#dark!john wick

You were guilty. Guilty of the intimacy shared in touches on your cheek, thighs, and waist that lingered too long, the hand on your lower back as he guided you through the crowded lobby or the busy bar, the kisses to the forehead, the care that seemed to blend into more and more actions as the days without Helen went on. And was it your fault? His fault? No one’s fault? You didn’t know, and neither of you spoke about it. It just was, just like the tears in your eyes when he left and the anger in your face when he came back broken, bleeding and bruised, but he always came back to you.

You were grieving. Everyone grieves differently. But you were almost certain that anyone who was grieving didn’t do what you and John did in the dark.

John life, after the loss, returned to its default. There was at least symmetry in that, maybe something poetic between the lines, but yours had been flipped inside out, upside down, and completely sideways. A few years ago, you were in your first year of college, away from home, and now, you lived in the New York Continental, praying (even though you never went to church a day in your life) for your step fathers safety, for John to come back to you, even if he wasn’t in one piece because you always knew you could put him back together.

John was gone again. Before he left, he pressed a kiss to your head and you asked him, “When will you be back?” He didn’t answer you, didn’t say a time or a day, not even a month. Zip, zilch, nada. But he rarely spoke these days. You once heard him go on a whole thirty minute tangent about the importance of the power of steering at the dinner table, and now he never said anything more than a few syllables.

You hated him for it. You hated him for leaving. You hated him for killing. You hated the Baba Yaga.

So you drank. You sat your ass at the bar downstairs, surrounded by contracted killers, gangsters, crime bosses, lords and kings, and you drank until you couldn’t see straight. Then you stumbled back to yours and Johns room, and went to bed. When you woke up, you did it all over again until he eventually came back.

You would patch him up, and afterward he would retreat to bed for the rest he so desperately needed, his arms wound tightly around you as though afraid you might disappear if he loosened his grip. Sometimes he would press soft kisses against your neck and murmur apologies into your skin—for being gone, for losing your mother, for forcing you to clean the blood from his body. You never asked which apology he meant; you simply assumed it was all of them. His hands would drift across your exposed thighs, tracing absent-minded shapes while his face remained buried in the crook of your neck, content for a moment to simply feel you there. Perhaps you were the only thing that tethered him to his humanity. Perhaps you were the only thing that still made him feel at all. Then morning would come, and he would leave again. The cycle repeated itself relentlessly, day after day, week after week, month after month

Did John hate you? You’ve been circling that thought for quite some time, but only when he was away. When you felt the nearness of him, even if he was distant and ignored you, the only thing you questioned was his health. Was he okay? Did he need rest? When was the last time he ate? Can he just answer you?

You were fairly certain he saw you as nothing more than a nuisance. John didn’t know what to do with you, and you certainly didn’t know what to do with John. What would Helen do? Neither of you had any idea how often the other asked that question, nor how often it was met with silence. Whatever it was the two of you were doing, neither of you could pretend it was the right answer. Maybe it should have ended a long time ago, or maybe it should never have started at all. But after a while, neither of you bothered looking for another way out. This arrangement, however flawed, was familiar, and familiarity was the only thing you had. This torment was as good as it could ever get.

Every time John looked at you, he saw Helen and maybe that could have been enough to ease his grief, but all you did was scream at him. Every time you looked at John, you saw someone who didn’t want you in a world where you had no one else. You were hurting and he was gone, so why wouldn’t you scream at him? Why wouldn’t he understand? And if he did, why didn’t he care?

You realized, not too long ago now, that you were no longer just grieving your mother, but John and yourself as well.

The only difference was that your mother couldn’t feel she was dead.

Company at the bar filtered through, Winston sometimes would sit with you, and you enjoyed his company the most. The things he had to say, particularly regarding John, or Johnathan as he called him, did seem to ebb your pain just enough to not completely break down, but not enough for you to avoid the bartender, who you’ve also grown quite fond of. She gave you free drinks from time to time, on guise of the being the Baba Yaga’s daughter—step. You’d correct her. She’d always wave it off.

Most people didn’t bother you, by now they all knew who you were and if you didn’t know any better, you’d say they were afraid to converse with you. John didn’t want you leaving the Continental, not without him, it was too dangerous, so this was your own little prison surrounded by people who avoided you like the plague. Tonight, though, new guests arrived, and you supposed they hadn’t known who you were, who you belonged to, because they sat their asses beside you, and sparked conversation.

It was nice to start, they’d buy you drinks, ask about your stay at the Continental, and you, clever as can be, specifically deterred away from naming the Baba Yaga. At least then, people weren’t scared of making camaraderie with you, and really, at the end of the day, that’s all you needed. A friend.

Then he returned, the Baba Yaga, staggering through the doors of the bar. His hair hung in tangled, sweat-soaked strands, blood dripping from his split knuckles and trailing down the side of his temple, with even more seeping through the fabric of his shirt. He looked as though he had crawled from the aftermath of a war. His clothes were in disarray: jacket torn, shirt hanging loose from his trousers. Every step seemed carried more by stubbornness than strength, he looked half-dead, yet somehow still standing, sustained by nothing but sheer will and whatever fury burned behind his exhausted eyes.

He paused in the doorway to scan the room before his eyes found yours and he began moving again. You newly beloved friends acted quick, standing to greet him like deers in headlights.

“Mr. Wick!” One said, bashfully, “what can we—“

But he walked past them, straight to you. Then he stopped by your stool, waiting for you to look at him, say something, but you ignored him.

You were sick of his sudden disappearances, sick of his sudden arrivals. You were sick of him.

He was panting, as though he had ran eleven blocks before arriving a bleeding mess at your feet. You stared at your drink before taking another gulp, still refusing to look at the mess of a man. His hand found your lower back, more pressure in the gesture as if he’s not only attempting to draw your attention but leaning on you to stand straight.

He knew you were upset, you always were.

“Come to bed,” the words were more forced than they usually had been, like it hurt him to speak. Spiritually, morally or physically, you didn’t care, though a small part of you might have hoped for the latter.

You shrugged his hand off, refusing to look at him because for once, you wanted to give him the silent treatment. John didn't seem particularly fond of that. The moment your hand drifted back toward your drink, his other hand closed around your wrist. With a quiet sigh, he tried to guide you off the stool.

You shoved him. Hard.

John stumbled back a step, his hip striking the stool behind him and it toppled over with a sharp crash, skidding across the floorboards before coming to rest beneath a nearby table. The noise cut through the hum of conversation and the low music emitting from the speakers. Glasses paused halfway to mouths, and a game of pool stopped mid-shot as almost every head turned. The bartender glanced up from drying a glass, clearly debating whether intervention was worth the risk, she wisely decided it wasn't.

The small group you'd been chatting with only moments earlier suddenly found somewhere else to be. One muttered an excuse and slipped away, another grabbed their drink and retreated toward the far end of the bar and the last offered you an awkward, apologetic smile before deciding they wanted absolutely no part in whatever was unfolding. Within seconds, the empty stools around you outnumbered the occupied ones.

An uncomfortable space formed around you and John, as though the rest of the patrons had unconsciously taken a collective step backward. Some tried not to stare, and others made no effort whatsoever. You couldn't really blame them, no business was to be conducted at the Continental, but this wasn’t business, it was domestic, and it was John Wick. Unsurprisingly, everyone went back to doing their own thing pretty quickly as John picked up the stool.

He turned back to you. “You’re drunk.”

“And you’re gone.” You spat back, still refusing to look at him. If you look at him, you’ll cave and give him what he wants. You couldn’t refuse that face, the face that tells you somewhere deep inside, John still exists, the man your mother loved is still in there, even when you didn’t know for sure, even when you wiped the blood off his face and he disappeared right after, even when you see more bodies on the news, knowing he was the one who killed them.

You hated the Baba Yaga, you missed John, and some twisted shameful part of you loved the halfbreed creature in the middle of the two. It was the best you could ever get out of him now.

John grabbed you more firmly this time and hauled you off the stool. Your drink sloshed dangerously over the rim as you struggled against him, but it made little difference. He pulled you upright with ease, ignoring every insult you threw his way.

"I'm not—" you grunted, twisting against his grip. "Just leave me—"

"Quit." The single word came with a sharp shake that rattled through your shoulders.

Your nails dug into his arm, where he had what could possibly be a gunshot wound but you didn’t know for sure. What you did know was that he was bleeding there and it seemed like a good place to, for once, actually make him feel something. John groaned lowly in subtle pain, more nuisance, and swatted your hand away. He did it with too much force though, and your wrist slammed into the edge of the bar. You let out a quiet wince—

“Might I suggest you take this to your room?”

You both stilled in your little squabble and turned to find Charon standing composed as ever, hands folded in front of him.

If it was anyone else, hell if it was even Winston, you would have spat a dirty insult at them. But not Charon. You adored him, and John respected him. So, you let up and nodded softly. John’s grip on you loosened, following suit by giving Charon a nod as well.

John changed when your mother died, or maybe he reverted. You didn’t know this man, this black suited mystery that invoked fear in everyone who knew him. He was mean. Aggressive. Quiet. A mass murderer. Yes, at times he was gentle with you, so so gentle, as though you were glass that might crack if he grabbed you too harshly, but at other times, like right now, you felt as though maybe he had yet to distinguish you from those he intended to kill. He still had that lurking demon in him when he was freshly back, still stinking with the musk of death, hungry for more violence, that ached for you when no one was around.

You quickly downed your drink and allowed John to guide you out of the bar and to the elevator.

In the elevator, his hands found you, curling around your waist and drawing you flush against him. His bloodied knuckles left crimson streaks across your skin, a ritual by now, and he buried his face in the curve of your neck. The elevator was already small, but he crowded closer still, boxing you in until there was nowhere left to go except into him.

He was still craving it, bloodshed, and you hate it. The violence takes all emotion away from him, and he’s left as the empty shell of a man, he’s left as the boogeyman and you don’t know what to expect of him. The softness—John—won’t come back until tomorrow.

“You’re bleeding,” you mutter as the elevator continued its ascent, “you should go see the doctor.”

“No.”

Why did you bother?

Back in the hotel room you wished you hadn’t booked, you guided him toward the bed you wished wasn’t yours and pressed him down onto the edge of the mattress.

As he went to work on taking his shoes off, you turned back to the small bar and mini fridge in the corner of the room. The bottle of whiskey was nearly empty, but there was still enough for at least three more drinks, or just one really strong one.

As you stirred your drink, johns voice shot over your shoulder.

“Not enough?”

You could have ignored his snide comment, and you knew you should have, but you never did before, not to mention John knew it too and was most likely baiting you.

“Fuck you, John,” you replied, your voice surprisingly calm. With your brand new drink in hand, you turned back to face him.

He was in the middle of wrenching off his tie, but he stopped to sigh at the sight of you. “You should—“

“You are in no position to tell me what to do.” You spat, that calmness you had a moment ago now completely out the window before taking a generous sip of your drink that’s probably stronger than it needed to be.

He didn't say anything in response. Instead, he pushed himself off the bed and crossed the short distance between you. When he reached for the glass, you immediately jerked it out of reach. John shot you a brief sideways glance. His jaw was clenched so tightly you could see the muscle jumping beneath his skin. Exhaustion sat heavy on him, but so did frustration, and at this point the two had become almost impossible to separate.

He reached for the drink again. You sidestepped him before he could get his hands on it and retreated toward the bed.

"Hey." Your name followed a second later, quieter this time, less of a command than a plea as though he was already tired of the argument before it had properly begun.

You ignored him, naturally.

Dropping onto the edge of the mattress, you kicked your shoes off with considerably less care than he had shown his own. One bounced across the carpet while the other skidded along the floorboards, both eventually colliding with John's socked foot.

The impact wasn't hard enough to hurt but it was hard enough to annoy him, everything you did seemed to do that. A low sound escaped him, somewhere between a sigh and a groan. He glanced down at the offending shoes before he drew his foot back and kicked the shoes across the room.

They shot over the carpet, one clipping the leg of a chair before both slammed into the wall with a sharp crack. The impact was forceful enough that one of them bounced back and landed upside down near the dresser. The noise echoed through the small hotel room.

John's chest rose and fell heavily. His patience was wearing dangerously thin, and the shoes had simply been the nearest thing available to take the brunt of it.

“Take it fucking easy!” you shouted, immediately climbing to your feet. The drink on the nightstand was forgotten as quickly as it had been set down. “Mom bought me those shoes!”

“With my money,” he replied, voice raised but still not enough to be classified as a shout. John never yelled at you. No, you did that more than enough for the both of you.

“Asshole!” You stormed across the room to inspect the damage, snatching one of the shoes off the floor and turning it over in your hands as though expecting to find a hole punched through the leather.

You turned back toward the bed, still muttering under your breath, and immediately frowned. Something was missing. Your gaze drifted toward the nightstand.

“What did you do with my drink?” You angled back to him.

He crossed his arms, shaking his head as if he had the audacity to be disappointed in you. “I dumped it out.”

“You what?”

John didn’t answer. The empty glass sitting beside the sink told you everything you needed to know and whatever patience you’d been clinging to throughout the evening evaporated instantly.

“You dumped it out?” you repeated, your voice rising. “Are you serious?”

“You’ve had enough.”

You let out a sharp laugh, though there wasn’t anything remotely funny about the situation. “Enough according to who? You?” You took a step toward him. “You disappear for weeks at a time, show up looking like you’ve crawled out of a fucking warzone, and now suddenly you’re worried about my drinking?”

John dragged a hand down his face, already looking exhausted by the conversation. “Don’t start.”

“Don’t start?” you echoed, a brow raised, “you started it!”

His jaw tightened again. “You’ve been drinking all night.”

“And you’ve been getting shot at all night. I don’t see me pouring your hobbies down the drain.” You knew you were pushing him and at this point, you weren’t even trying to stop yourself. John’s eyes narrowed.

“Enough.”

“You didn’t have to dump my drink!”

“I mean it.”

“No!”

Before you had the chance to even pull away, John’s hand closed around your arm and shoved you backward. Your shoulders collided with the wall, the framed picture hanging above your head rattling violently against the drywall. Pain shot through your back, but the shock hit harder than the impact itself. John stepped into your space immediately afterward, crowding you against the wall before you could move.

“I said enough,” he whispered.

You were trapped by his body, by the sheer size of him, by the anger in his gaze, and you were suddenly, painfully aware of the greeness in his eyes. Your heart pounded in your chest, a sickeningly familiar yearning that you had come to know well over the past few months but you pushed it down, buried it deep, and focused on the anger instead. The anger was easier to deal with, easier to understand.

"You're hurting me," you said, your voice steady despite the turmoil inside you. Was he actually hurting you? It was unlikely, but you were hoping to maybe make him feel guilty for once. You pushed against his chest, but he didn't budge. "Let me go!”

John's gaze flickered down to where your hands were pressed against him, then back up to your face. "Calm down and I will."

"I am calm!" you snapped, trying to push him again. would never be enough.

"You're drunk," he said, his voice quieter now, but no less firm. "And you're acting like a child."

"Fuck you, John.” You said for the second time this evening, “You don't get to talk to me like that. You’re not my father.”

He took a deep breath, and when he spoke again, his voice was calm. “I'm not going to argue with you when you're like this."

"Like what?" you challenged, your voice rising. "Drunk? Mad? Hurt?"

Instead of answering, John turned and walked away, leaving you standing there, your heart still pounding, your body still shaking with adrenaline.

You watched as he crossed the room, and sat down in the edge of the bed. Quietly, he set his head in his hands and his shoulders sagged down in defeat. You felt the anger inside you deflate at the sight, replaced by a profound sense of sadness.

Your feet dragged like lead as you moved closer to him. You intended to stop at a safe distance, but his hand closed around your wrist and, with a sharp tug, drew you back between his knees, trapping you within the loose cage of his legs.

His hands anchored around your outer thighs, his face nuzzling into your stomach.

“I’m sorry,” he told you, the words muffled against you.

“John,” you started softly, a gentle hand set atop his head as you warned him delicately, a warning that went unheeded.

His hands began exploring your outer thighs, taking handfuls of the pliable flesh, fingertips slipping under the hem of your dress.

He lifted his head just enough to study the strip of exposed skin beneath his hand, his attention lingering there for a moment before climbing the length of you until it settled on your face. Then he stilled, the pads of his fingers pressed deeper into your flesh. You hated when he looked at you that way, through the shadow of his brows, with those piercing eyes fixed on you like he was committing your features to memory, like your name had surfaced somewhere among the dead and he was deciding what to do with it. There was something feral in those moments, something cold and professional that belonged in dim hallways and bloodstained rooms rather than here. Sometimes you wondered if this man who hunted monsters had spent so long wearing their skin that he no longer knew how to take it off.

There was a slight change then, some kind of hesitation that was better accompanied with frustration than fear.

“You look so much like your mother.”

His hand suddenly shot to the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair as he pulled you down toward him. The movement was abrupt and desperate, the kind of urgency he reserved for surviving impossible odds, when there’s half a dozen men shooting at him, and his mouth crashed against yours.

He tasted amazing, far better than he should, and that realization alone ought to have been enough to stop you, but every sensible thought scattered the moment his lips met yours. You knew this was wrong, knew it in the way your stomach twisted, in the way guilt immediately sank its claws into your chest. He was John. Your mother’s husband. The man who had helped raise you from the time you were a teenager, who had occupied a place in your life that should have made this impossible.

You could only hold back the voice for so long before you’re pulling back, attempting to nudge him away. “No, no, stop—“

Before the distance could widen beyond a few inches, he pulled you forward again.

A shocked breath left you.

“John—!”

The protest fractured halfway through his name as his hands siezed you with startling force and threw you back onto the bed behind him. By now, tenderness in the Baba Yaga was a fucking joke. In the movement, he had used the same ruthless efficiency he reserved for his enemies. The mattress dipped beneath your weight, and before you could even gather yourself or push upright, he was already above you, crowding out the space. The room spun, a kaleidoscope of colors and shadows, as you found yourself pinned beneath him.

“No,” you started, trying to push him off, “we can’t—“

“I don’t care.”

His mouth found yours, his hands, rough and insistent and still bloody, pushed your dress up, bunching the fabric around your waist. You could feel the cool air on your skin, and your body, that traitorous thing, responded to his touch as his fingers found the edge of your underwear.

Your hands pushed against his chest, but it was like trying to move a mountain. He made a noise, a low, guttural sound that vibrated through you, as he swatted your hands away like nothing. His other hand continued its explorations, tracing the curve of your hip, the softness of your thigh, before finally slipping beneath the fabric of your underwear.

You gasped, the sound lost in the crush of his lips against yours as his digits found that sensitive spot with ease. Your body arched into his touch, your legs falling open in silent invitation. He took the hint, his body shifting as he settled between your thighs, his hardness pressing against you through the layers of clothing.

You could feel the dampness gathering, your body preparing for him, despite the protests of your mind. This your step father, this is wrong, you need to stop.

But his thumb began to moving in slow, perfect circles, forcing a response from your drunken body that you couldn't wouldn’t suppress, and you ignored the voice entirely. Instead, you whimpered, the sound muffled against his lips, as your hips reluctantly began to move in time with his touch. Maybe if you’ll meet him halfway, he’ll be gentler with you, right?

He swallowed the sound you made, his tongue delving into your mouth, exploring the depths as if he had every right to be there. And he did, in a way, had this been a different universe where he wasn’t a man meant to be a father figure to you. But then again, would he be capable of such strong love, if not for your past?

If you were sober, you probably would have fought him more.

Your hands, which had been pushing against his chest, now clutched at his shirt, holding on for dear life as his fingers assaulted you. Your mind screamed at you to stop, to wrench yourself free, to put distance between the two of you, yet your body had never listened when it came to John. It moved according to its own strange gravity, forever pulled toward him despite the danger, despite the countless reasons not to be.

He seemed to sense your surrender, and his fingers slipped inside you, moving in rhythm with his thumb, filling you, stretching you. Your breath came in short gasps, your chest heaving against his. You could feel the heat of his body, the hardness of his cock pressing against you, and it only coaxed you closer and closer. It just felt so good, too good. You were filthy for enjoying it, but John was filthier; still covered in dirt and blood, blood that was probably inside you now.

You could feel the edge approaching, the precipice of pleasure that you hadn't missed as he curled his digits deep inside you, as his tongue dipped into yours like he had been licking up the same kind of ice cream he used to take you and your mother out for. You used to love those afternoons, those small moments where you were a family.

And here he was. The same man who had held your mother’s hand and walked the shoreline beside her, who had remained at her bedside until her final breath, who had honored the vow he made on their wedding day—in sickness and in health. Here he was now: John, Mr. Wick, the Baba Yaga, regardless of alias it was the same skin, the same soul, the same hands that had once cradled your mother’s face. Only now they were slick with dead men’s blood and buried deep inside her daughter.

And then, just as suddenly as your climb to enlightenment had begun, it stopped. He pulled back, his fingers slipping out of you, his hand leaving your body and you let out a small whine of protest.

But he wasn’t leaving you, not now, not yet, and he reached for the buckle of his belt, his eyes never leaving yours. You watched, mesmerized, as he undid the buckle, the button, the zipper. You could see the outline of his arousal through his boxers, your thighs clenched, your core pulsed. You needed him so badly, you hated it.

He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers, and he pushed them down, freeing himself. You couldn't help but look, your eyes drawn to the sight of him, hard and ready, and a shiver ran through you at the thought of him inside you.

He didn't give you much time to dwell on the sight though, as he reached for you again, his hands going to your underwear. He slipped them off with ease, discarding them onto the floor where you had spilt a glass of bourbon the other night and never cleaned up.

John settled between your thighs again, his hardness pressing against your center, and you couldn't help but arch into him, seeking more friction. He groaned at the contact, before his hands gripped your hips, pulling you closer. You wrapped your legs around him, urging him on as he positioned himself at your entrance.

He didn’t wait for permission, his eyes didn’t find you, not really, at most, they looked through you, and he rammed himself forward, sheathing himself inside your most intimate part. You were given no time to adjust to his size, no time to reconsider your horrible, horrible actions, before your stepfather was fucking you.

Was John capable of making love? Probably. But the Baba Yaga was not.

You’re a mean one, Mr. Wick.

You gasped at the sudden intrusion (John Wick, your nightly invader), your nails digging into his back and you cried, you cried like a big baby, practically dying there in his cock. He was large, and the stretch was almost too much to bear but he began to move anyway, because just as he said, he didn’t care. He didn’t care if you were drunk, he didn’t care if you were grieving and lonely, and he certainly, at least anymore, did not care if you were his beloved Helen’s daughter.

"John," you managed to choke out, your voice barely above a whisper, "wait, please—"

But he didn't listen, he never listened to you, his body driven by the same primal need he had when slitting a man’s throat and watching the life drain from his eyes, it seemed to have taken over all rational thought, and by now, it no longer surprised you.

One day, John will die, but the Baba Yaga will reign on.

His hands gripped your hips, fingers digging painfully into the soft flesh, as he pounded into you with a terrifying fervour.

“Ow—! Slow—“

“Don’t be a baby.”

You knew he had never done such a thing to your mother, had never said such a thing to her, had never treated her like this.

No, this monster was only for you.

Your body began to adjust, the initial pain morphing into a pleasure so intense it was unbearable. You could feel every inch of him, every ridge and vein, as he moved in and out of you at a relentless, powerful pace. Your hands moved from his back to his arms, clutching at the muscles that flexed with each thrust.

Your fingers found that wound again, digging deeper into it than you had before and he groaned once more, though you couldn’t tell if it was from pain or pleasure. His blood seeped out from his sweat, blood and probably teared soaked shirt, coating your hand, dripping onto the mattress.

“Asshole,” you growled, squeezing harder.

The muscles in his jaw jumped and his head tipped back slightly, throat flexing as he exhaled through his nose, all the while his thrusts never slowed. He seemed, for a second, to be enjoying it still. His gaze eventually drifted back down to you, heavy-lidded and sharp despite the exhaustion written across every line of his face.

“Brat,” came his clipped, panted response.

The word was worn from overuse, a title he had begrudgingly assigned you years ago when you and a couple friends got into his liquor cabinet. Even now, with blood soaking through his shirt and irritation etched across his expression, there was an almost automatic quality to it, as though he couldn’t think of a more fitting thing to call you.

You could feel the sweat beading on his skin, could see the tendons in his neck straining as he held himself above you. He closed his eyes then, his brow furrowed in concentration as he grunted, and you found yourself watching him, captivated.

He was so handsome.

The sound of your bodies coming together filled the room, a wet, slapping noise that was obscene and yet incredibly erotic. You could feel the pressure building inside you, the coil of pleasure tightening with each cruel thrust of his and he must have sensed your impending doom, because he suddenly leaned down, his mouth finding yours. His tongue invaded your mouth, his teeth nipping at your lips, mimicking the roughness of the rest of him, as he continued to pound into you. If this was his attempt at kissing away your pain, he had failed, like all his other attempts to make your grief any better.

Your mother was dead, and now her husband was inside you.

With a cry, you came, your body convulsing around him as waves of what felt like blasphemous pleasure bled over you. He swallowed your cries, he didn’t want to hear them, he was so sick of your crying, and his own release followed closely behind. You felt him pulsing inside you, his body tensing as his seed spilled into you, coating you in more filth, because what’s a little more to something already forsaken by God?

He let out a low groan, something you almost missed and wished you had, his forehead dropping to rest against yours as he rode out the last of his orgasm.

For a moment, neither of you moved, your bodies still joined, your breaths coming in ragged gasps. Then, slowly, he pulled back, his eyes finally meeting yours.

There was a softness there, John had finally returned with a tenderness that was far too painful to witness, so you looked away, unable to hold his gaze.

You thought, drunk and carelessly, that maybe this would make you feel better, but all it did was make it worse.

Now you hated John, too.

As he slipped out of you, you could feel the evidence of your shared pleasure coating your thighs. You wanted to wipe it away, to clean yourself up and deny this unholy act all together, but you couldn't move, couldn't speak, and he climbed off the bed.

You laid there, in the aftermath of your forbidden act, your body still tingling, your mind a disaster of guilty thoughts and heartbreaking emotions as you listened to him find and put his pants back on.

John didn’t say anything after that, and he left again. He’d be broken, bleeding and desperate again by the next time you see him, and you’d be angry, lonely and drunk.

If only Helen could see you two now.

Canon!John Wick

John doesn’t hurt women unless they are really REALLY giving him no choice (Looking at you, Perkins!). But you are the means to his end, so he doesn’t hesitate to take you for bait for Iosef and your father’s men. He is raw and back in full predator mode after taking a hiatus for five years. Of COURSE you piss him off, and when you try to escape he snaps. He still calls you moya milaya printcessa (my sweet princess)tho while he fucks you against the wall with his hand on your throat. When the idiots your father employs do finally come for you John kills them all, and your brother, and your uncle after taking back his car. He lets you go, and a part of you forever wishes that he’d kept you…

Dark!John Wick

You were always such a fucking brat back when he had to watch over you, and finally he can get his revenge. When you mouth off he undoes his tie and uses it to gag you, something he’s always wanted to do, and as you watch him whip off his belt with such calculated flourish you are practically sliding off your chair. He bends you over his knee, the way someone should have a long time ago, and he taunts you when he finds you’re soaking with slick in between whipping you. Is it just you, or is he not hitting you half as hard as he could tho? You don’t know and you don’t care, you’re 98 percent sure you’re not getting out of this alive, so you at least want to die having had his magnificent manhood inside you one last time. You are delirious by the time he soothes the welts on your ass with the light touch of his fingers. “Are you going to be my good little girl now?” he demands as he tosses you on the bed like you’re just a ragdoll. Like he wants to hear your reply, he removes his tie from your mouth.

“If you fill me up with that big beautiful cock of yours.”

He laughs at you, and you get the feeling he’s delighted by your sass, even in this cruel mood. “You don’t get to make the demands anymore, milaya.” He slaps your thighs apart and goes down on you, licking you relentlessly, bringing you to the edge again and again but never letting you cum.

“Please, please, please,” you beg and tears stream down your face as finally you watch him undo his pants. He has utterly broken you.

“You always were such fucking whiner,” he hisses, pulling your hair hard as he plunges himself inside your swollen cunt. You hate him for how good it feels as he fills every last inch and corner of you, and if you ever get your hands free you’re so going to make him pay for this.

Yandere!John Wick

John always carried a torch for you, but you were so off limits. The boss’s daughter. A sure death sentence, but it almost would have been worth it. He’d thought about you constantly for a good long while, your beauty and your body was burned into his brain, but then he met Helen, and that fire smoldered to red hot coals he kept in the back room of his twisted black heart. But when Iosef starts shit there is absolutely nothing to stop him from taking what he’s always wanted. He’ll make you his perfect little pet, one last bit of revenge against the Tarasovs for disrespecting him after all he’d done for them.

When you see him materialize from the shadows in the mirror behind you, you try to go for the gun you keep in the top drawer of your vanity. You’re half certain he’ll kill you for it, but you’re y/n Viggovna Fucking Tarasov, and you will not fucking beg like your little bitch of a brother undoubtedly did. You’re not surprised when he manages to disarm you in the blink of an eye. You wait for the blade in your throat or the gunshot in your gut but he just holds you in those inexorably strong arms, looking down at you with those burning dark eyes. He’s so tall, he’s so much bigger than you and that always turned you on.

“You’re mine now, printcessa.”

You know you’ve always been his but you hate being helpless. He kisses you hard, unforgivingly, possessively, and you try to bite him but he knocks you out with a headbutt. Ouch!

You wake up in a luxuriously appointed room that you just know in your gut is now your new prison. Wick is no fool. There are digital locks on the doors. There are windows that you know will be unbreakable. Your hands are bound above your head, and though you try to worm free it’s impossible. After a while John enters, straddling you on the bed. Even though your legs are free his weight pins you down, you are trapped, and you’re embarrassingly certain he can feel the heat that’s pooling between your legs for it. His face is covered in cuts, his knuckles are torn. He’s been through Hell, but he came out the other side, the way you begrudgingly knew he would. “Your family’s dead,” he tells you. “No one’s coming for you.” He doesn’t really seem to take any joy in it, his handsome face stoic as stone. “You belong to me now, and I hope your father rolls over in his grave every time I defile you.”

You try not to enjoy it while he rails you into the soft mattress, or when he touches you while he does it, his long fingers so exacting. He is a master of manipulating the human body, for pain or for pleasure. You think he makes you cum out of ownership over anything remotely tender, but he makes you see God so often it almost feels like he cares about you. He becomes your dark deity, the altar you worship on, even if just in the deepest depths of your heart. You still have some pride.

The older man nodded, continuing to eat, eyes on his plate before they rose to meet John’s intrigued ones.

“You know that the card means…”

“She is under my protection and the hotel’s doors are always open for her— services included.” Winston completed.

“She’s a civilian, Winston.” 

John could not get it. Winston seldom gave his personal ‘Access Card’ (As he liked to call it) to anyone– even in their world. John had it, Charon had it and he did not know of anyone else who had it until…Until two nights ago.

When he saw it among (Y/N)’s possessions, he had to look twice. It was, Winston's card, after all, and she fucking carried it around in her bag like an idiot.

“And how did you come to know about the card? I had it shipped to her discreetly.”

Well, that was the question he was dreading. But he would not let it show. 

“I bumped into her during…a job.” He did not elaborate and hoped he would not need to.

“Wrong time, wrong place?”

John nodded. Fortunately, she had just caught the panicked rush. And she had dropped her bag somewhere along the way. John could only imagine what could have happened if the bag fell into the wrong hands– if the card fell into the wrong hands. 

He had only gone through the contents to decide where to drop the bag safely. He totally did not go through her home address and ID.

Winston only hummed and continued to eat. His question, though, was still unanswered.

“She has nothing to do with our world, Winston. She does not need that.”

“Well she walked into our world, had a meeting with me, sat with us at the underground bar— everyone there saw it. I respected Artemis, and I wanted to keep my word.”

Yes, she walked into their world. Like a fucking lamb stumbling into a slaughterhouse. John sighed and continued to eat his dinner. He would rather eat by himself, in the confinement of his room, but he did not mind Winston. Besides, a dinner invitation from the manager of Continental held great significance.

He liked the silence and slowed thoughts when he was in his company, doing mundane things. Like a normal human being. That was the closest to an ordinary life he could ever get. The rest was unattainable luxury. 

But in recent days. Even in the comfort of silence and solitude, his mind was filled with a certain name, a certain smile. A certain face. A certain voice.

It felt so uncharacteristic of him— it was puzzling.  His hold tightened on the knife and fork, the image of her confused face as she looked around people rushing flashed in his mind.

Not again. Not again!

Gulping some wine, he tried to clear his head. He was thinking like that again. He should not be thinking like that. 

She is a civilian. An innocent civilian.

He chided himself.

“Something troubling you Jonathan?”

Of course, Winston would notice. 

He looked up and sighed in silence. Thankfully, Winston did not poke further.

—------

(Y/N) admitted that there were a lot of things she had not prepared herself for before moving to New York— the basics were, thankfully, sorted out in her head. And yet, the pace of life, the mouse problem, more cockroaches, and the general indifference came to her as bumps and jerks. But all was good.

Everything was good until two days ago.

Nothing prepared her for a literal shootout at a subway station and losing her bag in the process. Thankfully, she was not caught in the middle of the crossfire— it was just the panicked rush just outside the crime scene. 

But what she was more thankful about, was the fact that a kind officer brought her bag to her doorstep by the same evening. Her wallet was in that bag with her address. She did not wish to think what would happen if it fell into the wrong hands. Crime in the city ran rampant.

She had heard of it, not much on the news, but more as whispers floating around in her relatively quieter town. But she never paid much heed to them. She had treated them as rumours— the news did not show much, after all. The news did not show even half of it. But above all, the general public’s indifference to such crimes baffled her. 

Did they not want their city safe? Were they not afraid? What era was it? 

She reflected on Alex’s words. They discussed the same. 

“You eventually grow immune to it.”

He had told her. Not very helpful, but that was an explanation of some sort. People in the city must have grown immune to it— they learned to live with it. But could she grow indifferent as well? She did not think so. 

But there was too much at stake. She did not wish to return to her hometown, was still not talking to her father other than one-worded texts, had a job in New York that paid well–enough, had already signed the recent contract and paid two months of rent and the overall living cost of the city kissed the skies and any spontaneous decision would end up burning her pocket— not just a hole in her pocket.

So, the only option left was to get up, dust herself and keep moving. Yet, among all the chaos, she was glad to have found a friend like Alex. His humour and insight always helped. Her thoughts moved to her encounter with John Wick a few days ago. Clearly, Alex and John knew each other. But Alex never elaborated other than calling John an ‘acquaintance’ and John…well, she might as well admit that she would be reluctant to approach him under most circumstances. 

There was— she could not put a pin on it. But there was something almost ominous about that man. The way he looked, the way he spoke, the way he stood, carried himself— every aspect about him seemed to stand out. Not enough to gain immediate attention, but enough to steer clear of his way.

Now, that did not make sense. She realised. Neither did her observation that there was still something inexplicably melancholic about that man. His eyes were unreadable but sharp and so eerily calm that his gaze made her gulp– true. But there was a deep sense of sadness. It was subtle, but it was so ever-present that it seemed to have become a part of him. Nothing temporary but an inseparable part of him.

Now, that’s a bit of a stretch!

She chided herself. What was she doing? Wondering about a man she had met only a couple of times, weaving assumptions and stories?

She shook her head and took the last bite of her dinner. She missed how dinners were timely back in her home. She missed her home a lot, she was not afraid to admit it. But she was too proud to go back. So, whatever it was, she needed to get along with it.

—---

What was he doing?

John was at a fix. He had the night to himself— a chance to relax but why was he not under the covers, relaxing on his bed?

Why was he standing in the darkest corner of the room, watching her sleeping form? Her apartment was decent, he noticed and she was careless enough to not even feel a presence in her room.

What if it were someone else?

Someone dangerous?

You are dangerous.

His subconscious mocked.

John blinked, trying to convince himself that it was all for Winston’s sake— he had taken her under his wing and John, being close to Winston, must play his part in protecting her. Especially when wolves were lurking around, one had followed her from the Continental, sniffing behind, wrapping a sheep’s skin over to lure her near.

Alex Norton…

He was skilled with poison and guns, and while John had never crossed paths with him at work, they had shared a few respectful nods now and then at the Continental. But now…

Now he was keeping an eye out for Norton. 

John gulped, keeping his eyes fixed on her form. If he could keep his reservations aside, he understood Norton’s fascination with the girl.

They were both starved creatures from hell, crawling out now and then, and she was an angel, offering the solace he knew he did not deserve.

She offered what people like him were deprived of. It was tempting to just pull her into the depths of the dark with him, let her light it up— but how unfair, how cruel would that be?

Did he not see and endure enough cruelty? Why would he want an innocent civilian to lose their privileges just because one starving, deformed, empty soul had suddenly realised how impossibly bleak and bitter his world was?

No, John had made peace with this life. He would not call himself ‘the best’, but he knew he was good—- good enough to win special privileges at the New York Continental– to win the confidence of Winston Scott. 

He never truly understood Winston, or his ways.

As far as he knew, Artemis was like any other patron at the Continental and had been a part of the underground before he officially left his…tribe, in search of freedom— some semblance of it at least. He had it now, and it was the best he could get. 

He must make peace with it.

He stared at the asleep woman for a good minute before looking away. He needed to leave. He wanted to leave. He really wanted…

John sighed and leaned against the wall instead.

He would just watch, and observe. He would keep a distance. Like he should.

****

You feel the grass. Long days laying in the sun. The coolness of the ground met by the warmth of the sky. 

You feel the grass as you feel time.  As time never stops, nor does the grass stop growing. Always. Even when the snows fall, the blade remains. Resilient and unplucked.

Unlike any other day, the grasses do not go untrod. The figure is no less familiar than the field. The spec moving against the horizon, getting closer, and closer, crushing the tender strands between his soles. 

You keep your hands working, kneading the dough on the board dusted with flour. You watch your visitor, unsure at first if that’s what he is. More often he’s passing through than stopping by. You give the dough one last fold and drop it in the pan. You put it in the drawer to proof and wash your hands.

He’s carrying something. A basket in one hand. He’s not alone. The dog is there. The charcoal velvet of his coat shining in the sunlight. His bright spirit bounds in contrast to the sombre but steady pace of his owner.

You grab the dishcloth and dry your hands on the waffled fabric as you go to the door. You emerge and tuck it into the pocket of your apron. The screen door snaps shut as you give a wave. Bubba races forward but his owner maintains his patient stride.

You bend to greet the dog, petting his soft head as he wipes a smear of slobber on your thin chambray pants. You chuckle and give him one last pat as you stand to meet the man. Bubba investigates your apron, likely smelling the remnants of your baking.

“John,” you say, “out for a walk?”

“Yeah,” he answers. A single word, oft-repeated.

“Does he like back bacon?” You ask as you let Bubba nuzzle your hand, “I have some left over. You’re welcome to some too.”

He hums and nods at the dog. 

Stoic and silent as ever, he always confounds you. He’s not a social creature, you aren’t either, yet he comes around, now and again. Like you, he came here to be alone and like you, he must have bouts of loneliness. You suspect, you also share the same reluctance to admit it.

You smile and turn back to the house. You pull back the screen door and stroll through the kitchen. You pluck up a few strips of bacon cold on the pan and quickly retreat. As you come out, the basket is on the round glass table beside the wicker chair.

Bubba jumps up and startles you. You hold the bacon out of reach and John calls to him curtly, “down.” The dog obeys. 

“Thanks,” you say as you break off a piece, “must be hungry after coming all this way.”

“Eggs,” he says with a small gesture to the basket.

“Oh, thank you. That’s very kind of you,” you say as you glance over, feeding more of the greasy strip to the dog. He licks your fingers clean, searching for more, until he gives up and you wipe your hands on your apron, “would you like a coffee? I can put a pot on.”

“No. Thank you.” 

“Uh, okay, well,” you drift closer to the table and peer inside at the brown eggs, “thanks again for this.”

“Boy,” he says curtly and the dog returns to his side, “have a good day.”

“You sure you don’t want some water?” You face him again, shading your eyes with your hand, “it’s pretty hot.”

He shakes his head, “thank you.”

“Right,” you bite down on the tension and force a breath out, “well, if you’re nearby tomorrow, you could stop by and grab some sourdough. I have some loaves proofing now.”

He considers you. Dark and pensive. He thinks much more than he’ll ever say out loud.

“Maybe,” he answers and gently rubs Bubba’s ear between his thumb and index, “come.”

He turns and strides back into the field. His black hair flutters with the wind, the only part of him he can’t repress. You watch as the dog follows loyally at his side. You get it, it’s easier to deal with animals than people.

🥚

You wrap a loaf and place it in the basket John left with the eggs. You set it on the table as you wait for the kettle to boil. You don't know if he'll come though if he doesn't, you'll go out to see him. 

Maybe. The same declaration he gave you. 

The thought of going out after him makes you nervous. He doesn't seem like a man who would be bothered beyond his purview. Those times he stumbles on you are what he allows, beyond that, he is elusive. Almost deliberately so.

The kettle begins to whistle and you go to take it off the burner. Your mind wanders as your body moves out of habit, steeping a cup without a thought to which bag you choose. You stare into the dark liquid, startled by a scratching on the low deck.

You raise your head and rush out through the front room, dim in the shade of the drawn curtains. You grab the broom from beside the door before you swing through, ready to chase away the pestilent gopher. You're met instead by the wrinkled forehead of a wiggling Bubba, prancing across the wooden boards as you hear a subtle grunt on the other side of the picketed rail.

You go to peer down into the garden, resting the broom against the trim as you find John knelt in the patch of golden marigolds. He clutches a wad of green leaves, tossing his hair back as he stands. He looks up at you as he dusts the soil from his knees and opens his hand to present the weed.

"Oh?" You figure he saw the sprouting you'd missed. "Thanks for that."

He nods and lowers his arm as he closes his fist. He's silent as he stalks over to the compost barrel and dumbs the greenery inside. Bubba continues to sniff at the broken bench beneath the window.

"I have some bread for you, John," you announce, "and I just put the kettle on, would you like some tea before you go?"

He nears as he claps off his hands. Bubba circles your legs and nudges your palm. You pet him as John remains beyond the invisible barrier. He never comes closer than the grass.

"Thank you for the bread."

That's it. His answer. Just the bread, no tea. He would do well in another sort of life. His apathy could be dangerous were he to realise it.

"Sure," you scratch Bubba's head and turn to go inside.

The dog sits primly by the door, patient like his master. Inside, you sweep by the crumpled blanket on the couch. Hardly a comfortable place to sleep but a stubborn habit.

You enter the kitchen and give pause. Perhaps he won't stay for tea but you can still be polite. In the cupboard, you take out the shortbread cookies you baked only the day prior and pick out three to wrap in brown paper. You tie them with twine and take out a tin of untouched black tea; Assam, bitter at first, but carries a rich aftertaste.

You tuck it under the bread and take the basket. You grab a carrot from the bowl on the counter and return to the porch. You try to smile as you come out but John is already staring at the sky.

"You mind if Bubba has a carrot?" You ask as you hold the thick vegetable out of the dog's grasp.

He shifts, looking at you from the corner of his eye as he dips his chin. You give the carrot to the dog, his jowls leaving slobber across your hand as he accepts it greedily. You cross the groaning boards and hold out the basket.

"Sourdough," you say, "if you want rye, come back next week."

"Thanks," he steps forward but only close enough to take the basket. 

His gaze lingers and you wonder what he's thinking. Is it about you or is he already steps ahead on his daily journey across the plains?

"Bubba," he demands as the dog gulps down the last of the shredded carrots.

You move out of the way as the dog diligently obeys. His paw plod down the steps and he goes to sniff the basket in his owner's hand. Another nod and he's on his heel, venturing off into the green sea.

🥖

Often, you don't notice John's absence until he appears again. There is no rhyme or rhythm to his arrival but that day you note, it's been some time. Not entirely unusual but it tugs at your mind.

You don't linger on it. The solace of this place is safety. You cherish it even when it's lonely.

Still, restlessness consumes you. You cannot be idle. You cannot remain in this house. Even the garden cannot content your listless hands.

The air is dead, stolid with the high heat of July. Your cotton skirt lays limp down your legs, clinging to your sweaty skin as the sun beats down on your shoulders. A wide-brimmed hat shields your eyes but thickens the dampness along your scalp.

Beyond the lea, down the dip of the valley, there is a line of trees, green but still on the lull. The forest divides the grasslands in a sprawling patch. Beautiful but perilous. 

You make lazy progress across the field and follow the subtle basin of land that crests into the brush. You pause to examine the mossy bark and the jutting vines that coil and tangle, forming a sort of leafy fortress. You carefully trod past the tree line as your soles meet the soft peat in an eerie silence. 

There are wild berries, some dried out in a stream of unfiltered sun while others hang heavy and ripe. You taste a few and ponder coming back to gather more. Your haphazard stroll makes you uneasy. You rarely do anything without meticulous consideration. 

Even as your innate caution tells you to go back, you can't help but press on. There's something drawing you in, or away. An urgency you can't place.

You wince as you step on a twig. You exhale, long and heavy, as if you'd been waiting. For what, you don't know.

There's no path, only a gap here and there wide enough to pass between the foliage. You heat some scuffling and what could be a breath, not your own. You still and listen, your own heartbeat pounding, trying to scare you back to safety. There’s a rustle and you turn, only the subtle flutter of leaves to greet you.

Is someone there? You don’t dare to ask the question aloud. 

You take a step blindly back as you hear dull padding across the forest floor. You retreat until your back meets bark and you stare at the shaking bush across from you. You dig your nails into the grooves of the bark. It could never last so long.

The curious nose of the dog pokes through first, a heavy huff as his chops flap and foam. You sigh and deflate against the rough oak. It’s only Bubba.

“Jeez,” you utter and chuckle at yourself. Just the dog, but where’s his owner?

You say his name but as quickly as he’s appeared, he’s gone. You blink and hesitate, following only as you fear he’ll leave you alone. You brush through the bushes and long reaching vines, following the wag bony tail.

Ahead, you hear a trickle. The soft ripple of water. Before you can stop, you’re in a clearing, faced with a sight that has you speechless. A back, naked and long, marked with ink and scars. The dark hair drips wetly between his shoulders, shining black like oil.

“Oh, uh, I’m so sorry,” you spin and cover your face as Bubba woofs softly and hops around the shore, “I… I thought Bubba was… lost.”

More like I’m lost, you think to yourself.

There’s no answer. Only the shift of water and steps slowed by the depths. The river babbles gently in the din.

“I’ll go, again, I’m sorry–”

“Don’t,” he says. It’s not the word but his tone that stops you. You shudder as you stare into the shadows between the brambles and trees. “Stop. Don’t–”

You squeal as suddenly Bubba’s playful boofs turn to a raucous bark. You shield yourself and fall back as the dog bowls you over from behind, your feet flying over your head. There’s a whistle in the air and the hard thunk of something unseen as it collides with the tall jagged stone on the other side of the shore.

“Stay down,” John orders as the water splashes, another shot, silenced through some unseen barrel. “Fuck.”

His feet mulch in the dirt as you roll onto your stomach, Bubba circling you erratically, herding you to the covers of an overturned log. You drag yourself on your elbows, your dress smearing with filth and catching on errant pebbles and sticks.

“Bub,” John calls and the dog backs off, running towards his owner. 

You raise your head as John stands naked, unafraid, raising a dark glock to fire back. You don’t know why he has it but you’re happy he does. He dodges the counter and swipes up the denim folded at the bottom of the stack of clothes. He pulls the trigger again, aiming into the trees as he comes towards you.

“Don’t move,” he orders as he squints, keeping the gun aloft, “not ‘til I say.”

“John,” you gasp, “what’s going on?”

He’s quiet as he listens. Silence. You watch his throat bob, overly aware of the rest of him, exposed and glistening with water.

He lowers the barrel, quickly stepping into his jeans. He whistles and Bubba comes to him, head lower, eyes watchful. Master and beast match in that moment, waiting for the kill.

“Stay.” He says.

You don’t know if he means you or the dog. But you obey, as Bubba remains at your side. John walks along the other side of the log, gun raised before him. There’s a jostle across the river and he turns instinctively. Three short reactive shots.

The curtain of leaves part and a man staggers forward. His gun is pointed back at John but tumbles from the stranger’s grip. He gurgles and collapses into the water, face first. You get only a glimpse of the red splotches across his dark shirt.

You quiver as your vision speckles with tears. You cover your mouth as the scent of iron underlines the medley of the forest. You shake your head and shakily drag your hand down your cheek.

“John…”

“You know,” he says. Your eyes meet and his gaze says all he won’t. He knows, too.

🌳

You’ve never been to John’s house. You never venture that far from your own. You never even thought to go that far.

Walking up on the small house with its chipped white paints and splintered posts, you realise, it’s not truly his. It’s not a home. It’s a hideout. Like yours but not quite. You follow him onto the porch and stop at the top step. The wood whines with your weight.

“They sent you too,” you say. Your suspicions bubbling over to certainty.

He stops at the door. He’s rigid as he turns his head. His cheek draws and he swallows.

“Will you make it quick?” You ask.

Still, he doesn’t speak. He proceeds through the door as Bubba sits beside you, his eyes pointed outward towards the plain. Watching, guarding. You touch his wrinkled brow and trail after John.

He moves in the grim light of the cramped cottage. You can tell at a glance that the front room is the only occupied space. The house is a facade but every man must live. Somehow. 

He faces you and tosses a bag at your feet, a loose duffel. You look down as he carries on. He pulls out another bag, longer, the type you’ve seen before. He checks his glock then the contents of the rifle bag.

“Get changed.”

You don’t move. You run your hand down the filth on your dress as you watch him. He sighs and pushes the rifle bag aside. He crosses to you. You flinch and he bends down to unzip the duffle. 

He opens it and takes out a dark hoodie and matching pants. He stands and holds them out to you. You reluctantly take them as he claims another bunch of clothing from the bag. He barely acknowledges you as he turns to change himself.

“I’d rather you kill me here. I don’t want to die with those people.”

“If I was gonna kill you…” he lets the sentence dangle like a noose.

You nod and put the clothes down on a nearby crate. You unfold the hoodie and check the tag. Your size. You peer over at him as he switches out his tee shirt for a plain black button-up.

“They’ll send someone after you too. Looks like they already did,” you remark.

“They can try.”

You fish out the ribbed tank and feel the thin fabric. You don’t understand. You ran this far, what’s the point of going any further.

“I’m not in the habit of killing widows,” he mutters.

You close your eyes and inhale. You turn your head slowly and look over at him.

“You only make them, huh?”

He faces you sullenly, “hurry.”

🏡

“At the next station…” John begins but you know he’s just talking to blend in.

It’s what he does. Like a shadow, he moves through the world. Drifting by those around him with ease. A man without a body. 

“I know a place close by,” you see how he tilts his head. He sees something.

He leans back and slips his arm over your shoulders. You tense. The subway shakes on the rails as it powers ahead. It’s been so long since you’ve been in a city. It’s like going back in time.

He pushes you down as a bang pops in your ear. You yelp as he shoves you out of the seat, his own gun arcs through the air and deflects the next attempt. A man falls and another rises from his seat. Another bullet fells him as John stands in front of you.

“Up,” he pulls you up by your arm, another shot over his shoulder and grunt. “Don’t look back.”

It’s not the first time. It’s been weeks of this. Endlessly moving, eternally awake. You wish he’d just killed you back in that cabin.

He follows, urging you along. Shots ping around you and he forces you to duck as he nearly crushes you against the door. You yank the handle and slide it open, stumbling through to the next car. He’s right on your heels as he slams it behind him, barely deflecting the next bullets.

You feel a hot pain in your side, a searing graze across your ribs. Don’t think, just do. That’s what John does. He’s designed for this. It’s both admirable and alarming.

You get to the next door, to the end of the train. John hits the window beside your head impatiently. His back presses to yours as he turns to fire his gun again and again and again. You struggle to twist the lever and when it releases, you nearly fall out of the hurtling car.

“On three,” he says.

“We can’t-”

“I speak, you listen. End of story.”

"It's too dangerous–"

“One.”

“John.”

“Two.”

“Wait.”

“Three.”

He turns and wraps his arm around you. He grabs the outside of the car and swings around, barely clinging to it. He lets go, taking you with him, your feet bouncing off him as he lands on the tracks and falls back beneath you. He grunts and coughs as the train squeals down the tracks.

Out of breath, you roll off of him. He pants and closes his eyes. You can’t do this anymore. It’s not just the fear that haunts you, it’s him. Watching him do this day in and day out. For you? Why?

And Bubba. The poor dog. The heartbroken look in his eyes when you left him with that man. A man with no name.

“John,” you push yourself up to your knees and groan as you slip back onto your ass. A jarring pain tears through your side. “I can’t–”

You look down as you touch your side. He sits up as he stares at the blood seeping through your fingers. He presses his hand against your, holding it firmly to stem the flow. You dizzily shake your head.

“That’s it,” you say.

His eyes meet yours. The dark circles beneath, the wrinkles above, you see the mortal beneath. You frown. He can’t win. He can’t just tell death what to do.

“No,” he insists and pushes on your hand, “like that.”

You keep the pressure. You moan as he scoops you up in his arms, standing with a heave. He looks off down the dark tunnel and walks between the rails. Where others are blind, he sees all. Where others would give up, he goes on.

🚆

A fire crackles beside you. You don’t believe it’s real at first. The soft amber haze burns through your eyelids until you look to see if it is. The glass that separates the flame from the room is set into the plain white stucco of a wall.

You don’t know this place.

There’s a dull weight on your side. You reach to move it but there’s nothing there. You wear only a thin nightgown, white cotton that reflects the hue of the fire. You feel the stitches through the light fabric.

“John,” you know he’s there.

Not far. He’s beside you in a moment. A shadow above you. You flick your lashes up and look at the black figure flickering with the flame.

“Safe here,” he assuress in his way. You believe him.

"They won't stop. They never do," you croak.

As wordless as ever, he lowers himself to sit beside you. He breathes.

"I won't either."

You close your eyes. You will. You have. This isn't how you want to live. Not anymore.

"I do. I give up. John, you should've left me on the tracks."

"No."

His voice is as passionate as you've ever heard it. So much so that you barely recognise it as his. You wince.

"John, it's okay–"

"It's not."

"I knew when I went out there, it would end like that–"

"No," he says again.

"You can't just tell the world no."

"I am."

You huff in exasperation, "John, I'm telling you that it's over. I have nothing left."

He doesn't respond. He rests his arms on his bent legs and pushes back his shaggy locks. He lifts his chin and cluck.

"That's not your choice."

He gets up as you lay helpless. Weak and woozy still. You couldn't argue or refuse if you tried.

"It is," you say.

His face is hidden in the dark, shielded from the fire's light by the curtain of hair. You can't see his eyes but you feel him watching you. This man is not as gentle as you thought. He is not the protector that he seems.

He pivots on his heel and takes even steps away from you. You crane to see him but can't find him in the dim. Hinges squeak and wood hits the frame.

No, he is not your protector. He is your keeper.

🩸

All you do is sleep. It's all there is to do. Lingering, languishing, in that space. Little better than a cell. Or a coffin.

The fireplace glows anon, lending and earthy glow to the room. You lay on the couch, spacious as the large ottoman pushes up to form a cozy expanse. He came again. No words, just a standard peek at your stitches and the cold touch of stringent alcohol. 

You're healing. Surviving. Day by day, marked only by the meals he leaves, that appear when you doze and tempt you back to the world. You eat only to sate the ache, paying little note to the pleasant flavours or efforts of each dish.

You are as you have been. Head against the arm of the couch as you keep an arm over the top of the blanket. Your eyes laze beneath your lids as the fireplace flickers. There is no garden, no baking bread, no fraying curtains to distract you here. You must face your thoughts and the persistent past.

A bang brings you up. You wince and clutch your side as the stitches tug. You peer over the top of the couch as the door quakes and bursts open. A body flails through and hits the floor with a sickly thump.

Your heart thrums. You think for a moment it's John splayed across the carpet's edge. But he's there, puffing over the body at his feet. The man wheezes and a rattle fizzles to a gurgle.

John aims his gun at the heaving body. There's no need for it. You can see the man won't get up. He can't. He's bleeding from his shoulder and his foot is twisted around on his ankle. 

"Here."

You don't realise he's talking to you. Not until his dark eyes focus on you, the shadows angling along the sharp plains of his face. You blink and part your lips dumbly.

You shake as you grasp the cushion on the back of the couch. You don't know what he wants. He wiggles the gun and you shield yourself, bracing as if the barrel is aimed at you.

"I wouldn't…" he breathes, "come here."

You push yourself away from the back of the couch, nearly falling off entirely. You get a foot under you and sway as you search for your balance. Your skin tingles and your ears buzz.

He scoffs and kicks the body. The man rolls over and coughs again. As you come around, you recognise him. Dominic. The man who killed your husband. The same who put this man on your tail.

"How…"

You yelp as John moves towards you. He has your hand in his and forces it around the gun. You whimper as he drags you over to Dominic, holding your arm straight as he directs the muzzle down at the man.

"No more running," he declares, "he's the last one…"

"John," you gulp as you struggle with him, too weak to do much more than squirm.

"All of them."

"I can't–"

"You can. You want to," he turns and looks you in the face. You meet his gaze sheepishly, a sheen of tears blurring him, "I know you will. For us."

He squeezes your hand and you murmur. He lets you go and takes a step back. Dominic writhes and sputters, a crackly noise which could be a laugh.

"Feels… right," he gulps out as he trembles helplessly, his lips grey as his life slowly seeps away, "kill me like I killed–"

You don't let him finish. You pull the trigger. He will not say his name. Never again.

You quiver as you stand frozen above the bloody ruin. The hole in his chest leaks red and spills over, staining the carpet around him. Your chest rises and falls deeply, your ears ringing, hands hot around the gun.

John closes his fingers over yours. You let him take the gun. He nudges your hand down and turns you away from your victim. Your vengeance.

When you can think again, you're back on the couch. He's there too. You can't see him but you hear bristles scrubbing against the wood.

You close your eyes again. That's what you do. You hide.

⏳

He wakes you with a touch. So light, so gentle, almost afraid. A hint of iron remains in the air. You open your eyes to him as he drags his fingers along the thin fabric of your nightgown.

It's different. He's not there to dress your wound. You see it in the depths of his eyes, so dark you can hardly see the pupils.

A new current of adrenaline swells through you. His fingers graze across the hem and hesitate. He meets your bare thighs and you twitch. You can't remember the last time anyone touched you like this.

Or looked at you like he does.

It's not the same. It can never be what you had before. But you know this man. You know what he's capable of. With men like him, it's best to embrace the light side to keep out of the dark.

You look past him, to the ceiling, the orange glow pulsing around his silhouette. You shiver and part your legs. He's never been much for words, has he?

He brushes down your pelvis. You hold your breath, goosebumps prickling along the path of his touch. It's like fire and ice. It hurts but feels so good. Numbing yet electrifying.

He glides along your lips. You suck in air sharply as he patiently explores, tickling, feeling, prodding, delving into your folds with a curious sort of eagerness.

He leans over you as you gasp. His fingertips send a thill through you, rolling over your tender bud in an easy but intoxicating motion. He bends closer until his lips meet your cheek. He growls and it flows through you.

He kisses along your cheek, his breath hot as it fans over you. His lips find yours and you let him kiss you. The more he touches you, the further he figures you out, the less you feel like yourself. Your body isn't yours, he's claiming that too.

He rubs you cloyingly. Teasing you until your muscles clench in need. His fingers glide back as his tongue pokes between your lips. You squeak as he urges into you, the heel of his large hand resting against your swollen bud. 

He rocks deliberately, building a tension, shifting just a little as he swallows down your mewls. His lips leave yours, trailing down your chin and along your throat. Another wave flows over you.

He guides the thin strap of the nightie down and pecks along your collarbone. Your chest pounds and your breath hitches. You're caught in his thrall.

He nuzzles the curve of your chest. He follows the line of your cleavage as his rough lips send tendrils across your skin. He puffs and nips at the soft flesh, toying with you between his teeth. 

His hand tilts as he slides deeper, curling his fingers as the pressure pools in your core. He continues his intent journey down your body, laying a path of kisses over your stomach. He urges your legs wider as he moves around your knee, positioning himself on the cushion beneath you.

He pulls back to watch himself play with you. His face blazes with the hue of the fireplace and his burning need. He bends over your pelvis, his hair draping down to tickle your stomach and hips.

Chills like a tide, endless and building, building, building. The coolness of his tongue sinks into you, burying in your warmth. He keeps his hand rocking, methodic as ever.

You push your hands against the couch. You're sinking, drowning. The finality of your surrender consumes you.

He laps at you, like a man in the desert. Your leg bends against him, his arm looping beneath as he dives in further. 

You close your eyes as they sear, tears beading in your lashes. What you want, who you want, you'll never have again. He is what you get. You were only ever a prize, you never got one yourself.

He wiggles his fingers tauntingly before slipping them free. Your eyelids part as he raises his head, his breath fluttering over your pelvis. He smears your arousal down your thigh and gives a gentle kiss to the soft patch of hair at the crux of your vee.

He grunts as he lifts himself, sitting on his knees. You bat your lashes as he peers down at you. You exhale and flick your eyes up to the ceiling. The blankness beckons to you.

You feel him shift, jostling you on the couch, then a whisper of fabric and the rough callous of his fingertips. His hands brush up your pelvis and stomach, before retreating to your thighs, kneading as he leans over you.

You whimper as you feel him against you. You return to the present as your eyes detach from the plaster and find his. He bends over you, planting his arm across the couch above you. You guides his tip along your cunt and you hold your breath.

You press your hands to his chest and bite your lip as he slowly invades. It is just like him. The subtle build up to the inevitable.

You let him in, curling your fingers against him. You focus on the dark bruise beside your index and push on it as he sinks in deeper. He growls as he does, a snarl laced with pain and delight.

As he reaches his limit, he rises to sit back on his knees, jerking his hips against you. You moan as he catches your hand and puts it back against the purplish blemish, urging you to press until he groans. He pulls you up into his lap, your head lolling as you hang limp in his embrace.

He keeps your fingers against the bruised flesh as he rocks you against him. You grip him with your other hand, nails digging into his shoulder. He grunts and grazes his teeth along your ear.

"Hurt me," he rasps as he gropes your ass desperately, "please… I want to feel you. I want to feel everything."

You squeeze harder, until you sense the skin about to break. You heave as you hook your arm around his neck, bucking in his lap as you chase the coiling climax. You want to feel too.

Something. Anything.

🛋️

A white dress. That’s what you’re wearing in the photograph. The other half of the picture is gone, a jagged tear down the middle. You’re smiling but the reason why is missing. Seeing that photo rent in two is harder even than facing that truth alone. Your husband is gone.

There’s another white dress. Spread out beneath the photo, with a veil and set of hair pins. You sit beside the swath of ivory and bend the worn corner of the picture with your thumb. You turn it over and read again the slanted cursive scrawl.

‘You look good in white’.

A message that wasn’t there the last time you held that picture. 

Your stomach churns as you place the photograph on the other side of you. You look around the room and feel the heat scalding your chest. This place is safe, just like he said, but only because he won’t let you out.

When he comes, he says as little as ever. He only checks your wounds and leaves something to eat or read or wear. Like a warden.

You miss the sunshine, you miss the fragrant fields, and the billowing clouds. You miss the smell of baking bread and the cool breeze stirring the curtains. You miss when life felt like living.

You stand and take the dress without looking at it. He thinks this is mercy. How can it be when it is worse than death?

John can be a good man. Decent, dependable, devoted. But he is just another bad man. The kind you vowed years ago that you were done with. Detached, deadly, destructive.

You never wanted someone to kill for you, you only wanted someone to live with you. What you've been doing is less than. Existing but not living. Healing but thriving. There but somewhere else.

He's still a stranger to you. All you know about him is that he's like any other man you've known. Deadly, stubbornly so.

You step into the white dress and pull the fabric up your body. You shiver as it brushes over the rigid skin of your scar. The ghost of his touch crawls over you, rough but careful. 

You hook the straps over your shoulders and strain to zip the back. The fabric closes around you snuggly, perfectly encasing your figure. The details are never missed and never wrong.

You step into the satin toed shoes. A wave of deja vu washes over you. Dressed in white and filled with dread.

You pick up the veil and examine the embroidered edge. Beautiful but ill-suited to you. You expected a funeral shroud by now. 

You go to the mirror and work at pinning the veil. Your blood turns cold as your vision pinpoints and you see yourself. The ramshackle bride.

'Til death…'

You cried at your first wedding, you have no tears for the second. Happy, sad, or otherwise.

The door opens behind you, drawing you from your grey reverie. There's nothing you have to miss yet you are wistful. You don't long for what you had, but what you could never have.

You look at him in the mirror. You see only his shoulder at the edge of the reflection. He watches you back. You flinch as coolness touches your knuckles.

You turn and look down at Bubba as he noses your hand. You notice the bowtie at his neck. Oddly endearing in the circumstance.

John waits. Silently. That's how it's been. No more talking. From either of you.

You spread your hand over Bubba's thick skull and rub his soft fur. He wiggles and lurches ahead. You follow him with a shuddery breath.

John's dark gaze roves over you, from head to foot. As you near, he reaches to straighten the veil before pulling it forward. The world obscures on the other side of the lace. He offers his arm and you take it. 

As lightning strikes behind the man and his dog, a startled gasp spills from your mouth. 

Clients don’t come in at this hour. Ten years as a veterinarian and this would be a first. 

Long, inky strands and a well-trimmed beard frame the man’s face. Dark eyes, as black as the night shrouding his tall frame, trail on you as he lumbers inside. 

The first words that leave his mouth are closer to a gruff snarl than coherent speech.

"I need you to keep him."

You clench the edge of your desk, the wood beneath your fingers centering you.

"Sir, this isn’t a shelter," you cautiously reply.

None of this fits, or makes sense. Not the expensive black suit. Not the grim-faced man wearing it. And definitely not the dog he came barging in with currently nuzzling your ankle. 

"Won’t be long. Just got some…business in town."

"Sir…"

"Just call me John."

"Look, John-" His hair sways as he leans against the wall, clutching his ribs. Noticing the wet spot growing on his crisp shirt, you pause. "You need medical attention."

"I’m fine," he says between labored exhales. It’s when your eyes roam over him once more. Sweat dots his forehead and multiple cuts and bruises are scattered over every inch of exposed skin. And then there’s the sickly pallor of his complexion.

Should this man be alive? Walking? You’re not entirely sure.

Crimson droplets drip down to his feet, staining the white floor. He groans. The dark circles around his slanted dark orbs spell weariness like you’ve never seen. A scowl carves your brow as you approach him. He tenses when you do, suddenly alert, gaze knife-sharp. A clear warning hangs in the air and it clogs your throat. 

Danger, danger. Every single hair on your skin bristles. 

You should probably run the other way. You’re not sure how you know…you just know.

Instead, you raise your palms, chuckling.

"I just want to help," you say. 

He stares at you for an unnerving stretch of time before giving a slow nod.

Stepping closer, you place your hand on his arm, helping him to the examination table. He shifts his stance, trying to press as little of his weight on you. The strain it puts on him is obvious. 

He plops down heavily on the table, breathing deep and letting his hands fall on his thighs. 

After a hasty search, you retrieve gauze, bandages and rubbing alcohol from the cabinets. 

"Any of that I can drink?" the man inquires as you put down the bottle of antiseptic. 

You roll your eyes.

"This is a clinic, John." Licking your lips, you toss a meaningful glance at his blood-soaked shirt. "I need to take a closer look at that wound."

He grunts and you read that as a positive answer. Your cheeks radiate heat as you assist him in removing his jacket and his shirt. The material looks incredibly expensive - like one of those three piece Italian suits guys in finance wear to preen around New York - but the stranger doesn’t look like a Wall Street guy. In fact, it’s hard to pinpoint what he does for a living.

Clearing your throat, your focus is drawn to the deep, jagged cut streaking across his ribs. It’s ugly, steadily bleeding, possibly fatal if not tended to as fast as possible. Again, you wonder, should this man be alive?

"You’re in much worse shape than your dog," you note.

"Didn’t know you guys did humans too," he deadpans.

Applying pressure on the wound with your hands, your lips tug in a small smile. "You’re my first human in ten years."

There isn’t a single flinch from him as you rub alcohol on his wound. 

He tonelessly replies, "That’s…reassuring." A sly gibe or a plain statement? Hard to tell. His blank expression yields nothing, neither concern nor mockery. 

Shrugging, you begin burying a needle in his flesh. As the sharp metal stitches his flesh together, John remains unmoved. 

He watches you with those sharp, unsettling eyes and you keep your fingers as steady as possible. 

"An injured animal is an injured animal," you mumble, wholly focused on sewing him back together. Blood stains the bandage you wrap around his midriff. You make it as tight as possible. 

Silence shrouds you both for a while. When you’re done, you wipe your forehead. The black pitbull jumps on John’s lap, licking his face, and you get a glimpse of the precise moment the stony-faced man expression melts just a little. He loves his dog. Whoever this John guy is, he can’t be that bad, can he?

As he puts his clothes back on, you turn your head, trying not to look. A plethora of scars map his pale skin. Your lips bunch in thought. It must have hurt. None of the scars is a perfect line. They’re all slanted and puckered, signifying a lifetime of hurt.

Gulping a lungful of air to alleviate the weight of your thoughts, you stumble away from him. Keeping your hands busy unburdens your mind. The man’s a mystery, yes, but it’s one you do not wish to unravel. Not in a city where crime is so high that you’ve only slightly beaten the odds by somehow remaining alive. 

You rummage through the cabinet, retrieving a few bottles of pills you apologetically squeeze in front of him. There’s a tremble in your digits you hope eludes him. The thick lump stuck in your throat descends as you swallow. 

"Sorry. I only have painkillers…for cats and dogs."

He swipes them from your hand without hesitation as you gawk at him, slack jawed.

"It’ll do."

Empty-handed, you frown. He’s walking to the front door, groaning as he slips his jacket on. The dog follows after him but John makes a gesture with his hand and, swiftly, the pitbull finds your feet and stays there. 

An anxious chortle escapes your throat.

"Wait, John, what do I do with-"

He’s already outside the door, raindrops pelting his suit, as he interrupts, "I’ll come get him in a few days." 

"A few days? I can’t…"

Thunder roars outside and you shudder. John’s dark hair clings to his cheeks as rain pours over him. He peers from you to his dog, then you again. 

In the end, you just nod, your resolve shriveling beneath his heavy stare. 

For whatever reason, this man needs you to babysit his dog. For whatever reason, you just accepted. 

He disappears like he came. Quietly.

You sigh, hunkering down to scratch behind the pitbull’s ears. 

"Guess we’re stuck together, buddy."

🖤

More than a few days come and go before you see John again.

He shows up one morning without warning.

You don’t hide your shock as you open the door, speechless at the sight of the man who darkens your doorstep. Gone is the dark suit and grim expression. Instead, you’re faced with an impeccably groomed man in a clean shirt and brown leather jacket with a bunch of flowers in his hands, one with a wide smile on his features. Though it looks a little pained, as if his face struggles to remember that simple action. 

Most of the cuts have healed and he appears almost normal. Almost.

You scowl at the flowers, tremors traveling through you once you realize they’re red roses. Fingers clenching on the doorframe, you inquire,

"I never thought I’d see you again." Mulling over your next words, you send him a faint smile. "How did you find me?"

He knows where you live. 

As a scream claws inside your chest, your mouth quakes, struggling to keep the false smile intact. You’re very, very far from your phone. It's somewhere on your bed, thoughtlessly, stupidly discarded.

"I’ve got my ways," he replies, hands shoved in his pockets. When he inches closer, you step back. John halts in his tracks. His face falls, blank and unreadable again. His deep voice resonates softly. "I’m not gonna hurt you, angel."

You open your mouth but the eager pitbull races from across the house, leaping in John’s arms. You reluctantly take the flowers from him. They’re heavy in your arms. 

"That’s a good boy," he says, praising the dog. His whiskey orbs sparkle as he pets the animal, the only hint of emotion on his face.

While the dog licks his face, he stares at you. 

"I just wanted to thank you."

You shrug, a bit more relaxed now that he’s gotten his dog back. There was something off about John from the start. You don’t want to dig any further.

"He’s a good dog." You glance at the flowers with a frown. "Well. You got him back so…"

"We should have dinner sometime."

Your eyes bulge as they rise to meet his face, his blunt words staggering you. It’s not what you expected. Panic soars inside you as you scramble for an excuse.

"I’m not sure. I’m pretty busy, the entire week-"

John hums low in his throat and your mouth slams shut. He looks you straight in the eyes, stating matter-of-factly,

"You don’t work Wednesday afternoons and you close early on Fridays. Your weekends are free unless you get called in for an emergency, which hasn’t happened since January. You love your job, but you like to make time for hobbies, friends and…dating."

Your jaw might as well hit the floor. You haven’t seen this man in weeks and he has your entire schedule memorized and has intimate knowledge of your habits.

Bottom lip quaking, you grip the handle of the door.

"You need to go, John."

Undeterred, he examines you before unleashing a deep sigh. The dog jumps to his feet, trailing after him when he starts to walk away.

"See you soon, angel."

Your chest clenches as you push the door closed. It sounded like a promise.

🖤

John doesn’t stop with a mere visit at your house. In fact, he starts showing up everywhere you are. At first, you don’t recognize the sleek black car, confused about the vehicle parked across the street during random hours of the day, at your house, at your job, whenever you’re out. 

You refuse to believe it but then, you receive gifts everyday, all delivered with a small white card covered in John’s neat handwriting. 

For my angel

Your stomach does a flip every time you see the pet name with his name signed in cursive.

He doesn’t skimp on the cost. From expensive jewelry and clothes to extravagant flower arrangements, each day you get another gift that expands your discomfort.

And then there’s his constant presence everywhere you are, crawling at the edge of your sight. You can’t prove it, that those brief glimpses of him are even real. One second you’re having coffee and he’s staring at you, casually sitting across a diner, then you blink and, suddenly, he’s gone. More ghost than man, you’re not entirely sure if John is part of an excruciatingly vivid nightmare you’re having. But the paranoia and sleepless nights are very real. 

It reaches a peak one day. It’s the middle of the night and you’re tossing and turning, an unfortunately familiar wave of ice spreading through your limbs. 

Someone’s outside your house. The certitude burns in your gut.

Tying a robe around you and burying your feet in fuzzy slippers, you climb down the stairs and open the front door with quivering hands. 

Your blood races at the sight of the black mustang you’ve come to know all too well. It’s right across the street. 

Rubbing your arms, you march straight toward the car. 

Heart bouncing in your chest, you knock on the tinted window.

The window lowers, revealing John’s face. His beard’s grown a little since you last saw him. New cuts adorn his face. Wild strands of hair frame his face. There are dark rings below his eyes, but his gaze is eerily sharp and alert. You wrap your arms around yourself more snuggly.

"John, this has to stop," you plead, your voice quavering. You hesitate before adding, "I told you…I’m not interested." Your brows crumple. "For God’s sake, I don’t even know you, John!"

He suddenly opens the car door and you fall back, your head spinning when he stands to his full height. 

"Then get to know me, angel. That's all I’m asking," he says, his slow steps bringing him closer to you. Your voice rises in desperation.

"I’m gonna call the police if this keeps going, John."

"Cause they sure did a lot to help last time, huh, angel?"

Your eyes widen.

"H-How do you know that?" you stammer, fear robbing you of the ability to make a single move. Since he came to your house, you’ve tried to get a restraining order against John, multiple times. All your requests were met with mockery and apathy. The policemen poked fun at the 'invisible man' chasing you. Knowing this was all John’s sinister doing sends a shudder through your spine. 

His shoulders lift as he gives a nonchalant response. 

"Lots of old friends there." As you lower your head, John approaches. Looming over you, he cradles your face between his hands. They’re big and warm. It should feel nice. Instead, you’re horrified. 

"The world, it’s ugly…dangerous. I just want to protect you," he intones.

"I don’t need you to protect me."

You try to look away but his grip on your face is firm. 

"Get in the car, angel. That’s the easy way."

The order’s spoken too tenderly for what he’s asking of you, or rather demanding. An impulse propels your body on its own and your hand flies towards his cheek. John seizes your wrists before you can hit him. You exhale sharply.

John shakes his head, slight disappointment etched on his face. It mingles with resignation. 

"The hard way, then," he grumbles. 

Before you can react, he grabs you and slams your head against the hood of his car. Right away, dark spots clog your vision. 

Pain echoes through you, your consciousness quickly fading away.

John rocks you against him and mutters reassurances against your throbbing temple.

"I’m sorry, angel."

🖤

You wake up on a plush bed, soft and warm like your own. And it’s where you believe yourself to be at first, home. With dread, the swift recognition that you’re in a strange place punches you square in the face as your lids flutter open. Even worse, John’s tranquil expression fills your vision. Dressed in slacks and a tight white tee, he’s sitting in front of you, quiet and relaxed.

"Where am I?" you instantly inquire, wincing at the pain reverberating through your skull. John doesn’t reply, watching you as you bolt upright, running around the pristine apartment…loft…castle. You’re not sure. You just know it’s palatial and there’s only you and John. And you’re scared.

Getting out is the only thing on your mind, but all the light comes from the ceiling with no window in sight. Where’s the exit? The rush of salt and water scorches your eyes. "Help!" you screech, frantically searching for a way out, despite the awful truth being all around you.

John rises to his feet and crosses his arms.

"Scream as loud as you want, angel," he says. "This place is secluded. There’s only the three of us here."

Three…

You gasp, realizing his dog is sprawled on the couch, oblivious to your distress. Tears drip down your face.

"You’re crazy."

John seems to mull over your accusation, then sighs.

"Maybe, but this is your home now. Our home."

"Please, John…" you weep. 

He gives a painful shadow of a smile. 

"It won’t be forever, just until I sort things out, make sure you’re safe." A trembling breath jostles your frame. You gape at John, wide-eyed. This can’t be real. He cannot mean this will be your life now. Unperturbed, he continues. "Then I can retire. And always be with you, angel."

The steps he takes in your direction are unhurried. You stumble back, blood pumping an uproar through your veins. 

"John…if you care about me at all, please take me home," you beseech, your tone shaky.

John cocks his head, squinting at you. 

"You’re not listening, sweetie. This is your home."

A loud sob tumbles from your lips.

"No."

You begin dashing away from John, but he captures you with astonishing quickness, plucking you mid-run and hoisting you over his shoulder. Much like a caveman would. 

"John! John! Let me down," you yell, tears stinging your eyes.

He takes long, quick strides to his bedroom then locks it while you bang furiously on his back. He either doesn’t feel it or doesn’t care.

When he places you on the bed, your instant instinct is to climb off it, or try to at least.

John pins you down. His hand circles your wrist, his grip like iron despite the finger you notice he’s missing. 

"Keep trying to run, angel. It makes me so hard when you do," he rasps, his measured breaths gliding over your face.

His other hand roams over your lips. He tarries, taking his time drinking you in. His fingers hover around your neck, pressing lightly. Lust flares John’s pupils when he descends to your chest. Its up and down motions are quick and uneven from terror.

"I don't want that," you mumble.

A sweet kiss drops on your forehead. 

"You will. I’ll make sure of it."

His palm slides beneath your shirt. Your mouth parts as John cups your breast, drawing circles with his thumb over your nipple. 

He leans down to kiss you, slow and deep. His beard scratches your chin. John wiggles his hips into yours and your mouth goes dry. The weight of John’s hard cock is thick and hot against your thigh.

"I’ve been thinking about this since I met you," he moans. "Haven’t felt this way…for a really long time." Your breath hitches as John’s mouth lowers. He trails fevered pecks all over your neck and collarbone. "Not since Helen," he adds, his voice so low you only hear because his mouth is so close to your earshell. 

His fingers travel down to your hip then find the zipper and buttons of your jeans. Quick work is made of them. Soon, John’s hand covers your heated core, the heel of his palm grazing your heap of nerves. Your teeth sink into your lip to imprison the sharp cry building in your throat.

"You feel so good, angel. Just like I dreamed."

Air rushes to your lungs when John slides one finger inside your panties, pushing past your slickening folds. 

"I’m gonna make sure it’s you and I forever. Kill them all if I have to."

You have no idea what John’s going on about, your mind foggy as he pumps his finger in and out of you. 

When a second of his long, calloused fingers joins the first, you emit a sharp keen, your back arching. You don’t see straight anymore. Only John and his wicked digits inside you. 

At first, his precautions were subtle, a car that seemed to appear nearby whenever you were out, security measures you never noticed because they were designed that way. It was reasonable, necessary. The world was dangerous, and he was just protecting you from all dangers you couldn’t see, but not long after that, protecting you was no longer enough, knowing where you were wasn’t enough, having guards nearby wasn’t enough. Every moment you spent beyond his reach became another opportunity for something terrible to happen. Another chance for the universe to steal from him again.

Eventually, John stopped trusting the world with your safety altogether. So he took you. Makes sense, doesn’t it?

It wasn’t a kidnapping, John refused to call it that because there was no dramatic chase through dark streets or ransom note left behind. One day your life belonged to you, and the next it didn’t. That’s it. Done deal. To John, none of this was cruelty, in his mind you were protected, fed, clothed, comfortable, and loved. No one could hurt you, no one could threaten you, no one could take you away from him. It was perfect, you were going to be happy.

But that was John’s perspective. From yours, there was no difference between protection and imprisonment. The house was a cage no matter how luxurious it was, the guards were jailers no matter how polite they behaved and every attempt to leave was met with firm refusal and every conversation eventually circled back to the same unavoidable truth. You were not free.

John Wick had kidnapped you. Whether he intended it or not, he had become both your protector and your captor, the warden of a prison built from obsession, grief, and the refusal to lose another person he loved. Your relationship with him had hardly been what most people would call a relationship.

For weeks, perhaps even months, John had existed at the edges of your life like a shadow. He came and went as he pleased, often disappearing for hours or days at a time before returning without explanation. When he was present, he rarely spoke, conversations with him were brief things, usually consisting of a few clipped sentences before silence reclaimed the room, but despite how little he talked, he touched you often. A hand settling against the small of your back as he guided you through a doorway, fingers brushing loose strands of hair from your face, a thumb grazing your cheek, a reassuring squeeze to your thigh whenever you became agitated during one of your many arguments.

John was not a particularly affectionate man by nature, that much you had learned quickly but in his own deeply flawed way, you knew John loved you. It had taken time to realize it, not that you had accepted it, but eventually you did come to understand that his actions were not born from malice. He genuinely believed he was caring for you. He worried when you were sick, remembered things you mentioned in passing, brought you books he thought you might enjoy, made sure you ate, made sure you slept but understanding that didn't make your situation any less frightening. You have fought from the very beginning, you tried to escape more times than you could count, you tested locks, memorized guard rotations, slipped notes where you thought someone might find them, you argued until your throat hurt and refused every explanation he offered. You were, in every sense of the word, a nuisance. A stubborn, relentless thorn lodged firmly beneath the skin of the great Baba Yaga himself.

John Wick could hunt men across continents, he could track targets who spent fortunes trying to disappear. Entire organizations feared him, yet somehow, he couldn't make one infuriating person cooperate.

You simply refused, refused to listen, refused to obey. You just wouldn’t listen. Even when he told you, this is better, you’re safe, I’m protecting you.

His last straw when your latest escape attempt. You had gotten surprisingly far, and someone, a man whose name you couldn’t recall anymore, even stopped to help you. You very quickly regretted accepting his help, because he didn’t live long once John set his eyes on him.

And this sparked, in Johns eyes, a brand new issue. This man, who was now a smear on the wall, hadn’t known who you belonged to. If he had, he never would have stopped to help you!

this was about preventing another tragedy, about ensuring that nobody would ever mistake you for someone unclaimed, someone alone, someone they could simply take away, but regardless of what he called it, the impulse came from the same place. Ideas had a way of burrowing into people, and John Wick, for all his discipline, had become dangerously attached to one specifically.

He needed to, not that you were cattle for slaughter in any way, tag you.

You were far too insubordinate to actually wear whatever necklace he bought you, and while he had tattoos of his own, he didn’t particularly want you to get one, but that could have very well have been an excuse he told himself, because, not as deep down as you’d think, the idea of taking a knife to your skin did thrill him. John didn’t think he was a sadist, but he’s been wrong before so he didn’t dwell on it.

He didn’t really dwell on anything really, certainly not the way you whimpered, whined and cried as he slowly dragged the tip of his blade into you soft, pliable flesh.

John watched your face, saw the way your eyes fluttered closed, the way your bottom lip trembled and he pushed it aside, focusing instead on the task at hand.

He had chosen the spot carefully, the space beneath your collarbone, where the bone jutted out slightly, a delicate valley of skin. He wanted it to be visible, a constant reminder of who you belonged to. He wanted it to hurt, not just because he took pleasure in your pain, he did, he derived far too much pleasure than he should, but also because he wanted you to remember, to never forget that the more you run away, the more harsher precautions he’ll take. For your safety. Why won’t you understand that?

John could feel your heart racing, your body tensing as he pressed the tip deeper into your flesh. A small bead of blood welled up and he began to slowly move the blade, oh so carefully carving his initials into your skin.

Yes, it was a brutal, primitive act, a far cry from the elegant, deadly ballet he was known for, but couldn’t you see that you made him do this? He didn’t want to, not really. This is your fault, not his. In a way, he was the victim.

You cried out, a sound that shouldnt have been music to his ears but was, and your body bucked, trying to dislodge him, but John was unmovable. He held you down with ease, his gaze never wavering from the task. John worked quickly, efficiently, his movements precise, calculated, just like they always were, he knew exactly what he was doing, exactly how much pressure to apply, exactly how deep to go to ensure it scarred and remained with you long after it healed.

This was just another job, really. But he wasn’t going to kill you. Oh, he’d never.

After he finished the last stroke, he stepped back to admire his handiwork.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry—“ you cried, still reeling from the fear and the pain, “I—I just—“

“I know,” he replied calmly, finally having something to say after all this time, “you just wanted to go home,” he finished your sentence, “but you are home.”

“John—“