blitz!

“The American Dream isn’t for us.” 

Your granddad recited that, pounded that, into your eight year old brain. In your elder’s eyes it was crucial that you, a young black girl, knew the country had a lower, designated place for you from the moment you were born.

Sometimes you wondered if you would have to endure your granddad’s solemn monologues about the false promises of America if you were his grandson rather than his granddaughter, but the truth of the matter is the old man was born in Georgia during the days of Jim Crow, so naturally he would abstain from looking at this country in a positive light.

Meanwhile you - born in 1961, four years before Jim Crow’s dissolvement in the relatively…satisfactory, state of Ohio maintained a different albeit naive perspective. “Who says it’s not for us?” The cheeky question would come out of your little mouth every now and then. Just to shake things up. “White man says.” And this is what your grandfather would reply, sharp and annoyed. “Well,” you always went there, always had to play around saying the last thing your grandfather wanted to hear: “the white man never told me that.” Sometimes Granddaddy would grow cold, telling you to get out of his sight, but most of the time he would shake his head and say: “you’ll see when you get out in the world. You’ll see.” Even when you were no longer ignorant to matters such as the institutional racism America’s very foundation was built upon, you always carried this high sense of self-importance. Always sensed that greatness of some sort awaited you in your future. Your grandparents, being the ever-devout Christians they were, told you to be humble. God can bless you and just as quickly snatch those blessings away, but again: you always carried this high sense of self-importance that nothing could shake. Your academic life was impressive from a very young age. From the numerous grade school accolades you collected to the pristine high school diploma, you earned tearful congratulations from your grandmother and mother when you took your big step into Harvard. But had this success come easily? No. What came swift and easy for a mediocre white boy required absolute perfection from you and the other few black students in the institution. Flawless memory retention, precise, eloquent words, a demure demeanor with a perfect smile while simultaneously showing you were a go-getter. Ah, and on the subject of appearance: no afros, period. As a young adult clawing your way into the corporate world, your hair had to be shiny and sleek, flat ironed once a month. And god forbid your outfits look like they came from a discount outlet, no, you needed everything in the women’s section from the Sears catalogue. Which, of course, wasn’t the crème de la crème, but your income was fixed and limited. 

Perfection was tiring, draining, but not nearly as draining as the shit - the absolute shit, you had to overlook from your colleagues. 

Truthfully, you’ve never been a forgiving person, but those you had grudges against from your old hometown had absolutely nothing on those you met in college. There were the overtly racist classmates who would still give anything to sleep with you, the professors who hardly hid the fact they weren’t pleased with your presence. 

You could never educate them, argue with them, hell, maybe screw the niceties and just hit them, because not only would it prove something about your race, about you being this ‘angry black woman’ underneath it all, but it would take away everything you had ever accomplished, forcing you to go back to Ohio.

Nonetheless, as the transgressions grew, you found a personal solace in thinking that would would be higher, better, and god willing more wealthy than all these Harvard assholes. 

The killing part is you weren’t even studying law or anything like that.

You were studying speech communication.  Upon graduating Harvard, you stayed in Massachusetts for a year. After that, you set your sights on New York City. New York - there was always something to do, always someone fascinating to meet and always a story to be found… “He said I’m ‘too Italian.’ The hell does that mean? ‘Too Italian’! So I said to him, ‘you’re Italian too, motherfucker, what’re you getting at?”

…and there was always a broken hearted woman in this big city.

Withholding your sigh, you look at the paper sticking from your typewriter as your friend, Fiora, wept in your ear. Her crying and cursing may have been over the phone, but the agony and rage she carried in heart was so strong, so vocal, that she might as well have been in front of you. Had anyone else been in your apartment they would have clearly heard her rambling.

“Have you ever heard someone say something similar to you?” Fiora asks, making you debate whether you wanted to go there and say:

‘oh yeah, being called too black is a thing.’

You decide against it. Not wanting to give Fiora any ammunition to believe the plight of Italians is on par with any oppression you face.

“Nooo…I…” Sure, you consider she may not have thought that, but opening Pandora’s box just wasn’t worth it. “Haven’t.”

“The real problem here is that he’s scared of me.” Four minutes later, Fiora concludes this. “Fifteen years he’s known me - I mean - we went to church together, we grew up on the same block, and he’s got the audacity t’be scared of me-”

There were only so many times you could go, “aw,” “um-hm” or, “I know” between a brief critique about men before Fiora essentially went in a circle talking about her boyfriend’s adultery. It was not just tedious, but distracting from the incomplete article waiting for you.

“You know what I think?” Sucking your teeth, you begin with a furrowed brow. “I think you two had a good run. I mean, six years of dating? Come on! I think that has to be longer than the average high school sweethearts.”

For a moment, there’s nothing said. You hope Fiora’s thinking of your words, striving to make something positive out of them. “Yeah.” In spite of her agreement, you know that voice. She doesn’t sound pleased.

“You should lay down, honey.” You say with your best, quasi-maternal voice. “It hurts now but tomorrow? God, you’re going to feel so much better. And think of it! Now you’re free! You’re not tethered to that manchild!”

Please, you think, please let me go. Let me go.

“…yeah,” she says again, on the hinges of stoicism. “I’m getting off now. I think I’m going to order Chinese.”

“Okay, okay,” you smile, “I’m gonna finish this article - but Fi! What did Bernadette Peters sing?”

“Time heals everything,” Fiora was withholding an giggle, you could tell.

“Time heals everything!” you repeat, “just sleep it off like I said. It’ll be okay”

Before hanging up the phone, you deliberately left out encouraging statements like, “call me later” or, “call me anytime.” It was time to work.

By nine thirty, the soothing voice of Dionne Warwick filled your apartment. “Walk on by…” she crooned from your vinyl player as you sat amongst your slew of disorganized books, cozy by your typewriter. In your right hand you held your tapecorder, stopping, playing, rewinding as you relistened to your interview with gallery owner Marcello Giamatti. 

You supposed you were satisfied with the article. In the very least you needed two more quotes and when considering what critique from your editor could be like, you reckoned the lead could stand to be shorter. 

Having securely heard enough of the interview, you pause the recording. “Okay, okay.” You murmur to yourself, “let’s get back to work.”  As soon as your fingers were perched atop the keys, your landline emitted a piercing ring. 

“GOD!” you toss your head back, agonized. 

It had to be Fiora. You hoped it was not Fiora. But it had to be her.

“Hello?”

“I did some thinking.” There was no ‘hi,’ ‘kiss my ass’ or anything. Fiora was hyper focused, ready to take on some kind of business. 

You squint, “uh…huh?” you weren’t going to be done with work until midnight at this rate, you just knew it. 

“You said six years is longer than the average couple…so I started asking myself…what’s really goin’ on here? The whole Italian thing - it’s a coverup. But maybe, it’s not all him. Maybe I should hold part of the blame for how things ended.” 

You never should have made that comment to her, this has got to be one of your deepest regrets of all time. “What? No! No! How can you even reach that conclusion?!” “Look, my hours at the restaurant are crazy. On a bad day, you spend eight hours in a kitchen and you feel like you’re stuck with lunatics for a year. I get home, I’m pissy, I take everything Greg says as a threat-” “You-” You wanted to tell Fiora that this line of thinking was bullshit. She loved to cook, it’s her passion, working at a restaurant like Dorsia’s was her dream - erratic co-workers aside. Biting your tongue, you rub your temple. “Or, or, here’s another way to look at it. Maybe he cheated because at Tunnel he has all these women trying to show him their tits for free drinks. ‘Cause, God knows he is NOT on your level!” Reminding Fiora of the ‘Italian’ comment was on the tip of your tongue, however your companion spoke too quickly.

“I’m going to talk to him.”

“He’s at work.” You countered. “I know. So I’m going to meet him there.” “Girl, I can’t even count the ways this is a bad idea.” “I have to do it.” You laugh, incredulously. “You don’t have to do anything!” “But I need to.” Fiora’s voice doesn’t waver, it’s clear she’s made up her mind. She may not have a good defense, but she would be damned if she didn’t head to Tunnel tonight.

You sigh and use your foot to idly swivel around in your office chair. “So you think…” you feel like you’re entering work mode with questions buzzing around in your head. “Approaching him at Tunnel, in a sea of strobe lights, is going to make him focus on a serious talk about what went wrong in your relationship?” “Maybe that’s the only place I can get his attention.”

“And what if you see him flirting with a bombshell blonde? What will you do?” “Beat both their asses,” Fiora easily answers, “especially if it’s the slut he slept with!” “Wrong answer, babe!” You exclaim, “That’s a certified way to get kicked out!” “Okay, so, you know the right way to act: come with me then.” “You want me to come with you?” “Yes!” 

“Okay so,” you sigh, “I think whether I come or not this is a mess waiting to happen. But…” You look at your typewriter, conflict in your heart. You could finish the article and let Fiora go tackle these matters of the heart as a one woman army. But if you did that - what if she ended up doing something not just crazy but risky, to get under Gregory’s skin? If you both went, you could at least sleep over at her place or have her come home with you. As grating as Fiora can be sometimes, if anything bad happened to her it would have stayed on your conscience.  So you say: “...give me like. Twenty minutes to get dressed.” Fuck my life, you think. 

- - - As a disciple of fashion, you knew that what you draped over your body made a statement. Therefore, in this noble role as Fiora's bodyguard you wore your eyeliner like war paint. Your pressed hair was big and voluminous, slightly bumped. A few stray strands were curled over the left side of your brow, working as de-facto bangs. Additionally framing your face were two golden hoop earrings. On your lips was a vibrant shade of crimson - deep red, like blood, of course. Such a powerful hue would draw attention to your lips while successfully hiding the true intentions of the expressions you made. A foolish man with drunken eyes could have been fooled that the grin he perceived was actually a coy smirk. You wore a sharply tailored, double-breasted blazer in deep plum with broad, padded shoulders. A power silhouette. The blazer cinched at the waist with a glossy black leather belt, accentuating your figure and adding a touch of dominance. You wouldn’t tell Fiora this, but pepper spray was carefully sealed away in your Fendi purse. 

When you met up with Fiora, you saw she too was dressed to kill. In terms of fashion, when she wasn’t confined to the staunch white clad uniform at Dorsia’s, she was more - extroverted? No, that wasn’t quite the word. But if it was something, it was definitely loud. Fiora neither straightened her hair or permed it, she naturally had very thick, dark curls that always reminded you of Cher’s glorious hair in the film Moonstruck. Under the glow of the streetlamp you saw she wore a body-hugging mini dress in leopard print. There were gold lamé accents that glinted under the lights—thin straps, a touch at the waist, a suggestion of shimmer with every sway of her hips. Fiora was a short woman, 5 '3 to your 5' 5, but at this moment the two of you stood shoulder to shoulder as she wore sky-high heels. Strappy, and metallic colored: even with footwear, Fiora didn’t believe in subtle. You praised her, she praised you and the two of you entered the battleground. Tunnel. …only to learn that Gregory wasn’t there.

While you perched your hands on your hips in disapproval, Fiora leaned over the bar, furiously. “Y’think y’can lie to me? Gregory works every. Single. Night. Every night ‘cept for Tuesday and Thursday!” You point a manicured finger at Fiora, chiming in: “she knows her man’s schedule!” “I’m not saying he was never here okay?” The bartender, a brunette woman, stresses. “He just got off work an hour ago because he felt under the weather. That’s it. It’s a stomach bug he had or something.” “Are you covering for him?” Fiora asks exactly what’s on your mind. This whole thing seemed contrived. “No?” “-’cause if you are and you’re one of his little side pieces? I’ll kick your ass up and down this fucking club.” “Hey,” the woman snaps, narrowing her eyes. “I don’t know what’s going on with you and Greg, but don’t bring me into the middle of your quarrel.”

You saw Fiora’s cheeks go scarlet in real time. God forbid Fiora and this bartender share the same pigment as you, they would have been used as a means to show how dangerous and uncouth black women were.

“Bitch-” The moment that word is spat from Fiora’s lips, you gently gesture her away by the waist. “Let’s go, babe, let’s go.”

“I don’t forget a face, bitch!”

Though shaken, the bartender scoffed and averted her eyes, silently grateful you allowed her to spend the rest of her work hour unscarred.

It would have been a waste to leave Tunnel. With the fare it took to get here? Please. You and Fiora made your way through the gyrating bodies and decided to at one of the booths. The sound of Grace Jones' song, “Pull Up To The Bumper” engulfing the building in its pulsating rhythm. “You think he’s fucking her?” Fiora asks, eyes narrowed and cigarette lounging between her fingertips.

You lift an eyebrow, “I mean, if he is? He’s lowered his standards. You’re way prettier than her. So.” You cross your legs, “still think you should hold part of the blame for how things ended?”

“Don’t go there.”  “Hey!” You laugh, “you’re the one who called me and said that, and if I should remind you, it was verbatim!” “I was all wrapped up in my feelings,” Fiora fusses, “I had on Lifetime-” “You had on Lifetime,” you lovingly mock, taking a drag of your own cigarette.  “Hey.” Fiora frowns, “there’s some good movies on there. You need to stop being judgmental and just tune in one day.” 

You had a quip hanging at the tip of your tongue about preferring to stick to the cinema when a man approached. “Hey ladies.”

He was early 20s, just like you and Fiora. Brown-skinned — just a touch fairer than you. He possessed a sturdy jawline softened by the fullness of his lips, and lashes so long they looked almost unreal. His wavy hair was cropped close on the sides.

This man wore a white suit with red accents. Kind of reminding you of that one movie Al Pacino did about the druglord a while back. You didn’t remember the details of the film, but all the same felt mild concern as to whether this guy may have idolized that character.

However, you had to appreciate the cut of the outfit. It was sharp. Wide lapels, a deep V revealing a silk, unbuttoned red shirt underneath. His pants were high-waisted, stopping just at the top of his polished loafers. It was a loud outfit, but he wore it like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Hey yourself!” You nonetheless reply with a pleasant, intrigued tone. This is a man who thinks he’s the life of the party, you think. “You two beautiful women here alone?” When he smiles, you swore he was another character waiting to shake up your night. Now, you can appreciate a good looking man. You really can. But, as pretty as this man was, you knew in your heart that he was the sort you would want to choke after an hour of being alone. You didn’t know what his flaws were, but you knew he had them. So with a tight smile that doesn’t reach your eyes, you roll your gaze over to Fiora. She was idly holding her cigarette, obviously sizing him up, and not in a way that indicated disgust. You had an idea. “SHE’S here alone!” If saying that wasn’t enough, you were pointing to your companion proudly. Had Fiora not been so obviously into this man, this would have been you ruthlessly throwing her under the bus. “Oh yeah? You’re too sexy to be here alone, what happened to you baby?” “My boyfriend ran out on me,” Fiora explains. There was no anger, no heartbreak, it was announced like saying: ‘it’s going to rain tonight.’ “Damn…ran out on you? Wow, that’s crazy.” You purse your lips in thought. This man had no game, he just let droll words fall from his lips while his sad eyes did the talking. Personally, you would have brushed him off, but, this wasn’t your guy so you ease back and watch the flirtation play out. 

“Lemme buy you a drink.”

“Uh.” The gears in Fiora’s head were suddenly turning. You assumed she was thinking about the bartender she nearly went toe to toe with.

Fiora grins, “how about we dance instead?” 

Despite the fact this meant you were now left alone in this club you shout at the guy: “I’m not going anywhere, so don’t get crazy with her!”

From “Don’t You Want Me” to “Midas Touch,” Fiora and her new man danced on the floor. Now, “Young Love” by Janet Jackson blared on the stereo and the two were still glued to the hip. Every now and then you would see if you could spot them, but for the most part you tried to entertain yourself. A short drink, a small dance, but your heart wasn’t into it. Clubs weren’t really your thing.

It was close to 11, you should really go home but you asked yourself, was Fiora really safe? As you weighed the pros and cons of leaving versus staying, your senses were numbed to how a man prowled your way.

“Hello.” When your gaze meets his, he gives a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I couldn’t help but notice you’re here alone.”

He stood tall. Unnervingly still, posture perfect. His suit was immaculate. Bone-colored Armani with sharp lapels, not a wrinkle in sight. He was as attractive as Fiora’s new man, similarly having model-esque features but, Fiora’s man had been handsome in a more ‘natural’ way. This white man had skin that looked like it was peeled from an advertisement. His flesh just wasn’t smooth, it was as if it was polished like a marble tile. Everything about him was professional - and again, you would use that word, polished. Promptly, you feel curious. Like a mischievous little girl you want to see if you can scuff the marble. 

“Have you been watching me?” You give a performative, playful laugh.

He chuckles, his smile growing so much that his eyes have squinted. “Something like that. Let’s go with that.”

He shakes his head in rejection, “no.” For a moment, the two of you just regard one another. You aren’t quite sure what this moment will lead to. His attraction to you is evident, but you find that he doesn’t feel warm or tangible in the slightest. Not like Fiora’s man. Suave, he leans over the bar, “what’s your name?”

“Sheila.” 

“Sheila.” He repeats, charming smile unwavering, “Like the song Oh Sheila?”

“Oh!” Your eyebrows fly up, intrigued. “Okay, you know that song? You have some culture, I see!” 

“Come on,” the man retorts, chuckling. “Who doesn’t have some appreciation for Prince? Prince has redefined what it means to be a musician — he’s, dare I say it, genre-defying.” Your hand swings over your mouth in an effort to stifle your laughter. You didn’t mean to laugh at him, you really didn’t, but he spoke with such certainty. Such love for Prince. And he wasn’t even the one who made the record. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” You say, manicured hand raised in apology. “But, that song is actually not by Prince, it’s by Ready For The World.” “Ah…” his smile drops, eyes darting to the corner for just a moment. He’s not a man who likes to be embarrassed, you can tell. All the same, he smiles again trying to demonstrate that he was unphased by his hiccup. “I was really off the mark then, wasn’t I?”

“Yeahh…” you playfully pout and furrow your brow as you nod, unbeknownst to you, this teasing further rubbing salt into Patrick’s wounds. “They have zero Prince affiliation, but hey, Prince is an awesome artist! I can appreciate a Prince fan!” Leaning a bit closer to him, you cup your jaw. “So, what’s your name? Is it song-based too?” “My name is Patrick.” He answers, “I don’t think you’ll find a song with my name.”

“Hm…” you wrinkle your nose in playful delight, “Yeah. Can’t think of anything.”

Yes, you think. He’s cute…uncanny, but cute. You think you could get somewhere with this man. Patrick. If he wasn’t into you he wouldn’t have approached you. No, you wouldn’t have let him follow you home, but maybe you could dance, have some drinks…

“Hey, hey!” you hear Fiora call out, “emergency!” 

Promptly, you become alert, but you’re sure to bid a smile to Patrick. “Excuse me, I’ll think of a song when I’m back!” 

Patrick squints, “looking forward to what you come up with.”

-

“Don wants me to go back to his place.” Fiora announces, facing the wide restroom mirror as she strives to make her bosom look more ample. “Whaddya think about that?” The ladies restroom was a revered realm for the utmost crucial of topics. You weren’t even grated by the fact you had been separated from Patrick. “Girl,” you lightly scoff, “you know my first question is going to be where does this guy live?” “Washington Heights.” You lift an eyebrow, “that’s a ways away.” “Nah, not really.” Fiora responds. Lust knows no distance, you suppose.

“Well…” you start, “are you still going to try hunting down Gregory this week?”

“Fuck no.” Fiora retorts, now applying a fresh coat of lipstick to her lips. “Italian boys aren’t shit.”  

You have to bow your head, softly laughing. “If your heart is set on this guy right now, go for it.” “What about you?” Fiora comes to face you, hand on the sink’s counter as she casually leans back. “You okay here or are you going home?” “Me?” You tilt your head, thinking of the yuppie who was ideally sitting atop his hands, anticipating your return. “I’m going to stay a little while longer.”  “Right, ‘cuzza the guy you were talking to.” “The guy,” you repeat with a scoff, “I don’t know him…but! The end goal of the night is to get to know him.”  “He looks like he works on Wall Street, of course you’d go for him. Zero surprise here.” Fiora laughs as the both of you step for the exit. “You say that like he’s a cultist.” “I want a guy who can fuck me until the sun comes up, you want a guy who’ll talk about stocks by a fireplace in Aspen. No judgement, we’re just ladies with different tastes.” “That we are.” “Alright, I’m gonna find Don, you have fun with Mr. Armani!” “Oh, I will. Use a condom, Fiora!” Fiora furrows her brow before laughing, “uh - you too!”

-

The club is even more crowded, a mist of sweat and perfume hanging in the air. Your eyes scan the dance floor, the dimly lit bar and there he is. Patrick hadn’t moved far from where you left him, you waste no time stepping to him. Only to stop at the sight of a head full of blonde hair. Her jaw clinches, how many minutes passed since you spoke to Fiora in the ladies room? Three? Five? That’s all it took for him to move on, leaning casually against the bar - the same way he did with you.

“Of course, I don’t usually drink those anymore,” he says, “too much Campari. Bad for the skin.” He leans closer to the woman, head tilting. “But you? You have great skin. Flawless, really. What do you use? Retinol? Or just good genes?” Jealousy swells in your chest. It doesn’t matter you didn’t know this man, it doesn’t matter that he never belonged to you, it matters that you were so replaceable, interchangeable, secondary. Walking into the night, you felt ashamed you even acknowledged his existence to Fiora. Now you have to make up some kind of story about how the night ended on fine terms. “Taxi!”

He’s just a man, you think to yourself in the back of the dark cab. Just a man. In a matter of seconds, your attempted calm would faint into anger.  

He's a man no different than those Harvard ex’s who wasted your time. Counting each streetlight that went by, you remind yourself that New York City was a big place. Always something to do, always someone fascinating to meet and always a story to be found…

Welcome to the collection. Our hostess will guide you to your appropriate auditorium and seating. Be sure to stay seated for some of our after-credit scenes!

Now let's meet our Leading Men....

Michael B. Jordan

His filmography is here:

Now starring...Klaus Mikaelson

His works:

Good Puppy (starring...Bennett!reader)

Summary: You’re Bonnie’s cousin who has recently moved to Mystic Falls to support her through navigating her powers. While in Mystic Falls, a chance encounter with Niklaus Mikaelson leaves him cursed to be in his wolf form until you say differently. Through his frustration and ire, Klaus becomes determined to get you to change him back, all while being your good puppy. (Your ticket for seat L5)

Your Puppy (Sequel to “Good Puppy”)

Summary: In which, your puppy becomes even more attached and possessive of you. He also longs to have you pamper him again, but his pride won’t let him ask. Plus, more plots threaten to tear you and Klaus apart. (Your ticket for seat L6)

Jack Schossberg (discontinued..)

His Works:

An American Prince (alt. Their White Prince)

Summary: Jack Schlossberg. Heir to the Kennedy dynasty and your new boyfriend. However, many fans aren’t so happy to see America’s beloved prince is dating you—a confident black woman. (Auditorium C)

Now playing....Shawn Hatosy

His filmography is here...

Coming to a theater near you....

Dev Patel

Aldis Hodge

Pedro Pascal

Rustin "Rust" Cohle

Tyriq Withers

Jensen Ackles

Bill Skarsgard

Callum Turner

Toto Wolff

Drew Starkey

Elijah Mikaelson

John closes the door to the 69’ Mustang with a hard-pained grunt. He’s holding his side as the blood seeps steadily outside of the wound. He limps toward the entrance of the house, but his vision blurs with each step that he takes. 

His entire body aches with indescribable pain, but he knows he can’t stop. He has to get to you.

He falls over on the ground and wheezes as his vision blurs. Distinct barking sounds in his ears, and he can hear a growl approaching. 

A soft whistle sounds out, and the growling stops. John tries to look up at the approaching footsteps, but he’s fading faster and faster. 

Clicks from your shoes fill his ears, and he can feel the warmth of your body as you kneel beside him. His eyes gaze at your face, but your face looks blurry in his sight. John feels a sense of grief at the notion of not being able to see you. 

He feels your soft hands caressing his face.

“Oh, John….what have you gotten into?”

John faints before he can answer.

When John comes to, he feels a pinching at his side. He winces and moves to sit up, but your hand pushes gently at his chest. 

“Stay still, John. You’re gonna rip your stitches before I’m done with them.” 

His eyes finally adjust to the bright light seeping in the room, and his gaze drifts to you. You feel his eyes scanning your face carefully–in that quiet, intense, creepy way that you’d grown accustomed to. 

John notes all of the changes in your face. How your features are more defined, and you’ve lost the baby fat that used to be present in your face. You’d always been a beautiful girl. Many of the men in the Italian town where you lived were practically falling over their feet to have you cast a glance their way. 

But looking at you now, John can’t help but think how ethereal you look. There’s a new layer of maturity present in your appearance and demeanor.

It suits you. 

You pierce the needle through his skin, and he winces. Your eyes flicker to his, “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” He replies, voice raspy and dry from a lack of hydration. 

You pause and grab a nearby cup of water from the table. You point the straw in John’s direction. He wraps his lips around the straw, and partially his lips touch the tips of your fingers. You move your fingers back an inch, but you keep the straw in place as he gulps down the water.

He nods his head to signal that he’s done. You set the water on the table before returning to the task at hand. You finish the last stitch before cleaning around the wound. Your fingertips gently run over the now closed wound, “You were supposed to be done with all of this.”

John sighs, “I was.”

“Being excommunicated doesn’t sound like done to me, John.” You give him a pointed look before standing from the bed. You collect all of the bloodied gauze and towels before placing them in a steel pan. 

You strike a match and throw it into the pan. John knew that it was a customary practice that you and your father believed in. Burning blood to keep away any bad karma. 

John doesn’t say anything because, unfortunately for him, he’s always been covered in bad karma, and it only seems to get worse. 

Now that you’re standing, it gives John more time to admire your figure. You had filled out since the last time that he had seen you. Although he had last seen you after you had given him your virginity. 

John often thinks back to that night. Even when he was married to Helen, his mind would be consumed with endless thoughts of you and that night. John had met you through your father. Your father, Augustine, was a world-renowned tailor and suit maker in the fashion world. What people didn’t know was that there was another side to your father’s business. He was also a much-coveted member of the High Table, who happened to specialize in making suits and armor for agents. 

Every assassin in the world wanted to have a piece made by your father, but your father was very picky with his clientele. It wasn’t about the money–he had enough of that to go on for generations. What your father valued in his clients most of all was loyalty. He had found that trait in John Wick, and John had been a customer of his for years. 

Growing up, your father tried his best to shield you from the dark underbelly that he was involved in, but naturally, all secrets must come to light. You were twenty-five when John first met you. You were home from college, and he was there in need of a well-tailored suit. 

You had practically floated past John in a yellow silk cover-up that looked like it cost way too much money for the average person, but as the only child, it was only right that Daddy’s Princess got all the best. Your father clocked the way that John’s eyes connected with yours and how the man seemed to be entranced with the mere sight of you.

“Careful, Jardani..” Your father warned, deep voice cutting through the tension.

“I apologize,” John replied. 

He and your father made their way into your father’s workshop to talk about the specifications that John needed for his suit. You walked into the room and took the seat next to John. His body stiffened as he felt your knee touch his, but he still played the part of nonchalance. Your father looked up at you from the top of his glasses, “Come here, cara, tell me how you’d design this suit for Mr. Wick.”

You stood from your chair and walked over to the sketch pad. You picked up one of the pencils and held it between your fingers. Your dark eyes filtered over John’s form, “Three buttons, no more. He had a slim build, but for what he wants, I say that we leave some inches in the waist out for discretion.” John didn’t miss the way that you said the last word, which meant that you knew exactly who he was. 

You looked down at the paper and began sketching out the design. You effortlessly switched the pencil to the other hand and continued drawing.

‘She’s ambidextrous,’ John thinks to himself.

Once you’re finished with the rough sketch, you slide the paper over in John’s direction. He looks down at the paper and back up at you. It was exactly what he needed. “It’s good. I’ll take it,” John said. 

Your father smiled at you in admiration, “My girl’s a professional. She’ll be taking over the business once I’m long gone.” 

You rolled your eyes, “Who else would you expect to take over, old man? I’m the heir to the throne.” You and your father exchange teasing smiles before chuckling together. It’s quite the sight for John to be able to witness. He’d never actually had an opportunity to have a relationship with his father. The Ruska Roma had been the only family he’d known for the majority of his life. John would often wonder what life would look like if he had a normal childhood. 

No assassins. No High Tables. No Baba Yaga. 

“I’ll let my daughter be the one to tailor the suit for you, Mr. Wick. I hope you don’t mind.”

John’s eyes flickered over to you, and you gave him a small smile. He shook his head, “I don’t mind at all. I’m sure she’ll do amazing work.”

You smirked, “Trust me, Mr. Wick. When I’m done with your suit, you’ll only want to come to me.”

That was five years ago. Five years ago, when he was still the Baba Yaga, and five years ago when he was buried so deep inside you that he could still feel you today. 

“I heard you killed Santino D’Antonio,” You said, sitting in the chair across from John.

He nods, “I had to. He left me with no choice.”

You chuckle, “It’s always been all or nothing with you, John. Your excommunication hit my desk as soon as you shot him.” 

John groans and shifts in the bed, “I’m sorry for coming here. I had nowhere else to go, and I knew that I would be able to trust you.”

The statement itself is true. John does trust you. He knows that you wouldn’t disclose his location for any amount of money. Hell, you had enough money yourself to triple the contract that was currently on the man. The thing is, John knows that no one would suspect that he’d come here to see you. They had no reason to believe that he had any dealings with you, and they would assume that you’d follow Continental Rules by not helping him.

John also knows that no one would be foolish enough to come here in search of him. In the world of the High Table, you and your father’s business were considered Holy Ground. If there was any harm that came to you, then there’d be about three continents that rally together to hurt the idiot that dared to person. 

“Don’t apologize to me, John. You know you’re always welcome here. Excommunication damned. Stay here for as long as you need.” You said. 

Your phone rings on the table, and you move to grab it. You turn the phone in John’s direction–Winston. You rise from the chair, “I’ll be back to check in on you later. Be careful not to rip any of those stitches. 

John watches you the entire time that you walk out of the room. 

“Hello, Winston. Always a pleasure to hear from you..”

Winston chuckles lightly, “As much a pleasure as it is to hear from you, darling. I suppose you know why I’m calling.”

“Yes, you’re calling about John, and I have to admit that I haven’t the slightest clue where he may be. But I do know that there’s a very hefty price on his head,” You said, briefly glancing back at the room where John was lying. 

 “Such a shame that you aren’t able to provide any insight on his location. I do believe that you understand that there would be repercussions from the other members of the High Table if you were neglecting to tell where our dear John is.”

You take a sip from your drink, “I understand those wells all too well, Winston. I do have to remind you that I hold one of those seats as well. Any member knows that my business is considered sacred ground. We both know that I’d have millions of people ready to wage any war should any harm come.” 

Winston sighs, “Of course. I do apologize. Thank you for your assistance.” 

“You’re welcome. And Winston?” 

“Yes?”

“Be sure to keep my name out of any conversations that you have.” 

“Of course.” 

You press the end button and lean back in your chair. This situation with John could get very messy, but you weren’t about to sell the man out. You didn’t care about the rules that he’d broken in the Continental Hotel. You only cared that he would be safe with you.

Besides, you’d do anything for the man that you love.

John wakes up the next day to the sun shining inside the room. 

He looks down at the wound, which looks clean. He assumes that you came in the middle of the night to clean and change the bandages. Carefully, he navigates himself from the bed and walks downstairs in search of you. He finds you sitting outside at the outdoor dining table. You’re surrounded by a myriad of different foods. John can’t help but gaze at the silk dress that you’re wearing and how it contours to your body. 

You look up at the sound of his light footsteps. After many years of being an assassin, John has learned to walk silently. Even when he wasn’t on a mission, the behavior still carried on. From your years of knowing John, you had developed almost a sixth sense at being able to know when the man was in the room. It was eerie seeing how in sync you and Jack were. 

“Take a seat. You should eat. You lost a lot of blood. You’re going to need to recover for all of the people who are after you,” You said, sliding a plate to John.  

He fills the plate with bacon, eggs, and a few pieces of fruit. You both eat in silence until he finds you staring at him. 

“Winston asked if you were here with me,” You announced. 

“And what did you say?” 

“I told him that you weren’t. In fact, I told him that I had no clue where you were. He thought it would be smart to remind me of breaking the Continental rules if it was discovered that I was helping you,” You explained, sipping on your latte. 

John winces, “I can leave if you want me to. The last thing I want is for you to be hurt in any of this.” He rises from the chair.

You roll your eyes, “Sit down, John. I’m not in the mood for your dramatics. This is sacred ground, so no one’s stupid enough to cross me. You can stay here as long as you need to recover.” 

Internally, John is glad to hear you say the words. Selfishly, he wants to stay here with you. He wants to be able to look at you a little while longer before he inevitably has to go back out and face the world. You pour a cup of coffee and add two cubes of sugar. You still remembered the way that he liked his coffee. 

He thinks about all of the other things that you must remember about him, or even what he remembers about you.

“Okay, and turn for me..Perfect,” You said, adjusting the tape measure about John’s waist. 

He tries to ignore how close your body is to his, and how he can feel the heat radiating from you. He also tries to ignore the way that his eyes trace over your plump lips and the urge that he feels to kiss you. 

“If you stare any harder, you might melt a hole into my head.” 

John has at least enough decency to blush at your observation. “I apologize, that was rude of me.”

You shake your head, “Don’t apologize for staring. Just means that you like what you see.” You give him a smug smile at the end of your statement. You continue moving around John’s body, mapping out the exact measurements for the jacket. Suddenly, you kneel in front of him and begin taking measurements around his legs.

Your eyes flash up to his, and he fights off the images that appear in his mind of you in a rather different position. “So why do you do this?”

He’s silent for a while, but when you look up, he’s still looking at you with that same intense stare. 

“I guess it’s all I’ve ever known.”

You nod, “That’s a very sad life to live, John.” 

He knows. In fact, it creeps into his mind late at night that he lives a rather dull life besides killing people for a living. Sure, there’s perks of being able to travel to other countries, but most of that time is spent gathering intel on the target. Now, with the infamous “Baba Yaga” nickname branding his skin, it made it hard to navigate through certain spaces. Sometimes, John wishes that he lived a mundane life. Maybe with a wife, a house, and a white-picket fence. A real American dream. 

But that’s just not the case for him. 

You finish gathering the measurements and walk back to the table. You spare a glance in John’s direction, “I’m done. I’m sure you have better things to attend to.”

He does, but there’s a huge part of him that doesn’t want to leave your side. He wants to stay and orbit you. He wants to learn about all of the things that make you tick and come undone. He shrugs, “I don’t have anywhere too important to be. Maybe..if you aren’t busy, you could show me around town.”

Truthfully, he’s been around town. He probably knows the town better than you do, but you smile regardless. 

“Sure, I’ll show you around, John.”

As you and John sit across from each other, he can’t take his eyes away from you. But you’d always had that effect on him. It didn’t matter how much time had passed. You’d always have a hold over John. 

“What’s your grand plan, John?” You question, peering at the older man. 

He leans back in the chair, “I’m going to go to the Elder. He’s the only one who can rescind my status.” 

You nod, “And if he doesn’t?” “Then he’ll die just like the rest of them,” John states definitively. 

A second passes between the two of you before you burst into laughter. John watches as you cackle and start clutching your sides. He finds himself cracking a smile at your obvious amusement with his statement. “I’m glad you still find me amusing.”

You wipe your eyes, “I’m only laughing because I know you’re 100% serious.” You sober up from laughing and lean forward on the table, “Alright, I’ll play along with your plan, but you have to stay here until your wounds heal. I’m not letting you leave here and get taken out because of some stitches.”

“I’ve fought before with my stitches popped.”

You click your tongue, “It’s not up for discussion, John.”

You hold his gaze as a pseudo-staring contest begins between the two of you. You quirk your eyebrow and tilt your head. John relents and nods his head. He’d never been good at telling you no. You both continue eating in silence, and you beckon John to follow you so that you can check his wounds. 

He sits back in the chair as your fingers trace across the wound. You take the antiseptic and pour a small amount on a towel. Gently, you run the towel across the wound, and John flinches. You both know that it isn’t from the wound feeling sore. You’d given him drugs strong enough to tranquilize a horse.

It was you. You touching him.

“I’m sorry about Helen,” You said. 

It was the first time that you and John had openly spoken about the woman. You knew all about Helen Wick. You’d met her once before on the day before her wedding to John, when you personally delivered his suit. She was nice. Normal. You could see why John liked her and what made him fall for her. It still didn’t make it sting less to watch him leave with her. 

What you didn’t know was that Helen Wick was more than aware of you, especially when it came to your relationship with John. She’d seen the longing and sorrowful looks that you and John had both thrown at each other that day. She knew that John loved her, but she wasn’t a fool to understand that he also loved you. She’d seen the necklace from you that John had refused to take off his neck. There were even nights when she’d lie next to John, and he’d utter your name in his sleep. Helen Wick had never mentioned any of this to John. She figured that she’d let him grieve you in peace.

When news of Helen’s passing had made its way to you, you sent a bouquet. You didn’t even leave a message. Just a simple card with your initials. John still kept it in his office next to Helen’s obituary. 

“For what it’s worth. I’m sorry for hurting you,” He said. 

You shook your head, “Doesn’t matter now, John. We can’t rewind time.”

He grabs your hand, “It matters to me.” He pauses and waits for you to look at him, “You matter to me.”

Subtle clicks from your heels sound out from the hallway until you walk into the living room, where your father and John are sitting. The dress that you’re wearing is downright sinful, and John’s ready to ask for penance. Your father squints at you, “And where are you going this late?”

“Papa, you are aware that I’m grown, right?”

Your father scoffs, “You are aware that you’re still my daughter, right? So I ask again, where are you going?”

“Clubbing with the girls. At The Lounge. Nothing too serious,” You said, sitting on the arm of the couch close to John. 

Your father sighs. With his line of work, he always worries that someone will test the odds and try to hurt you to get to him. He looks in John’s direction, “John, would you be so kind as to escort my daughter tonight? I would be indebted to you.” 

Your father opens the box next to him and pulls out one of the marker coins. He holds it out in John’s direction. John shakes his head, “You don’t owe me, I’d do it without the marker. You’ve been good to me all these years. It’s only right that I repay the favor.”

Your father nods, but chucks the marker in John’s direction nonetheless. John catches it and your father winks at him, “I’m asking you to protect the most important person in the world to me. You deserve the marker.”

For the last ten years, it had just been you and your father. Ten years ago, your mother had been as healthy as could be, but then she started to get sicker. No longer was she up early with your father and drinking coffee. Stage IV cervical cancer. It’d been building for longer than any of you knew. 

One minute your mother was there and the next, you and your father were burying a cherry wood coffin six feet beneath the Earth. Ever since then, your father’s overprotection had grown significantly. 

Your father stands from the chair and crosses the room to press a kiss to the crown of your head, “Have a lovely evening, my love. Go easy on John.”

He looks in John’s direction and chuckles before exiting the room.

You stand from the couch and your heels click against the tiled floor as you walk closer to the door. You glance back at John, “You coming?”

He moves to follow behind you. You toss his car keys in his direction. A mischievous smile crosses your face, “I’m glad you agreed. I wanting to play passenger princess anyways.”

John follows behind you like an obedient puppy, and he’s pretty sure that you want it that way. However, he does pass you to open the car door like a true gentleman.

You smile softly at him as you sit down. Inside the car, John is careful enough with his driving with you in the car. You turn your head to you, “John, I know for a fact that you drive this car way faster. A speed bump won’t kill me.” 

He chuckles lowly before speeding up. He can see the way that your eyes widen in excitement as the purr of the car increases. He effortlessly navigates through the cars on the highway. You shift which causes your dress to lift higher, and John’s eyes trail down to your exposed thighs.

There’s a dark urge to place his hand between your thighs, but he suppresses the urge. He’s supposed to be protecting you, not fucking you. 

John pulls up to the club and parks his car. He opens the door for you, and you both make your way to the entrance of the club. 

John notes that people seem to perk up at your appearance, and you give the bouncer an effortless smile. “Hi Benji, how’s it looking in there?”

“For you, amore, it’s looking good. You and your girls are gonna have a good time,” Benji explains. He steels his expression as he clocks John standing close to you. You sense the tension between the two men, but you place a hand on John’s chest, “He’s with me, honey. My little watchdog tonight.”

The tension leaves Benji’s body, and he moves to the side so that you and John can enter. Inside, John is immediately greeted with a dark room with fluorescent lights and thumping bass. Grinding bodies make up the room as the occupants lose themselves in the moment. 

John keeps a close eye on you as you weave through the crowd. You stop and look in one direction before intertwining your fingers with John’s. You drag him behind him with the section. In the section, there are about four women who greet you excitedly. You squeal and hug each woman before turning back to John.

“Girls, this is John.” You take your time to introduce your friends to John. He stores the names in his memory, but he’s really only here for you. 

A waitress appears with a plate full of shots for you and your friends. You all yell excitedly while downing the shots. John sits on the couch and continues to monitor the section. He tries to make himself as scarce as possible so that you can still enjoy yourself. 

“Let’s go dance,” One of your friends suggests. 

You nod in agreement and look back at John, “I’ll be back, okay?”

He nods. 

You and your friends make your way out of the section and onto the dance floor. John keeps his eyes strictly on you. He becomes hypnotized by the way your body rolls as you dance with your friends. John’s never seen someone so sexy and free. 

Suddenly, a man comes up behind you to try to dance with you. You roll your eyes, and John can see you declining the dance with the man. The man doesn’t seem to take the message lightly and grabs your arm. Without thinking, John makes his way towards you. 

He grabs the man roughly and twists his arm behind his back. The man yelps in pain. For a moment, the music stops, and all eyes are on John. John twists the man’s hand further as he whimpers in pain. “She said no. Do you think that you have more authority than her, saying no?”

The man whimpers, “No! No, I’m sorry, man. No means no.”

John’s eyes grow darker as he grips the man tighter. He brings the man up to stare into his face, “Do you know who I am?’

The man’s eye scans over John’s face, and you can see the way that it pales in realization. “The Baba Yaga,” He whispers. 

“Good. If I see you bothering her or any other woman, I won’t hesitate to come for you,” John mutters lowly. The man nods quickly. “Just to make sure that I got my point across, you owe me.” A sickening crack echoes through the club as the man screams in pain. His arm is now bent at an awkward angle. John roughly throws him to the floor before moving to stand beside you. 

He finds you staring at him with a smirk. “I have to say, John. That was very sexy.”

The music starts back up once one of the bouncers comes to remove the man. The bodies began undulating around you and John again. You look up at him, the flashing light illuminating his dark figure. “Dance with me,” You demand softly. 

John goes to protest, but you shut it down with a stern look. He stands stiffly in the middle of the floor, and you turn to press your body to his. From this angle, he can smell the perfume even better. The music changes to something slower and more seductive. You move your body along his, and for a moment, John allows himself to give in. You guide his hands around you, and he presses them against your body. John moves his head down to place it in the crook of your neck.

You moan softly as his breath dances across your skin. You look up and get lost in the dark pools of his eyes. John doesn’t know what spell you cast over him, but he allows you to bring his head closer and connect his lips to yours.

Your tongue slithers across the seam of his lips before he allows it to enter his mouth. He groans into your mouth as he starts to dominate the kiss. His hand wraps around your throat and squeezes lightly. 

You and John are within each other. Nothing else matters besides your mouth and his. You pull back and look at him, “I’m ready to go.” 

He nods and pulls you to the exit. You send a quick wave to your friends, who laugh and make obscene gestures to you and John. Outside the air has chilled and you lean closer into John’s side. 

You both slide inside of the Mustang, but you surprise John by sliding across the seat to place yourself in his lap. You immediately attach your lips to his and rolls your hips over his. John hands grip your ass and he drags your core across his pants. You can feel him starting to harden inside of his jeans. 

John detaches from your lips and moves his lips to your neck. He sucks at your neck while you moan softly. The windows inside the car are tinted enough so that no one can see. 

You pull back to look at him and nervously bite at your lip. “I haven’t done this before. Not with anyone.”

It takes John a moment to process it, but it does hit him. He nods quietly, “Then we won’t do it here. You deserve better than that.” 

He gently places you back in the seat before placing another kiss to your lips. Your wide eyes meet his, “I still want you to touch me, John.” 

It almost sounds like a whine. You lean back against the window and part your thighs. John finally catches a view of your panties, which are dampened by arousal. 

You grab one of his hands and bring it towards your center. You run the tips of his finger across the crotch of your panties. John’s mouth waters at the thought of tasting you. 

He moves his fingers and presses them into your covered clit. You move to slide your panties down your thighs. John groans at the sight of your glistening folds. He drags his fingers down to gather your arousal and moves it up to your clit. John rubs small circles around your pearl. You’re moaning into the air at the sparks of pleasure radiating through your body. 

More of your arousal is leaking from you. John slides a finger inside you. He moves it in and out. When he’s sure that you can take another, he slides a second finger inside of your warm walls. 

You clench around the thick digits. 

“John…” You whine. 

He continues to move his fingers inside you. He curls them upwards to hit the spongey spot inside you. Your head is thrown back as you lose yourself in the pleasure. 

In that moment, John knows that he would do whatever he could to make you happy. 

The routine between you and John has ventured into domesticity. It’s weeks now and you both know that the world is growing uneasy at not knowing his location.

Your contacts have mentioned that every assassin and agency under the High Table is scouring even the smallest pebble in search of John. Some people even wonder if he’s managed to find a way into space with how he’s managed to evade them. 

John’s wound is healing. It’s only a matter of time before he has to leave. 

At the moment, you and John are sitting outside. He watches you swim laps around the pool. You exit the pool and John watches the water glisten from your body. He’d never been more jealous of a droplet of water. 

Hearing footsteps, John quickly turns his to face the unknown man. He hops from the chair and prepares himself to attack. 

“It’s okay, John. He’s a friend.” You announce, continuing to wipe the water from your body. 

You turn to the man, “What’s the latest, Luca?”

“From our reports, the underworld is growing restless with the disappearance of Mr. Wick. They’re wondering who may be hiding him, but as far I’ve heard, no one suspects that it’s you,” Luca explains. 

“Good. Let’s keep it that way. Any other updates?”

Luca nods, “Yes, Mr. Ivy still has a late account with us. He’s currently in hiding, but our guys have eyes on him in Rome. What would you like for us to do with his account ma’am?”

“Terminate it. We’ve given him plenty of time and I don’t like repeating myself.”

Luca nods. 

He eyes John and then you. John clocks it. 

“That’ll be all, Luca. Thank you.” You move to press a kiss upon the man’s cheek. He leans into it. John also clocks this. Luca turns and leaves. 

You flop into the chair beside John. A pair of sunglasses adorn your face as you lie back on the chair. “I can feel you staring at me you, John. Ask your question.”

“Is he your boyfriend?” John tries to keep his voice even, but he can’t keep the jealousy from coloring his voice. 

You peer John over your shades and start laughing, “Awww are you jealous? Don’t act like you’ve been a saint, John. You got married and I imagine that Helen wasn’t a woman who wanted to remain celibate. You aren’t the only man who want to lick my pussy.”

John throws a stern look your way. He leans up in the chair and turns to you. You shoot him a challenging look. It’s clear that you’re dying for him to make a move. 

“You’re gonna put me over your knee?”

You sit up and move to the edge of the chair, so that your knees are touching John’s. He remembers how much of brat that you could be. He also remembers how much he loved reminding you what happened to brats when they got out of place. 

One minute, you’re sitting and the next you’re lying across John’s knees. A sharp sting radiates across one of your cheeks. You turn to face John, who brings his hand down on you again, “Eyes forward. Count for me.”

“Do the first two count?” 

John smirks, “No. Count.”

He brings his heavy down again and a loud smack sounds out. You moan at the feeling, but count nonetheless. Ten spanks later and you’re practically leaking through your bikini. 

John pulls up to straddle his thighs. He runs his hands across your cheeks, which are still heated from his spanks. He pulls you closer so you can feel the bulge in his pants. 

Those same dark eyes that you fell for gaze upon you, “You let some little boy have you, my dusha moya?” (my soul)

John reaches up to cup your face in his hand, “You think I forgot about you? You’ve been on my mind for the past five years. I love you.”

You let the words sink in. It isn’t the first time that John’s said it to you. In fact, you’ve heard the words whispered to you so much by the man so much that you have inflections ingrained inside your head.

However the last time that John had said that he loved you was when he told you that he was leaving the business and that he had met Helen. 

The moment becomes tense between you and John. You stand from his lap and move to put distance between yourselves. John stands and tries to move closer. You hold a hand up to stop him. 

Instead of saying anything, you leave him standing outside alone. 

After the night of John taking your virginity, you both had become inseparable. There wasn’t a time when John wasn’t close to you or nearby in some capacity. 

In fact, he had purposefully been taking contracts if it meant that he could be closer to you. Your father wasn’t the least bit surprised of your relationship with John. He knew that when you wanted something (or someone), it always ended up in your favor to have it. 

With John, it was all passion. 

It seemed like you both were insatiable for each other. There wasn’t a moment that he wanted to spend apart from you. There wasn’t a moment that he ever got tired of being with you. 

But…there was still something. 

John was getting older and as a result of all of the men that he killed, he grew weary. He wanted normal. John had been killing people since he was a teenager. He wasn’t getting any younger, and he refused to be one of those men who clung to stay in the game.

He had long acquired enough wealth to be able to retire. For John Wick, it was time. No more Baba Yaga. 

He would announce the retirement soon enough, but he needed to tell you first. 

He had a house in the same town as you. A place where he could always remain close to you, along with giving you both the privacy that you both craved. 

You had came over earlier in the day, and it was spent with you and John walking around the city, enjoying each other’s presence. When you both got back to the house, you and John took the opportunity to have sex all over the house. 

You had moved into the bedroom, your body withering in pleasure as John’s lips attached to your pearl. You grabbed at his dark locks as you pushed your hips further down into his mouth. 

“John…” you moaned out into the open. In response, he reaches an arm up to begin kneading at your breast and nipples. 

His dark eyes watch as you get lost in your pleasure. It’d been an otherworldly experience for John to watch you discover your own pleasure and what you liked. 

He moves his tongue down to slurp your juices into his mouth. He moans at the taste of you. He attaches himself back to your clit and applies just the right amount of pressure that he knows will make you cum. 

John watches your body arch from the bed as your release washes over you. He doesn’t think he’ll ever tire of seeing you let go. He places a lingering kiss to your overstimulated clit. 

John maneuvers your body so that you’re lying on your stomach with your hips hiked into the air. You arch in the way that you know that John likes. Almost immediately, he slides inside you. A low moan leaves your body. 

There was almost always a 100% guarantee that you still made that same sound whenever John entered you. 

John pulls back slightly before thrusting inside you. He grabs your hips in his hands and starts the pace. He doesn’t rush it–he wants to savor this.

“Harder,” you plead, 

John gives in. He leans his tall, muscular body over yours as he grabs your hair in his hand to deepen the thrusts. Your walls clench around him as he can feel you growing wetter. He looks down to watch the way that your ass bounces and jiggles against his harsh thrusts. He admires the ring of cream already forming around the base of his cock. 

You’re moaning unabashedly into the air. John always loved how you weren’t afraid to tell him how good he was making you feel. He loved the way you got lost in the pleasure. You weren’t performing–you were experiencing. 

He leans over to place a wet kiss on your mouth as you whine into his mouth. You’re close. John can tell from by the way that your walls are clenching around him and the way that the tears are gathering in your eyes. 

He figured out rather quickly that you were a crier during sex, which turned him on more when he’d see the big tears welling in your eyes and trailing down your cheeks or temples because he was making you feel so good. 

He leans closer to your ear, “I can feel you. Let go for me.” He wraps a hand around your throat as he pushes your front onto the mattress and increases the pace of his thrusts.

Your moans get louder until you let out a needy, “I’m coming” and release. Your body shakes in his hold, while he continues chasing his own release. John leans across you to put his mouth by your ear. He groans into your ear and shoves himself deeper until his white release starts to fill you out.

He’d always been a quiet lover in bed, but he knows that you like the sounds of him groaning and moaning, so he obliges.

He moves to slip out of you and watches intensely as his cum flows out of you. He had been going raw inside you since the first time. You both didn’t need to worry about any surprise pregnancies because John had gotten a vasectomy a long time ago. 

Another requirement thanks to the Roma Ruska. John gently lays your body down on the mattress and massages your legs. He doesn’t move to wipe his cum from you because he knows that you like the feeling of it inside you. There’s a perverse part of him that enjoys knowing that you like having him apart of you that way. 

He only cradles your body closer to his. 

After a few moments, you rise from the bed to go to the bathroom. You throw on John’s discarded shirt, along with a pair of underwear. John slides on his boxers. 

He goes to begin preparing dinner for you both. While he’s cooking, you watch him. He’s quiet. He’s always been a quiet man, but he’s never been this quiet.

He sets the plate down in front of you as you both sit across from each other. When you finish dinner, you and John wash the dishes side by side. You had developed a sort of domesticity here in this home. 

You dry your hands on the towel and turn to him, “There’s something wrong.”

He keeps looking down, but you turn his face to yours, “Talk to me, John.”

Your warm eyes search his. He sighs, “I’m leaving.” 

Your frown and think it over for a few seconds before your eyes widen a fraction. “Why now?” 

“I think it’s time.”

You nod, “Okay. How do you think it’ll go over with the high table?”

“Doesn’t matter. I have no outstanding contracts. No reason for them to keep me around,” John explains. 

“You’re one of their best, John. Of course, they’ll want to keep you around.”

“I know. I just want this to be over. I’m only getting older, and I want to be able to have a normal life.” You get it. A man that’s been in the game as long as John has is bound to grow tired of this eventually. Killing people never got easier—only more bearable. 

He looks down and the guilt is clawing at his chest for the next words that he’s about to say. 

“I met someone.”

Oh.

You stare off into the distance, “What’s her name?”

“Helen.”

“Is she nice?” 

“Yes.”

“Good for you, John.” You move to leave the sink and John goes to grab you. He can see you purposefully ignoring his stare. He turns your face to his, “I’m not leaving for you, and I’m not leaving you for her. I’m leaving because I want to be normal.”

It’s a bitter sting because you know what he means. You’re still connected to the life that he wants to get away from. Eventually, you’ll take over for your father and John will still be attached to the world. It isn’t freedom. 

But that doesn’t mean that it hurts any less. The man that you love moving on with someone else. Loving someone else. 

Your lip trembles at the thought. John wipes the tears as they trail down your face and connects his forehead to yours, “I’m sorry. But I need you to know that no one will ever have me the way that you do, dusha moya. You’re my beginning and end. I love you.”

“I love you too, John.”

That night, he takes his time with making love to you with the moonlight coloring your bodies. He whispers into your ear in native Russian tongue. He pours every ounce of himself into you. Every part that he’ll never give to Helen. She gets his heart, but you get his soul. 

A month later, he’s gone. He leaves a ring on your finger.

John Wick is a selfish man when it comes to you. Even after he leaves, he never fully leaves you. He still keeps tabs on you and your wellbeing. There are late nights when he finds himself reviewing the pictures that his source has stealthily taken of you.

You look good. You always do. 

He catalogues all of the pictures of you and stores the book on his shelf. He doesn’t even try to hide your presence in his life from Helen. She’d ran across the book of you and quietly admired the pictures before placing the book back in its respective spot. 

She didn’t mention to John that she’d seen it. 

Your father dies two years later. Cancer. You take over the business without problem. You have all of your father’s men and mentors at your disposal. They’re on board to help you in your transition of power. John attends the funeral. He stands at the back of the church in a suit that’s been tailored by you. 

Despite his instincts telling him not to, he visits you. Your grief had made you a lot more mature. He watches the way that your father’s men flock to do your every whim. It doesn’t even faze you. 

You ask John about his married life and he sparsely provides you with details. It only takes one look and he’s fucking you across the counter with your legs thrown over his shoulders. He stays the weekend and you make love the entire time.

Then he returns home to Helen, who pretends that she doesn’t see the love bites littering John’s neck. She figures that you and John needed the moment. She doesn’t mind. 

When Helen Wick gets sick, she calls you. You’d never told John about the call because Helen had asked you not to. You weren’t cruel enough to disobey a dying woman’s wishes. 

She only asks you for one thing: Love John.

She knows that John will try to do the noble thing and not run to you in his mourning, but she knows that John will need you. Before she dies, she finds comfort in knowing that John won’t be alone. 

In the present after you’d left John standing there, he stands there dumbfounded. He enters the house and listens for you. He hears the sound of the shower running upstairs. 

His body yearns for him to go, but he figures that it’s best to give you some space. He goes to sit in the living room. 

You exit the shower and throw on an oversized t-shirt and pajama pants. You walk through the bedroom, but freeze as you hear footsteps creeping through the house. 

They aren’t John’s. 

They’re too heavy. Someone’s here. The man rounds the corner with the gun pointed at you. Your eyes scan down his face. Red hair. Green eyes. 

“Stay right there. Let’s not get hasty, little lady,” He announces with an Irish accent. 

You tilt your head, “I do hope that you’re aware of all the rules you’re breaking.”

The man frowns, “Me? You’re the one housing a man who’s excommunicated!”

You shrug, “If you know what’s best for you, then you’d leave. After all, these are sacred grounds.” 

“Shut up! You’re breaking the rules. I’m sure the High Table will have a field day with knowing that you’ve been shacking up to John Wick.” The man sneers. 

He points the gun at you and tilts it, “Out of the room now. We’re gonna go downstairs with your little boyfriend.”

You oblige and move to start exiting the room. You only make it halfway beside the man before loud crashing echoes through the house. You assume that this means that John is fighting with the other people in the house. 

You use to the man being distracted to your advantage, and knock the gun out of his hand. He quickly recovers and makes a move to swing at you. You duck and sent a right hook at his jaw. The blow sends the man reeling back as blood splatters from his mouth. 

He spits out a tooth that clatters across the floor. He rushes at you and you grab a nearby vase to smash across his head. He still manages to tackle you on the floor. You both wrestle across the floor as you wrap your legs around his neck. He splutters and taps against your legs, but you only tighten them. 

He picks you up and slams you against the floor to dislodge your legs. He reels back and manages to punch you. You grit your teeth in pain before kicking your leg out, which catches him on the chin. 

You use his disorientation to your advantage to grab his discarded gun. You cock it and aim it at his knees. One shot. The man screams out in pain. Two shots. He slinks to the floor as blood pours from the wounds. You take the opportunity to stand and cross the room to the whimpering man. 

“You shouldn’t have came,” you said. With that, you slam your foot against his face, which knocks him out cold. 

The sound of footsteps rushing up the stairs makes you aim the gun at the door. John appears in a similar fashion with the gun drawn. He lets out a breath of relief when he notices that you’re okay. 

“How many downstairs?” You ask John.

“Four. Two dead and two alive,” He responds.

“Good, we’ll keep them alive to see who they belong to.” You grab your phone to call Luca. Within minutes, Luca and most of your men are inside the house. 

Luca rushes forward to examine your face once he notices your bleeding lip. He looks in John’s direction with a hard stare. You place a hand on his shoulder, “It’s okay.” 

Luca settles and nods at you. By now, your three unwanted guests have all awaken. Two men and a woman. John had tied them up and dragged them to living room. The man who you had shot whimpers in pain at his still bleeding knees.

Your men have their guns drawn. 

You walk forward, “You know, it’s very rude to show up somewhere uninvited. Not only did you try to hurt me, but you tried to hurt my guest. Who are you working for?” 

All three choose to stay silent. You chuckle darkly before shooting a glance at Luca. He steps forward and grabs one of the men by the collar and starts beating him. Each blow sends sickening cracks echoing through the room. You hold up your hand, to which Luca ceases the beating. The man sputters and spits out multiple teeth. 

You move over to the woman, “What about you, princess? You wanna talk to me?”

The woman tries to steel her expression, but you can see the fear present. You wrap her blonde ponytail around your fist until you’re pulling at her roots. Small tears sting at her eyes, “It would be best if you did. I can have you choking on your own blood in here, and then I’ll go do the same to your family.”

The woman’s eyes widen, “No! No, please don’t. I’ll tell you. We are with Victor Antanov, but he doesn’t know we’re here. We found an old picture of you and Mr. Wick, so we tried our luck with seeing if he was here. We only spotted him earlier when you were outside.” 

You hum and let go of her hair.

You step back to face all three people, “It was an idiotic move to come here. That takes real balls.”

The man who you shot looks up, “He’s excommunicated. You’re breaking the rules. When they find out, you’ll be dead.” He spits blood at your feet. 

You can see the rage coloring John’s face and all of your men. 

To the people in front of you, you surprise them by laughing, “I almost feel sorry for you. You keep going on and on about rules, but you forget my house and territory are marked under sacred ground. That surpasses any of the Continental Hotels. If you were to actually read the rules, you’d know that if under any circumstances, any harm comes to myself or this property, it is an official declaration of war.” 

You pause to point at your lip, “That’s harm to me.” You look around the room at the broken vases, “That’s harm to my property. That means that because of you, your boss just declared war on me.”

“John Wick is here. We have proof,” the other man spits out. 

“What proof? The fact that you claim that you saw him here? We already checked your phones, there are no pictures. It’s your word against mine.”

You look to your Luca and your men, “Did any of you see John Wick here today?” 

“No ma’am,” All of your men answer in sync. 

“No ma’am. No sight of John Wick on this property or territory,” Luca affirms. John watches how easy the men fall in line with your orders. 

You look back at the three assassins, “I didn’t see John Wick, and my men haven’t either. I have an entire territory that hasn’t seen him either. So maybe you’re seeing ghosts.” 

You glance at Luca, “Call Victor Antanov for me.”

The man answers within seconds, “Mi amore, how can I help you today?”

“Hi Victor, it seems that we have a rather distressing situation on our hands. Three of your people have broken into my house and assaulted me under the false pretenses of claiming that John Wick is here. Now Victor, I don’t need to remind you of what happens if any harm comes to me.”

The man is silent on the other end of the phone, “No, I don’t need to be reminded. I apologize greatly for their errors and insolence. I can assure you that I did not give any orders to send them there.”

You can hear the fear and trembling in the man’s voice. “So what do you propose that we do about this, Victor? How can you atone for your sins?”

Even if he hadn’t gave the order, his crew’s actions still fell on him. He would have to appease you in some way.

“Kill them. They are officially excommunicated from our family. For you, I also offer a territory of mine for your choosing.”

You smile, “I accept your conditions. Always a pleasure doing business with you, Victor.” 

“Likewise, mi amore.”

You hang up the phone and turn to the surprised assassins. You can see the color draining from their faces at how easy their boss had given them over. 

“It’s settled. Luca, get them out of my sight, and make sure that they suffer.”

Luca nods and snaps for your men to grab the three assassins. They all struggle, cry, and scream but their fate is already sealed. 

Luca looks at you, “I’ll set up a few men to stand guard. Do you need me to stay?”

You shake your head, “That’ll be all. Thank you, Luca.” You press a kiss against his cheek and he nods. He eyes John one last time before leaving. 

Once your men are gone and others are posted as guards, you turn to John, who crosses the room to stand in front of you. 

He cups your face in his hands and runs a finger across your lip. He frowns at the dry blood there, “I shouldn’t have come.”

“Yes, you should’ve. I wouldn’t have been able to rest knowing you were out there being hunted,” You replied. 

You run the tips of your fingers across the tiny scratches that he had obtained during the fight. You grab his hand to direct him to the bedroom. It wasn’t too torn up from your fight. You and John sidestep the broken vase. 

You grab the first aid kit and wipe antiseptic across John’s scratches. In return, he wipes your lip. He continues holding your face in his hand and looks into your eyes. 

“You left earlier when I told you that I love you,” He mentions. 

“I know.”

He chuckles, “Why?” 

“You left me, John. You can’t expect me to be okay with all of this after you left.” He nods. One thing that you learned about John is that he doesn’t argue. It was something that was rather annoying the first time that you noticed it, but you learned to appreciate it. 

“I’m sorry. I know it doesn’t take away the hurt that I’ve caused you over the years, but I am. I won’t try to make any excuses because I know why I needed to do it. But I do want you to understand that I love you,” He said, caressing your face. 

You close your eyes and lean into his touch. You open your eyes and gaze back at John, “I love you too. Always.”

He takes the opportunity to press his lips against yours gently. You can tell that he’s trying to be careful about your busted lip. 

You roll your eyes, “John, I’m not made of glass. You’ve put bruises on me that sting more.”

He chuckles before pressing his lips harder into yours. His tongue slithers inside your mouth, and you both mutually moan. He still tastes the same as you remembered. Pulling back, you both breathe against each other. “I want you to make love to me, John.”

He nods. He’d do anything for me. Throughout all of this mess, his body and soul have been craving you. You slide the shorts down your legs and let John slide the shirt over your head. He takes a second to stare at your body. His eyes go to all of the familiar beauty and stretch marks that litter your body. 

He guides you to lie down on the bed. You sit up on your elbows, and he can’t help but think of the first time that he had you like this. How innocent and eager you looked. That same fire that you had in your eyes is present now. John kneels in front of you and starts pressing kisses to your legs. He gets to your thighs and places gentle kisses there. You moan when he nips at your thigh before running his tongue across to soothe it.

You and John had always liked pain. 

When he gets to your pussy, he can see the wetness beginning to pool from you. He takes a second to nuzzle into the curls that cover your mound. He breathes in your scent that he had missed. You spread your legs more for John. He can finally see your juices as they coat your folds and drip from you. 

He leans in and presses a kiss to your clit. You jump in response, and John watches how you clench around nothing. His eyes meet yours, “Seems like she missed me.”

His tongue slithers along the length of you as he moans as your taste hits his tongue. Enraptured, you watch as John buries his face in you. He makes out with your cunt like you aren’t even there. You also clock the way that he remembers just how you like to be eaten. He slides his tongue along the right side of your clit where you’re more sensitive. You thread your fingers through his silky black locks and pull roughly. He groans at the pain. 

John’s lips encircle your clit as he continues alternating between licking and sucking. You throw your head back with a wanton moan and roll your hips into his face. It’s only when he gazes up that he notes the necklace hanging around your neck. It was the ring that he had given you. 

Call it possessive, but seeing you with his ring around your neck makes his movement a lot more needier and messy. You moan his name as your peak hits. He keeps his eyes on you. His favorite part had always been seeing you cum.

He trails his lip up your body until he reaches your lips. The kiss is absolutely nasty with how he’s tonguing you down. You reach between the two of you to grasp his cock in your hand. You give a few strokes as John groans at the feeling of your hands on him. 

You guide his tip to your entrance as he holds eye contact with you. John pushes forward and you both watch as his slides fully inside you. That gasp. That same gasp that use to drive him crazy leaves your mouth. 

You feel complete and so does John. He clenches his teeth at the feeling of your walls fluttering around him. “You feel like Heaven, dasha moya.” 

He pulls back and delivers a rough thrust into your body. You squeal at the rough movements, but John knows that you love it. He sets a brisk, but demanding pace that jerks your body under his. He pulls one of your legs into the crook of his arms, which deepens the feel of him inside you. 

Your nails carve themselves roughly into his back, and he can only imagine the red lines that will appear amongst the black ink of his tattoo. 

“I missed you,” you whisper against John’s lips.

“I missed you too. So much,” he mutters in response, body humming with pleasure. You splay your hand out next to you on the bed and John chooses the opportunity to intertwine his with yours.

He leans down to catch the necklace between his teeth. The action seems to spur his thrusts on. He’s surprised when you flip both of your bodies over and pin him down onto the bed. 

You roll yours hips across his before standing to move up and down onto his cock. John throws his head back at the sensation. You feel so good. 

Your hand comes to wrap around his throat and you lean down as your thighs continue to slap against his. “You missed me, John? You missed this pussy? All wet for you. And only you.” 

A devastating moan leaves his mouth, as he leans up to kiss you. He slides his fingers down to your clit to rub circles upon it.  He senses it before you do. “Cum for me,” He demands gruffly. 

A few more flicks and your eyes roll back as your release consumes you. John helps you to ride it out while whispering into your ear. He feels his own release building. 

Your teary eyes meet his and he believes that it sends over the edge. John lets out the loudest moan that you think you’ve ever heard from him (well besides the time that you kept sucking him off that time even when he’d already came). His eyes roll back as he fills you up. 

You collapse against his chest, your ear pressed to his heart. You shift and can feel some of John’s cum leaking from you. 

“Too bad you can’t get me pregnant.” 

It is too bad, John thinks to himself. He would love to have the opportunity to give you even more of himself. He would love to see a combined version of you and him together, but not all wishes can come true. 

You both lie there together. No words said. 

You fall asleep. John runs his hands down your back the entire time. A sense of sorrow already beginning to bloom in his chest.

The next day, you wake up before John. His arms are wrapped around you and cradling you to him, as if he’s afraid to let you go. 

You trace your fingertips along his face, mapping out all of his beautiful features. He stirs when he feels your lips press to his. 

He kisses you back just as intensely. He makes love to you again in bed and another time in the shower. At the end of your copulation, you both sit in the bed with him lying across your chest. He detaches the necklace from your neck and slides the ring from the chain. 

He grabs the ring to place on your finger. It fits perfectly. 

“I have to leave again,” He states.

You lick your lips, “I know.”

“They’re just going to keep coming here for me, and I couldn’t forgive myself if anything happens to you,” John said, looking up at you. You nod and press a kiss to his lips. 

You move from under him and stand from the bed, “I suppose you’ll need all the best for your journey. Come with me.” 

John follows behind you as you take him downstairs to your workshop. You smile and greet your men, who return the same greeting. It does bring him some comfort knowing that you’ll be guarded.

Inside the workshop, you move a picture frame of you and your parents to the side to reveal a keypad. You type in a code, which John recognizes as his birthday. 

There’s a hiss before the wall moves and reveals a weapon inventory. You usher John forward. 

You pull him in front of a mannequin that has a suit on it, “This is a reinforced suit with armor built in. Anyone shoots at you the bullets will deflect. You can choose any guns that you need from here. Your mustang was beat up when you got here, so I asked Luca to pick up a new one for you. Bulletproof of course.” 

You place a set of keys in his hands. He pauses and look at you for a moment, “You knew I was leaving?”

You chuckle, “You aren’t an idle man, John. I know you won’t rest until this is done.” 

He catches the subtle hint in your words.

He nods, “I won’t.” 

“Good.”

He gives you a few more hours of you being together before he has to depart. Night falls and he heads outside to find the new mustangs there. You help him to pack all of his new acquired guns and grenades. When the car is packed, you both stand in front of each other.

You fix his suit, “Go give them hell, John.”

He leans down and presses his lips to yours again. He allows the kiss to go on until you both can’t breathe. When he pulls back, he’s holding you, “I love you. Always.”

“I love you too, John. Just be careful, okay?”

He nods. 

He goes to enter the car and turns to you. He points down at your ring, “When this is all over and if I’m still standing, I’m coming back to you, and I’m marrying you. That’s if you’ll have me.”

You smile, “Always, John.”

He smiles in return. He gets in the car and drives off. He watches you in the mirror the entire time. 

He vows to himself.

He’ll get back to you. 

We all know the latest and contested change about the note counts that was thankfully rolled back, but its ramifications are still in use. Tumblr now considers every reblog a post in its own right, as you can see from the new banners for the same post as above:

The turn this website has taken regarding the ownership of posts is at best discouraging and at worst a massive disrespect done to all the artists, creators, gifmakers, fic writers and meta writers out there, making fandom fun and alive. If artists, writers and gifmakers don't get autonomy over their own art being shared on this website, how is a reblog different from a repost, something tumblr actively discourages from doing? How can the OP appeal for a post if they don't even know it's flagged? Why are we taking away ownership of the art from the artist, the human behind it?

How do I appeal?

Tumblr has this very useful feature, both on the website and on the mobile app:

You can find all the flagged posts on your blog either by going to the relevant blog>right hand menu, below Posts, Followers, Activity>Review flagged posts on the website OR by going to Settings>Review flagged posts on the mobile

Then you click on Appeal, and write a very short reason why, describing the post. You can even write this:

This post has nothing that is against the User Guidelines.