate process, requiring both patience and precision.

The box seemed to come alive with each movement, the patterns shifting and rearranging into new configurations. John's mind raced, piecing together the clues, his training and experience guiding his hands. Max watched intently, his head cocked to one side as if sensing the significance of the moment.

After several minutes, the final piece slid into place, and the box opened with a soft, almost imperceptible click. Inside was a small, folded piece of parchment, the edges worn and delicate. John unfolded it carefully, his eyes scanning the elegant, flowing script.

The message was brief but laden with meaning:

"The shadows know you still walk among them. The dance is not yet over. Beware the dawn, for it brings new light to old secrets."

John's mind raced as he deciphered the cryptic words. The shadows were an apparent reference to the High Table, the unseen forces that still sought to control him. The mention of the dance was unmistakably tied to Sera, her life, and their connection. The warning about the dawn hinted at something imminent, something that threatened to disrupt the fragile peace he had found.

He sat back, the weight of the message settling over him like a heavy shroud. His sanctuary was no longer as safe as he had believed. The shadows of his past were closing in, threatening to pull him back into the world he had fought so hard to escape.

Max, sensing his master's unease, came over and laid his head on John's lap, offering silent comfort. John absently stroked the dog's fur, his mind racing with possibilities and plans. He knew he couldn't ignore the warning. The shadows were moving, and he needed to be ready.

The tranquility of the countryside seemed to waver, the peaceful façade hiding the storm about to break. John took a deep breath, steeling himself for what lay ahead. He had found peace, but it seemed peace was not ready to see him.

________

Brooklyn, New York (Monday)

Brooklyn, New York City, is teeming with life and energy, starkly contrasting John's secluded sanctuary. The sound of traffic and the city's hustle create a constant hum, a symphony of urban chaos. Amid this, The Étoile Ballet Theatre is a beacon of grace and discipline.

Inside the theater, Seraphina "Sera" Jones moved with an intensity and precision that commanded attention. The studio's mirrored walls reflected her every movement, capturing her dance's fluid grace and raw power. Sera was the principal dancer, and her presence on stage was mesmerizing. Her brown skin gleamed with a light sheen of sweat, her muscles taut and defined under the form-fitting dance attire. Her hair, usually pulled into a messy bun, was now slicked back, emphasizing the sharp lines of her face.

Each movement was a testament to her inner strength and discipline, a powerful display of years of rigorous training and unyielding determination. She was practicing for the upcoming performance of Swan Lake, a role that demanded both Odette's delicate grace and Odile's fierce intensity.

As the music swelled, filling the studio with an emotional crescendo, Sera's body responded in kind, each leap and turn a harmonious blend of power and elegance. Her feet executed perfect fouetté turns while her arms moved with the fluidity of water, each gesture telling a story of longing and transformation.

The other dancers watched in awe, inspired by her dedication and skill. Despite the admiration, Sera remained focused, her intense stare fixed on her reflection, pushing herself to the limits of her abilities. She executed a flawless grand jeté, her body suspended in mid-air, a moment of pure artistry that defied gravity.

Sera's mind, however, was only partially in the studio. As she danced, fragments of her past flickered in her thoughts—memories of her parents, the harsh training at the Expanse, and fleeting moments with John. The raw emotion coursed through her, infusing her performance with a mesmerizing and heartbreaking depth.

She finished with a final, breathtaking flourish, her chest heaving as she caught her breath. Applause erupted from the instructor and fellow dancers, but Sera simply nodded with a small, appreciative smile before she turned to leave. The praise was appreciated, but she always sought perfection, a relentless pursuit that often left her empowered and exhausted.

________

After practice, Sera retreated to the solitude of her apartment, a small but cozy space filled with books, plants, and the warm glow of ambient lighting. It was her sanctuary, where she could shed the pressures of the stage and embrace her other identity. Apollo, her beagle, greeted her with enthusiastic barks and a wagging tail. She knelt down, scratching behind his ears, and he nuzzled into her, offering the comfort and companionship she cherished.

*Picture of Apollo*

"Hey, Babas," she whispered, her voice soft and affectionate. "Miss me?"

Apollo responded with a joyful bark, his eyes shining with unwavering loyalty. Sera smiled, the tension from the day's practice easing as she spent a few moments cuddling with her furry friend.

She moved through her apartment, tending to mundane tasks that brought her a sense of normalcy. She filled Apollo's bowl with food, watching him eagerly devouring his meal. In the kitchen, she prepared a simple dinner for herself, the familiar motions of chopping vegetables and stirring pots grounding her after the intensity of rehearsal.

Sera ate her meal slowly, savoring the flavors and the quiet of her apartment. Afterward, she washed the dishes, and the warm water and rhythmic scrubbing soothed her frayed nerves. She caught her reflection in the kitchen window, her face illuminated by the soft glow of the city lights outside. For a moment, she studied herself, seeing the determination and resilience that had carried her through so much.

She let her hair down, the thick, curly strands falling around her shoulders in a cascade. It was a small act of liberation, a way to shed the day's weight. She combed through her hair with her fingers, easing the tension from her scalp.

With Apollo at her side, Sera settled onto the couch, turning on the TV. She chose a Disney movie, Dumbo, one of her favorites from childhood (Making it a personal goal to go through every classical Disney first before the newer, more modern-day ones). As the familiar music and vibrant animation filled the room, she felt a sense of peace. Apollo curled beside her, his head resting on her lap, his warmth comforting.

Sera found solace in the quiet of her apartment, with the movie playing softly in the background. She stroked Apollo's fur, her thoughts drifting between the ballet, her hacking, and the fragments of her past. She was a woman of dualities, living two lives that were her passion and burden.

As the movie ended, Sera glanced down at Apollo, his eyes closed in contentment. "Good boy, Apollo," she whispered, her voice filled with affection. He responded with a contented sigh, his tail thumping softly against the couch.

The peaceful moment was fleeting. Sera knew that soon enough, she had to transform into NYX, her hacker persona. She skillfully navigated through layers of cybersecurity, taking on a new job that challenged her abilities. The screens in her small office lit up with lines of code, a puzzle she was eager to solve.

Sera's fingers flew over the keyboard, her mind sharp and focused. She cracked encryption, bypassed firewalls, and deciphered the intricate web of digital defenses with a precision that mirrored her ballet performances. The adrenaline of the high-stakes hacking was as intense as any performance on stage.

Apollo lay at her feet, his presence a constant comfort. He occasionally looked up at her, sensing her concentration and offering silent support. "You're my rock, Apollo," she would whisper, giving him a quick pat before diving back into her work.

__________

Brooklyn, New York (Thursday)

A few nights later, the city outside her apartment was alive with its usual nocturnal rhythm. The hum of distant traffic, the occasional siren, and the murmurs of late-night revelers supported Sera's intense focus. The glow from multiple computer screens cast an eerie light, reflecting off her determined face as she navigated through layers of cybersecurity, her fingers dancing across the keyboard with the same precision she brought to her ballet.

Her apartment, usually her sanctuary, felt oppressive tonight. The air was thick with the tension of her concentration. Apollo lay beside her, his soulful eyes watching her every move, sensing her strain. The gentle whirr of the computer fans and the soft taps of keys were the only sounds inside, a stark contrast to the cacophony outside.

Suddenly, a sharp, searing headache struck Sera as if a white-hot spike had been driven into her skull. She gasped, clutching her head, the pain radiating behind her eyes. The room seemed to spin, and her vision blurred as fragmented memories surged forward with brutal clarity.

She saw the fire—vivid and terrifying—the flames consuming her childhood home. The heat was palpable, the roar of the inferno deafening. Her parents' screams echoed in her ears, mingling with the crackling of burning wood. Sera's heart raced, her breaths coming in shallow, rapid gasps. She felt the suffocating smoke filling her lungs, the overwhelming terror of that night gripping her once again.

Images shifted abruptly to the Expanse program. The cold, sterile environments, the harsh, unyielding instructors, the relentless training that pushed her to the brink of breaking. She saw the other girls, their faces blank, eyes hollow—victims of the same merciless conditioning. The commands barked at her, the pain of every strike and fall, the exhaustion that seeped into her bones. Her body shook with the remembered agony, her muscles tightening as if expecting another blow.

Then, the fragments of a more personal nature. The face of a young boy with kind eyes and a gentle smile, a presence that felt achingly familiar yet painfully distant. His touch was soft, a whisper of comfort in a world of brutality. They were in a training room, the surroundings harsh and unforgiving, but his presence made it bearable. She saw his smile, felt the warmth of his hand holding hers, and heard his whispered promises of a future they would never have.

"Who are you?" she whispered, tears streaming down her face, her voice breaking under the weight of the unknown. The fragmented memories were like shards of glass, cutting into her consciousness. The intensity of the emotions was unbearable, each image a jagged wound reopening.

Sera collapsed to the floor, her body wracked with sobs, hyperventilating as the weight of her past overwhelmed her. Apollo, sensing her distress, rushed to her side, whining softly. He nudged her with his nose, his eyes filled with worry and an almost human understanding. He licked her face, trying to offer comfort, his presence a small anchor in the storm of her emotions.

The PTSD and anxiety from her past were relentless, tearing through her with unyielding force. She cried, her sobs echoing through the apartment as Apollo pressed closer, his warm body against hers a reminder that she was not entirely alone. His tail thumped lightly, a silent reassurance of his loyalty and love.

The memories receded as the night wore on, leaving Sera drained and trembling. She clung to Apollo, her breaths gradually slowing, her tears subsiding. The weight of her traumas was heavy, but in these moments, she found a strange solace in the presence of her loyal companion. Apollo's steady heartbeat against her helped ground her, his soft whines a reminder that she had survived yet another onslaught of her past.

"I'm okay, Apollo," she murmured, her voice hoarse from crying. She stroked his fur, drawing strength from his unwavering support. "We'll be okay."

Sera returned to her computer with a deep breath, her resolve hardening. The code revealed more connections, each leading her deeper into the High Table's labyrinth. She saw names and faces, some familiar, others unknown. Her heart pounded as she realized how close she was getting to a world she had once barely escaped.

______

Meanwhile, in his secluded cabin, John felt a similar unease. He couldn't shake the feeling that something was coming, a storm brewing on the horizon. He glanced at Max; the dog's ears perked up as if sensing his master's unrest. John sighed, running a hand through his hair. The tranquility he had fought so hard to achieve was slipping away, the shadows of his past threatening to engulf him once more.

Sera's and John's worlds moved inexorably closer as the night deepened. Each line of code she cracked, each shadowy connection she uncovered, brought her a step closer to John's hidden life. The parallels between them were striking—they were warriors in their own right, searching for peace in a world that refused to let them go.

The tension built with each passing moment, the air thick with anticipation. Sera felt the sense that she was on the brink of something monumental in every fiber of her being. Apollo, ever her faithful companion, stayed close, his presence a steadying force.

She finished the decryption, her eyes scanning the final line of code. The realization hit her like a physical blow—she was about to enter a world far darker and more dangerous than she had ever imagined. The High Table was no ordinary target, and she was no ordinary hacker.

As the first light of dawn began to break, Sera and John prepared themselves for the battles ahead. Though separated by distance and circumstance, their lives were bound by the threads of fate. The shadows were closing in, and neither could afford to look back.

In the quiet of her apartment, Sera took a deep breath, the weight of her past pressing down on her. She glanced at Apollo, his trusting eyes giving her the strength she needed. "We'll be okay," she whispered, more to herself than to him. "We have to be."

_____________________

Chapter Two: Saturday June 8, 2:00 PM EST

Taglist (I apologize if I didn't tag you!):

@yinx1 @somedays-i-just-feel-bad-bitch @upductablemsft @greeniegreengreen @mistytwooo @mistyyyy @when-bops-drops @patrickbatemanswifee @strangersomeone @generaldumb @moon-drop-witch @xxabrixx @itsmedipshit @sabrina1cat @princess-of- @roses-luckride @onyx-guardian @ko-kimchi @lostsilver @calminggoat4u @chaoticqueen33 @forgotten-sleep @shittyprofilebutfuckit @almosthumongouseagle @darlingangel-17 @supergeek13 @24travellingwheel @adoredidi @blackrosariovampire @loonylidu @ultimate-gay-mess @teh-vampire-bunny @abnoses @caityrayeraye @nelly-belly @theemissingchild @abdorable-and-amazing @minimisthios @stankyou @jax1118 @huh206 @curiously-lazy @maggieosey @dietothemusic @omisdolly @grimmbunniee @hereforagoodtimenotalongone @wherethelightdoesnotalwaysshine @mikyapixie @teechallas-blog @duhitzdae @themidnight-romances @plainjane18 @viloletevergarden @l-o-v-e-galore @wifeyeddie @wilsonsamerica @when-bops-drops @ilovedesert-20089 @venomransom @iloveeverthing-09 @joonsmoonchild @daddylizzzy @hvnlyaphordite @4522-08 @fanartcollectorwriter @randi98 @cherry-bomb19 @momoko-world @toulousewayne @taniyahtaniyah @innercreationflower @nollythewalrus @adbeverly991 @gialove11 @etherialblackrose @jujuicypop @iamascrazyasisoud @velvetatte @thewonderlandartist @ultraxavbo

Thank you for the support!

Story Premise and Character Profiles Here

#black!reader #black!oc #orginal story #john wick #john wick x black!reader #john wick x oc #john wick x reader #keanu reeves #black creators

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