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#john wick au
boredth · 20 days
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In good hands
Inspired by @johnwickb1tsch's collab fic
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kiwisbell · 1 month
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helen ; chapter one
dear joel
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Si vis pacem, para bellum. Or, the inciting incident.
series masterlist | my masterlist pairing: joel miller x f!reader tags/warnings: 18+ (MDNI), john wick AU, (retired) hitman!joel, husband!joel, graphic violence, established relationship, artist!reader, love as worship (and blasphemy), blood + injuries, murder, cars, joel lifts reader once, reader has hair, oral sex (f receiving - aka munch!joel returns), married fluff, angst, threats of rape/SA, home invasion, disgusting awful men, childhood/religious trauma, the typical alcohol + smoking + profanity, erotic paintings, dividers by @/saradika word count: ~ 8.2k a/n: so i'm posting this and sprinting away because i'm terrified. that being said, this story means more to me than words can say and i sincerely hope you enjoy what i have to offer. thank you so much for reading, and please let me know what you think!! gigantic thanks to @cavillscurls for beta reading this chapter and being generally incredible throughout this whole process. i couldn't have done it without ya baby ❤️ next
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PREFACE
“Love is my mover, source of all I say.”
— The Divine Comedy: Inferno, Canto II.
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The blood is tangy, near-sweet, as he swipes his forearm over his mouth and smears crimson on his shirtsleeve. It tingles faintly on his lips and crackles, warm as the melt from a late-winter snow. He feels it settle in the grooves of his palms, the hairs of his beard. He’s drowning in it. 
Joel Miller grins as the punch rocks his jaw. 
His opponent hits hard, but he’s slow. He’ll take five punches in the time it takes to wind up for one. Joel brings his arm up to block the next and delivers a blow to the sternum with his knee as his opponent’s guard drops. Wide open, the man stumbles a few steps back, choking down the telltale wheeze of being winded. Joel marches forward, relentless in his crusade, grasping him by the scruff of his neck, teeth bared like a mad wild dog, and bears his skull down on the side of the railing. Around them, the wind howls and lashes at his clothes, but he still hears the pained scream as if it were poured into his ears. 
The man drops to his knees, and Joel grabs him again, bashing his head repeatedly against the steel bar, the lapel of an Italian leather coat bunching between his fingers, tainted by rainwater and the fist of the man who's about to take his life. 
And fuck, Joel wants to make it last. 
But there's a knife in his opponent’s hand, conjured from the darkness of his coat pocket, and Joel must release him to avoid the lethal slash of the blade. Blinking blood and lashing rain from his eyes, the man lunges with a snarl, and Joel recovers from his lost victory, stopping him with his fingers curled around his opponent’s wrist. He brings his hand to the crook of the man’s elbow and uses his leverage to snap the bone.
Yowling, the man drops to his haunches, the knife clattering to the ground. Joel, chest heaving, stands over him, flexing his fingers as he readies his fist for the killing blow.
His name leaves the man’s bloodied mouth, accompanied by a mouthful of crimson-tainted saliva spat on the ground at Joel’s feet. 
“Joel…” He lifts his head, cradling his own broken arm, and sneers. There’s a chilling glow of satisfaction in it. “Did you get your perfect life, Joel? Do you really think you’ve won? It won’t ever stop. Not after you’ve killed me, not after you’ve killed all of them. Is that what you’re going to do? Kill them all?”
Joel staggers backward to pick up the knife, clamping his hand over the curve of his opponent’s shoulder, and drives the blade down into his neck.
“Yeah.”
He leaves him slumped against the railing, choking on his own blood, and limps his way to one of the beaten-up Range Rovers whose front right bumper was totaled in the crash. Joel groans as he settles into the front seat, gnashing his teeth together as he lifts the hem of his dress shirt to inspect the damage. 
The bullet has pierced the soft flesh of his stomach. Blood blossoms bright through the white fabric and spirals outward. Joel blinks away rainwater and pulls his phone from his pocket, the screen smeared with blood. He doesn’t know if it belongs to him.
He grits his teeth and makes a call. 
In the back of his head, Joel vaguely recalls an old song of prayer. He used to watch others sing it while he lingered in the shadows at the back of the cathedral. He would memorise the shape of the words leaving their mouths and wonder how a benevolent God, who had shaped man—perfection��from red clay, could have made him. 
He would lower his head as if swept up in a tide of repentance, examining the bones beneath his hands. The flickering of tendons. The bulge of veins as he delicately folded his fingers into a fist.
Red clay. Blood. The old dance of serpent and man.
He was fourteen when he escaped.
Joel looks down at his bloodied hands. They’ve grown since then. They’re stronger, thicker, scarred. There are no pictures of him as a young boy, but if he saw one, he knows he would not recognise himself. Not his eyes nor his hands nor the set of his jaw. God makes man makes boy. He is destined for Hell.
The call goes to voicemail. 
Joel curls his hand into a fist and whispers a prayer.
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Something cool and wet collides with Joel’s forehead as he stalks into the airport. It’s begun to rain. 
His target gate is close, and he's early. The press of bodies begins to crowd him. Prickling body spray and sickly-sweet perfume and sunburned skin from Spring Break return flights. Joel shoves through them, unseen, unnoticed amid the rowdy din of reunions. The collar of his shirt sticks to the nape of his neck. It’s the sensation of being strangled, clammy palms slick against his own skin. He adjusts his jacket and tightens his grip on the black fabric dangling from his hand. 
Joel waits by the gate, his eyes flitting between its apex and the people milling about him, reuniting with partners and parents and children. Nobody seems suspicious, but his fingers still dance upon the blade hidden in the inner lining of his leather jacket. Those performing wide berths around the scowling man try not to make eye contact. Most don't notice his presence at all. 
He waits, flicking his sleeve up every couple minutes to check the time on the inside of his wrist. Every tick of the thin hand registers in the pulse of his heart against his ribs. 
He hears the suitcase before he sees it—and it’s hard to miss. One wheel is wonky, and the case stutters in its path along the polished floor. It’s huge, pink, hideous. 
His hand dropping from the blade in his pocket, Joel makes his move. 
You see him approaching and drop the lopsided suitcase, shrieking as he takes you up in his arms. 
He swings you around twice, holding you firm against him, your fingers grabbing desperately at the locks of his curly, brown-grey hair. Joel nestles his face in your throat and breathes in: vanilla and shampoo and the unmistakable scent of a you he can never shake. Home.
You shudder into him, your feet barely scraping the floor as he holds you around the waist, one hand cradling the back of your head. Joel lets his eyes close. 
Daisies made of diamonds dangle from your wrist, connected by a fine golden chain. He can feel the faux petals dig into the back of his neck, etching their shape into the phantom pain of the ink peeking out from his collar. Sometimes, his skin would pull back with the needle, briefly protruding from his body like a tent made of flesh, as if grasping feebly onto some innocent time before the black hands of Dürer were permanently his. His to remember. His to loathe. 
There is a slight in the way his gift to you, wrapped snugly around your wrist since the first anniversary, kisses the old wound, the tip of the cross, and all he feels is the echo of agony. He holds you tighter.
“Can’t breathe, honey,” you croak, shoulders shaking with laughter. 
Joel mutters an apology, loosening his grip on you just enough to pull away and cup your face in his hands. His thumb traces the curve of your jaw, and you beam up at him, smoothing back the hair you’d tousled with your fingers. A curl swoops back down over his forehead.
“Hi,” you say softly. 
“Hi,” says Joel, already on his way to kissing you, his mouth slanting over yours. 
He tastes of mint and smells of his dark cologne, pine, Joel. Your Joel. And you kiss him like it—your hand cupping the nape of his neck, the other sliding up his strong, broad back, your lips meeting in a consuming kiss that knocks you off-kilter. He bends slightly over you, keeping you upright with a large hand on your lower back. 
“Never leave again,” mumbles Joel, grinning against your mouth, his hand sliding down your arm to your left hand, where two glimmering bands rest on your third finger. Your hands intertwine, and he bumps his nose into yours. 
You give him another short kiss. “Get me out of here.”
Joel slides your raincoat over your shoulders and you slip your arms through. He presses his lips to your forehead and closes his eyes, letting himself linger briefly in your space before he scoops up the handle to your affront of a suitcase and escorts you out back to the car. 
He opens the passenger-side door to let you slide into your seat, securing your case in the back, and makes his way around the vehicle. You reach for the collar of his jacket and pull him toward you for a kiss, grasping his jaw between your thumb and forefinger. He grins crookedly when you pull away, bushing the pad of his thumb across your cheekbone. 
“Missed you,” he says.
You sink your teeth into your bottom lip. “Yeah? How much?”
He reaches across the console and kisses you deeply, making you gasp into him as his hand slips underneath your silky little blouse and fits his fingers in the grooves between your ribs. Your skin prickles with goosebumps under his touch as his exploration migrates to your belly, sliding south, ever lower, his hand playing at the waistband of your panties—
“Okay,” you laugh, smacking his hand away. “Okay. You’re paying for parking, Miller.”
“I’ve got money,” he says plainly, dipping his head to kiss you again, his pupils fattening as he tries to gorge on all of you at once. You place a hand on his chest, enjoying the strong pulse of his heartbeat where you typically rest your head, and gently push him back. 
“Take me home,” you coo, your gaze sweeping fondly over the face that hasn’t changed, that you cannot forget, “and show me how much you missed me.”
His wedding band coolly kisses your cheek as he retracts his hand, reluctantly turning his key in the ignition. “Yes, ma’am.”
He’s always been a meticulous driver, expert in the way he flattens his palm on the wheel, his other on the back of your headrest, turns the car out of the spot, and merges onto the freeway. When he no longer needs his other hand, he gives it to you, and you bring his long-scarred knuckles to your lips. 
His hands are marked by years of use, of abuse, speckled with little white scars, freckles, divots, curves. You already know the lines in his palms, have traced them and painted them and put them under sensitive study with your body. But you turn his hand over nonetheless, your own fingertips careful in their examination, following their contours as if searching for a change. But they’re the same—he’s the same—and so you tuck your fingers between his and bring your palms together in a warm, awaited kiss.
It’s only been a month, but you study his profile as if years have passed. He’s still Joel, still surly, plush lips curved into a permanent pout, the space between his brows marked by a ponderous gash, the vein in his throat fluttering in silence when a driver cuts him off or he spots a car following too closely. He’s a good study, practised in his stoicism. 
His nose is artful. Its convex slope, pronounced, strong, curves deliciously into his upper lip, the soft greying hairs in between a space of waiting. His mouth, soft, learned, often languageless, is what you know best of him. You know it like your own—can trace its shape in the dark, hands behind your back. The strong jawline, the slight wrinkles beside his eyes, ones he never had before you met him, the patches of skin disrupting the fullness of his beard: they’re the picture of the man you married, and there’s always something you’re disappointed in discovering you’ve missed. A something you’ve never noticed, a something you wish you could go back and add to all your canvases. 
When you left him at the airport, it was a freckle just beneath the hollow of his throat. Now, it’s the frayed hairs just behind his ears, crimping in frizzy patterns that don’t match the languorous curls on the rest of his head. They look singed, as if he’d put a match to himself. 
Maybe it’s making up for lost time, for all the days you’d missed being away from your Joel. But there’s a second, smaller something: the little round scar beneath those wild hairs. You lift your hand to it, and before your thumb can make a pass over the white, puckered skin, he speaks. 
“It’s a burn.” Merging off the freeway, he pulls into a gas station. His fuel ticker is tapping gently at the E. “From a cigarette.”
Your heart tips off the edge of a yawning chasm, and your hand pulls back in a wary twitch of your fingers. Throat tightening, you feel a distinct pressure behind the T of your nose and forehead. “From the people who raised you?”
A muscle in his jaw spasms, and he lifts your joined hands to his mouth. “None of that,” he says softly, meeting your eyes that well with unshed tears. 
No tears for me, he once said to you. Not until I’ve earned ‘em.
You sniffle, watching him nuzzle his cheek against the soft flesh of your wrist, his lips finding your vein and following it halfway up your forearm. 
“Tell me about your show.” 
You let him tuck your tears away in the grooves between his joints and smile. “Successful, but lonely. So many people knew my name, and I’m pretty sure I knew about a quarter of theirs. Made me feel like some snobbish pig.”
“Nah, that’s my job,” says Joel. “Everybody loves you, baby.”
You roll your eyes. “Either way, the gallery was a hit. The triptych sold for the highest at the auction.”
Joel smirks. “The nude ones?”
“Yeah, dirtbag. The nude ones.” Your smile is dry, still somehow saccharine. 
“I liked those,” says Joel, fingers playing upon your upper thigh. 
“Perv.”
He playfully smacks your thigh. “Goddamn right.”
“It was good. It was. But I missed you.” Your voice breaks, and Joel squeezes your fingers in response. “Could hardly sleep without you there.”
He nods like he knows. And you know he does; he barely sleeps, even if you’re on top of him. “I know everybody loves you,” he says, “but next time you go away, remember I love you most.”
You blink away the shimmer of tears so you can see him clearly. “Casanova.”
“That's right,” he says, nosing his way into another kiss. “Don't ever leave me again, baby. My heart can't take it.”
You shake your head, laughing into his mouth as your tears slip onto your tongue. “Never again,” you whisper, “unless the hotel food is good.”
He nods. “I’ll make an exception, long as I can go.”
You grin. “You know… if I’m at home all the time…”
“We’re not getting a puppy.”
“Joel—”
“No.”
“Don't you want to make your wife happy?”
He faux-snaps at you like a dog, catching his teeth around your earlobe. “As a goddamn clam.”
You gasp as you feel his mouth suckle gently at the sensitive spot beneath your ear. “I… I want… We should at least talk about…”
“Hmm?” 
He’s playing with the hem of your blouse, deft fingers leaving warm imprints on the soft skin of your belly, fingers enveloping your precious heart when he places his hand on your upper back. The organ pounds under his touch, pouring its blood into his palms. 
You haven’t felt his touch in so long.
“I want…”
Joel hums again, prompting, his pinky finger dipping under the strap of your bra and pulling back, snapping it against your skin. 
“What was I talking about?”
He chuckles, bringing his lips back to yours. You grasp for him greedily, trying to fix him to you this time, your fingers bunching the fabric of his T-shirt. But he’s pulling back, his forehead falling against yours. 
“I’ll consider it,” he says, “if you can convince me.”
Giddily, perhaps stupidly, you smile. “I’m very prepared to convince you.”
“Uh-huh. I don't doubt you, baby. How ‘bout you let me fill up the car first?”
The throbbing bass of house music Dopplers as another car approaches the gas station. Three men exit the vehicle, one of them already lighting a cigarette while the other two make for the convenience store. One is wearing a backwards cap and the other a pressed suit. 
Nice move, you think, sinking back in your seat a little as Joel slides out of the car, smoking by a gas pump.
“Nice ride,” says the man at the opposite pump, puffing at his cigarette. 
“Thanks,” says Joel with a polite smile, locking the nozzle in the fuel tank and folding his arms over his chest. He’s hovering by the passenger door, halfway to blocking you from view.
The man surveys the hood, his fingers gently tracing the cool silver. “Boss Mustang 429. She a ‘70?”
“‘69,” says Joel.
“Very nice,” muses the man, drumming his hands on the hood. You feel the crude vibrations in your spine and straighten in your seat. This man—this kid, all his puffing and grinning and loud music—is bad news. Your stomach coils taut when his gaze shifts from Joel to you, staring hard through the windshield. 
“How much?” he asks Joel. 
You notice the minute stiffening of the muscles in Joel’s shoulders. “What?”
“How much for the car?” 
Joel pushes off the car and dislodges the pump, brushing the kid aside on his way back to the driver’s side. “It’s not for sale.”
The kid wanders to the passenger-side door before Joel can turn on the car and roll up the window. He leans his elbows just inside, his face mere inches from yours, and you can smell the sickly, cloying smoke of his cigarette as he blows it in your direction. 
He says something to Joel in Spanish that makes your husband’s hand still on the wheel.
And your Joel, your courteous Joel, your never-the-shit-stirrer Joel, narrows his eyes at the kid and says something in kind, his voice a low scrape that shudders through you.
It’s too fast for you to hear, and you never learned Spanish, and you were under the assumption (until right fucking now) that Joel never did, either. But he starts the car and rolls up the window, and you’re peeling away from the gas station before the kid can reply. 
“That was…” You cast around for the words and instead rest your eyes on Joel, whose jaw looks ready to snap. “Joel, honey, when did you learn Spanish?”
He’s silent for a long while, and you would assume that he didn’t hear you—if you didn't know that he has stellar hearing. When he pulls onto the long stretch of road, signalling your first firm tug away from the stifling noise of civilization, he finally speaks. 
“Picked it up in the Marines.” 
“What did he say to you?”
Joel’s skin is stretched taut over his knuckles. “Somethin’ stupid.”
You hum, letting him linger in silence for the remainder of the trip. Scenery, green and grey sky and the drizzle of rain, swoops by the window, and you're going home. It isn't much different from what you found in Vancouver, but it's familiar. It’s the smell of the air after the rain and the way your shared home comes into view the same way it always has. 
It isn’t a modest home. You and Joel had it built before the wedding, both eager to get away from the city and exist in relative peace when your job allowed it. It sits low and broad, geometric pillars framing the front porch, sleek modern lines in black and white. Your compromise: he assumed responsibility for the exterior, and you took everything within. Joel pulls into the garage, next to your beige SUV, and helps you and your hot-pink luggage out of the car. 
The walls are littered with canvases. Mostly, there are paintings of Joel. The first time you brought him to your studio, a few weeks into the relationship, he’d sat stone-still for hours. You don't recall even a twitch of a finger. He’s in shades of blue, red, green, grey. He’s sitting, standing, lounging, sleeping. His lashes lie in repose over his cheeks, eyes closed, sometimes open, often averted. You’ve captured him in bed, by the pool, in the kitchen, in your studio. Like a spider, you’ve ensnared his shyness, his care, his devotion, weaving it into a tapestry of oil, watercolour, pastel. 
You’ve never sold a single one. This Joel—whose eyes are sometimes closed, sometimes open, often averted—is for your eyes only. 
The curls at the nape of his neck are creeping under the collar of his jacket. Winding your finger around a rich brown lock, you give him a tug. “You haven't been taking good care of yourself.”
Joel brings your hand to his mouth, kissing the rings on your finger that bind you to him. “You told me you liked it long.”
“You told me it itches.” You shrug his jacket off his shoulders and trail your hands up his muscled arms. “It's not about me, honey.”
Joel hums, cradling the crown of your head in his palm and pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead. “When will you learn”—another hand around your hip, tugging you forward by the small of your back—“that everything is about you?”
You narrow your eyes at him. “That's a good answer, Mr. Miller.”
He grins crookedly, backing you against the kitchen counter. “Yeah?”
You scratch his scalp and feel his mouth descend on your jaw. “Mhm. You’ve been practising.”
“Didn't have much else to do,” he grumbles, fisting the fabric of your blouse and untucking it from the waistband of the old jeans sitting low on your hips. “My wife was gone.”
“You're getting whiny,” you chide, smacking his hand away from your fly. 
“Is it working?”
“You really wanna make your wife happy?”
“Yeah, baby. Yeah.” He looks down at you like he's close to pleading. 
“Then you'll let me cut your hair,” you purr. 
His pout lasts as long as it takes for you to get his hair soapy and your fingers in his curls, massaging slow and sweet. You take your time ridding him of the excess length, chopping carefully, your hands assured of their strength. You tell him to tilt up and look down and to the side, honey, and he obeys because it's your hands, and your voice, and he's pliable as molten glass. 
You get lost in the musical shhhick of the scissors cutting through hair, humming a tune that does not match, and he's reminded of ballet. Watching you in the mirror is like seeing the dance through a glass he cannot permeate. You may be touching him, but most times he's struggling to grasp you in your entirety. 
He sees an angel in his sleep, reaching out with a hand made of gold to guide him up from hell. 
You tell him more about the gallery. You tell him about whale-watching and being too seasick to take photos for him like he'd requested. Joel wants to shake his head but he stays still and tells you it’s okay, baby, all I wanted was to know you were happy. 
And you tell him I was happy. But it would've been better with you.
And he's joking, telling you I’d be throwin' up on the other side of the boat, but his body feels cold when you set down the scissors and leave his side. 
“How’s Tommy?” you ask, rubbing gel between your palms. This, he knows, is your favourite part: styling him up all pretty like your personal doll. 
It’s his favourite part, too. He holds you around the waist while you work. “He’s panicking.”
“Oh, come on,” you laugh. “He's read every book on the shelves. And your brother doesn't read.”
“Books can't prepare you for the real thing,” says Joel. “‘Least, that's what Maria told him.”
“Maria’s probably right.” You thread your fingers through his locks and watch with a smile as he closes his eyes, his forehead dropping to your belly. “But that doesn't take away from the fact that Tommy will make a great dad.”
Joel hums, pressing a kiss to your belly. “He’s been askin’ after you to paint their nursery. Want me to tell him to fuck off?”
You're beaming, curling one lock of hair around your finger and dangling it teasingly over his forehead. “Tell Tommy I'd be delighted. Maria shouldn't be doing any of that, pregnant as she is. You should smack some sense into your brother.”
“I tried every day when we were little. Didn't take.”
You give his styled hair a finalistic tug and brush it back from his ears. “Such a good model for me,” you coo, dropping into his lap, “just like always.”
“And what do I get?” he says, watching his own hand cup your breast, thumb ghosting over the soft swell, obscured by layers of fabric. 
Your wicked eyes feel heavy on his skin. “What you always get.” 
You take his hand in yours and lead him to the bedroom. You’ve done this a thousand times, it seems, this methodical undressing, made new with every hour spent apart. The dance replenishes in the sunlight, coming alive as spring blossoms, never stale, never withered. There is something new to discover each time. 
Joel kisses you, staggering backward until he’s sitting on the edge of the bed. You climb onto his lap without breaking the kiss, your arms winding around his neck as he tucks you into him. His cock is a hard, heavy weight between your thighs, accustomed to the touch of his hand alone in the month you've been apart. 
The revitalising warmth of skin-on-skin strikes him true, blooming like blood from his heart. He clutches you so close that your heartbeat skitters from your chest to his, your mouths exchanging breaths, your bodies sharing heat. He knows nothing but the shape, smell, sound of you. 
He trails his knuckles up and down your spine and wonders if he can make certain that he will die like this. He doesn't want to know an afterlife. It will spoil the memory of his very last moment, when he brings you in close and kisses your soft cheek and lets the darkness gently pull him down. 
The sisters at the orphanage would tell him things. You will never know peace until you know Him. You cannot know a person’s love until you know His. You will never understand, child, what it is to breathe, until every breath you take is in His name. Joel drags his open mouth up the column of your sternum, its golden pillar, his tongue dipping to taste the nectar that pools in the hollow of your throat. He tastes you instead, and he feels he has not cheated God. 
You gasp his name as he licks molten salt from your skin, and he feels the golden hand curl around his heart. His lids grow heavy with every taste. Intoxicated, he seeks more, putting his mouth to the crook of your neck. Your back arches, your chest flush with his own, melting and moulding together. Every second of time spent apart withers and dies. 
You have taken Joel to bed and felt him angry, happy, morose, insatiable—but the Joel you’re feeling now is tired. A drowning man finally cresting the surface, he touches you like he never will again. Your skin bunches and folds under his too-eager hands, rubbing you raw. Your muscles pull taut as you try to accommodate his frantic mouth. He bites you and your lips part in a silent scream. He pulls your hair and you gush, your chest hot, prickling with friction and sweat and heat. 
There is anguish in the way he holds you. It feels deep as a wound, old enough to still ache when it rains, old enough that you were never around to know him when it was cut into his body. You want to rescue him from the wordless pain, the agony that has no name. 
You want to know what has made him this way. Because there are times when you see your husband and it strikes you suddenly that a different person exists in the black of his eyes. Because there are parts he keeps hidden, for your sake or his. Because there is a little boy in his chest who's been hurt and you do not know how to save that sliver of him. 
Leftover hairs from his trim sting as your bodies slide together. Your scalp prickles at the desperate way he holds you at the crown of your head. You whisper his name and he looks up at you in the darkness, and there is water brimming beneath his irises. 
“Tell me what you need,” you say. 
He brings his hand between your thighs and touches the wet, warm place he seeks. You nod, letting him roll you onto your back, his mouth trailing kisses down your navel. When you squirm, he pins you by your belly, his palm flat to your skin. When you mewl his name, your chest heaving, he nods his head in reply, dipping his head and sliding his hot tongue through your slit. 
Joel is the prayer you chant. He kneels at the edge of the bed, bringing your thighs around his ears, closing his lips around your clit. You cry out, your hand flying to his hair, tugging him closer, eliciting a groan from his chest. It rumbles through you, his face buried in your pussy, his hands fastened around your thighs. He places searing kisses between your legs, lighting you ablaze, leaving scorch marks wherever his lips touch you. 
“Tell me you're mine,” he says, and the fractured sound of his voice cuts into your skin. He's watching you, his pupils puffy and seeking, hands squeezing, desperate. “Please.”
You whimper at the sight of the kiss he places on your clit. “I’m yours,” you tell him, reaching for his hand and threading your fingers through his. “I’m your wife, Joel. I’m not going anywhere. I’m yours and I love you.” 
He lowers his head, an apostate seeking redemption, and his tongue slides heavily over your clit. At the suction of his mouth around the slick pearl, you gasp, “Oh, God,” your head thrown back, your spine arching into his palm. The cut of the diamond on your finger is sharp against his skin. 
Joel relishes the cool bite of the gem as he licks through your folds and his saliva mingles with your wetness. He kneels with fervour, presses his mouth to you as if whispering his confessions through the lattice, and makes you his. 
The flat of his tongue is scalding, his palm a brand. He licks and sucks until you’re quivering, suffocating his hand in yours, and he wants to bare the imprint of your sigh forever. He should be the one submitting to you, and here you are, lending him your body to please, if only for another moment. Joel flicks his tongue over your clit, takes it into his mouth, and makes you sob his name. 
I’m yours. 
Yours. 
And it sounds so permanent that, for a second, he believes it himself.
You come with your back curving and your hips grinding and your nails in his skin. Joel doesn’t stop until you’re begging him to, until you push yourself onto your elbows and tell him to come here.
You swing your leg over him and bring your mouth down to his. Joel squeezes his eyes shut and kisses you so deeply that it bruises him somewhere he cannot reach. His hands cupping your face. His cock heavy between your bodies. The sun lowering, casting you in bronze. He loses his grip on the world.
“Now,” you whisper in the growing dark, “it’s your turn to tell me.”
You lift yourself onto his cock and bring yourself down, and Joel’s fist opens against your back. “I’ve been yours since the restaurant,” he rasps. 
You beam at him, and dusk ends.
There is a thumping beyond your bedroom door.
Joel hears it before you. In a flash, he hooks his leg under your knee and rolls you over, pinning you under his body. He reaches for the nightstand on his side, throws open the drawer, and pulls a gun. 
You grasp his shoulders, nails digging into flesh. Eyes meet in the slippery darkness. Wide, careful. Words wordlessly exchanged. 
Your fluttering heartbeat begins to pound in your ears. The noise migrates down the hall. 
Footsteps. 
In the kitchen, glass shatters, and your stomach swoops, down and back up, lodging in your throat. 
“Joel,” you whisper, your own voice trembling out of you. He shakes his head, his finger coming to his lips. Your body begins to tremble. The chill digs a pick into each knob of your spine as it climbs up to your brain stem. 
Your home begins to pound with its very own heartbeat. You can hear its tightly-wound tension in the walls. Nobody breathes except for your husband, slow and steady, hovering over you with a gun in his hand. 
You hadn’t known he owned a gun.
His hips ground you against the bed and his fingers intertwine with yours, bringing your hand to his chest. His heart pounds strongly into your palm, his eyes narrowed, fixed to you. But you know his focus is split down the middle, divided between keeping you safe and listening. 
Your breathing peters out until it’s silent as the breeze outside the window. A man’s voice carries from the kitchen, and another answers. Joel shifts slowly off the bed and brings you with him, handing you his T-shirt and boxers. He tucks himself into his jeans and pulls another shirt over his head while you silently dress. The fabric slips from your hand as your trembling fingers struggle for a purchase. Once you’re dressed, Joel pulls you into him, pressing his lips to your forehead. 
“Under the bed,” he whispers. 
Oh, fuck that.
“You want to go out there and confront them by yourself? Are you fucking crazy?”
He shuts you up by lowering his mouth to yours in a scorching kiss. “Do not fuckin’ argue with me,” he rasps, his teeth scraping against yours. You open your mouth to do exactly that, but another glass shatters, and you flinch away. 
“Under. The. Bed.”
And he’s gone, leaving you alone, helpless, the predatory prowl of his gait something unfamiliar to you. It’s learned, utterly silent, the curve of his elbow guiding your gaze to the gun held behind his back. His head juts out before him, peeking around corners.
There are dust bunnies underneath the bed. You’re a better cleaner than Joel, but he makes an effort. He gets lost in it sometimes, sweeping his way through the house as if there’s a grid on the floor, precise in his methods. He doesn’t attend to the details, like the corners of the trim or the grooves in the floorboards. And yet, your floors are polished. Your plants are watered. He cares for you in quiet ways, when words fail. 
Your heart thuds against the hardwood through the thin fabric of his T-shirt. It smells of rain and him. There are no more noises coming from the kitchen.
You drop your head into your folded arms and will yourself to breathe. The claustrophobic space between the bed frame and the floor edges in on you. The only light disrupting the vignette is the small lamp. You’re alone. 
When you lift your head again, a pair of heavy black boots stares you right in the face. 
You bite down on your scream as your heart swoops down into your stomach, pressed hard against the cold floor. Though you do not breathe, the thrum of your heart echoes in your throat as the sputtering of an engine in the dead of winter. The boots leave scuff marks on your floors, the boards groaning under the weight. The owner is heavyset, likely male from the size of his feet. And he's calling for you. 
“Here, pretty kitty.” He pitches his octave high as he taunts you. “Come on out, sweet girl. Don't make me mad.”
You watch the path of his boots across the floor as he approaches the nightstand, throwing open the drawer and rummaging through your belongings. 
Objects roll under the bed with you as he periodically drops them, careless in his vandalism. Your journal lands next to your head with a thunk, and you hear the low buzz of your vibrator in his hand. “Hmm, kitty likes to play.” And it lands on the floor, rolling to a cool stop in the groove between two boards. 
Petrified, you can only watch him stalk across the room, his heavy footfalls thundering in your ears. He whistles a tune you don't recognise, and you wonder what's taking your husband so fucking long. 
Joel, cries your heart as the man halts in his tracks, lowering himself to the ground, taking a knee. JoelJoelJoelplease—
And there's a spark of recognition when your eyes meet in the dark, like you've been acquainted with their black depths, before you're scrambling out from under the bed and kicking him square in the face with the heel of your foot. 
He grunts, holding his nose, free hand grasping for you like wisps of smoke. You crawl to your feet and begin to run, only for him to wrap one cold hand around your ankle and pull. 
You crumple back down to the floor with him, barely saving your own skull from cracking on the hardwood as you throw your hands in front of your eyes. The impact to your elbows radiates up to your neck, and you scream your throat raw, kicking out at your assailant, your blood roaring, weeping. 
With a firm kick to his throat, you force him to let go, his hand flying instinctively to his windpipe. He wheezes something crude, probably, but you’re running—limping, mostly, slamming the bedroom door behind you with a shattering thud that quakes the frame.
“Joel!” you cry, turning the corner in the hall, feeling the walls as you go as if your own home has become foreign to you. What if he’s dead? What if you’re about to stumble over his body in the dark—the only body you’ve ever been able to know as something more than a vessel for art, for a painstaking study? That body, the body you could trace in the black with fingertips, not brushes, does not make itself known. 
“JOEL—!”
A hand comes to rest on your cheek. It is not Joel’s hand. It is no hand at all, but the edge of a blade, a cool stinging thing that nicks the tender skin beneath your eye. 
Blood from his nose drips down his mouth, staining his teeth red. You feel a small thrill of victory. 
Joel is on the kitchen floor in a heap, vaguely stirring from the impact of a baseball bat to his ribs. The bat which a second intruder now uses to smash the framed pictures on your wall. Glass rains down on him. Shards have cut Joel’s soft belly, shredded the fabric of his shirt. Your captor holds you by the hair.
A third man smokes a cigarette, sitting on your countertop, swinging his feet back and forth, and it strikes you that he’s really only a kid. Twenty-five at most. You know young hands, young eyes. Your pencils and paper know them better. 
“Nice of you to join us,” says the man from the gas station, making shapes of the cigarette smoke. You watch the way it curls around the low-hanging light. 
“Joel,” you whisper, the salt of your tears stinging in the wound on your face. “Baby, please… get up…”
“He’s fine, chiquita,” says the kid. “Don’t waste your energy.”
Joel’s eyes peel open, his hands blindly grasping for something he does not have. He’s curled in on himself to protect himself from the inevitable next swing of the bat. You wonder if he’s been struck in the head, and you can feel pieces of your heart slowly wilting as petals untended.
His gun, you realise, your eyes dropping to the belt of the man who holds you hostage. It’s tucked into his waistband, but you cannot reach it with your arms trapped in front of you. His arm is a heavy band around your chest, glueing you to him, helpless. You’re fucking helpless and you cannot get to him and he will die.
Your Joel will die and he will know pain in the way you want him to know love. 
“Let him go, please. You hurt him.”
The kid sniffs, tossing his cigarette to the floor beside Joel and jumping down from the counter to stomp it out with an expensive sneaker. “He disrespected me,” says the kid, leering down at your half-conscious husband like a speck of dirt on a polished glass. “But he doesn’t matter.”
You choke on your sobs, writhing in your captor’s grasp in a futile effort to feel not-so-suffocated, not-so-stuck. “You can have anything you want. Please, take anything. We have money, we have cars, we have paintings. They’re worth something, I promise you. Just—just look up my name. They’re worth a lot, please, just take them and leave us alone, please—”
The anger explodes through the gash in his face where he’d put the cigarette, that yawning maw eager to swallow blood and pain. “I don’t want your fucking paintings!” he screams, stalking toward you and yanking you free of the other man’s grasp. 
Your stomach swoops as he shoves you, hard, to the floor. This time, your arms do not take the blow. It is your temple that absorbs the impact, striking hard on a floor already flecked with blood. Black seeps through paper. Your eyes darken. A man—you do not know which—is speaking.
“Go on, Emil, have some fun with the bitch,” he says. “We can put her up in the kennel when we’re done with them both.”
You hear the rustling of a belt as the man above you flicks open his fly, laughing all the while. 
You're still blinking hard to clear the fog when you hear a growl rumble in your husband’s chest, the faraway noise of a fist meeting flesh, the scuffle of feet across your freshly-washed floors, the first gunshot. 
Your cheek meets cool hardwood as you succumb, the shape of your Joel’s rage etched into your eyelids. 
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There’s a painting on the wall depicting two bodies in orgasm. Curved spines, feverish hands, dimples where fingers meet flesh. There is a hole in the canvas where the woman’s heart should be. A splatter of blood taints the image where the man drags his open palm down her back. 
His face is obscured, but his mouth is on her throat, exposing the cut of his jaw. The scruff of his beard. Careful strokes of oil paint join their bodies in harmony. It’s knocked askew on the wall. 
He’s rusty. 
He can feel it in the taut pull of his shoulder as he brings his arm back for the death blow. The blade comes up against the rough skin beneath the man’s chin, slicing him open just beneath the scruff of his beard. Blood bruises the hardwood floors, and although the man is already dead, Joel grasps him by the hair at the crown of his head and brings him down against the wall. 
His shoulder aches. His finger joints crackle. His knuckles are already bruised, his abdomen sore. He spits out pinkish saliva and turns his attention to his next job. 
His gun now back in his hand and its thief dead, Joel puts a bullet between the eyes of the third man, and another in his chest. The baseball bat clatters to the floor.
He thinks of the first time he wanted to kill for you and couldn’t. 
A man at the bar had groped you while you were out with friends. A little tipsy, you told Joel as he tucked you gently into the passenger’s seat, wrapped in a pretty black dress, and fell promptly asleep. He remembers the cool flutter of your hair from the air vent. He remembers the way your lashes spread like spider legs on your cheeks at every red light, the way the street lamps turned you golden. 
He remembers the man’s name. His face. His address. Some of the little wrinkles in his brain still hold echoes of information he'll never need again. But he keeps it tucked up there anyway. Maybe it reminds him of what he could never do, now that he had you. 
It seems the rules have been bent. 
Glass crunches underfoot behind him. Joel turns just in time to see the retreating figure, the fucking coward, sprinting for the door. He fires a shot that chips a piece of drywall and goes nowhere significant. Cursing himself, Joel hears the roar of his Mustang come to life as the kid leaves with his fucking car. 
Everything has a price, he'd said, blowing smoke in your face. Including your bitch. 
Joel curls his hand around the hilt of the knife. Blood begins to crust along the edge. Some of the blood, he realises, has been stolen from your sacred body. There is a cut on your cheek. 
And does your bitch have a price? Joel had replied, glancing behind the kid at the lackey he'd brought along. He seems to like you. 
You teeter on your way to standing, and Joel rushes to catch you before you can hit the floor. He flicks on the safety and sets his gun aside, cupping your face in his bloodied hands. 
Your eyes, blurred with tears, struggle to meet his. They're fixed to the man in a heap over Joel’s shoulder—the man who'd cut you. 
“Baby,” he says. 
Trancelike, you shake your head. 
“Baby, I gotta see you're still with me. Don't look at him; he ain't important right now. You’re important. Hear me?”
His voice is gentle, guiding, his thumbs hooked just behind your ears, hard eyes flickering between each of yours. 
“You killed them.”
“Yeah,” says Joel as the pad of his thumb traces the soft skin beneath the cut on your cheek. Your fingers curl around his wrists as if you’re trying to strangle him, temper him. 
“You’re hurt.” Your soft cry inverts his ribs, sits heavy and wrong in his chest. When your glassy eyes slide to meet his at last, Joel remembers the second time he wanted to kill someone and couldn’t. 
A man from your past had visited your apartment and told you he wanted to try again. You'd politely escorted him out and laughed it off. Terrible in bed, you’d joked. 
Joel remembers kneeling in the cathedral, surrounded by the lick of a thousand votives coaxing sweat from his glands, as he tried and tried to find faith and only felt the agonising scrape of the floor against his kneecaps. 
He remembers the first time devotion meant something to him. In the name of your second gallery showing. Paintings lined the walls depicting couples in embrace. “Which one is us?” he asked. 
“I don't sell those,” you’d replied. 
“Why not?”
“Because you're only for me,” you told him. “But I’ll tell you a secret.”
He’d ached to hear it. Even leaned in, a co-conspirator. 
“There isn't any devotion in these paintings. They're all hired models.”
“Then why bother at all?” he'd asked. “Why call it that?”
“Because I like showing people that there’s love in the world. And because devotion means something to me now.” You’d looked up at him and tucked your hand in his and he knew what all those nights spent kneeling meant. 
Faith, he thinks now, glaring at the shallow cut on your cheek, is knowing your purpose. 
The wound is his purpose. 
“I’m not hurt, baby girl. We need to pack a bag, okay? I have somewhere for us to stay.”
“Are they—are they coming back?” you ask, your bottom lip wobbling. 
Joel swallows bile and a bit of blood. “No. No, they won't be comin’ back. But we need a safe place while I take care of things.”
“Take care of things.” 
Your echo is ominous in his ears, and when your eyes leave him again to watch the way the blood trickles into the grooves between the floorboards, Joel knows what you will say next. 
“Who are you?”
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greenmanalishi · 1 year
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palalife · 1 year
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John Wick AU 🔫 entirely unplanned quick doodle after watching the movie and I did in attempt to draw cooler Akechi (I failed)
(Read from right to left)
No need to know a lot (bc I don’t remember lore that much):
- Excommunicado: who is expelled and has a price on their head in the criminal underworld
- The High Table: the council that controls the order of said world
- Akechi is a hit man assassin that’s extremely hard to kill and very good at killing people, very famous
-PT is a major family power in the criminal world. No one outside knows what Joker looks like.
So yeah I feel P5R to John Wick isn’t a big jump lolll
Something would be fun to draw but maybe later: since Akechi has a price tag on his head, everyone is chasing after him and Joker gets super mad and jealous because Akechi is his 😡 how dare these people trying to touch his bf
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Quick Drabble..
❥ HEAVY NSFW ;)
John Wick x Plus Size! Wife Reader
。゚•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• 。゚
Imagine angry sex with John..
He's normally loving, with soft touches and words of praise. Only this time he's angry and horny.. As soon as he came home from an annoying day out in the field, he quickly stole you away to the bedroom.
Now you're here, barely able to think because of your pissed off husband. And you loved it. Such an embarrassing thing to admit..
"John.. n-not so rough." You stutter out, but he could feel how you clench around him. It's not nice to lie!
John reaches between your legs and pinches the inside of your thigh.. so close to where you beg for him to touch.
"Don't pull that with me. I can feel you, bunny.." he groans as his thumb finally starts rubbing your clit. With that single move, you falter. So close and so far away..
"P-please, John.. I'm gonna cum!" You start drooling from the pleasure he's causing between your legs.. He only chuckled as he digs his fingers harder into the thick flesh of your hips. Thrusting deeper each time, making you squeal with pleasure.
You feel your knees buckle and you shiver as you cum around him, feeling him finish soon after.
"Good girl.. but I'm not satisfied yet." He smirks a he places a kiss to the back of your neck, spinning you around to face him.
"You h-have serious a-anger issues.." you whine as he moves slowly into you, "That's why I have you.." he whispers as he nips at your neck.
Enjoy darlings! ~ Juicebox♡
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fanpageknight · 4 months
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Thosand Yard Stare
Posted:11/24/23
Title: Thosand yard stare
Dad John Wick x F reader
Summary: Your father, John Wick, seeks revenge on the man who raped you.
Author's note:
Word count: 1060
John Wick Universe story list/ Master List/ Requests Here
Warnings: DEAD DOVE DON'T EAT, Mentions of rape, language, violence
🔞18+ page due to dark and adult themes. Minors will be blocked 🔞
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Drip
Drip
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The sound of blood dripping on the clean marble floor followed your dragging footsteps. Soulless eyes stared at nothing as your autopilot body wandered into your home. Daisy barked at you from her crate to welcome you. "Y/n? Are you home, Honey?" Your father calls from the top of the stairs. Stopping in the living room, you stare at the wall, unable to move. "Y/n?" His voice echoes in your head but goes unheard. His heavy footsteps seem soft as he comes down the stairs. John can see the front door open when he reaches the bottom paired with a trail of blood lending to you. His heart dropped. Even with your back to him, he could tell you've been attacked. "Y/n!" John runs in front of you. Beaten and brushed you don't look away from the wall. "What the hell happened to you?! Who did this?!" Looking into your eyes, he sees no one is home. Your father grabs your shoulders and shakes you. Desperate to get some kind of reaction. "Y/n! Please answer me!" He cries out desperately, yet you're still unresponsive. John releases you and quickly flips a switch to calm himself. The tears were forced to stop, and his voice became deeply quiet. "...y/n?" No response. Not even a glance in his direction. "I'm gonna help you get cleaned up. Okay?" Your father informs you before gently guiding you to your bathroom.
After John bathed off the bloody filth and cleaned your wounds, he tucked you in bed. You still haven't said anything. He's not even sure you've blinked. "You're safe now, honey. Just close your eyes for me." The sheets were lifted to your shoulder before he kissed you on the forehead. Staring at your frozen face, he feels guilt. 'I shouldn't have let them go out on their own. What was I thinking?' Turning to leave John is stopped by a sharp grip on his wrist. You stay staring at the ceiling, internally begging yourself to move. However, all you could do was hold on to your father's wrist for dear life. John was quick to place his hand over yours and sit on your bed. "Yes, Honey? What is it?" Patiently waiting for something more. Anything more, but nothing came. He sighs sadly. Prohabs you'll be better in the morning. Standing to leave your nails dig into his wrist. He hissed but finally got the message. "Okay, honey. I'm not going anywhere." Your arm falls mindlessly, freeing him from your hold. John lays on to top of your sheets next to you, staring up at the ceiling with you. "I'm sorry..." He whispered barely over his breath.
It wasn't hard for John to figure out what had happened and who did it. "Losef Tarasov," Aurello said, taking a big slip of his whiskey.
When John woke up this morning, he was happy to see you sleeping. Then, soon after his morning routine, he realized your car was gone. Meaning You had to walk home in that state.
"I'm sorry about your daughter..." Aurello starts causing John to abruptly stand. "She needs a new car." Aurello nods. "Of course, she's welcome to any car she wants... Like always." Your father nods. "Thank you." He doesn't give Aurello time to respond before storming out. "That kid's dead..." Aurello mumbled before drinking the last sip in his glass, and of course, he was right.
Choking on blood, Losef begged to be killed. "Please! I'm sorr-" Another pathetic apology interrupted by John's Iron fist of justice. "Please! Have mercy!" Your father grabs the boy by the shirt, forcing his swollen face to look at him. "Mercy?" He snarled. "Did you grant my daughter mercy?! When you raped her!!" He screams, slamming the boys' head into the concert sidewalk. Quickly, John pulls the boy back up to face him. "No. You didn't. Yet you beg for it!" Losef cries in fear at the boogeyman's words. John pins the boy on his back before pulling out a hunting knife. His prey shakes under him as the knife finds itself at his abdomen. "P-pleas-" John stuck the weapon into the pig. Letting the blade sink halfway deep. "How does it feel..." Your father starts, slowly cutting up the boy's stomach, letting him scream. "To be pinned down in the middle of the street..." John cut to the boys' waistline just sallow enough to stay alive a bit longer. "Enduring the most horrifying thing imaginable and knowing that even if someone heard you scream..." He leans down to Losef's ear. "That no one could save you." Losef is unable to speak from the pain. "Better yet..." John continues. "How does it feel for someone to take your inside as if it's their fucking birthright?!" John leans back to look the boy in the eyes. "Don't know? Let me show you." In a flash, John tosses the knife aside and sticks his fist into Losef's gushing wound. Your father's hand grabbed hold of the first intestine he could find before ripping it out. This animalistic instinct to kill has never controlled John like this before. Ripping the boy apart from the inside out with his bare hands felt right. This worm hurt you. Not just in a temporary sense, but he's ruined your life. He's left an infected scar on his little girl. For that, nothing John could do to this boy will ever be enough. Intestines fly across the sidewalk without care. Losef's lifeless eyes reflect the moonlight that exposed him to his impending doom.
The scene left by John's attack emulated that of a hellhound ripping an angel out of its golden chariot because God was too lazy to beruin heaven of a pigeon-winged imposter. Unrecognizable Losef is scattered across the ground like spilled chum. The glowing eyes of the Baba Yaga hunger for more but walk away all the same. No dinner reservations were ordered by John, for he wanted the whole world to bear witness to his newly made example. Not just of a man who dared to rape his daughter but of anyone willing to commit such an act. The moonlight shines against Losef's blood drip from your father's claws. Each drop appears as a liquid gem singing praises at their freedom. Losef's blood cells were no longer trapped living as puppets to his monstrous actions.
Drip
Drip
Drip
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omgcinnamoncakes · 4 months
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So my little fever dream ficlet kinda grew wings this past few days, and it has been such a boost to my muse. Still no idea where this is going, but here’s more.
Part 1 here.
John Wick/Hitman AU with a Twist (I guess?), Part 2, Dreamling.
Tw: violence, gun violence.
The sound of a gun clicking pulls a smile from Hob’s mouth, tired lines pulling at his face.
“Hello, Jo.”
“Fuck no.” The lights in the living room come on and Hob finds himself face to face with Johanna and her rather impressive glare. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
“Missed you too.”
Jo flips him off, but her eyes narrow. Sharp, sharp as he remembers her, all pointy thoughts and corners.
“What happened.” It’s not a question, and she’s still holding the gun, no longer pointed at his head, but still close enough to hurt. Hob meets her eyes and says, “The Sandman. I need to find him.”
Johanna’s eyebrows raise. “Came back from the afterlife and planning to go back?”
Hob sighs. “That’s one way of putting it.” When she doesn’t move, he leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. He feels tired, so very tired, and it must show on his face because Johanna’s face softens. She finally lowers the gun fully and places it on the coffee table, before sitting down next to him.
“He’s the fucking Sandman, no one can find it. That’s the whole point.”
“But he’s back.”
She shrugs. “That’s what the rumors say.”
“Come off it, Jo. You don’t deal in rumors.” It comes off like a snarl, but Johanna doesn’t react.
“Well, that’s what it is.” Her gaze is heavy. If Hob didn’t know her, he would say even worried. “Some of ours have been popping up dead in the past few months.”
“How long?”
“Six months, give or take.”
Hob’s fingers curl into his palms, nails digging to the point of pain. “How do you know it’s him?”
“He’s carved his moniker on all of them.”
Hob pauses. “That wasn’t his MO.”
“No, it’s not. He used to be clean cut, that’s why he was the best. But these kills, they're— violent.”
“They’re kills, Jo. That’s the point.”
She shakes her head, mouth set in a serious line. “No, not like this. He didn’t just kill them, Hob. He massacred them, and then carved them up. Second most fucked up part of this whole thing.”
Hob nods, and then stills. “What do you mean second?”
Jo doesn’t fidget, but it’s there, the ghost of it. “The ones he’s killed, they’re ours. They’re from our world.” She takes a breath and says, “If I were a betting woman I would even say he’s going after the high council.”
“That’s suicide.”
“Maybe that’s the point?”
Hob stands up, runs his hands through his hair on a gasping inhale. His hands shake, a tremble that he can’t seem to stop, the roots of it somewhere in the marrow of his bones.
“No,” he bites the word out. “He won’t get out that easy.”
*
“Good evening, sir,” Lucienne says, a smile on her lips. “And welcome back to The Continental.”
Hob gives her a tired smile, and pulls out four gold coins out of his jacket pocket and slides them over the marble of the reception desk. Lucienne’s eyes drop to the coins, and then back up again, a spark in her eyes. She has been concierge at the hotel since Hob started in the business, and she is as sharp as always.
“Ah,” she says, sliding the coins towards herself. “The Royal suite, I assume.”
“Yes, thank you.”
“I heard rumors that you were back, Immortal.” She is good enough to not make it a question, leaving the ball in Hob’s court.
“Not sure yet,” he says, tapping nervously on the marble. “Depends on the business.”
“We are as always happy to accommodate all your needs while your… business in ongoing.” She taps a few keys on her computer, and slides a key card towards him, before she gazes back at him with a knowing look. “Ah, and what a coincidence. Your private table for dinner has just opened up.”
Hob nods his thanks in relief, and makes his way to the restaurant. He ignores the looks he gets from other patrons, the whispers of his name between lips. The maitre d’ leads him to the back of the restaurant without any questions and as soon as he enters the room, he is greeted with a face he never thought he’d see again.
“Hob Gadling, such a surprise.”
Hob takes a seat across from Daniel, and doesn’t bother with a hello.
“We both know that’s a load of shit.”
Daniel Hall just tilts his head, the curls of his white hair sliding over his cheeks like a waterfall of snow. “I am being honest, Hob. You are one of the few people I expected to cross the threshold of my Continental ever again.”
“The other one being The Sandman.”
Daniel’s eyes widen. “Ah.”
“Where the fuck is he?”
“Why would I know?” When Hob’s mouth curls in a snarl, Daniel lifts his hands in a placating gesture. “I am being honest, Hob. I do not know where he is.”
Hob’s fists tighten over the table, and he takes a deep breath so he won’t break every piece of furniture in the goddamn place. “You were his point man, don’t fucking deny it.”
“Before, yes.” Daniel blinks slowly, gaze falling to Hob’s trembling fists and back up again, a sudden weariness in the moss green of his eyes. “And then he vanished without a word.”
“Until six months ago.”
“Until six months ago,” Daniel agrees. He leans back in his chair, looking as cold and regal as a king on his throne. But Hob knows him, knows Daniel. They both came into this world at the same time, but with the scars of a cruel life on their skin, both the children of people who traded in blood and gold. There is a tightness around his eyes, the dusting of fear.
“He’s going after you, isn’t he?”
Daniel sighs, jaw tensing. “Not me, I hope. But the high council.”
“You’re high council.”
Daniel smiles, sharp, sharp like a razor knife. “Thankfully, since being the king of my own little domain,” he gestures with his hand all around them. “I have always been considered inconsequential by the ones above me. Which I think is the reason I am still standing. Most of the ones in my little border circle are already rotting in the ground, and he seems to have moved up the hierarchy.”
Hob forces his shoulders to relax, even as the telltale pain of an oncoming migraine is making itself known right behind his left eye.
“Tell me you know what he wants.”
“Death,” Daniel says, a sad line to his mouth. “His, soon, if he keeps it up.”
Hob grits his teeth and lifts his chin with a fiery determination that seems to simmer from every broken, ashen crevice in his chest.
“Fuck that. The bastard doesn’t get to die until I get my hands on him.”
Daniel’s eyes narrow, and Hob is suddenly too tired to hide it anymore, hide the pain, the splitting bleeding pain of his betrayal.
Finally Daniel sighs and says, “I’ll let the ladies know you need a new outfit. If you’re going to be an idiot about him, might as well have you dressed and armed to the nines.”
Hob smiles and knows it looks more like a show of fangs.
*
He lets himself crawl into bed and groans in relief. The tension is still there, has probably been there since he walked into that morgue, but for a second he lets himself bury his face into the pillow and relax. He wants to yell, but it won’t do much.
It’s better than it was three days ago, he feels like he is at least moving in the right direction. He pushes the thought away that it still feels like he’s just swimming in an endless ocean, faith waiting for him to tire himself out until he drowns. Because he won’t get tired. He won’t.
He will find Dream even if it kills him.
He will find Dream and then he will dig his hands into his throat, into his fucking chest and yell, scream, beg for answers.
And then he’ll fucking kill him.
He closes his eyes tightly until it hurts, until the tears stop and begs for sleep to just take him.
The bullet hitting the pillow an inch from his face stops that plan. He rolls to the left before he can think, eyes snapping open, and comes face to face with a man standing above him.
“You have got to be kidding me,” he groans. Out of the assholes who would try to kill him, it had to be the Carrion. He kicks his leg out right in the side of his knee, and it’s enough to catch the man by surprise, enough for Hob to jump out of bed and smash into him. The Carrion elbows Hob in the solar plexus, but Hob is quicker, kicking Carrion’s legs from under him.
They go down together, a gunshot way too close to Hob’s right ear, so Hob catches Carrion’s wrist in his. Two more shots ring out and it is not doing anything for Hob’s migraine. They tossle for a minute, Carrion getting in a good punch to Hob’s ribs, until Hob has enough and uses his strength to roll them over until he is pressing his right knee in the bastard’s chest, a punch to his mouth.
“You do not want to do this,” he growls, and Carrion just laughs.
“Twenty million says I can.”
Hob just sighs in frustration and punches Carrion in his mouth again, his knuckles coming away bloody and scrapped from his teeth, and it’s enough to pull the gun from his hand.
He pulls the trigger and Carrion’s body goes limp.
“Fuck,” Hob yells, breath coming out loudly. He places a hand on his chest, feels the bruise already blooming over the cage of his ribs.
The phone of his nightstand rings then, and he drags himself to it.
“Good evening, sir,” Lucienne says primly. “I do apologize for bothering you so late at this hour, but we’ve had a few noise complaints from your room.”
“Yeah, I bet,” Hob groans, sitting down slowly on the edge of the bed. “Carrion decided to give me a professional visit.”
“Ah.” A pause. “Should I assume he did not succeed.”
Hob glances at the body on the floor and the puddle of red that’s growing bigger and bigger with each second on the fluffy cream rug. “Yup.”
“Good,” she answers, tone turning vicious. “I do apologize for this inconvenience, sir. Someone will be up for cleanup in a minute, and please accept an upgrade on behalf of the hotel.”
“Yeah, that would be lovely. Also, if you could tell Daniel I’ll pay double if he tells me who put the contract on me.”
“Of course.”
Hob puts the receiver down and rubs at his eyes. His knuckles hurt, his head hurts, and his right ear is still ringing from the gunshot, but he’s alive. That’s something, he guesses. A few more seconds, and he would have been dead.
Thank god the bastard missed. He wipes at his face with another tired sigh, when it finally hits. Carrion was standing on the left side of the bed. He looks up, and stares at the pillow, the perfect hole where the bullet hit. On the right.
A warning.
His hands shake as he looks up.
The glass window has a hole right in the middle of it. Sniper, a clean, perfect shot.
Hob stares at it for a long, long time, stares until he’s sure the panic in his chest won’t drown him, until he can finally focus past his own reflection.
The only thing that greets him is an empty, cold night.
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vortexya · 8 months
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*Ahem* Yandere Wick anyone?
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imagine-lcorp · 4 months
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Bullet for My Valentine (Part I)
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A/N: Hi my little darings, well as promised (a bit late, I know...) here's one fic of the ones I wrote as a thank you, to all of you who helped my friend by liking their little FB post, and even if you didn't have the chance to support them, I hope you enjoy this little piece. This has been in my WIPS for ages. Let me know what you think!
Lena Luthor x R/John Wick AU //Word Count:2,759 
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Lena's lunch time started with a bang.
She didn't think too much of it at first as she was sitting at her desk and about to enjoy her food. But then another couple of bangs followed and she knew it hadn't been just loud sounds. She called Jess immediately but even her amazing assistant was unaware of what was happening.
"I don't know, Miss Luthor, I'm trying to call security but it seems-" A louder bang interrupted Jess, and she yelped in response.
"Jess!" Lena called, but she could hear nothing on the other side.
She left the phone, making a run for her purse, which she had left on the couch of her office. Inside, she recalled with regret, she had left the watch Supergirl had given her in case of emergency, and this one was very much it. Lena reached her it and rummaged frantically on her bag until she found the watch, but her office doors burst open before she could press the button.
You had kicked them open, keeping your gun raised as you entered and pointed at each corner of the room until your eyes found her.
"Don't move." You ordered, keeping your eyes on her to take in every single detail available to you. You noticed the watch and quickly understood what she was trying to do. You cursed mentally as you tried to catch your breath.
This wasn't how you had planned your day.
It had started as a quiet morning. You had been sitting in the kitchen table of your apartment, sipping from your cup while you read the newspaper.
The headlines praised the Girl of Steel once more, for keeping National City safe after fighting another group of rouge aliens and for helping locate several warehouses that participated in shady business. You had scoffed a bit at it. If only the Girl of Steel knew the intricate system that truly ruled over the cities she protected, she would have needed ten more like herself to barely grasp its surface.
You kept reading the news, dwelling for those moments of peace that life conceded you before you had to travel again, looking for your next target, unaware that your day was about to change drastically.
The bell of your apartment door had rung a couple of times before you answered and were surprised to find no one at the door. Instead, as you looked outside you noticed an envelope on the floor with a red wax seal you recognized instantly. You reached for it and opened it.
Inside you only found one thing. A little note that read: Quod Debitum Sanguine, you have one hour (Y/N). That was all you need to know to get ready. There was a debt you had to repay.
"Miss Luthor, if you appreciate your life and that of your friends, you will not press that button." You raised a brow at her and green defiant eyes looked back at you.
"And why is that?"
"Because they will die, and you too, if you don't listen to me." You kept the gun up and pointed at her hand. You were ready to risk a piece of her if that meant at least she would remain alive.
"Lower the gun and I might consider it."
She was trying to bargain and although you didn't have time for that, you felt like you had to play your cards as best as you could.
"Your father sent me, Miss Luthor." You said, and that seemed to confuse her enough that her attention was completely on you. "I wish I could explain further but we're running out of time."
"Where's Jess? My assistant?"
"I told her to leave. All your security has been compromised." You lowered your gun slowly, raising the hand that didn't hold the gun to show her you had nothing else on your hands. "I mean no harm. I know it doesn't look like it but you can trust me."
She seemed to ponder it for a moment even against all logic and reason of what she shouldn't. What finally convinced her you meant no harm was the way you handed two men as they entered her office with guns raised at her. Lena saw them come after you first but your reflexes were faster. You dodged one coming right after you as you shoot the other in the chest. The latter fell right to the ground as the bullet hit him. The one that remained tried to point his gun at you but you were faster and shot him twice, once in the foot and once in the stomach, leaving him too to agonize on the floor.
"There's more coming." You said regaining your composure, unfazed by the splatters of blood around you, and looked at her. "We have to go."
"Where are we going?" It was all Lena said before following you.
Whatever was happening, she figured it was best to have someone like you by her side, although she had preferred for you to use a less violent method. However, she quickly understood that wouldn't have been possible as more and more men keep coming for you while you were on your way down to the building. You took down a dozen before taking the elevator that lead to the underground parking lot and she didn't know if to be impressed or fear for her life, this time for real. But you had had many chances to end her and yet, you were doing the opposite, keeping her alive.
"You said my father sent you. How? Who are you?" She asked while you waited for the elevator to go down and open its doors.
"My name is (Y/N), (Y/L/N), I met your father years ago, I owe him." You kept yourself a bit busy counting the bullets left on the cartridge of your gun.
"Well, he passed away quite a few years ago too. I doubt he would care for you to pay him back." She said and you smiled, shaking your head.
"It's a bit more complicated than that." You said without adding more.
"I still don't know why I can't call for help."
"I know you have very powerful friends, Miss Luthor, but they are no match for this." You said as you changed the cartridge of your gun, getting ready. "Your head is worth a lot of money at the moment, all the people coming after you, they won't stop at anything until they put a bullet through your head."
"Some of my friends are bulletproof." She replied crossing her arms. "They could help us a little."
You scoffed. "If you mean the almighty Girl of Steel, they have Kryptonite bullets already in store for her."
Lena frowned and looked at you with suspicion. "How do you know about Kryptonite?"
"I have a lot of explaining to do, I know, but now is not the time or place." You looked at the elevator panel, there were only a couple of floors before you reached the parking lot. "I have to take you somewhere safe first."
"Where, exactly?" Lena watched as you raised your gun. The elevator had arrived and it was a moment before the doors opened.
"You'll see. Now, find cover." You said and as soon as the doors parted you lunched forward, essentially shooting everything that moved your way.
After managing to leave a little trail of bodies in the parking lot, you decided you had to hurry up. You had been hit by a bullet on your left arm, nothing too serious, a scratch for you really, but you still felt yourself losing energy. More assassins were on their way, no doubt, and you had little time to carry out your plan. Lena didn't ask more questions as you broke the window of a car and opened it. You both needed a ride and you didn't care what the options were. You and Lena got inside the car and you drove to the only place you knew was safe enough for the both of you.
"Welcome to the Continental. How may I help you?" The receptionist smiled as you approached her desk, looking you up and down discreetly.
"Good morning." You said with a little smile. "One room please." You took something from one of your jacket pockets, placing the object on the counter, sliding it to the receptionist.
Lena, who was standing a step behind you, looked at the exchange with curiosity and amazement. If she had seen you entering her hotel lobby looking like that, full of sweat and with bloodstains all over your clothes, with a car almost destroyed outside due to the mortal chase you had barely managed to escape, she would have called the police immediately.
Instead, she saw the receptionist take a thick golden coin from your fingers and slide it under her desk and look at you both with the most charming smile.
"A double room would be alright?" The receptionist asked and silently hoped you wouldn't call the laundry service. The big stains of blood on your clothes wouldn't come off easily.
"That would be nice, thank you." You nodded. "The doctor?"
"I'll send him to your room." The woman said and handed you a key. "Enjoy your stay."
You thanked her once more and walked to the elevators, with Lena following behind as she had done since she left her office with you.
The world had changed around her in a darker shade she didn't think was possible. You were a cold blood assassin protecting her and the people around you, the people there in the hotel, that she guessed was a fancy facade, barely batted an eye at your appearance, as if they were used to seeing people in that state all the time. A million questions were swirling in her mind, but she decided it was best to ask once you had been attended by the medic, that arrived shortly after you reached your assigned room.
She got checked first, and you were glad she hadn't been hurt too badly, only a few bruises and little cuts from all the debris you had left behind.
"Are you ready to tell me what's going on?" Lena pulled the chair where the doctor had been stitching you up and sat with her arms crossed. Her determined expression told you she was quite done with everything going around.
You grunted, feeling still sore from the chasing and the fight of the morning, and poured yourself a glass of bourbon the reception had so kindly sent for your pains. You poured some in another glass for her, placing the glass in front of her.
"Long story short, someone has put a price on your head. A bounty of 30 million dollars to the first mercenary that puts a bullet through your head." You took a mouthful of your drink and looked at her, waiting for her reply. She didn't touch her glass.
She raised a brow at you. "Who?"
"I don't know...yet." You shrugged. "But I'm sure we'll find who soon."
Lena looked at you with very inquisitive eyes. "And why are you protecting me?"
You sighed. It was time for explanations. "We are both here because of Lionel..."
You started in the criminal underworld as a young and reckless amateur but full of ambition. You had been always good at it, managing to survive in this ruthless world since you were a child. You had been lucky one of the crime bosses that ruled over National City got an interest in you.
You had raised quickly to the ranks and when you were old enough to fend for yourself you realized you wanted to be a bit more independent. Your boss didn't like the idea that much but decided to give you the change, not believing you could make it outside his business and he had been quite right once you left his side. Trying to get a contract, a killing order, was difficult even if it was open for everyone. You needed contacts and a chance, and it came in the form of Lionel Luthor.
There was a moment, years ago when his business started to struggle. Government officials were on his tail, trying to take him to the court over inconsistencies in his security protocols, trying to accuse him of espionage and such. It was all nonsense. Behind it all there was one person moving the strings, a very high official also involved in some shady business, and Lionel hated them enough to want them dead.
"I went to your father and offered my services." You poured yourself another finger of bourbon. "He refused, but I made him an offer of my own. If he put the contract and allowed me to take it, I would offer him a Marker. A sort of promise, sealed with blood, that would allow him to ask of me anything in the future. I would do it, with no questions asked, with no refusal, to repay his kindness."
"So he did." She finally took the glass you have poured for her and looked at the bottom of it.
"Yep." You took a sip of your glass and shifted in your seat.
"So what? Did he ask you to protect me before his death?" She tilted her head and took a sip of her drink. "How considerate."
You scoffed. "Believe it or not, he kind of did. Apparently he included his assets from all of this in his last will. He left you my Marker and a last request for me." You sighed. "If there was ever a contract opened for you, I was to protect you from everyone that came after you until they pulled it off, or in its defect, kill the idiot that opened the contract in the first place. That would automatically cancel it, unless there is another person to push it forward."
You downed the last of your bourbon, placing your glass back on the table, and looked at her.
"And you're doing this just in good faith? Because you have a debt with my father?"
"I am." You frowned slightly. "Look, miss Luthor, I sure all this seems a bit surreal but here's something you have to understand. This world has its own rules, and those rules must be obeyed. Some of those rules are, one, no business within Continental grounds, and two, that every Marker must be honored."
You explained raising two fingers at her.
"The first rule is very simple, and it will explain why I brought you here. This hotel is a sort of save haven for people like me, the golden rule demands that everyone who stays here must not participate in any contract, no matter how tempting. So it means you're kind of untouchable right now. No one will dare to kill you unless they have a death wish of their own."
"You can do that?" She said surprised. "Bringing a target here?"
"Honestly, I don't know but so far it seems it's working for us." You leaned back in your chair. "Now, about the Marker...I have to complete your father's request so you, if you'll be so kind, can seal the other part of the Marker and finally free me of it. Otherwise, I'll be considered excommunicado, meaning I'll lose all kind of privileges and protection and be killed on sight. If I don't get killed first, of course."
"Well, I would very much like to help you and free myself of this." She put her glass on the table too and looked at you with the most unimpressed expression. "Unfortunately, I don't have your Marker. My father never mentioned such thing, and I don't think I've seen it."
"I know." You nodded slowly. "You must claim it first, with management."
"I have to call the Manager?"
At that moment, the black landline phone in your room started to ring. You both turned to look at it and you grunted as you pulled yourself from your chair to answer, you were barely feeling better. You raised the speaker to your ear and listened. Lena observed you hum and reply, some times with a yes or a no, and end the call shortly after.
"Well, you won't have to call him. We are booked for dinner with him tonight, at seven." You returned to your chair and sighed. "Let's make sure to wear something nice."
She scoffed and downed the last of her drink. It was turning to be a very interesting day.
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leosxrealm · 1 month
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lando norris x male! assassin! reader
don’t have a fic but i do have a moodboard for it. based on this
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cuddleyhoney · 3 months
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cuddley john headcannon?
john wick x fem reader fanfic
⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡
Your life with your significant other John was very quiet and soft. He never did much holiday decorating but surely loved the festive lingerie sets he purchased for you. You were always the perfect girl in his life during these times. The mini candy canes scattered throughout the home and small batches of cookies placed on the dining table helped create amazing memories for John.
The sweet aroma of fresh cookies & the blazing fireplace set a romantic aura in the home. You had just taken a warm shower and applied your skincare. Walking on the hard wooden floor towards the living room you saw John in his adorable red checkered pajama bottoms you bought for him. He greets you with a warm smile with his hand drawing you in. John was always a snuggly bunny, only for you of course!
The two of you were in complete bliss watching Lana Del Rey music videos. It was comforting and quiet. John planted soft kisses on your temple whilst massaging your scalp...
The night passed and you discovered that John has a secret love for music, and you both start creating playlists together. Each song reminds you of a particular romantic moment or date you both were on not long ago.
You often would be taking a bath or doing your makeup and realize how you have everything you want in your life with John...
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-- hi sorry for not being very active I'm not in my john wick phase as much anymore </3
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boredth · 2 months
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Do not disturb
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kiwisbell · 1 month
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helen [joel miller] ; masterlist
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Si vis pacem, para bellum. Or, a retired hitman returns to the fold.
my masterlist
pairing: joel miller x f!reader
tags/warnings: 18+ (MDNI), hitman!joel, husband!joel, graphic violence throughout, established relationship, artist!reader, love as worship (and a little bit of blasphemy), injuries, murder, revenge, cars, smut (individual warnings in chapter tags), fluff, angst angst angst (i mean it), joel is an idiot, heartache, healing, forgiveness, threats of rape/SA, mob activities, secrecy + lies, childhood/religious trauma, grovelling, the typical alcohol/smoking/profanity, erotic paintings, beautiful header by @tieronecrush, the john wick AU nobody asked for
a/n: this miniseries has been a passion project of mine for so long and i'm beyond thrilled to finally announce it! this is uncharted territory in lots of ways, so i hope you'll be kind and i hope above all that you'll enjoy this fic <33
chapters:
one ; dear joel two ; lure the wolf three ; the red circle four ; nowhere to run five ; be seeing you epilogue ; daisy
read on ao3!
follow @kiwisbellupdates and turn on notifications if you'd like to be updated when i post!
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painting in header: "Hug" by Marijana Rakićević (2015)
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greenmanalishi · 8 months
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The John Wick franchise (2014-2023)
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maxsix · 3 months
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The High Table: A John Wick Verse. Song Mingi and Brutus
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