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

joannasteez · 8 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 · 6 months ago

Text

Pounce On That Shit

AO3 Mirror

Summary: What if Alpha's were the submissive sex

tags: non traditional omegaverse dynamics, breeding, dirty talk, knotting

John woke up with a soft moan. Soft wet insistent heat wrapped around his dick, pulling the Alpha further from his. He looked down to see you ravenously swallowing his dick and massaging full balls, trying to coax the man to orgasm quickly.

“Y/n—Sweetheart—” John choked out as you swallowed him down to the root, throat working around him. He curled deadly fingers into the silken material of your dark red bonnet making sure to not disturb it as he tried to pull you off.

“Baby c’mon. You’re i n heat, let me—,”

You growled deep in your throat, making him shudder and whine. He felt your tongue run along the underside of his shaft, before running it over his balls.

“Shit! Omega—!”

John thrust into your throat, eyes never leaving you as he came deep down your throat.

You growled, pleased that your Alpha gave you what you wanted, before pulling away.

His dick is \was still twitching, spurting thick rope rope of pre cum as his knot forms painfully at the base of his dick. You let it cover your face, needing the primal sign of ownership over the older man. He always whimpered and moaned needily when you fucked him, face covered in his nut.

You wrapped a hand around his knot as you sank tiny fangs into the meat of his muscled thigh. Sweet blood filled your mouth and you moaned at the taste. You unlatched from his thigh, blood smearing down your chin, as you stared into his eyes and began stroking him from knot to tip.

“Gimme Alpha,” your left hand joined the fray and your right focused on rhythmically squeezing and stroking his knot. “Want your cum on my tongue again, before I use this big pretty dick.”

John whimpered, mesmerized as pleasure radiated from where you toyed with his knot. He’d cum but it seemed his dick didn’t get the memo with your heat pheromones filling his nose. He leaked as stroked him, precum running down his shaft in thick rivulets, slicking the way for your filthy torturous knot job.

You looked so pretty between his legs, face glistening with his cum and blood, controlling Omegan instincts on full display. John couldn’t tell you no.

“Yes Omega,” he breathed out breathily as he bared his neck submissively.

Apleased rumble left your throat, before kissing his leaking tip. A thick white glob coated plumps brown lips and connected you as you pulled away.

You massaged his knot as you stroked him and watched John writhe on the bed. Watch him beg and plead for more as you worked him over with your mouth and hands. Kissing and licking up his pre on each down stroke. It made the Alpha wild.

“God Baby—Sweetheart I—Need it! Need to give it to you. Let me give it to you. It’s yours. All of my cum is meant for you. To taste. To bathe in. To take.”

Utterly enchanted by his horny Alphan frenzy, slide down the bed and take his heavy sac into your mouth. His scent was thick here. Dark and heady. Alphan pheromones made you press your nose to the crease of his pelvis. You lay there face buried in hit crotch, sac weighing on your tongue, hand working his knot furiously.

“Want your scent all over me, Jardani. Gunna make you nut over and over until you start cumming dry. Then I’ll drag my pussy from your knot to your face and ride it ‘til I cream.”

The hand working his knot squeezed as you said this and John keened as hit dick erupted in heavy torrent after torrent of cum.

Levering yourself up you notched the turgid flesh between the soft pillow of round brown breasts, You worked them around him relishing each powerful spurt of cum that splashed over your face and chin.

“God, that’s my good Alpha, Jardani. My good perfect Alpha. Know just how I like it.”

John nodded, fucking up into the softness of your tits and replaced your hands with his own. His pace only faltered when you formed a loose fist around him to fuck into. He moaned as you milked his knot kissed at the spurting tip each time it crested the apex of your titties.

“It’s mine, isn’t it Alpha? This big pretty uncut dick. This fat fucking knot? It’s all mine.”

John nodded, delirious and wanting nothing more than to belong to you. To please you. For you to milk him of all his thick potent cum, covering yourself in his scent. Letting anyone who got too close that you claim him. Wanted nothing more than for you to use his big useless cock to breed on.

Tears formed in his eyes as his orgasm finally came to an end with a final spurt to your luscious waiting mouth. He watched you move up the trembling line of his body. Admired the way sweat and cum made your darker skin glisten under moonlight filtering through the curtains.. You straddled his waist letting the length of his dick press between your pussy lips and leaned over him.

Hre stared up into your cum covered face in awe.

You looked at John’s flushed face and caressed his lips. He opened without a second thought and you opened yours to feed the hitman his own cum. You watched his eyes dilate and his scent fill the bedroom.

“My perfect Alpha,” you said as you began to drag your sloppy pussy up and down his shaft, teasing when the fat tip threatened to penetrate you. “My precious Alpha’s gunna let mount, aren’t you Jardani.” On the last drag you let the head catch and sunk onto it in one slick cant of your hips.

“Fuu-uck,” came John whine. He loved the way your heat made your cunt hotter and wetter than before. Hands shot out to gasp your thighs and pinned them to his own as he ratcheted up into your soft pillowy hole.

“God Sweetheart—Pussy’s so perfect—,” he stuttered out as he fucked you desperately.

You moaned as he stroked your cunt out. “You fill me so good Baby.” You moved your hands to stroke up his chest to tweak dusky nipples and reveled in the way his dick jumped inside you. “Look at you. You take everything I give you and still beg for more. My Sweet lil’ Alpha. You love when I mount you. Love this pussy, Jardani?”

He nodded frantically, whining as he fucked you.

Dark eyes looked into darker eyes. “Tell me.” Sharp nails dragged across abused buds. “Tell me who this dick belongs to.”

John cried out at the pained pleasure and the possessiveness of your words. “It’s y—yours. My dick was meant for you. Only you, Omega.”

John was losing his mind to the hot wet clap of your ass filled the room with his whimper as you rode his dick.

“Only you could ever make me feel like this. Nothing feels better than being inside you. Thank you for claiming me, Y/n. P—Please don’t stop, Sweetheart. I can give you anything you want.” He humped up into you, maddened with the need to feel you around his not. With the need to be a good Alpha.

“Can be your good Alpha dick to breed on.”

Moaning at the man’s words, savored the way each downward stroke met his desperate one. John was such a hopeless slut when you gave him Heat pussy. He was so precious trying to prove himself.

You leaned down to kiss him, deep and languidly, tongues slid together as you fucked him. Pulling away you saw the saliva that connected you. Wanna gimme what I want, John.” Kissing along his neck, licking and sucking hickies across his throat.

When you got to his scent gland you latched on biting and sucking as his pheromones filled your mouth directly. They were intoxicating on your tongue and forced you to ride the man harder, desperate for him to pop his knot.

It drove John’s mind to a gooey mess as he drove his girth into you. “Please Sweetheart, anything. I’ll give you anything,” He whined pitifully. “Just give it to me. Cream on me and make me pop a knot!”

His pleas filled your ears and you loved that you had trained the Alpha so well. When you pulled away from his scent gland, you admired the lurid bruise on his pale sweaty throat.

“You can have it, Baby. I’ll give it all to you, but you know what I need you to do?” You purred the question, mouth breathing out his rut pheromones as you looked into his eyes.

John shook his head, but listened, ready to give you anything as long as it meant he was a good Alpha.

Stroking his face sweetly, you bounce on his dick, to drive home your point. “Put a baby in me. Take this perfect knot and’ lemme breed on it, Jardani.”

The noise that left John's throat was wrecked. Animalistic and needy.

You were a vision on top of him. A dream around him. Soft and wet and fever hot around his swelling knot. Staring down at him, bathed in his cum, his blood still smearing staining your lips, taking everything he had to offer.

John could picture you, heavily pregnancy, pulling him away from cooking or cleaning. Him putting you in the countertop and getting trapped between your legs as you encouraged took his knot just the way you like.

He imagined you pressing his hand to your heavy belly and praising him. .

“Look at how well you did, Alpha. So strong it took on the first try.”

John shuddered at the daydream and his body responded before he was conscious of it. . He buried himself in the soft perfect clutch of your body, as he fell into a stream of senseless begging and toppled you over to pin you to the bed.

“Y—Yes please, Y/n,. I’ll be your perfect Alpha and knot you full. You’ll be so breathtaking, pupped up.”

To say you were shocked at John’s zeal and sudden change in position would be an understatement , but the way his tip knocked into your cervix and the way his half formed knot spread you wide, made a sufficient distraction.

John threwyour legs over his shoulder and pulled you to him until your pelvises were flush together. Deadly hands planted on either side of your head, as your mate steadily fucked you.

Only with him pressed so seamlessly into you, each stroke battered at your cervix. Your eyes rolled as ecstasy overtook your senses.

John’s face was flushed as he gazed down at you, Alpha gold shining in his irises, as he worked your pussy over. A litany of sin left his mouth.

“You make my knot ache, Omega.”

“God you’ll look so pretty when you’re pupped full, Y/n.”

“Breed on it—Need you to breed on it. Tell me mu knot is good enough, Omega.”

You reached up and cupped his jaw making him look into your eyes. “You feel amazing, Jardani. So good. Feel you against my womb.” You clenched around him to emphasize your praise.

You pulled him in, ignoring how it caused strain in your thighs and kissed him thoroughly, tongue licking up the taste of him.

Kissing him heated your blood and made your walls gush around him. You moaned low and long against his mouth

John shuddered at the feeling of you cumming around him. He whined open mouthed and ragged against your own panting mouth.

Wrapping a hand around the back of his neck and pushing your foreheads together to talk him through it.

“That’s my good boy. Feel me creaming on this dick. Love giving you this pussy. You’re so good for her.”

You kissed him feverishly. Smacking, biting kisses as your pussy continued to milk his dick. Golden eyes shone with unshed overwhelmed tears and you gripped his neck reassuringly. “Don’t hold it back , Baby. Go ‘head and pop that knot so Omega can breed on it.”

Finally John let out a completely wrecked noise and his hips stuttered. Thead of his dick pressed to the spongy ring of your cervix and his knot drove home, before expanding to plug your pussy as he shot thick white fertile seed into your womb.

As John’s cum filled you, Alpha fangs dropped, large and sharp in the gaping mewling cavern of the man’s mouth.

You kissed him regardless. Sloppy and messy, licking over them, knowing to give into the obsolete urge to sink into your neck. Something bred out by evolution, but it always made a reappearance during and heats and ruts.

At least for Alphas.

Dainty fingers ding into your mark on John’s neck, causing him to whine submissively to your mouth. Pulling away you kissed his mating mark.

“You’re such a good stud for me, Jardani.” You fluttered your muscles around his knot, moaning at the dead end thrusts against your cervix. “Bet I'll be pregnant by the end of it,” you murmured into his ear as you basked in the afterglow of your orgasms.

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

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johnwickb1tsch · 1 year ago

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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 · 10 months ago

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✨💕Slips' List 💕✨

Hello! Welcome to my master list!

(updated 12/20/24)

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)

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)

💕Asks / Submissions💕

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)

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 · 1 month ago

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Nasty Dog (Osaka Sunbird One shot)

Young adults Amara Abara and Koji Shimazu secretly meet up while their fathers do business in Osaka.

I whimpered as Koji's lips suck on my wet folds as if he was trying to get to the center of a tootsie pop. I covered my mouth quickly knowing if we are caught by either of our father's it'd be hell, more sore on him then on me.

My vagina is throbbing and it feels like it's going to melt under his hot tongue. He now moves said tongue in circular motions around my "pretty pink clit" as he likes to tease me during secret "meetings".

His two fingers are bold as they moved deep into my core curling up and feeling around my velvety insides.

"A-a-ahh Koji... ah stop if we're caught..."

He growls lowly in defiance.

"Your mouth says yes, but your walls demand I finish you." he says lowly. "And I will finish you."

It's not a question or a suggestion, it's fact and he's never lied. His kimono is off revealing his painted back of Yakuza tattoos. Each mark a symbol of the dark life he led. His fingers move deeper inside me curling up and I feel him apply pressure to my sweet spot.

My eyes widen as I gasp sharply, my body arching, my hips moving into his face.

"I live for that sound- that gasp that praises me for knowing your body so well." he pants as he sucks my clit, moving his fingers deeper against that sweet spot. I cry out feeling my stomach cramp from the blissful sensations.

"I don't want it..." I moan out.

"Yes you do." he says calmly, knowing I'm lying. His fingers keep curling and applying pressure. I grip his hair immediately my hips starting to buck against his fingers.

"Deeper?" he pants.

"Deeper!" I cry out and he pushes deeper.

*Thrust*

"Rirīsu" (Release)

I moan out into my hand hard. My walls ring uncontrollably and my toes curl up violently in my shoes as my hips tremble against his face. My walls are clenching his fingers that he continues to move inside to help me ride out my orgasm. He slowly removes them and growls as his tongue laps at my juices cleaning me up.

We both storm out of the hotel room moving down the hall in unison, perfectly dressed with our bodies walking in stride with each other.

Workers of the Osaka Continental bowed at us as we walked. We just kept our eyes ahead. We were coming up on two dividing hallways. As we neared it, we both knew we'd separate.

I glanced at him.

"You're a nasty dog." I replied only for him to smirk and lean just an inch over with a mocking look.

"Woof woof." he said as we both parted down the separate halls.

Author's Notes

hold yall over while i work on Sokushitsu Part III XD

Taglist

@slippinninque

@the-fangirl-diaries

@acrystalrosebroken

#Koji Shimazu #Koji Shimazu x black reader #Koji Shimazu x blackfemreader #Koji Shimazu fic #John Wick 4 #x black reader #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 · 7 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!):

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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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cuddleyhoney · 9 months ago

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spring days

request ! john wick au ft: oc Leah!

fluff! imagine?

Under the radiant blaze of a summer sun, John Wick found himself in a rare moment of tranquility. The world of contracts, bullets, and bloodshed seemed miles away as he lounged on a pristine beach, the gentle lapping of waves providing a soothing soundtrack to his thoughts.

Beside him, Leah, his newfound companion, basked in the warmth, her laughter dancing with the ocean breeze. She had brought an unexpected lightness into his life, a beacon of kindness in a world often shrouded in darkness.

Leah stretched out on her towel, a book in hand, her eyes flickering between the pages and the horizon. Sensing John's gaze upon her, she looked up, a smile gracing her lips. "Enjoying the sun, John?"

John nodded, a faint smile quirking his lips. "It's... peaceful."

"Isn't it amazing?" Leah sighed contentedly, shifting closer to him. "I'm glad we decided to take this day for ourselves."

They fell into a comfortable silence, the only sound the symphony of nature around them. John found himself studying Leah's features, the way her eyes sparkled with a quiet joy, the way her curly hair danced in the breeze.

"Hey," Leah said softly, breaking the silence, "want to go for a swim?"

John hesitated for a moment, the instinct to be cautious always lingering at the edges of his mind. But then he looked into Leah's eyes, filled with nothing but warmth and trust, and he found himself nodding. "Yeah, I'd like that."

Hand in hand, they made their way to the water's edge, the sand warm beneath their feet. With each step, John felt the weight of his burdens lift, replaced by a sense of lightness he hadn't felt in years.

As they waded into the crystal-clear water, Leah turned to him, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

John realized that maybe, just maybe, there was room for a little sunshine in his life after all.

thank u for reading!!!

#john wick x reader #fanfic #john wick au #john wick x y/n #john wick #john wick headcanons #john wick imagine #keanu reeves #john wick fanfic #black reader

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tojii11 · 6 months ago

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Where is all the black John Wick fans at?? I need a story of him NEOW!!!

#i need it #x black reader #john wick #please someone

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teejaywyatt1 · 10 months ago

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✨Chapter 43 of Skyline will drop on Thursday, March 14th at 2:30PM EST.✨

#skyline #john wick #fanfiction #fanfic #ao3 #reader insert #john wick x you #john wick x reader #black female characters #black reader #john wick x original female character #john wick x original character #john wick x oc #john wick x y/n #keanu reeves x reader #keanu reeves fanfic #keanu reeves

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amaranthine-enihtnarama · 1 year ago

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The Mamba (Marquis de Gramont x Assassin! F! Reader)

Sequel to Les Petits Morts. I was planning on only having a one shot, then Belladonna’s backstory expanded in my head and I just had to see it through!

warnings: blood, mentions of violence, allusions to csa ; some s3xu4l content; harsh language, MORE romance ⁉️🤭.

A year has passed since La Belladonna and the Marquis de Gramont crossed paths, and they have not parted once. However, as time begins to dissolve illusions and break down walls that guard dark secrets, the Marquis finds himself in over his head, and Belladonna finds herself vulnerable to the demons of her past.

Tokyo, Japan — One Year Later

“Are you in position Higanbana?”

“He’s sleeping.”

“Good.”

Belladonna crouched on the roof of a luxury hotel, setting up a climbing rope with plenty of give. She placed a finger on her earpiece.

“Stay tight. We don’t need any excitement tonight.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I’m dropping in.”

She approached the edge of the roof, fastening the knot of the rope tighter. She’d wrapped the rope around her waist, then over her shoulders, then around her waist a couple more times for good measure. Stealing a peek over the edge, she let out a sigh, then took a few steps back.

Giving herself a running start, she jumped off of the roof, flying through the air silently. The rope unspooled as she whizzed by windows, eyes darting briefly into each one to make sure they were vacant or the occupants were fast asleep. Her fingers tightened around the rope as it went taut and she turned her body to land feet first onto the wall next to the target’s room window. A shot of pain went through her ankle, but she clenched her teeth and waited for it to pass.

After pain subsided into a dull ache, Belladonna swung onto the balcony and untied herself, fastening her end of the rope onto one of the metal bars. Higanbana opened the window for her, dark eyes glancing quickly to check for any lit rooms across the street. Belladonna closed the window behind her, eyeing the target’s lax body. She chuckled.

“Jesus, did you kill him?”

“He was like an elephant; I had to up the dosage to put him to sleep.”

“It still won’t read in the autopsy, right?”

She gave her a look of offense. “Of course not.”

Belladonna chuckled. “Okay, okay, my apologies.”

Higanbana reached under the bed, pulling out a suitcase and unzipping it while Belladonna went into the bathroom. She opened the medicine cabinet, removed the lone bottle of aspirin, and took off the false back. Her eyes settled on a small box. She grinned.

“Bingo.”

Inside the box there was a Marker, some gold coins, and a miniature handgun. Holding the box under her arm, she returned to the bed, watching as Higanbana shoved the suitcase back under the bed, opening the nightstand drawer.

“Oh, here it is,” she muttered.

She turned to Belladonna, handing her the Adjudicator medallion. She tossed it in the air, then put it in her pocket.

“Violet, you have a shot,” she asked, placing a finger on her earpiece.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Belladonna nodded, looking over the Adjudicator—now former—fast asleep. She smiled at the sight. He looked so peaceful, like a little boy after Christmas. She pressed her earpiece again as she moved next to Higanbana.

“Shoot.”

In a flash the window shattered and a bullet pierced the former Adjudicator’s forehead, splattering blood and brain matter all over the pillow and headboard. Slowly, Belladonna stepped toward the bed and leaned over him, listening to his weak breaths. Despite how small they were, they trembled their way from between his thin, barely parted lips. She shut her eyes as his last exhale caressed the shell of her ear. Goosebumps rose all over her skin from her arms to her legs.

“Bella?”

Her eyes opened, void of their playful glimmer, and she got to her feet. In silence, she looked down at the man’s peaceful face. She always wondered if they could feel anything under Higanbana’s cocktail despite all their drug induced slumber. Of course, the woman herself insisted on the contrary, but Belladonna wasn’t convinced.

She could hear it in the trembling of their breath, she could feel it. There was a part of them that was always awake, always afraid, always crying out for someone, someone to please help.

“Anyone notice you at the bar?”

“One guy. He seems intent on taking me home.”

“Ooh,” she remarked, walking to balcony, “He your type?”

“I’m not into muscles.”

Belladonna chuckled. “Well, be sure to take him home. No loose ends. Put him in the river.”

Higanbana frowned. “He looks heavy.”

“Violet’ll help you with cleanup,” she assured, pulling the Adjudicator medallion out of her pocket. She brandished it to Higanbana with a smile. “How’s that for job security?”

The young woman smiled, shaking her head. “I’m heading back to handle the muscle-head.”

Higanbana checked her bartender’s uniform for any specks of blood in the mirror while Belladonna untied the rope and pressed her earpiece again.

“Mission accomplished, everybody. Higanbana’a got a loose end, I’ll let you handle that—no traces.”

Grabbing the rope tightly, she swung off of the balcony and climbed down until she landed on a fire escape. She pressed her earpiece.

“You can untie the rope, Daisy. We’re done. Help with cleanup and discreet transportation of a loose end.”

“Got it.”

Not a moment has passed after her words when the other end of the rope fluttered down from the roof. She caught it and headed for the alleyway as Higanbana left a red spider lily next to the man’s head. She climbed down to the alleyway where her motorcycle waited for her return. She mounted the vehicle and pressed her earpiece for the last time.

“Great work, everybody. Thank god for the small jobs,” Belladonna said, smiling at the other three women, “Daisy, Violet, I’m impressed by your stamina. Three consecutive jobs without a hiccup isn’t easy for rookies. Keep up the good work. I’ll deliver this to our contractor.”

She took out her phone with a yawn and scrolled through her messages until she’d found the contact she wanted: Vincent. Smiling, she sent a text.

On my way home, tesoro.

He answered immediately. Good. See you soon.

With a sigh, she dialed the contractor’s number, heading for the airport as she quietly drove her motorcycle out if the alley.

“Ah—sì, ciao, mi amico…”

***

Paris, France.

Belladonna climbed the steps of the Marquis de Gramont’s mansion as she stretched, squinting underneath the morning sunlight. She nodded to the gray suited men at the doors as she let herself in, collapsing against the wall and slowly lowering to the ground. With a sigh she unlaced her right boot and rubbed her ankle with a grimace. The pain had dulled, but there was definitely something worse about the unyielding throbbing that had replaced it.

Still, all her stress melted away when she heard her lover’s footsteps approaching from down the hall. She smiled up at him as he stopped and stood over her with a hand in his pocket. He only offered a small smile in return, but the warmth in his eyes told her everything she needed to know. She winked back before going back to her shoes.

“Morning,” she greeted, moving to unlace her other boot.

“Morning, Bella.”

Vincent crouched down in front her and untied the boot himself, setting it aside as he looked over her face. His features srunched up slightly in concern at the sight of a healing bruise on her cheek and the dark circles under her eyes.

“You look tired.”

She chuckled. “I jumped off a roof again. And I got in a nasty showdown against these two huge bodyguards—I won, of course, but then I turn around and get socked in the face by this smelly bald one with a big gold ring on his pointer finger. He said he branded it on my face; is it on my face? Long story short, I think I sprained my ankle.

Vincent helped her to her feet, holding her upright as they made their way to the bedroom. He sighed in disapproval.

“I thought you were only going to oversee one small job.”

“Oh, you know. Friends ask favors, jobs pop up. It’s good for my rookies.”

He laughed softly. “Even when there is no danger, you manage to put yourself in it.”

“Hey, I wouldn’t complain if I were you,” she chided with a smile, “If it weren’t for my danger habit we never would’ve met.”

“Impossible.”

She grinned. “Oh, impossible?”

He scooped her up in his arms and carried her through the door, lowering her onto the bed.

“I would’ve always found you, chérie.”

She smiled, sitting up to place a kiss on his lips. He smiled at the feeling and passed a hand over her hair, brushing it away from her face.

“Do you want a bath? You feel cold.”

“Mm, only if you come with it.”

His features lit up with another smile, and he leaned towards her as if to give her a kiss only to lean back when she moved to meet his lips.

“Maybe if you didn’t like those bubbles so much.”

With a chuckle, she unzipped her jumpsuit and pulled it off, stretching out in her tank top and black cargo pants. Vincent made a face and went for the door. She let out a bright laugh and went after him, earning a sharp look.

“You stink.”

“Oh, do I? Sure it’s not your top lip?”

“Get in the bathroom.”

“Vincent, you don’t like your lover’s natural musk?”

She leaned towards him with a playful grin, making him lean back. It only took a peck on the cheek to get a laugh out of him as he gently pushed her away.

“No, I do not, and your silly imitation of me doesn’t help. Now go.”

She stole another kiss on the cheek as she unbuckled her belt and tossed it onto the bed as she unbuttoned her pants. Vincent watched with interest as she let her pants drop to the floor and kicked them aside, then peeled off her tank top as she went into the bathroom and shut the door behind her. After taking off her underwear, she hopped in, taking out her braid and lathering away every inch of grime she’d accumulated on her three day mission. She let out a sigh as the hot water ran over her fresh scalp and squeezed out some rose conditioner.

Of course she didn’t have to oversee the rookies; she had hired enough people to train newcomers— Vincent was quite eager to point it out — but she couldn’t help it, not since that fuck-up in Cancun. It was superstitious of her, which she knew Vincent would judge her for, so she cited her reasoning as a preference instead. Not to say Belladonna didn’t enjoy the field, but she couldn’t help but feel that she needed to keep a tighter leash on her entire organization, let alone newcomers. She’d gotten the sense that there was something brewing, and she was pretty intent on making sure her operatives stayed far away from the entire mess. Vincent, on the other hand, was knee-deep in the eye of the coming storm as he schemed his way higher up The Table’s ranks. Hopefully, he wasn’t aiming to become an Adjudicator.

There were undoubtedly a few glaring differences between the pair that they’d accepted wouldn’t perfectly reconcile, and one of them was how they handled the dirty work. Vincent, of course, preferred to let his men and the firepower of The Table handle his difficulties; Belladonna was quick to join her girls on the ground if things got hairy or if she just wanted in on a piece of the action when a fun assignment came along. Naturally, he didn’t see the fun in her dragging herself back home, half-broken and covered in blood, but she felt he needed to appreciate a love of the work. Besides, sitting on a cushy throne and sending pawns out to do your bidding makes you soft, not to mention dulls your senses in the field. But he’d earned his place at the top, and she could understand his propensity to keep blood off his hands now that he had the choice. He never gave her much trouble either, so she did the same.

Belladonna shut off the shower and squeezed her hair out, drying off and putting on a robe and slippers. She yawned as she left the bathroom, tying the robe securely, and noticed that Vincent had disappeared. She raised a brow; surely the smell wasn’t that bad. Her eyes caught a note next to her bed in Vincent’s handwriting.

Come have a bath.

With a frown she peeked back in the bathroom—then she remembered.

She couldn’t help but laugh a bit as she headed to him. Aside from a few select characters in her life, only the Marquis de Gramont, with his sparkly suits and grossly decadent banquets he called “high tea,” would have a particular room for a singular bathtub. It was amusing, considering it still held the same water as any other tub, but considering the number of times they’d had sex in there, it might not precisely be meant for a relaxing bath. That, and the soundproof door to the room, which she opened and locked behind her with a smile. In his defense, the room had a beautiful view of the grounds outside. The sunlight was warm and abundant, making the white, marble-floored room glow softly as if she were in a dream. Her eyes flitted to Vincent in the large tub, and she smiled, slinking up behind him and gently grazing her fingertips from his shoulders down to his chest. His eyes shifted beneath his eyelids, but he kept them shut, taking one of her hands in his.

“You smell better.”

With a chuckle, she kissed his forehead from his reclined position, then slid her hand out of his. She untied her robe and shrugged it off, then kicked off her slippers, climbing into the tub with him. His eyes opened lazily as she sat back against him, her fingers stroking his cheek.

“You feel relaxed,” she said quietly, eyes falling shut, “Work is good?”

“Yes,” he affirmed, “Unnaturally so.”

He cupped some warm water in his hand and passed it over her hair, feeling her body rest into his further, her muscles slowly releasing their tension.

“Does your ankle feel better?”

“Mm…I think I just need to stay off of it. I definitely didn’t sprain it.”

Vincent hummed quietly, continuing to stroke her hair. Like so many times before when they’d finally had a moment alone in peace, thousands of questions he wanted her to answer bubbled up to reach the tip of his tongue. Her chest rose and fell slowly with each gentle breath.

“Bella.”

“Mm?”

He hesitated for a moment, then let it out.

“Will you tell me your name?”

She gave a soft laugh. “You know my name.”

He sighed with displeasure, caressing her temple.

“You know what I mean.”

She was quiet for a while, seemingly mulling it over. She tilted her head to look up at him. Her gaze was sober, hardened by a stony deadness in her eyes that he’d recognized whenever she thought about the past.

“I’ve had many names. Which do you want to know?”

His eyes gently scanned over each of her features lovingly. He placed a hand over hers.

“The one given to you when you were born.”

She nodded, becoming even more cold at the mentioning of her birth.

“My name then was Leïla.”

His ears devoured every curve and groove of the name on her lips. Leïla.

The water rippled as she reached to touch his face, eyes softening as she held his gaze.

“What else has been on your mind?”

His eyes flitted up to hers in surprise. Was that permission? He licked his lips.

“Where did you grow up?”

“Between New York and Morocco.”

“Morocco?”

She snorted. “Leïla is a Moroccan name; I’m sure you noticed.”

He smiled. It explained the Arabic tattoos he kept finding all over her body. But what they meant, especially the one on her back down her spine, she refused to tell him. He wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her back against him. She sighed, her finger tracing circles on his skin underwater.

“Why won’t you tell me about your past,” he asked gently, as if he was avoiding startling an animal.

“I don’t want it to define me. I don’t want it to define you. I want it to just be you and me, not you and me and all of my ghosts.

“You have all of mine,” he offered, “I can have yours.”

She whispered, resting her head against his chest. “Mine are hungry, Vincent. They are always going to be hungry and seeking. No one should have them.”

He sighed through his nose as he placed a gentle kiss on her shoulder. “Mon cœur…je les aurai comme je t'aurai. Parce que je t’aime.” My love…I will have them how I will have you. Because I love you.

Her body became rigid. She tilted her head upwards and met his eyes. Vincent held her gaze, unnerved by what he’d found there. He’d never seen the look before.

Fear.

Her eyebrows furrowed as she looked at his mouth, then touched his cheek, resting her head against his chest. He swallowed, wrapping his arms around her.

She whispered. "اللسان ليس له عظام." (allisan lays lah eizam)

He frowned. “What?”

“The tongue does not have bones.”

“You know I never understand your little poems.”

She smiled, stroking his arm. “Be mindful of what you say. You don’t know the danger love can put you in.”

He placed a finger under her chin so she would meet his eyes.

“But you love me too.”

“Ti ho amato da quando ti ho visto, tesoro.” I’ve loved you since I saw you, darling.

A smile came to his lips. She chuckled.

“Mm, you understood?”

“Yes, I understand.”

“To think a grand Marquis like yourself didn’t know Italian,” she teased, leaning in for a kiss.

Their lips met tenderly, then Vincent’s hand lowered to her hips, curving over her backside to pull her on top of him as their second kiss gathered a bit of heat.

“Non è colpa mia,” he whispered, “Avevo bisogno di una bella insegnante che mi desse il giusto…incoraggiamento.” It’s not my fault, I needed a beautiful teacher who would give me the right encouragement.

She giggled, kissing him again. “You have crushes on your teachers, then?”

“Only one.”

He sat up, wrapping his arms around her waist and placing kisses on her chest, trying to control himself in mind of her fatigue. She needed rest more than she needed him. His lips pressed against her stomach, and he felt the muscles rippling against his mouth with a smile.

“I am so glad to have an Amazon for a wife,” he said, grinning up at her.

She looked away bashfully, covering her face. “You are a fool, Vincent.”

He pulled her hands away, revealing her shy smile. His eyes crinkled at her blushing.

“Hm, I am only a fool for you.”

“Careful, I wouldn’t marry a fool,” she said, leaning onto him, “In our line of work, I’d be setting myself up to be a widow.”

“My life is yours,” he proclaimed against her lips, “As long as your heart beats, it must be loved by mine.”

She shook her head, a bright smile forming on her lips. “And you say you don’t understand poems.”

He kissed her stomach again as she turned back around and rested against him. She let out a soft sound, her eyes falling shut.

“Mm, I’m tired.”

He kissed the top of her head. “Sleep.”

She never needed much convincing for that. “Okay.”

A long pause settled between them until Vincent abruptly broke it.

“May I call you by your birth name?”

“Hm?”

“Leïla. May I call you that?”

She seemed to become alert just from the sound of it, and hesitated to answer. He felt her body tense in his arms.

“When we are alone, yes.”

That was all he needed. “D��accord, Leïla.”

She nodded, slowly falling asleep.

***

They awoke in tepid water to the sound of pounding on the door. Leïla jumped, quickly getting dry and dressed. She buttoned up Vincent’s shirt and tugged on a pair of her sweatpants she grabbed by her hookah as she answered the door. Vincent made his way out of the bathtub slowly, listening intently as he toweled off. She raised a brow as her annoyed stare burned holes into Chidi’s apologetic gaze.

“Perdóname, señora, but there are four men here looking for you and the Marquis.”

Her face went cold, big brown eyes widening a fraction in subdued terror then flattening.

“¿Qué es lo que parecen?” What do they look like?

“Turbantes... ropas largas y vaporosas... espadas.” Turbans…long, flowy clothes…swords.

Vincent came up behind her in a robe, eyeing her and Chidi curiously.

“What’s going on,” he questioned.

Leïla whirled around, fixing a grave look onto him. “We need to get dressed.”

She turned to Chidi. “Tell them to wait a moment, and that we’re coming.”

“Where are we going?”

She grabbed his wrist and rushed to the bedroom.

“Get dressed,” she instructed, “Not anything you don’t want to get sand in.”

The mentioning of sand made him fall silent, and he watched her as she passed oil through her hair and nimbly braided it, putting it in a bun against her head and wrapping her head up with a teal scarf. She put on a tank top, then a long black linen tunic and a dark blue pair of loose wide-legged cotton trousers. She glanced at him in the mirror.

“Dress,” she ordered.

“Bella, where are we going?”

“There are four men wearing turbans outside waiting for us,” she said, strapping two daggers around her waist and sheathing two sabers on her hips, “Do the math. And dress for the heat.”

She kissed him, leaving Vincent alone in the bedroom to stare at the door. Slowly, he dressed. A pit formed in his stomach—he didn’t know why, but they had been summoned by The Elder. He dressed light and semi-casual, maintaining a sense of elegance but feeling naked facing people of The Table without a three-piece suit. It felt like the old days. He overheard Leïla snapping in darija to the men at the door. They were unmistakably from the desert—god knows how long their journey was—and they seemed to heed whatever her words were with respect. Vincent glanced between her and the men as their eyes slowly fell on him. One of the men had an amused grin form on his lips, another nudged Leïla, but not aggressively. The man said something to her, something that made her tense up and shove him back, seemingly in embarrassment.

Vincent passed through the doors, sharing a look with Chidi. He gave him a nod, eyes darting over to Leïla and their four escorts.

“You may go,” Vincent told him.

Following orders, Chidi returned inside and the doors shut behind him. Vincent looked at the closed doors, feeling a strange anxiety budding within him. Something had left him, something important, and it was being left behind in the walls of this mansion.

“Vincent.”

Leïla’s gentle voice pulled him away from the troubles starting to brew inside of him. She cupped his cheek with her hand, then gestured for him to follow her. He felt the men’s gazes on his back as he passed them to follow her. One snickered.

“Let’s go, French boy,” one of them chided.

Leïla whirled around and spoke sharply at him in darija, eyes flashing. His smile dropped and he seemed to apologize to her.

The group of six filed into a white suv and drove off. Vincent’s mind was running miles a minute. He was missing something gravely important, but what? Leïla clearly had no intention of saying. They drove to the airport, and boarded a private jet, flying three long hours to Casablanca. Leïla remained silent, but never left his side. Her eyes were quick and watchful of the men around them.

They left the airport and drove into the city. Vincent watched silently as the Casablanca Continental came into view with some distaste. The manager here had assisted John Wick in finding the first Elder, despite his excommunicado status, and seemed to have got off scot-free. They were escorted out, slipping through the crowd as music played and women danced, swerving and twisting their waists and hips. Sweet smells filled Vincent’s noise as he took in all of the vibrant surroundings. The men stopped them and walked ahead to a door, and Leïla suddenly took his hand, whispering something.

“Finora non siamo in pericolo. Ci avrebbe fatto uccidere se quello fosse stato lo scopo di questo incontro.” So far we are not in danger. He would have had us killed if that had been the purpose of this meeting.

“Cos'è questo? Perché stiamo vedendo l'Anziano?” What is this? Why are we being brought to the Elder?

She let out a quiet sigh as if she feared the men would hear it.

“Non so perché ti abbiano portato.” I don’t know why they brought you.

She let go of his hand as they gestured for them to approach. A woman with a covered face bumped into her, apologizing profusely in french as the empty teacups rattled at their collison. Leïla gave a smile, reassuring her and nodding her head. Vincent watched the woman depart with a stoic expression as they passed through the doors.

A low growl made Vincent’s head snap around, and two made him tense. He was face to face with two giant dogs that bared their teeth at him. Leïla’s voice sounded behind him with a firm command in darija, and their eyes widened as they made a beeline for her, tails wagging. She pat their heads as she smiled down at them.

“Hey babies,” she greeted softly, “Did you miss auntie? Auntie missed you.”

Vincent watched her in bewilderment, putting his hands in his pockets. He looked around the room and found a woman sat behind a desk, cool gaze shifting between the two. Her honey colored hair and desert brown complexion matched Leïla’s impeccably.

“Well, well,” she said, rising to her feet, “La Belladonna and the new Marquis.”

She walked up to them, passing the Marquis a look.

“I’ve heard much about you, Gramont. Are you here to kill me?”

“You had a marker,” Leïla suddenly interjected, “You had no choice but to help John Wick.”

Vincent tensed at the feeling of her eyes on him. His skin prickled under the intensity of her gaze. He’d never felt such heat off of her before, not even when she was dead-set on killing him a year ago. Discreetly, his eyes shifted over to get some kind of glance at her. Her large eyes were dark, commanding. She rose a brow.

“Certainly you can appreciate the rules? No one who sits under the table can turn away a marker.”

After a pregnant pause and his indignation simmering under the two women’s stares, he cleared his throat.

“That can be discussed later.”

Her glare softened and faded as quickly as it came. She went back to petting the dogs with a small smile on her face.

The Manager laughed, giving Vincent a sudden smile.

“Then welcome to the Casablanca Continental…”

“Vincent.”

“Sofia.”

Tentatively, he reached out to shake her hand, feeling the dogs’ stares fix onto him despite Leïla’s attention. Sofia looked down to Leïla, smiling.

“Hey, this isn’t playtime, kid.”

Leïla stopped, rising to her feet. Her expression quickly sobered.

“He wants to see me.”

Sofia nodded. “Ya-huh. And the French boy, too.”

Vincent bristled at the nickname, thinking of the men snickering at him before.

“Did he mention why?”

Sofia’s eyebrows rose. “Oh, so I’m supposed to question the Elder, now? Give me a break. He summoned you, that’s all I know.”

Leïla let out an annoyed sigh, earning a confused look from Vincent. Sofia clocked it, eyes glinting curiously.

“Fine. We leave now?”

“You leave now. I stay in the shade, enjoying my drink. Just wanted to say hello. In case, you know…it’s the last time I ever see you.”

Leïla gave her an unamused look. “Great catching up.”

The door opened, and Vincent was ushered out, much to Leïla’s quiet alarm. Sofia touched her arm gently as the dogs trotted away to rest by the fire. Leïla gave her a questioning look.

“I just wanted a moment alone to say I’m sorry for your loss.”

Leïla froze, then softened. “How could you tell he didn’t know?”

“You’ve always been more protective of your secrets than your own ass.”

She grinned. “Hey, don’t judge. This is a pretty great ass.”

Sofia chuckled softly, shaking her head.

“But…really…a French boy?”

“Oh, my god,” Leïla exclaimed, turning away and leaving as Sofia laughed, “Leave me alone!”

***

Vincent was amazed by Leïla’s miraculous lack of sweat as they rode through the desert on horseback. He wiped his forehead, directing his horse closer to hers, earning a look in his direction. He hadn’t been able to catch her attention ever since they had entered the desert—her mind quickly faded out of his grasp and her thoughts resided in places unknown to him. He had been wondering what this desert meant to her, what Morocco meant, and just who exactly this woman was that he had devoted his heart to so recklessly. She’d torn out the throat of a Marquis for her freedom, that was always the tale, but who was she before that? Was she an orphan, like John Wick, a Baba Yaga? Was she a Ballerina? Was she a slave, at the mercy of cruel, filthy men? Some kind of child bride for the Elder (he didn’t know what these desert men got up to)? What were those hungry ghosts that she had outran—or had she outran them at all?

From the look in her eyes, the ghosts rode the winds over the sand dunes, baked with them in the sun, and awaited her at the feet of the Elder. Her brow was heavy and taut, and her brown eyes that shone like gold in the sun had gone dark as night. One hand rested testily on a saber. The other gripped the reins so tight he thought she would draw blood. It was as if uttering her name had summoned those fearsome ghosts right to his doorstep.

Of course, he had nothing to fear besides a sunburn. He was making good on his promise, tracking down John Wick and disciplining the insurgents that defied the will of the High Table, and thus the Elder. His men were closing in on the Baba Yaga, and everyone was falling back in line. So why was he here? And why did La Belladonna, who sat beneath no Table, answer his call without so much as a second thought and speak of him with such familiarity? More questions, more questions—they gathered in his throat, becoming so numerous he feared he could choke on them. The mystique of La Belladonna was titillating. But the secrets of Leïla—his Leïla—only planted a heavy unease within him. He hadn’t questioned the possibility of trusting her, but now…

His mind lapsed under the pressure of the Moroccan sun. He didn’t know when they reached the Elder’s tent, but he knew his throat was dry and his head was pounding. They dismounted, although Vincent didn’t know how he managed to keep standing. Leïla looked back at him and her eyes widened. She quickly grabbed his hand and squeezed it painfully.

“Get your head on straight,” she urged, “You can’t show weakness.”

She rubbed his back as he took a breath.

“Fuck, it’s hot,” he whispered.

She smiled. “See? You’re getting soft.”

He looked down at her and his heart lifted at her smile.

“Come on. They’ll have something to drink inside.”

They walked into the tent. Vincent heard a few chuckles between their escorts as they passed him. He gave them a dark look as they entered the tent.

The first thing that hit his nose was the smell of frankincense. The scent of it billowed from a plume of incense smoke by the entrance, circulating throughout the entire interior from the brief gust of wind that passed through. Vincent felt his skin pricking as he found himself surrounded by elderly Moroccan men in traditional garbs, surveying him and Leïla with unreadable expressions. But the young man that sat at the head of the semicircle that stared at them through the hookah smoke and incense made his blood still. His eyes were large, dark, and piercing. They looked familiar.

They looked like Leïla’s.

“Hello, Sister,” the Elder greeted in darija.

Vincent glanced between the two, then uncomfortably fixed his eyes on the Elder. He was a dark-haired man with a warm brown complexion and kohl lined around his deep brown eyes. His face was rugged, but his lips were full and his hands were long and slender, his movements elegant as he gestured for them to sit down.

Leïla stood, but Vincent obeyed. She stared at him in silence. A smile came to his face as they eyed each other, a palpable tension forming in the air.

“Yes, Leïla?”

“Why am I here? Why is he here?”

She pointed to Vincent, making him a little concerned. He didn’t want the man’s soul-piercing stare on him again. To his surprise, he laughed, rising to his feet.

“I wanted to set my eyes on the man that my sister has chosen for herself. Is that so unacceptable?”

She wasn’t convinced. “It is unlike you.”

Vincent watched the Elder move towards her, placing his hands on her arms and place a kiss on her forehead. She seemed tense, but not rigid—ready to pounce but not on her complete guard. Then, the Elder turned his gaze down to Vincent, eyes twinkling.

In that moment, Vincent had no other possibility of who this man was in his mind as he saw her face in the Elder’s. He must’ve noticed the dawning realization on Vincent’s face because he smiled.

“You’ve been taking good care of my little sister, Marquis?”

For a moment, words failed to leave his lips as he stared up at the smiling Elder.

“Don’t tease him,” Leïla reprimanded, “He doesn’t know.”

“You haven’t told him? After a year. You heartbreaker,” he chided.

“Why am I here,” she demanded. “This is not a family reunion. You summoned us.”

The Elder paused, then sighed, turning away and returning to his seat. He studied her.

“You have killed an Adjudicator, sister.”

Leïla paused, then chuckled, shaking her head.

“And what is this supposed to mean to me?”

“You’ve killed many of the High Table. It is hard to let it go unnoticed.”

She scoffed. “You’ve handled worse.”

He sat back, surveying her, then gestured for her to sit as a woman brought in a teapot and two cups.

“Rest, sister. This is not a battleground.”

“How many of our cousins did you tell that to before you executed them?”

The Elder brandished a dazzling smile, her pointed comment rolling over his shoulders. “I did not owe those cousins my life, sister.”

She was immovable stone. “Neither did ours.”

The Elder’s smile fell as Leïla took a seat, nodding to the the woman in thanks as she poured her and Vincent tea. Leïla grabbed a few sugar cubes and placed it in Vincent’s cup with a small smile and a glance to him. The Elder watched them cooly, bright white teeth bared in a troubling smile.

“You are fond of him, yes?”

Leïla’s eyes shifted back to her brother, visibly deadened.

“Hmm?”

“You’ve taken a liking to our new Marquis,” he proclaimed as if the man weren’t in the room, “I wouldn’t have expected a man like him to keep you in one place so long. So…sparkly.”

Indignation churned in Vincent’s stomach but his companion was only amused.

“You’re still so naive, big brother,” she teased, “I hadn’t taken a liking to him until the sparkly suits were off.”

Her brother rose a brow disdainfully. “Would Mom want to hear you say such disgusting things?”

“I don’t know; shall we dig her up and ask? Or should you join her?”

A silence fell over the tent as Leïla’s smile grew in warning. The Elder considered Vincent as he slowly drank, shoulders and neck tensed. He gave the Marquis a small smile.

“I have heard much about you. A lot of complaints. You’re killing managers, you destroyed the New York Continental; had Osaka raided. Charmed my sister.”

Vincent held his gaze, setting his cup down. The sugar on his tongue soothed his nerves.

“Yes.”

“It makes a big brother wonder, Vincent.”

A chill went up Vincent’s spine upon hearing his name leave The Elder’s lips. The man’s eyes were as empty and consuming as voids, measuring up the Frenchman before him.

“A man as ambitious as you…makes me question how much is chance, and how much is design.”

He didn’t let anyone see it, but Vincent was frozen. He cleared his throat, mustering a humorous smile. “If it was anyone’s design, it was your lovely sister’s.”

The Elder nodded. “I appreciate your fielty, Marquis. Your choices have spilled more than enough blood in honor of our dear Uncle. You’ve honored her, even in ignorance.”

Leïla looked away under her brother’s brief glance to her. She tapped her glass with her fingertip.

“She hasn’t told you who she is yet in the interest of protecting our family, you see, despite her flagrant disregard for the rules and traditions of the Table.”

She rose a brow. “I earned my freedom from those rules.”

“But you kill, and kill, and kill,” he countered, “You know you toe the line.”

“You know I have no line. I am completely in my right to conduct business how I choose.”

The air felt heavy under their brief stare down, then the siblings looked away. The Elder shifted his gaze back to Vincent.

“Your Bella here has gotten a bit comfortable, Marquis. She has gone from a serpent to a delicate flower. La Belladonna. She has forgotten who she was, and where she came from. She has forgotten the meaning of consequences.”

Before Vincent could react, Leïla suddenly shot up to her feet, unsheathing her saber and turning it above his head to slice as something behind him. A light thud sounded behind him, then the familiar sound of a body falling made his blood run cold. He looked to the Elder, whose cool gaze pressed down onto him with the familiar glimmer of an executioner. He looked up to Leïla’s whose eyes were sharp and blazing. The fire rose as she set her gaze onto her brother.

“You forget, brother, the blood I spilled that fertilized these sands for our family’s blessings. You forget, but I still taste it on my tongue. It leaves me thirsty.”

She turned her bloodied saber from above Vincent to point it at the Elder.

“If you touch him again, I will make another offering to the desert. It will be what runs through your veins.”

The men surrounding them jumped to attention, drawing their blades and pointing it at the two. Leïla casually acknowledged them.

“I will kill you all as well,” she assured, “Don’t get impatient.”

She turned back onto her brother. “If you are so upset by the death of some Adjudicator, perhaps you should take it up with the Manager of the Roman Continental, who wished to be rid of a Marker that troubled his sleep at night. You waste your time condemning the hand of Death.”

Vincent’s gaze couldn’t break away from the Elder. He was watching his sister calmly, eyes unreadable. Then, his callous expression broke into a bright, gleaming smile.

“It is good to see The Mamba is still alive and well.”

She tilted her head upwards, holding out a hand and quickly being given a rag. She wiped off her blade with it and returned it to her hip.

“What is it you want her for?”

“A job.”

She nodded, taking a seat. “You should’ve opened with business, brother.”

“Forgive me for my fraternal affections. I’ve missed you. Don’t you miss home?”

Her voice was soft. “Always. What do you want?”

He sighed, resting his chin in his hand as the same woman placed a tray of tea in front of him. He gave a small smile.

“Could La Belladonna…kill the Baba Yaga for me?”

Vincent’s back straightened, and he looked over at Leïla. She was silent, her stare measured. She hummed quietly and poured herself a glass of tea. The Elder’s eyes narrowed questioningly as she rose it to her lips, unable to even take a drink as she broke into laughter.

“Oh, you’re serious? No.”

Vincent stared at her pointedly. She didn’t flinch, raising an eyebrow.

“I will not flagrantly throw myself or my men onto the mountain of bodies the Baba Yaga has left behind. I am not a fool like the rest.”

He chuckled. “Ah, but it was worth a try, no?”

“I would disagree.”

“Yes, I imagine you would. Too empathetic to a fellow orphan. Your principles.”

A small smile came to her lips. “It would do you well to adopt some of your own.”

He shook his head, his laugh a deep, low, rumble in his chest. He gestured to her, looking to Vincent.

“She talks to you the same way, Marquis? No respect for anything.”

“I will not kiss the feet of the man who sits atop the throne I placed him on,” she dismissed, chuckling incredulously, “Do you have a real job or not?”

He waved his hand. “Yes, yes, I do—the Roman Management. I would like him dealt with.”

She sipped her tea cooly. “I see. Why?”

“Because he killed the man who held a Marker against him, not to mention an Adjudicator.”

“Romano is an old friend,” she remarked, “Why should I accept?”

“I will pay you thirty-five million.”

“Mm, after all he has done for us, thirty-five million.”

“You are lucky I let your men and your French boy live.”

She didn’t react to his raised voice. She only smiled.

“Oh, yes, very scary.”

She finished her cup of tea with a sigh.

“I wish I could grant you the same courtesy, brother, but I am not a patient woman.”

She rose to her feet, and Vincent followed, feeling rather uncomfortably like a lapdog.

“I will kill Romano for forty million. You have my services. Goodbye, brother.”

She turned, leaving. Vincent looked down at the decapitated body that had fallen behind him as they passed through the tent’s entrance. He blinked in surprise at the sight of the men that had escorted them dead in the sand, throats slit and arrows sticking out of their limp bodies. Their eyes were still bulging in alarm.

“Remember sister,” the Elder called from behind the tent flap, “I do not pay for the flower, I pay for the Mamba.”

Leïla paused, seemingly heeding his words before taking Vincent’s hand and walking away. They mounted their horses and rode back to the city.

***

Leïla and Vincent sat in silence in Sofia’s office, cooling down from their return through the desert. Leïla’s brow had been drawn tightly ever since they’d turned their backs to the Elder’s tent, and she sat in a grim silence by the fireplace, smoking a cigarette. Vincent watched her with a vice grip on his heart. This woman he’d fallen in love with was the Mamba. The kid sister of the Elder himself.

He sat back. “I thought the Mamba was dead.”

She rose a hand quickly to silence him then tapped her ear.

“The Mamba is only a desert fairytale. You know these Elders; they’re always such mystics. You speak of rumors and whispers.”

He chuckled, looking down at her sabers. “I understand.”

She looked over at the sound of his laugh, then slowly put out her cigarette and went over to him. Her doe eyes seemed soft. Vulnerable.

“Mon cœur…”

She whispered softly, caressing the scar on his cheek, letting out a trembling sigh. He watched her, taking one of her hands in his.

“You saved my life,” he said softly, looking up at her.

Her eyes drifted away shyly. She smiled, and he smiled too.

“You like me, huh?”

Her bashful demeanor made his heart lighten. She laughed softly, looking back down at him.

“Of course, where would I find another French boy if you died?”

He groaned in annoyance, making her laugh and climb onto his lap, placing a kiss on his lips. His hands snaked around her hips and firmly pressed against her back as he leaned into her, deepening the kiss with a soft hum. She sighed, sliding her fingers into his hair and kissing back.

Their lips parted, and Leïla slowly rested her forehead against his.

“He wants me to do it. Take his life. Personally.”

Vincent made a sound of acknowledgment.

“You will do it?”

“Gotta do what big bro says sometimes.”

He chuckled. “Big bro.”

“Hey, you don’t make fun of my English, I’ll stop acknowledging how shitty your Italian is.”

“It’s not shitty,” he protested with amusement.

“It is.”

They looked at each other, smiling softly. She brushed his hair away from his face.

“Let’s go home, tesoro.”

They quickly made their way to the airport and flew back to France on Vincent’s jet. The shadow that had been looming over Leïla seemed to dissipate as they landed in Paris, and her shoulders slouched. She rested her forehead in her hand with a sigh. Vincent observed her, then leaned over to her.

“I want to know, Bella. Tell me everything.”

She looked up at him, meeting his pointed stare.

“…Or do you still not trust me?”

“I’m not hiding from you, Vincent,” she said, a hint of exasperation, “I’m protecting you.”

A sliver of frustration cut through him as he stared at her concealed face. Letting out a sharp sigh through his nose, he took her hand away from her face and squeezed it, lifting it to his mouth and pressing his lips against her fingers.

“Leïla. I will not be left in the dark. I will not be a stranger to the woman I love.”

She held his heavy gaze, then let out a sigh, looking away.

“There is nothing worth knowing. I only have the story of a little girl in the desert, doing anything to survive; who was blessed by God to grasp her freedom.”

“Stop running from me,” he insisted, “I want all of you. I don’t care what it is. Tell me.”

“The last person who had all of me I found dead on a bathroom floor, clutching their entrails,” she snapped, eyes hot.

“I am not some low-level assassin,” he argued back, “I have my men, I have my wits. I am not some little boy in Casablanca.”

She laughed. “Oh, if you had any wits worth mentioning, you’d have stopped arguing with me by now.”

He squeezed her hand tightly, trying to bite back his frustration. Leïla tensed as his grip became painful, her hand resting on the hilt of one of her daggers.

“Why didn’t you accept the Elder’s assignment to kill John Wick?”

She held his glare cooly, challenging him to escalate his behavior.

“Do you think I am hiding allegiances from you, Marquis? Is that it? Do you think after I killed five of my brother’s men to protect you, I am still not trustworthy?”

“Neither of us are trustworthy.”

She smiled, snatching her hand out of Vincent’s grip.

“Then you should be able to appreciate the merits of keeping secrets.”

She rose to her feet but Vincent grabbed her, chuckling as his anger began to rise.

“You think I will just keep a liar in my bed?”

She looked down at his hand gripping her bicep, eyes darkening as she looked up at him.

“What, are you going to hurt me? Is that what this is now? You know I won’t obey you like some dog. You have no right to make demands of me.”

“I have shared a year of my life with you,” he insisted, “I deserve to know who the woman I’m going to marry is.”

She froze, mind blanking. The word echoed in her head, slipping from her lips.

“Marry—Marry?”

She backed up, her eyes searching his face. He let out a sigh, dragging his hand over his face. Fuck, he didn’t mean to say that until at least five more months.

“Shit, shit…”

“You want…to marry me?”

“Fuck, Bell—Leïla, wait—“

She stepped back as he moved towards her, her eyes growing misty as she fixed her eyes onto the ground.

“You can’t…you can’t do that.”

“Why can’t I have you,” he demanded in frustration, “Why won’t you have me, why—“

“Because you’ll die!”

Her voice struck the air around them, making him jump. In all of the time he’d known her, she’d killed, she’d beaten, but she’d never risen her voice, never cried.

He watched the tears form in her eyes in shock. She shook her head, pinching the bridge of her nose and turning away.

“Fuck,” she murmured.

She pressed her palms together in front of her face, taking deep breaths. Vincent watched her hesitantly, feeling her upset infecting his body. He could feel his palms sweating, his chest tightening, his mouth becoming dry as her shoulders tightened.

He watched her fight her outburst from an agonizing distance. His hands itched to hold her, comfort her, feel her, kiss her wounds that she had hidden so masterfully. But he couldn’t stop her from running away.

“Bella…please.”

He felt as if a migraine was forming in his head. He begged her softly. It was foreign sound; submission, humility, vulnerability. It felt awkward on his tongue and unnatural from his mouth. It didn’t seem real, the tenderness of his words, but the longer he looked at her, the more he wanted to try to make it so.

“Please look at me,” he whispered, reaching for her, “Please.”

Her body seemed to relax at his careful touch despite herself, and he stepped closer, feeling how her body quaked.

“I love you,” he said, “Please, Bella. I love you.”

“You don’t understand,” she said, voice quivering, “Everything I touch, everything I embrace…dies.”

“Cheri, what makes you think thar?”

“Because I’ve seen it. Death has chosen me for its bidding. It’ll set me straight if I forget my purpose.”

Hey couldn’t help a small smile at her naïveté. “What, do you think you’re cursed?”

“I think these are the wrong lives to love in,” she said, turning around to face him. “But we just can’t help ourselves, can we, tesoro.”

“You’ve too superstitious, mon cœur,” he comforted, gently rubbing her arms, “There is no boogeyman coming for us.”

Her lips were tight as she smiled. “We all must pay something for the lives we lead. You can’t think these lives we take cost our souls nothing?”

“What do souls matter,” he dismissed, “This isn’t the time for navel-gazing.”

He let out a quiet sigh, snaking his head and kissing her forehead.

“Je peux t’aider, mon cœur.” I can help you.

“This is my debt. Not yours.”

“It is ours now,” he insisted, cupping her cheek and pulling her closer.

“Tell me about the girl in the desert,” he gently asked, searching her eyes, “Please.”

She looked into his eyes silently for a long time, then closed her eyes, biting her lip, wrapping her arms tightly around his torso and melting against him. He let out a breath, embracing her just as tightly.

“Will you tell me?”

“Yes,” she whispered, “I will.”

***

Thirteen Years Earlier.

Leïla stood over the bodies of her mother and father in austere silence. There were no flies buzzing around their cut throats or open mouths; it was still cool in the early mornings. She stared at their wide eyes and limp hands wielding daggers, taking in the ransacked tent (a struggle, at least, ensued), her mother’s hair splayed wildly around her ghastly face. She kneeled, leaning over her and placing a kiss on her forehead. She looked to her father, moving over to him, gently pressing her lips against his cool, wrinkled forehead. She shut their eyes, covering their faces with silks and rising back to her feet.

“Leïla,” a voice gently called out for her, “Where are you sweetheart?”

Leïla listened to her mutter to herself, hoping she hadn’t taken her favorite horse out for a morning ride again.

“In here, Fatima. Mom and Dad have been murdered.”

Fatima made a sound of distaste as she opened the tent flap.

“It’s not good to made jokes like that—oh my god!”

Fatima hurriedly dragged Leïla out of the tent, calling out to the rest of their sleeping party.

“Wake up! Wake up! The Elder has been killed,” she called out, distress creating cracks in her voice, “Where is Hossam—someone find Hossam!”

Fatima tucked Leïla away in a tent where her brother, Hossam, was fast asleep, instructing her not to open the tent until she returned. She obviously disobeyed. Her eyes scanned the chaos that ensued as the families in their tents called out for their husbands or children—some were asleep with them, others long gone—causing mothers to crumble into tears as their calls weren’t answered. She crawled to her sleeping bag, grabbing her cigarette box under her pillow.

As she placed one between her lips, she looked to Hossam, who snored softly. She smiled a little seeing how peaceful he was. Ever since they were babies nothing could disturb him up until he decided to wake up. It scared their mother when he was born because she thought he’d been stillborn.

She shoved him roughly, shaking him until he woke up with an annoyed grunt.

“God, what,” he snapped, “This had better not be anything stupid.”

“Mom and Dad are dead,” she said, returning to the tent flap and lighting her cigarette with a match, blowing the smoke away from the interior, “So are some other kids and men.”

He fell silent, sitting up slowly. “Oh.”

“Probably some fucking High Table shits,” she said, blowing out more smoke, “Probably family.”

“You think it’s Uncle Mohammed?”

“He’s in Italy, I doubt he cares much about the desert anymore.”

“Hm, you’re right.”

She felt the cigarette’s heat closing in on her lips. Hossam crawled up next to her, watching the village bring out the bodies of their mother and father somberly.

“It was a hit, yeah?”

“Seems so.”

She put out her cigarette. Hossam spied the silks covering their faces, glancing over at his sister.

“We’re probably next,” she said cooly, “Orphans of the Elder…”

“Fuck, yeah,” he muttered thoughtfully, “That or some creep is going to try and marry you.”

She gave him a dark look, but smiled afterwards. “I’d be happy to kill another.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Fatima noticed the siblings watching the commotion and rushed over, pushing them back inside, scolding them.

“Children aren’t meant to see these things,” she insisted.

Hossam scoffed. “We children have done worse.”

She waved her hand in dismissal, shaking her head and returning to the bodies. Leïla pushed the tent flap back open. Hossam watched her, sensing the gears turning in her head.

“What do we do, sister?”

She took a palmful of sand, letting it trickle through her fingers. She rolled a grain between her fingertips.

“We can’t stay here obviously…they’ll die for us.”

“They are loyal to the table; they will serve.”

She looked back at him with a hint of disgust. “I wouldn’t insult these people to die for a couple of jackass kids like us. Besides, we need to go somewhere safe; somewhere we can build something.”

“We are the rightful—“

“Oh, yes, and that will protect you from Ahmad’s men? Stop the sabers? The bullets?”

She crawled over to her sleeping bag, rolling it up.

“He got father to surrender his seat on the promise of his family’s safety. The man obviously has no honor.”

“No principles,” he said with a hint of a smirk.

She shot him a look. “He will kill us if we don’t have protection. We are alone. They picked off the men, the other capable hands here. They will come back and kill us. You want your seat atop the Table, don’t be a fucking idiot. Roll up your sleeping bag.”

Leïla fastened the buckle and began to load up her bag. It was partly packed with a couple of pistols, one smaller than the other, a few daggers, a strip of throwing knives, cigarettes, burner phones, gold coins.

“What, are we leaving now,” Hossam questioned with some incredulity.

“Yes.”

“Leïla, please,” he said, moving to place a hand over hers.

She slapped it away reflexively, looking at him in surprise, an apology nearly leaving her lips before she went back to business. Hossam’s face softened. He groaned, starting to roll up his sleeping bag as well.

“Can we not at least mourn our mother and father?”

Her face tightened. “Once we’re no longer joining them, you can mourn as you like.”

They slipped away under the heavy heat of the afternoon sun after grief had departed from their village. Leila's eyes darted vigilantly as they loaded up the saddles of two horses and snuck away. Her heart hurt just a twinge at the vision of Fatima's distraught face when she discovered they had left her. She knew that Fatima would think they'd abandoned her; the last of her family leaving her behind to crumble into the sand dunes, but it was Leila's final gift to her mother's sister to be spared the burden of pointless sacrifice.

To be given the gift of life.

They raced through the desert on horseback to Casablanca, beads of sweat stinging their eyes and drying their lips. Hossam insisted they stop for the horse's sake, and Leila relented. They sat on the sand; it had gotten hot enough to soothe their sore backside as their horses drank from a bucket they'd drawn from a nearby well. They sipped from a gallon-large metal water bottle, propped up against the stone, staring back at their ever-distant home.

"What are we supposed to do, Leila?"

He looked at her as she sighed, closing up the bottle. Her brown irises drifted up to the clear blue sky.

"Italy."

Hossam scoffed at the thought of their long-lost Uncle and shook his head profusely.

"No."

She rose a brow. "No?"

"That man is a lunatic and a fool. Besides, we can't trust him."

"He is satisfied."

He met her gaze, unimpressed. "He's a Bennani."

She didn't back down. "And there was a time when sharing that name meant something to this family--loyalty."

"Oh, god, this isn't the time for your silly daydreams about the glory of the old days--"

"Mohammed has principles. He values his family. If you would get out of the Table's ass for three minutes, you would understand that simple fact makes him the wisest out of all of us. He is loyal to blood, not power."

"You're a dumbass if you believe that. Everyone wants more power in this world."

"No, some of us just want to get the fuck out."

She shot him a glare, then returned the bucket to the rim of the well, mounting her horse.

"Get up. We have to go find Sofia."

"Oh, shit, her?"

***

They left their horses with a family that were carrying a heavy load then went the rest of the distance to the city and near the continental. Sofia waited for them in an alley, her dogs posted next to her. Hossam gave them a concerned glance as they approached her, lagging slightly behind his sister. She gave him an amused look.

“Scared of a puppy, Hossam?”

“Leave me alone.”

Sofia’s sharp gaze fixed on them as she harshly gestured for them to be quiet. The siblings straightened up under her consideration. She straightened up off of the wall and stepped towards them.

“Good to see you here,” she addressed them, hand resting on a pistol, “Where you headed?”

“Italy,” Leïla said, “The Roman Continental.”

“You’re betting on Mohammed Benanni,” she remarked with some amusement, “The madman himself.”

“I tried to tell her,” Hossam interjected.

“I trust him,” she insisted harshly.

Sofia rose a brow. “Oh, yeah?”

She stepped closer, looking into the girl’s dark eyes.

“You know why they call him a madman, habibiti?”

Leïla remained silent.

“He is a monster. He isn’t a hitman, no, he’s an artist. He mutilates, and flays. He’s sadistic and knows no limits.”

Her eyes stayed cold. “I know what my Uncle does.”

“Then why the fuck would you want to be under his ward?”

Leïla’s eyebrows drew together as she leaned toward her.

“I trust him. He never touched me. He protected me.”

Sofia’s eyes softened slightly. Hossam tensed, putting his hands in his pockets.

“He put the blade in my hand and guided it. He will help us.”

She glanced back at her brother, then shrugged.

“Or at least me.”

Sofia stepped back with a sigh. Leïla took out a cigarette, holding it between her fingers.

“Besides, no business can be conducted on Continental grounds. The oldest rule in the book. Even Ahmed will respect that.”

“Crazy runs in your family, kid,” Sofia challenged, “Nothing’s off the board. And get rid of that stupid thing.”

She swiped the cigarette from Leïla’s fingers with a hint of disgust.

“You’re gonna kill yourself with these.”

“Oh, with so much to hang on for? Tragic.”

She gave her a stern look. “Giving up is how they win.”

Hossam let out a heavy sigh. “Look can you just get us to Rome—“

Sofia gave him a sharp look and his voice softened immediately.

“—Please? Ma’am?”

“Safely, preferably,” Leïla added.

The woman looked over the two siblings quietly with a frown. She shook her head.

“Yeah, I can get you there. Can’t say how safe it would be…I have to call up a friend. Come back with me to the Continental and I’ll have things situated by morning.”

Sofia turned but Leïla grabbed her arm, ignoring the dogs’ growling at her.

“He’s expecting us there. We’ll be killed.”

“What happened to Continental rules?”

“You don’t understand; he wants us dead. All of us—he wants to exterminate us from The Table.”

The girl’s eyes were intense; filled to the brim with fear.

“You and I both know this country isn’t safe for us. He owns every single stone in every building.”

Sofia calmed her dogs as she considered Leïla’s words, then sighed.

“Fine. Look, I’ve got a friend of mine staying, he just finished a job. I’ll ask him to take you.”

Hossam wasn’t convinced. “Who’s to say that this friend of your isn’t interested in hauling us to The Elder himself? I can imagine there’s some cash prize for our hides by now.”

“I’ll get him to help you,” she said firmly. “Just come with me—I’ll sneak you in.”

Leïla sighed heavily. Sofia looked at her in annoyance.

“What, you’d rather hang out in this exposed, dark alley all alone?”

“At least I can kill anyone who comes across us here.”

“God, just bring your skinny asses with me, okay?”

Leïla’s mouth was dry the entire time they made their way to the Continental. Her heart slammed in her chest so intensely she was afraid the sound would break their cover as they slipped in through dank and pitch black tunnels beneath the grounds. Hossam grimaced as he grew increasingly nauseated by the smell. Still, they remained silent, making their way inside undetected. The dogs’ footsteps gently splashed through the mysterious inch-or-a-half of water on the ground. Leïla’s head swam; she remembered these tunnels.

Back when Sofia ushered out a young girl to escape the violent payback that her act of self-protection certainly would’ve gotten from a man like him. Like her cousin, Ahmad.

She never saw him again after what had happened in his room in the Continental and her bloody pushback. Sofia told her that she wouldn’t even recognize him by now; they had to rebuild what she’d left behind. The memory of it made her Uncle Mohammed proud, but it only made Leïla feel sick—the thought of him touching her, of her against him, crying as he encroached upon her, threatening to rip the innocence from her slight body. His smile.

The image of his smile made her want to scratch off all over her skin; no amount of time or scrubbing would ever cleanse her of his putrid fingerprints. That smile, that shine in his eyes; the joy she saw he got from betraying her trust, of the terror that gripped her heart.

The memory of cutting it all into ribbons invariably granted her solace at the end of the memory. His screams always purified his smile in her mind.

She remembered crying in her father’s arms and being soothed by her mother to finally sleep, stroking her hair and humming a soft lullaby. She remembered Fatima and her mother’s embrace shielding her after the nightmares began. She would see her Uncle’s wry smile and watchful eyes and her brother’s uncertainty. She never held it against Hossam; she chalked up his silence to guilt and ignorance. He never knew what to say, she imagined, and she eventually understood he may never know at the end of it all.

As for herself, she’d found peace in the traveling and working with her Uncle—the love of the job, he’d always say, heals all wounds and satisfied all hunger. He was right. He was right most of the time. The love of the job made her better, so good at what she did that she’d gotten a name and an unspoken exemption from being offered up to any other men that could bring the family more power through mutually beneficial alliances. After all, no man in their right mind would ever want to marry The Mambe. All’s well that ends well.

Sofia led them up a narrow cobblestone spiral staircase that opened into the staff’s quarters. She stuffed then into her cramped room and left the dogs with them.

“John’ll come for you. I gotta get back to work.”

She left without another word, leaving the siblings to wonder to themselves: who was John?

It seemed like an eternity, stuck in that little room with no windows. Leïla pet the dogs, maintaining a cool exterior as Hossam freely voiced the concerns both of them had.

“Did she die,” he questioned out loud, “Should we be running right now?”

Leïla frowned. “Shut up, you’re too loud.”

Hossam gave her an annoyed look. “What? You sure as hell don’t know any better.”

She met his eyes, a hint of a smirk on her lips. “Which means you know absolutely nothing.”

He scoffed, eyes drifting back up to the ceiling.

“What do you think this John guy’s like?”

A chuckle came to his lips. “You think Sofia got a boyfriend?”

Leïla rolled her eyes in exasperation. “Stop talking or I will kill you if Ahmad doesn’t.”

He fell silent, huffing through his nose.

“Fuck else are we supposed to do…”

She stared him down in annoyance, and he avoided her gaze until her mood passed.

Then, the doorknob turned. Both the siblings’ spines straightened as the door opened and they caught sight of a pair of black dress shoes. Leïla tensed slightly as her eyes slowly rose to take in the tall, black-clad, dark-haired man that entered the room, looking over them. Her eyes briefly flitted over to her brother, who welcomed her over with a jerk of his head. She quickly sat beside him to create distance from the door.

The man eyed them from the open door, letting out a sigh.

“Hey.”

Leïla remained silent, watching him closely. Hossam nodded his way.

“…Hey.”

A brief silence filled the room until Leïla spoke up.

“You’re John?”

He nodded slowly. “You’re Leïla?”

“Mhm. Are you going to get us to Italy?”

He pulled out a pistol, opening the door fully.

“Depends. You ready to go?”

Leïla pulled out a pistol of her own, shooting a look to Hossam. The two rose to their feet as he armed himself as well. She nodded.

“Yeah. How?”

“Sofia says we’ve got a flight,” he explained, gesturing them to follow.

They quietly made their way back to the tunnels where John finished relaying the plan.

“We need to get to the Mohammed V International Airport by six am,” he explained.

“Is there a contract on us?”

John paused from checking his magazine. "Uh...not yet. No one knows your parents are dead yet."

"Ah, open season hasn't started yet, then," Hossam remarked, "We can get to the plane, then."

Leila nodded in agreement, starting to walk ahead. "Once we're in Rome, I'll call Uncle Mohammed so he can make sure we get to the Continental safely. We just have to get out of Morocco."

"Yeah, let's hurry up."

Hossam caught up with his sister, looking back at John.

"Can you run, old guy?"

Leila shoved him, reprimanding him in darija, but John managed a small chuckle.

"Yeah, kid."

The three jogged their way through the tunnels, emerging from the mouth underneath a bridge that had been built over a canal. Leila's eyes darted around, then nodded in the direction of a small motorboat.

"Good, it's still here."

She looked at John briefly. "Did she give you the keys?"

He pulled them out and she opened her palm expectantly. He hesitated.

"Can you drive?"

With some annoyance, she snatched them out of his hand, earning a look from him. He turned the look to Hossam, who gave a small apologetic smile.

"She likes to be in charge."

They sped through the water under the cloudy night sky. Leila drove silently as Hossam and John cast watchful eyes over the banks. Her eyes burned into the horizon before her, her grip on the wheel iron-clad.

Miraculously, they’d gotten to their flight without any complications, leaving them nothing but time as they took off for Italy. Leïla’s shoulders seemed to relax as they lifted into the air but her gaze was locked onto the window—her home, her country, her family—she watched them all disappear into grids and dots beneath her, and had a troubling sense that it would be the last time she’d ever return “home” again.

Hossam was talking to their chaperone as she sat in silence.

“So, John,” he began, sitting down next to him, “How are you feeling?”

John was unfazed by the advance, and simply looked at Hossam cooly.

“Fine. You?”

The young man shrugged. “Fine, I guess.”

After a beat, Hossam glanced over to John uncertainly, then continued to speak.

“I mean…I woke up this morning to murdered parents…and now my sister’s dragging me to Italy to live with our crazy uncle…so…”

Hossam sat back as he fell into an awkward silence. John cleared his throat.

“I mean, that guy’s really sick,” Hossam told him, voice hushed, “He’s a total sadist freak. He’s a torturer, you know? Barely even a hitman, but all that information made him the Roman Manager. Now he doles out punishment instead of getting information. I don’t really get why my sister loves him, but she’s a bit of a sadist freak, too.”

John glanced back at the young woman as she stared out of the window pensively, hand ghosting over the hilt of her pistol. As if she sensed his gaze, her eyes snapped over to his, wide and empty, almost pulling him in like a magnetic void. He blinked, then looked away. There was a chill on his skin all of a sudden—even a man like him would be unnerved by that girl’s cold, predatory stare. It certainly reminded him of Mohammed Bennani’s gaze, although he had some ability to feign pleasantries and charm, to miraculously conjure up genuine pleasure and joy at the sight of you. That girl most likely had yet to learn; being the daughter of an Elder would’ve made amicability low on the list of things to teach her.

“I can imagine,” his voice rumbled lowly.

The flight was silent until Leïla rose from her chair and sat across from John and Hossam. She focused on her brother.

“We need to talk about our plan.”

Hossam looked up from his cup of Sprite at her with a frown. “We’re already on our way to Rome. Haven’t we already done the plan?”

She rolled her eyes. “I obviously don’t mean that.”

Her gaze finally met John’s. “We need to speak in private.”

It was an order, and he awkwardly moved to the other side of the plane—it was strange being ordered around by a sixteen year old girl, but he’d dealt with stranger. Leïla took his seat.

“We need to talk about getting our power back,” she clarified, “Unless you plan on being runaway orphans in Rome while Ahmed eradicates our entire family from The Table.”

He frowned. “Why the urgency? We should take stock of our situation in Rome, see what Uncle Mohammed can do for us.”

“Uncle Mohammed isn’t answering the phone.”

Hossam swallowed. He knew his sister would come to the worst conclusion, but he didn’t want to imagine that The Elder—his blood—was laying siege onto his entire family so quickly. His stomach wasn’t as strong as his sister’s.

“None of them?”

She shook her head. Hossam sat back, looking at the ice in his cup, then glancing out of the window, seeing the sun shining on the clouds.

“You get it, right? The moment we land in Italy, we’re in the battlefield for good. Either we hide, or we take our power back. Ahmed wants to eradicate the Benanni family from The Table for good. He’s probably made some deal with some family, or he’s looking out for his own—it doesn’t matter—he has to die.”

He sighed quietly. “Yeah, I get it.”

“You want to be the leader. You want to be the King. We need to figure out a way to get you there.”

His eyebrows rose, and he looked at his sister in shock. “A favor? From you?”

She smiled. “I just don’t want to have death on my back. We’ll figure out how you can repay me later.”

He chuckled. “Right.”

He set down his soda, turning to face her. His eyes sharpened with intent.

“So, what have you come up with?”

Her smile grew. “You know how fond Ahmed is of the old ways. I saw we use them.”

“Use them? A duel?”

She tapped his nose with a sardonic smile. “Look at my brother, so smart.”

“Yeah, yeah, but how? You said it yourself, he’s killing us off.”

“That means you’re the heir, Hossam.”

Hossam froze, the realization washing over him. She was right—his father was dead, his Uncle was out of the picture, his older cousins were dead or missing as of this morning. The sun shine through the airplane window, shining on his dark drown eyes, turning them to gold. He was all that was left.

Leïla smiled as he met her gaze. “You see? You’re almost there.”

“But…I couldn’t fight Ahmed.”

Her smile fell. “Oh? And why not?”

“That man is an animal, are you kidding me? I couldn’t fight him the way I am now! He’s a full foot taller than me! He’s probably fifty pounds heavier than me! He’s already uglier than hell, he’s got nothing to lose—he’ll rip me apart!”

Amusement glittered in Leïla’s eyes. “And how do you think I handle the taller, stronger, ugly men I’m sent to handle?”

His eyes lit up. “You can do it, then?”

She was visibly taken aback. “The hell are you talking about?”

“C’mon, you’re The Mamba,” he encouraged, “And I know you want to kill that disgusting bastard anyway.”

Her face fell completely at his words. She was silent for a long time, turning away, her shoulders visibly tight.

“Don’t presume to know what I want.”

Hossam cursed himself silently. “I’m—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“You never even acknowledge it for years and now, you bring it up?”

He shrank inwardly at the sight of bubbling anger in her eyes as she stared at him. Delicately, he placed his hand over hers.

“I’m sorry. I…I didn’t know I had to say something. I just thought the best thing to do was to never leave you again.”

Her anger softened in lieu of the storm of emotions that filled in her eyes. Wordlessly, she took his hand in hers and squeezed it tightly.

“We’re going to land in Rome,” she proclaimed, voice firm.

“We’re going to prepare, we’re going to make sure we’re not alone in this task, we’re going to sharpen our claws and fangs. We’re going to take back our home. You’ll sit your ass on top of The Table.”

The sun finally hit her eyes. They were like embers.

“And I’m going to rip that bastard’s throat out.”

***

Leïla took a slow inhale from her cigarette holder, shutting her eyes as she exhaled and waited for Vincent to speak. He had been silent for a while now ever since they’d sat down in the garden, green eyes pensive. So she watched him curiously, troubled by his air of gravity.

“Well, French boy?”

He glanced up at her. She smiled.

“What are you thinking?”

He looked away, then sighed quietly, sitting back. Leïla’s shoulders tensed at his genuine sense of trouble.

“When I heard the story of La Belladonna ripping out the throat of a Marquis for her freedom as a child, I didn’t expect the truth to be more incredible than the legend.”

His eyes shifted over to me. “You have a seat at the Table—shit, above the Table…”

She rose a finger in correction. “I have no Table at all. That’s what I got out of fighting Ahmed for my brother: he would be The Elder, I would be free.”

“I don’t understand,” he said, rubbing his forehead, “You were sitting above The Table. Who throws that away? Who turns their back on everything a person could want?”

She took a drag again. The cigarette glowed orange, burning down as she inhaled. The smoke billowed from her nostrils and flew away with the gentle breeze.

“I hope I don’t sound too insufferable when I say this, but being in the most powerful family in the world taught me I never wanted to sit on that throne or be anywhere near it.”

Her eyes fixed on the horizon. “I’m not as ambitious as you; It’s easier to dismiss for me. But, I can assure you: power is a burden that is best at its lightest.”

“Power is freedom,” Vincent challenged.

Her brow rose as she looked at him.

“Have you seen anything? All of this—family’s massacre, my brother’s dogmatic idiocy we were just subject to, that hotel room in Tokyo my men and I just left—this is what power brings.”

She sat up, leaning in towards him. “You don’t have to agree, but I am right. I’ve seen firsthand what the prospect of power does to people. It turns families and lovers against each other. It makes sacrifices out of the youth and martyrs of the innocent. It breeds filth. Loyalty and honor become ghosts.”

“That is why rules are implemented,” he said simply, “You can’t escape filth in a world like this, but you can keep order.”

She laughed. He looked at her in bewilderment.

“Order? What order?”

Her eyes glittered as she looked into his. “Let me guess, you’re talking about that old saying, right? You think rules are the only thing keeping us from the animals? It’s not. We are animals. Only the illusion keeps us from devouring ourselves. None of us can presume to know what to implement as order when we’re all children of chaos.”

He watched her as she reclined, smoking in silence.

“Why are you still here?”

“Eh?”

“Working, I mean. Why are you still here if you despise everything about this world? You have your freedom, you’ve had it for a long time. You could have left, like John Wick did. You could’ve done anything, but you stayed.”

A smile formed on her lips as she kept her gaze on the distance.

“When was the last time you killed somebody? And I mean personally. When have you last held another’s life in your hands and released it?”

Vincent rose a quizzical brow, shrugging lightly. “I don’t care to get into messes that I don’t need to be in. You know that.”

“Oh, but the mess is the best part.”

Her eyes slid over to meet his. Cigarette smoke passed between their shared look.

“Do you know why I was named The Mamba?”

“You didn’t name yourself?”

“It’s a title,” she explained, “I didn’t sit idly in the desert, I trained. I perfected my art.”

Vincent smiled at her earnestness. “We’re killers, not artists.”

“Mm, maybe for you, but I grew up in a world where the manner in which you spilled another’s blood was a reflection of the truth of your soul. Of course, not all the families are like this—the Benannis are unique. We have firm connections to the Old Ways.”

He watched her pensive face, seeing the hints of nostalgia in her eyes.

“We give our most promising names. The Scorpion and The Mamba.”

She looked over at him. “I was born to be the Mamba. As my brother was to be The Scorpion like our mother before him. These aren’t random namings; they’re honoring the patterns in our family’s souls.”

He was quiet for a moment. “Who was named the Mamba before you?”

“My great-grandmother. My great-grandfather’s bloodline is from the desert, but she came from war.”

“War?”

She smiled as she nodded. “Second World War: bombing, terror, destruction, the breeding ground of human degradation. She escaped the Nazis and brought us atop the Table. Before we sat at it, nearly below it, but my great-grandmother took the throne for us. Too many feared her to resist her. The ones who resisted didn’t live long enough to matter. She was merciless and power-hungry…I loved her.”

Vincent laughed. “I can imagine how well you two got on.”

Her smile grew bigger as she looked over to him. “She would’ve loved you.”

Their hands intertwined as Leïla’s eyes remained fixed on Vincent. His heart bounced around his rib cage as her gaze softened.

“She taught me everything I know. Without her, I would’ve been nothing but fodder for my family and their enemies. She mentored me on my first kill—I was so horrified, I got sick for almost a whole week.”

The two laughed. Her brown cheeks glowed as she set down her cigarette holder.

“I know it’s hard to believe, but I did have a soul once.”

Slowly, Leïla got out of her chair and moved to rest next to Vincent on his. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her closer, kissing her forehead.”

“You still do,” he softly encouraged.

“Really. Me?”

“I can’t imagine anyone could love like you do without one.”

Her eyes shone amber in the sun as she looked up at him, eyes roaming his features. Vincent caressed her cheeks, making her shut them and smile.

“I don’t think I could feel this way about someone without a soul.”

His fingertips grazed her lips, her eyelids, the curve of her jaw. She let out a soft exhale as her legs rested on his.

“I would marry you.”

A smile came to Vincent’s lips. “You would?”

“Mhm.”

She turned over to lie against him, slinging an arm over his waist.

“When?”

With a chuckle, her eyes opened to look at him. “Let’s say…three years.”

“So soon?”

“Okay, seven.”

“So late?”

She laughed. “How about you buy me a ring, I wear it, and we decide later on the wedding?”

“Mm.”

Leïla squeezed his waist then shut her eyes again. She’d never tell him in fear of making his ego so big he’d explode, but she’d already thought of marrying him before when they’d first made love. Never before had she met someone like him. Someone who held her so gently, yet didn’t fear her love of the work. He never questioned her nature; he matched it, and he did it with ease. It was like magic. There was no way she’d ever let him go.

“Who should we invite? I’m sure your brother would appreciate an invitation.”

She laughed. “Yes, he’d love a chance to have you in shooting distance again.”

Vincent let out a soft chuckle while he stroked her hair. His smile faded after some time. He watched her face. The ghost of a smile, the complete relaxation of her features, the setting sun on her skin.

“I love you, Leïla,” he said, feeling the air leave his chest.

The smile appeared. “I love you, too, Vincent.”

“Do you trust me?”

A soft laugh—his heart actually fluttered. “Yes, tesoro, of course I do.”

“Will you forgive me for killing John Wick?”

She frowned. “That’s a strange question.”

“He helped you when your life was in danger. Don’t you want to repay the kindness?”

“I already did. I went to the desert myself to make sure he would be spared.”

“He made a deal. He wasn’t spared.”

“Yusuf is a patient man, and a wise one, but he isn’t merciful. I had to do that. John lost a ring instead of his head. A life for a life. It’s out of my hands now. He knows that.”

She pressed her hand against him chest. “But I know what happens if you fail. You’re already taking too long. That is my concern. I’d prefer John not to die, but I refuse to see you hurt. Do what you must.”

He kissed the top of her head. “Merci, mon amour.”

Another laugh, like music. “Bien sûr.”

She let out a quiet sigh. It sounded happy—he made her happy. Vincent shut his eyes in satisfaction.

“You never said why you still work,” he muttered.

Leïla laughed. “Because I love it, Vincent. Just as I love you.”

Hie eyes twinkled as he watched the clouds while she slept. Just as she loved him.

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