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johnwickb1tsch · 3 months

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bittersweet ~ a yandere!John Wick x fem!reader sunshine/grump coffee shop AU... Part 11 all chapters

-You fly into Rome on a beautiful June day with an ache in your heart you can’t quite shake. You throw yourself into the sights, visiting museums, soaking up the beautiful art and the Mediterranean sunshine. You see things in person that you’d only seen in art history books before, and as an artist you know you are forever changed. You meet plenty of interesting travelers in your hostel, but no one who quite holds your attention, or your imagination, the way the memory of Mr. Wick does.

Italy is beautiful, but the men are exhausting. Not all the men. Just the continual stream of the ones who find you on the street, see a young lady traveling alone and take it as license to bother you. Constantly. More than once, when you turn down their offers of whatever, as politely as you can in your broken Italian, they get nasty.

It’s a relief in a way when you pair up with a kind young man from Argentina to go see the Vatican. No one bothers you, and you have fun, but it’s not exactly what you want.

You actually like being alone, and in others casual company you find that you itch to steal away to a quiet corner to read or sketch or write in your journal. You revel in this special kind of solitude, being a solo traveler in a strange land, not needing to cater to the wants and whims of anyone else for once.

When Javier tries to kiss you on the Ponte Sant’Angelo, you cannot help but feel as though you are being watched. He’s a good-looking young man, funny and sweet and you enjoy his company. At any other time in your life you would have happily lost yourself in a fling. But you know you wish you were looking into a very different pair of dark eyes, and you turn your head at the last minute, receiving soft lips on the cheek.

“Javi…” you sigh with regret, holding distance between you with a hand on his chest.

“Sorry,” he apologizes, clearly crestfallen.

“It’s ok.”

You’re not mad. You’re just…sad—and you’re not sure why you can’t kick this melancholy longing and enjoy yourself in this beautiful place. You feel like you’re walking around with a hole in your heart, and it’s all Mr. Wick’s fault, the big idiot.

After a week you move on to Florence, and the museums there fill your days. You see so many wonderful things, from the statue of David in the Galleria dell’Accademia, the wonderful paintings in the Uffizi gallery, the splendor of the Duemo... You fall in love all over again with Botticelli, Bellini, Lippi and Uccello and Tiziano and so many others.

You also see a sun-bronzed old man masturbating unabashedly on a blanket in the park, but that’s Italy for you, apparently.

You still feel as though you are being watched, but you never find the source of this weird feeling between your shoulder blades. You try to shrug it off, going for long walks along the Arno between snacks and visits to this galleria or that.

Before you leave the city you go to a book binder’s shop Mr. Wick told you about that has been in business for literal centuries. They have such wonderful things, books with leather covers and gilded arabesques, ornate handmade papers and parchment. You pick up a blank journal for Mr. Wick. It’s small, but its all you can afford. It’s beautifully made, and you hope he’ll like it.

Venice is beautiful, but so very infuriating.

You manage in a blunder on the very first day to drop your phone, cracking the screen into a thousand spiderwebs. It renders the maps you downloaded utterly useless, and you try to go the paper route, but you are lost for the umpteenth time in the maze of small side streets and canals when a seemingly helpful middle-aged construction worker takes pity on you and offers to lead you back to a main road.

At least you think that’s what he says, but after five minutes you realize you read the situation so very wrong, when you find yourself in a dead-ended alley and the older man is puckering his lips at you. It would have been comical on screen, perhaps, but in real life you are not amused. He’s big, but not fast. You’re glad for your flat sandals as you duck under his outstretched arms and dash away down the street, thinking you can’t possibly get yourself any more lost than you already are.

You look over your shoulder to check if he’s pursuing you, and run into something immoveable. You hit so hard you bounce, and you might have ended up in the canal, had strong arms not wrapped around you.

Oh no.

Fearing you may have landed yourself out of the frying pan and into the fire, you try to squirm away.

“Y/n?”

Recognizing that voice, you freeze for a moment, before actually bothering to look up at who has you in hand.

It’s none other than Mr. John Wick.

A nearly unbearable flood of surprise and excitement fills you from your hair follicles to the tips of your toes.

“What are you doing here?” you demand, and maybe it sounds more like an accusation than it should.

“Tying up some loose ends,” he answers vaguely. “Is he bothering you?”

You look over your shoulder to see the construction worker has emerged from the alley, and is stumping your way.

“Yes.”

The worker airs some dramatic-sounding complaint with John, waving his hands animatedly. John’s answer is much less musical, but perfectly pronounced, and you’re pretty sure he told the guy to get the fuck out of here.

Grumbling, your suitor goes in the opposite direction, talking to himself as he does and gesturing with his arms to no one but the audience in his own mind.

So melodramatic.

You cannot help but notice Mr. Wick still has his arms around you, glaring at the man until he disappears around a corner. You are still breathing heavily from your little mad dash, steadying yourself with hands on the flat plane of his chest. John finally looks back down to you, his eyes fixating on your lips before valiantly rising back to meet your gaze, his fingertips digging slightly into your sides.

You rack your brains for something to say, when all you really want to do is grab the lapels of his beautiful suit jacket, stand on tiptoe and press your lips to his.

“I…thought you were retired?”

It seems he only reluctantly lets you go after that, the tips of his fingers sliding from your ribcage. Immediately you feel the loss of his strong hands.

“I try to be,” he quips, almost evasively. “Why aren’t you in Rome?” He asks this as if you are the one who is in a place you’re not supposed to be.

“I…saw everything I wanted to see?”

Only then does he finally offer you a smile. It’s almost boyish, and it pulls at your heartstrings with a vengeance. You look him over. It might be the first time you’ve seen him wearing anything but all black, in a light grey summer weight suit with an airy white button down open at the throat.

He looks, if you may be frank, utterly edible.

“It's good to see you,” he says almost shyly, as though he's afraid you might not feel the same.

If only you could tell him that you've thought about him every day since you've been gone.

“I’m very glad to see you,” you dare to admit. “It's a small world, I guess.”

You decide not to think about what a strange coincidence it is, running into this man in a back alley in Venice. At the moment, you simply don’t care. It’s as though for once the Universe was paying attention to your heart’s yearnings and delivered on it in the flesh.

“Yeah. So...where are you headed?”

You sigh, and very sorely wish you could hang your head on the solid plane that is his chest again. Your desire to be held by this man is an ache in your very bones.

“I don't even know. I'm so lost.”

Usually you have a decent sense of direction, but this fucking city has you walking in circles. Usually that's fine too, but you've never felt so hunted in your life.

“Would you... like to come to lunch with me? I'm on my way to meet an old friend. He would love to meet you.”

For a moment you are dumbfounded to receive such an invitation. But then, you look down at yourself in your colorfully cute but obviously cheap sundress, then look at him in his smart suit that probably cost more than your car.

“That's so sweet, John, but I'm sure I'm not dressed to go wherever you're going.”

“What do you mean? You look beautiful.”

You look back up to him, open mouthed. He's never really said anything outright like that to you. It feels ridiculously good to hear it. Warmth floods you from head to toe. You know you are blushing, maybe even glowing, but it’s hard to feel too embarrassed when he looks at you like that.

“Thanks.”

He reaches up very slowly, just barely brushing your chin with his knuckle. “Come with me.” His voice is low, soft even, yet somehow adamant. It induces a flutter in your heart—and an ache in your loins. You like to think you are not easily led, but you wouldn't have dreamed of arguing with him now.

“Alright.”

His pleased smile is a balm to your earlier frustration. For the first time since you got off the train and promptly got lost trying to find your hostel, you feel like you can relax in this maze of a city. You didn’t realize it before, but you haven’t felt safe for weeks.

He offers you his arm.

The gesture is sweet, and gallant, and maybe you lean against him a little more than you need to. His arm is dizzyingly solid beneath your fingers, and you can’t help but feel a little giddy as you stroll together towards your destination.

#heeeeeeeeere we go!#maniacal laughter #john wick #john wick fic #john wick x you #john wick x y/n #john wick x reader #keanu reeves #keanu reeves x reader #yandere john wick #bittersweet john wick imagine

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thegianpieromennitipolis · 2 years

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Da: SGUARDI SULL’ARTE LIBRO TERZO - di Gianpiero Menniti

L’UMANO POTENZIALE

Il “Rinascimento” mi ha sempre colpito per le immagini ispirate al mito antico, pagano, politeista. Non dovrebbe sorprendere: il Cristianesimo ha sempre tratto a piene mani dalle rappresentazioni sacre precedenti all’età “volgare”, piegandole, adattandole, assorbendole. Eppure, tra il ‘400 e il ‘500, il recupero dell’antico tende a sfrondarsi da escrescenze e stratificazioni, libero persino di ritornare sulle tracce di Ovidio e delle sue “metamorfosi”. Questo è un tema irrisolto, una questione che si prolunga fino agli anni del Barocco. E oltre. Tollerata dalle gerarchie ecclesiastiche perché salda nella convinzione della “catena aurea” propugnata dalla scuola neoplatonica di Marsilio Ficino, nella cosmopolita Firenze medicea? Non fino in fondo: la reazione di Savonarola e dei suoi seguaci rompe fragorosamente l’idillio e manifesta un riflesso intransigente, non certo privo di una logica di fede che si riannoda al sentimento popolare. E la Roma “scandalosa” agli occhi dei luterani del nord Europa, rafforza la domanda: perché, nel cuore della cristianità, riferimenti così evidenti all’età pagana, anche indirettamente, affollano delle loro immagini le rappresentazioni artistiche? Una risposta possibile la si rintraccia nella “necessità” di un’estetica slegata dai vincoli della tradizione medievale. E’ una traccia. Ma non è sufficiente. Troppo debole. Anche se, quell’acutezza estetica, trova riverbero nelle rappresentazioni sacre del cristianesimo trionfante, proponendosi come modello di compiuta classicità. Guardando meglio, si osservano rivoli intrecciati intorno ai temi umanisti e poi rinascimentali: tra questi, l’apologetica curiale intorno al potere della Chiesa; in questo filone, ma con una visione più intensa nella ricerca teologico-filosofica, si affermò il “neoplatonismo” di Giovanni Bessarione e Niccolò Cusano; ancora, un altro modello di riferimento fa capo al classicismo dell’Accademia romana di Giulio Pomponio Leto, piuttosto estrema, dichiarata eretica e infine sciolta da Papa Paolo II. Un altro Papa, Pio II, reagì male all’elevazione del cosiddetto “Tempio Malatestiano” di Rimini al quale lavorarono Leon Battista Alberti, Agostino di Duccio e Matteo de’ Pasti. Ma la pluralità del pensiero umanista non è estranea a sommovimenti politici che, nella Roma e nelle capitali italiane del XV e XVI secolo, sono tutt’uno con le espressioni letterarie, architettoniche e artistiche. La chiesa cattolica non è un monolite: ospita la varietà intellettuale. Tratto tipico del potere. A differenza del “fanatismo” che è proprio della visione protestante. Oltre che di correnti filo-riformiste radicali in seno alla stessa Chiesa. Così, in un solco che non è mai lineare e uniforme, quelle immagini prendono vita. Tuttavia nulla mi potrà convincere che il primo cenno di quello sguardo al passato non sia il frutto di una suggestione antropologica molto profonda: gli Dei pagani rappresentano la potenza inespressa dell’umano. E sono anelito e simbolo di una possibilità: il sogno di uomini che possano farsi divini, superare i limiti del tempo e la fragilità dell’esistenza. Proiezione di mondi che oscillano tra un reale mondano e un “reale” ultraterreno, dove non solo le figure ma anche le architetture sono scenario di un “Olimpo” reinterpretato in chiave cristiana. Così, la bellezza e la forza della classicità, “rinascono” come segno ancestrale di superiorità tornato alla luce.

- Pietro Perugino (1448 - 1523): “Consegna delle chiavi a San Pietro”, 1481/1482, Cappella Sistina, Città del Vaticano

- Sandro Botticelli (1445 – 1510): “Nascita di Venere”, 1486, Galleria degli Uffizi, Firenze

- Michelangelo Buonarroti (1475 - 1564): “Centauromachia”, 1492, Casa Buonarroti, Firenze

- Raffaello Sanzio (1483 - 1520): “La disputa del Sacramento”, 1509, Stanza delle Segnatura, Musei Vaticani

- In copertina: Maria Casalanguida, "Bottiglie e cubetto", 1975, collezione privata

#thegianpieromennitipolis #pietro perugino #michelangelo #raffaello #botticelli #rinascimento

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