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kiwisbell · 2 months

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helen ; chapter one

dear joel

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

PREFACE

“Love is my mover, source of all I say.”

— The Divine Comedy: Inferno, Canto II.

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.

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.

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?”

#fic: helen #kiwisbell's fics #joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller x you #the last of us #john wick au #joel miller au #joel miller fic #joel miller fanfic #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x f!reader #tlou fic

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chiffxna · 11 months

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A Love Too Dark Masterlist

The Marquis Vincent de Gramont x Reader

Summary:

She was working as a bunny-girl in a casino when a mysterious VVIP arrived to ruin the peace in her life.

It's scary when someone like the Marquis de Gramont - ambitious, rich, and highly influential - took an interest in you.

WARNING: THIS IS A DARK FIC.

This story will contain 18+ mature themes, blackmail, forced kissing, dark romance, toxic behaviour, blood, violence, stalking, manipulation, a lot of smut, dubious consent, non-consensual content, non-consensual creampie, breeding, yandere Marquis de Gramont, power play, and power imbalance, obsession, dark Marquis de Gramont, and abuse of power. The list will be added more as the story progresses. Minors, don't read.

This story is also available on Archive Of Our Own (AO3) site.

Link

Chapters

Chapter 01: A Deal With The Devil

Chapter 02: Chaos and Risks

Chapter 03: He Grabbed Her

Chapter 04: Insatiable Need For Satisfaction

Chapter 05: Dark And Primal

Chapter 06: Lives In His Hands

Chapter 07

If you’re interested in being on my taglist to be tagged in the next chapters, please leave a comment here and mention the taglist.

#marquis de gramont #vincent de gramont #marquis vincent de gramont #marquis x reader #marquis de gramont x reader #vincent de gramont x reader #marquis vincent de gramont x reader #john wick chapter 4 #female reader #reader insert #tw dubcon #tw noncon

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nwheregirl · 6 months

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Currently thinking about service dom!John Wick…🤤

Caressing your face and your legs softly, brushing your hair, telling you how good of a girl you are, ordering you around (in a somehow soft way) and you just obeying because that’s just how your relationship is…him calling you his wife because he married you right away after you two met and that nickname just suits you so well. Adding a size kink and a predator/prey dynamic to that, because ofc you are so small compared to him and a little bunny!! Who wouldn’t be around this man?

You wearing pink or white nightwear, let’s put some ribbons there too (I’M SORRY I JUST LOVE THE DOLLETTE/COQUETTE/HYPERFEMININE AESTHETIC WITH KEANU’S CHARACTERS!) that is the exact opposite of John’s all black wardrobe. BUT HE ADORES those type of clothes on you, they drive him mad. Also him gifting you this particular brush (currently in my wishlist too):

And ofc let’s not forget how he adores to eat you out, just staying between your legs for hours and making you shake and whine his name for him… <3 (p.s. am I the only one who prefers “Jardani” over “John”? I just find his real name so hot??)

UUUUGH I LOVE THIS MAN SO MUCH!

#keanu reeves #keanu reeves characters #john wick #john wick x reader #service dom!john wick #female reader #nwheregirl made this #thoughts are being thunk #silly writing #wife reader #JOHN WICK BRAINROT!

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multific · 8 months

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Yelling - Short

Vincent De Gramont x Reader

Summary: You were his, you had everything of his. What more could you want?

You hated yelling.

You hated arguing.

You hated this.

You hated the way both of your voices bounced off of the walls as both of you yelled the most hurtful things.

You weren't even sure what started the argument. Was it the date he missed? Was it the fact that he hadn't been sleeping at home with you for days now?

You weren't sure.

"You live in luxury!" yelled Vincent as you just stood there, frozen, taken aback by his words. "You eat the best food, wear the most expensive clothes, you sleep in silk! WHAT MORE DO YOU WANT?"

"YOU!" you yelled back and it was his time to stay quiet and listen. "All I ever want is you, Vincent. I don't care about the luxury! The dresses or the food. I just want you. I want you to be there with me, watch movies with me and sleep in the same bed as I do. I don't want money, I just want you." Vincent fell quiet. He knew you were right. He took a deep breath, letting a few minutes pass so he could clear his head.

You never cared about his money, you only cared about him.

"Amour. The pressure and-"

"I know. It's too much, you don't need me barking into your ears as well. All I want is for you to just sometimes, lean back a little and relax. Come home, have a shower with me, dinner with me. I can't understand what you are going through. But I can help you relax a little so you can start fresh."

"I'm sorry for yelling." he said as he sat back into his office chair.

"I shouldn't have yelled either. I'm sorry. But please, never say that again. I don't want your money, Vincent." you said as you moved to sit on his lap as his arms held you.

"I know. I truly do, I just wanted to hurt you because I'm insecure. I'm truly sorry, Mon Amour." he placed a kiss on your temple.

Vincent Taglist: @l4venderia

Taglist: @fleursirvart @greenarrowhead@thisismysecrethappyplace @sincerelyfan @theoneanna @aestheticsandmarvel @rororo06 @castellandiangelo @destynelseclipsa @spilledinkindumpster @capsiclesdoll @puknow @alwayshave-faith @alex12948 @lxdyred @imagines-by-a-typical-fangirl @anonymoussherlockandmarvelgeek @praline357 @trshngyn @avengers-r-us @violet-19999 @top1bbgloak @manduse @jacalineiscomingforyou @mandoloriancookie @noname2246

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

DO NOT STEAL, REPOST OR TRANSLATE ANY OF MY WORKS

#Vincent De Gramont x Reader #vincent de gramont imagine #vincent de gramont x you #Vincent De Gramont #Vincent De Gramont x fem reader #Vincent De Gramont imagines #the marquis #marquis x reader #marquis x you #marquis imagine #marquis imagines #john wick x reader #john wick #x female reader #x reader #the marquis x reader #de gramont x reader #john wick vincent x reader #john wick marquis x reader

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teejaywyatt1 · 2 months

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

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

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cillivnz · 1 year

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𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐬 𝐜𝐞𝐭 𝐞𝐧𝐟𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐮 𝐞𝐬 𝐦𝐨𝐧 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐬 [𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐬 𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐝𝐞 𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐭]

CHAPTER ONE —— AFTERMATH

warnings. angst, gore descriptions, torture, mentions of death, stabbing, shooting; basically your average 14 minutes into a john wick movie.

a/n. occasionally updating the preliminaries post of this series as deemed necessary. all warnings and details would be mentioned in that post. note, this is a slow burn (emphasis on slow). i hope you enjoy reading this short chapter, i promise it’ll get better. this one’s for the anon who wanted angst, i owe it all to you, honey. <3 pardon any inaccurate translations.

notes. Rehneyr Corsioni [OC] — ex-associate of reader’s father. Edgar Corsioni [OC] — Rehneyr’s son.

TRANSLATIONS. mon ange — my angel; tenez-moi — hold me; va te faire foutre — fuck you/fuck off; “Écoute, si tu parviens à répondre, tu seras libre de vivre ce qui reste de ta vie pathétique.” — Look, if you manage to answer, you will be free to live whatever is left of your pathetic life; “Sing, pute.” — Sing, bitch; “Je ne ferais jamais ça.” — I would never do that; “Laisse moi ici,” — Leave me here;

Clustering sounds beside you were your alarm. Your eyes fought to get adjusted to your dimly lit surroundings, in a panic, you shot up from the bed. Bed? You were uncertain of where you were, until you saw a tall figure hulking, with his back towards you. As if sensing your inquisitive eyes on him, he turned around, a solemn expression on his face, plump lips sealed tight, yet his gaze softened at the sight of you. “Good… morning.” He said shaking his head, it seemed like he wasn’t too fond of his words, considering the sun set a few hours ago. You took a moment to look down at yourself, wearing an oversized, white silk shirt, and your panties. “I took the liberty of cleaning you, I’m sorry, ange.” He was avoiding your gaze, looking at the foot of the bed. “It’s okay, Vince.” “I appreciate you.” Your voice was soft, just a whisper lingering in the breeze.

“You need to rest.” He spoke with an authoritative concern. “I can’t, I just woke up.” You let out something along the lines of a chuckle and a scoff. “Lie down.” He raised his brows, a pleading look on his handsome face. “Lie down with me.” You quirked a brow, not anticipating the flush on his cheeks to be so prominent. “If, uh, if that’s what you want, ange.” He dare not look at you while discarding his jacket, slowly climbing beside you in the queen-size bed, long legs almost swinging out of it; the long bed that sufficiently accommodated you, failed to do the same for him.

Perplexity. Life had a way of arousing it, for life is a gland and these shitty plotholes are the hormones it secrets into your bloody life. A day ago, you mourned the loss of your family, this man, one who vowed service to your father, abandoned him when he needed him the most; when you needed him the most — but he’s here now, isn’t he? You should’ve been mad, hell, he of all people knew the degree of your wrath once unleashed, but you couldn’t be mad at your Vince, not when he sank into the mattress, beside you, pressing himself against you, tauntingly gently, reluctant on whether to be a bit selfish and let his arm rest on your waist, close all humane proximity between you two, and let whatever warmth he still possessed, even if it came from the fiery depths of hell he was certain to burn in, creep onto you.

You noticed this reluctance, despite not facing him. You couldn’t, you feared what you’d do once you’d catch those ocean eyes of his staring into the depths of your soul, digging an abyss into it with his piercing gaze, creating his personal hell inside of you.

“Vincent,” you whispered. “Yes, mon ange.” His soft voice whispered. “Tenez-moi.” Finally, the hesitant arm found homage, snakes around your waist, pressing his godly body against yours. The grip was possessive, permanent, and above all, right. Nothing has ever felt so right, to both of you. In that moment you knew, Vincent would fight heaven and back for you, in your name, whatever it takes.

Amidst your sleep, you heard agonising whimpers from behind you. Both of Vincent’s hands were on your hips, like the fullness of them was comforting. “Ange,” He shivered a whimper, grip tightening around your hips, squeezing them in fear, fear of whatever horror he saw behind those eyes shut tight.

“It’s okay, Vince. I’m not going anywhere.” You whispered, fingered grazing the veins on his large hands. He seemed to lean into your touch, crouching so his head could rest on your shoulder. ‘Not now, not ever.’ You meant to say, but you’re never had a way with words, a knotted tongue and a betraying body.

When morning came, so did the hellhounds. Jolting up at the sound of gunfire, your first thought was if Vincent got hurt, but not seeing him in bed with you as you’d requested, somehow, hurt more than what you’d knew a shot to the heart would. Getting up from the sheets in a frenzy, you reach for your 9mm and rush to the window. The sight below was three men circling in on one Vincent. Three armed men, and one Vincent with his weapon on the ground. You aim at the thug on the left — headshot; right, headshot, leaving the big boy with one man to knock down, a piece of cake, considering the boy was 6’4. He looked back at you, a grin plastered on his beautiful face, before he turned to the man in-front of him and tackled the shooter to the ground. “Atta boy.” You yelled out the window, before heading down to assist him.

‘Torturing’ is what an amateur would call it. You, on the other hand, say it like it is. ‘Information extraction’, it is. That’s truly how simple it is, the good ol’ human compliance, cooperation. You wouldn’t want to be a sinful Pinocchio and say you didn’t enjoy it when they didn’t, however. A challenge, hellions and rascals, and you loved brat-taming. Foreseeable, was this sight. A man stripped to the bone, tied in razor blade ropes of bondage, bleeding rivers of crimson at the hands of you and your beloved. Friend. Beloved friend.

“Tell us who sent you.” Vincent demanded, the tone of his voice was enough to snap you out of your sinister daze and let gooseflesh arise. “Va te faire foutre.” The son of a bitch had the audacity to retort. “Écoute, si tu parviens à répondre, tu seras libre de vivre ce qui reste de ta vie pathétique.” You sigh, rubbing the bridge of your nose in annoyance. The bastard spitting on your face was the last straw for Vincent, who conjured a knife from an apparent holster and grabbed the perpetrator by his short hair. “If you won’t talk,” he said, slashing the man’s throat in one swift stroke, “Sing, pute.”

Fear, for the first time, as the evening sun made feeble attempts to paint the perpetrator’s etiolating face a hue of tangerine, gargling on his own blood, he managed to weakly reveal, “Corsioni,” before leaving this realm, leaving behind no legacy in a maggot’s world, but a mess for you and Vincent to clean.

Rehneyr Corsioni, an associate of your father’s. You remember talk amongst your mother and his wife of a marriage (of convenience) between you and his son, Edgar. “Je ne ferais jamais ça.” You’d scowl at the sound of his name. He had his Russian mother’s face and his Italian father’s eyes, his skin and her hair. A lethal combination, something many a woman has succumbed to in the past, but not you. You had your own plans involving a very mercurial and brooding Parisian boy. His fawn hair, his blue-green eyes; you’d decided to call the colour a shade of Turkish blue. Looking at him now, dried blood splatters tainting his face, you noticed he hasn’t changed much. He was still your Vince, right?

After ridding yourselves of the body, Vincent and you stayed outdoors, staring into the wisteria horizon; at the ravens flying into the greenery and at the bats flying north. “How are you holding up?” He asked you, breaking the silence after minutes of staring at you, a habit you’ve noticed him picking up. “All things considered…” you paused, peering into the sky as if the clouds were etched in your answers. “I’m just glad you’re with me, Vince.” You turn to him, resting your head on his shoulder.

May you be damned for finding solace in this state, but were you really to be blamed when tonight’s the first time he’s lowered his walls? Just enough for you to hop over, or sit atop them prettily. “About that,” he inched away a little, causing you to raise your head, tilting in confusion. “I think you should leave.” He spoke, his words were choked by uncertainty and his brows furrowed at how pathetic he sounded. “What?” Your voice was barely a whisper. “America. Stay there for a bit, lay low, or even find contracts. Laisse moi ici, just until things pacify.”

Pacify? What was left to assuage in this city of ruins? “Vincent, there’s nothing left for me here — for us, here.” You began reasoning, eyes flickering from his face, to his hands. When he blatantly refused to meet your gaze, you grabbed one of his hands, the whole of your hand seemingly elfin in his large ones. This act forced him to stare you down, unlike he does voluntarily, from time to time; this instance, you had to force him to look you in the eye.

“I’ve already booked a ticket, an apartment, clothes, everything— you don’t have to worry about none of that.” He tightened his hold on your hand, grabbing the other, too. “Please, Ange. I need you to do this.” He beseeched. Never had you ever seen such a pleading look on his face, agony whirling in his eyes. “For me?”

For him you found yourself on a plane to New York, tears threatening to break the dam of dignity in your eyes and flood away as you reminisce about his arms that wrapped around you the night before, and the way he leaned in but pulled away in the blink of an eye, muttering curses, unheard of by you, but the twitch of his mouth and the tearing up of his eyes didn’t go unnoticed by you.

If your departure meant more to Vincent than he was letting on, why was he adamant on sending you away, and what wrath will the city of Paris go through now at the hands of a man apoplectic with provoked rage? Unfortunately, you couldn’t see for yourself, so, you let sleep cradle your being and drift off to some unconscious safe haven.

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justsomerandomfanfic · 1 year

Text

Tied Together - John Wick X Female Reader

Title: Tied Together

John Wick X Female Reader

Additional Characters: Dog/Boy (John's Pitbull), and Freckles the Dalmatian (OC)

Requested by Anon!

WC: 1,594

Warnings: embarrassment, nervousness, slight 101 Dalmatians movie reference/meet cute, John being John, awkwardness, slight angst, and fluff

The sun was shining brightly down upon you and your dog, Freckles. He was a Dalmatian, with five prominent spots on his nose and around his eyes, with black ears, and the usual black spots that dotted his short white coat. He was a beautiful, angelic animal... When he wanted to be. He was always running off on his own to do things like play in the park, or run through the woods in search of birds, squirrels, or any other small prey animals. But that was just how dogs acted, and you loved Freckles. He was your best friend.

The park was nice, calm, and with very few kids running around; playing games, or having picnics with their families. It was just perfect weather for a walk. You weren't really paying attention, but with a sharp tug of the leash, you looked up abruptly. Freckles was bouncing or hopping back and forth, looking up at you with wide bright eyes, seemingly excited about something. You frowned slightly, tilting your head.

"Freckles... Honey... What is it?" You asked your hyper dog. "Is it a squirrel?" His tail wagged wildly and he let out another yip of excitement. And before you knew it, Freckles bolted. You almost fell forward, stumbling to not fall as Freckles pulled you along behind him. This dog was certainly more intelligent than most. You knew he wanted something, and you almost regretted putting him on the leash. You looked up, eyes widening when your dog went barreling into someone.

Freckles jumped up on a man, his dirty paws landing on the man's suit pants, making you cringe. The man turned, looking down at the tail-wagging, tongue-hanging-out dog. The man's black hair fell like dark curtains, framing his face almost too perfectly. Your heart stopped at the sight of his brown eyes, so deep, you couldn't imagine ever looking away. His lips were pulled into a tight frown as if angry; however, his eyes told you differently. They held an emotion you had never seen before. A kind of sadness that made you yourself worry. You swallowed nervously, giving the man an awkward smile as you quickly apologized. "I'm sorry. Freckles doesn't usually do this."

The man looked back down at your dog, who hopped off his legs and began to sniff his Pitbull. "Freckles?" He asked, his voice deep and mysterious, making you wonder what his morning voice would sound like.

You nodded sheepishly. "Yeah... Uh... He's got spots, like freckles... So I sort of got inspiration from that?" You spoke, your sentence becoming more of a question the more you spoke.

The man before you then turned down to look at the dogs, watching them play with each other. It was silent for a long time, an awkward tension in the air as you watched your dog, subtly glancing at the man beside you. He still hadn’t said anything, which made you feel even more nervous. His overall presence beside you made you nervous. You couldn't get over how handsome the man was. He was definitely more attractive than any guy you’d ever met. You shook your head lightly. That thought was ridiculous and inappropriate. You were only meeting the man for the first time, and already thinking about that?

"So..." You began, instantly cringing at yourself, "What's your dog's name?" You asked, and the man beside you said nothing for a while, making you want to crawl up inside a hole and die, but you let out a breath when he finally spoke.

"... Boy. His name is Boy." He answered, his voice softening and sounding more relaxed now.

Your jaw dropped slightly. "... Oh." You responded lamely, and you could've kicked yourself. "Boy… That's a good name for him…" You added quietly, looking back down at Freckles and Boy playing. You couldn't help smiling slightly.

He chuckled softly. "Yes, I suppose it is." Then he smiled slightly, before turning slightly towards you, his hand out. "My name is John."

Your eyes widened slightly as you took his hand, shaking it gently, feeling your cheeks heat up slightly. "Uh... Y/N. Nice to meet you." You stuttered, feeling more embarrassed with every passing second that passed by. You could hear your heartbeat in your ears and felt sick to your stomach. You were so stupid... So unbelievably stupid. You should've been able to hold a normal conversation with him, and yet here you were trying to make small talk. "So, uh... Where'd you get Boy?"

John glanced at you before looking back at the two playing dogs, "A kennel." He answered simply, and you looked at him with a surprised expression.

"Really? That is so sweet. Rescuing dogs is such a noble and heroic thing. I didn't get the chance for Freckles. My parents gifted him to me." You replied with a soft giggle, causing John to glance back at you. You cleared your throat before speaking again, "Sorry. Uh, I'm not really good at socializing." You said quickly, your cheeks growing warmer with embarrassment.

"No apologies needed," He murmured, "Socializing isn't really part of my expertise either." He added, causing you to blink in surprise.

"Oh... Well..." You trailed off. Why did you suddenly feel the need to fill the silence? Why did you want to speak to him further? You tried to think of what to say. "Well, it's nice to meet another introvert like me." You inwardly cringed again, realizing how stupid that sounded.

John gave you a look, and you thought you almost saw another smile before a small yip brought your eyes to your dog. You bit your lip briefly before you looked up at John once more, "Uh, I might as well go. I have to make lunch soon, and Freckles must be tired from all the playing." You chuckled, as Freckled pranced over to you. "It was nice meeting you, John." You looked down at Boy. “And you too, Boy.” The pitbull barked happily.

John nodded, offering you a small smile, "You too."

As you turned to walk away, Freckles walked with you for a while before he barked up at you, suddenly turning and running back to John and Boy. You watched in horror as Freckles ran up to John and Boy, your rambunctious dog then launched you into John's back. Slightly startling the man as he turned around, eyebrows furrowed in confusion as you blushed madly. You tried to pull away, apologizing profusely but you couldn't move your legs. Looking down, you watched as Freckles chased Dog around you and John, ultimately tying the two of you together with the leash.

"Freckles! Stop!" You shouted both yours and John's bodies pressed together uncomfortably as you tried to stop your dog. Looking up at John, you continued to apologize. "I'm sorry about him, he's usually very well-behaved."

John shook his head, his hands wrapped almost protectively around your biceps, "It's alright, please don't apologize."

"Well, I can't help but be sorry." You spoke, almost defeated. "I feel so embarrassed." You mumbled softly, feeling your cheeks grow hot as you stared up at the man, who smiled slightly at you, his hand loosening its grip on your arm.

"Please, don't worry." He spoke, "It was an accident."

"I know." You sighed, "Here, we should try and get out of this." You mentioned before you and John began to successfully untangle yourselves from the leash.

Hands on your hips, you glared down at Freckles, who looked up at you with wide puppy dog eyes. "Oh, you're in big trouble, mister." You scolded him gently, in a slight baby voice. "No treat tonight." At your words, Freckles whined, before seemingly huffing and sitting down. "Oh, don't give me that attitude, young man." You chastised sternly, and Freckles pouted up at you. "Don't give me that look! Don't you dare pout at me either!" John looked at you with a warm smile, clearly amused. His smile left once you turned to look up at him. "I'm sorry about him again, there has to be something I can do to make it up to you." You offered.

John quickly shook his head, "No, it's alright. I understand."

You took your turn to shake your head, "No, please. I must do something to make this up to you. I won't be able to sleep at night if I don't." You practically pleaded. John stared at you, frowning slightly, the gears turning in his head as you continued, "Please, let me take you to this sweet diner I know. I'll pay for lunch."

John paused for a moment, his brows furrowing in thought as he slowly shook his head, as if not wanting to accept. "You don't have to do that."

"But I want to." You insisted.

John continued to stare at you, his eyes raking over your features, analyzing everything he could; from your hair to your eyes, to your lips. His own lips parted, but no words came out. Could John open his heart again? Could he let his cold heart thaw? Could John let someone back into his heart? He opened his mouth a few times, an "Alright." Finally fell out. You smiled widely.

"Really?" You asked excitedly.

"Sure." He repeated himself, his hands finding a place in his pants pockets. "So, where is this diner?"

You grabbed Freckles's leash as you and John began to walk out of the park, Freckles and Boy fooling around as they followed. "Well, it's just up the street! It's super nice, has the best milkshakes, and is pet friendly..."

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imajinxnation · 18 days

Note

Please could you write smut with John Wick x reader with a massive size kink? (only if you're comfortable writing smut tho)

Icecream Cone

John Wick x FEM!Reader

SUMMARY // Surprisingly, eating Icecream can be very rewarding when done right..

TW // Fluff, Smut, vaginal sex, size kink, hand kink, body worship, Age Gap(though not touched on), Dom!John, raw sex(unless you want kids, don't do dat)..

ALL GIFS FROM PINTEREST

this.. ooooh, this..❤️‍🔥

Writing detailed smut is amaaaazzziiinnggg

Also, idk Russian, I just used Google Translate😭 please forgive me if the translation isn't quite right!!

Pretty sure this is the longest fic I've ever wrote, and I'm pretty fuckin' proud of it!!

You and John are out in a small town, window shopping, his hand in yours, your fingers linked together as you walk down the sidewalk of the cozy little town. The sun is hot shining down on you, but the breeze is just enough to cool you off and be the perfect day. You stop in front of an Icecream shop, your stomach grumbling at the sight of all the yummy flavours that can be seen.

John notices you staring and chuckles a bit.

"Seems like a good day for Icecream, don't you think?" He asks rhetorically, and leads you inside to buy you a sweet treat on this hot summer day.

John stands in the lineup and waits to order while you go and sit down. He already knows your favourite, so he doesn't ask you what you want before you find a seat. You wait patiently for John to come to your table with your Icecream, people-watching out the window to pass the time. Soon enough he comes and sits down across from you, handing you your cone of Icecream.

"Mm.. My favourite!" You say, taking the cone from his hand and begin to lick at the creamy treat. John chuckles at your enthusiasm and starts to eat his aswell.

"What did you get? You usually don't stray from dark chocolate," You ask, noticing the two different flavours on his cone.

"Coffee and Caramel, thought I'd try something new," he explains and continues to eat his Icecream.

John finishes his in no time, whereas you've still got a ways to go, so you decide to keep on walking through town and just have it as you go along.

At one point on your walk, John looks down at you and watches as your small pink tongue laps at the frozen treat. He licks his lips, his mind wandering to all the other things you can lick with your tongue. He growls a bit under his breath and tries to shake the thought from his head. You were in public!

You hear his slight growl and look up at him. Oh.. you knew that look anywhere. That look was the look he gave you when he wanted something.. Usually something pleasurable. You grin a bit and bite your lip, ideas swirling in your mind. You feel your stomach drop and a rush of warmth spread to your core at the dirty things filling your head.

You finish the Icecream as quick as you can and throw out the remaining napkins.

"I'm starting to get a little sleepy, we've been out all day, you know.." you trail off, a small grin on your face.

John takes the hint and huffs out a small laugh, turning you both around and walking to his car which was parked not too far away. As you walked, hand in hand to his car, John leans down and whisper in your ear darkly.

"When we get home, you're going to show me exactly what that tongue can do.." he growls into your ear before straightening up, and looking as if he hadn't just made your pussy turn into Niagara Falls.

The moment you walk through that front door, John throws you over his shoulder and kicks the door closed behind him, taking you to your shared bedroom. He drops you onto the bed roughly and pulls you to the edge by your hips, his hands nearly covering your whole stomach.

He slides his hands up your T-Shirt and pulls it off of your body swiftly, revealing your sportsbra covered breasts.

"You see what you do to me..? You were just licking Icecream and you were still able to make me hard.." he grinds out, bringing his large hand to grip your jaw, your cheeks squishing at the contact, "моя любовь (my love).."

"Jardani.. please, I need you so bad.." you whimper out, pressing your thighs together to try and find some friction.

John groans at the use of his birth name. Only you could call him that and it would make him hard. John pulls off your shorts next, leaving you in your bra and underwear, your form significantly smaller than his. He takes his hand away from your jaw and caresses your body, his hands roaming over your stomach, hips, and breasts. He pulls off your sportsbra and squeezes your tits, his hands covering them whole.

He takes one of your perky nipples into his mouth and sucks at it, pulling at it lightly with his teeth while his hand massages the other, pinching and pulling your other nipple. You arch your back, pushing your tits further into his face and hand, and he groans when he hears you moan softly.

He pulls off of your nipple with a pop and slides his hand down your soft stomach, reaching down to your panty-clad pussy. He tugs down your panties and throws them to the floor with all your other clothes. The contrast between you being fully naked and him being fully clothed makes your core ache.

His middle finger rubs through your slick folds a few times before prodding at your entrance and slipping into your awaiting hole. Even having one of his fingers inside of you is filling enough, everything about him being thick and large. He slides a second finger in and starts to pump them in and out of you hard and fast, gentleness going right out the window. His fingers curl inside of you, his thumb rubbing your clit.

"Oh God.. John, fuck!" You moan, hips bucking into his hand.

Your thighs try to close around his arm, but he quickly pins one of your legs down with his other hand while his fingers continue their assault on your dripping pussy.

"You gonna cum for me, Маленький кролик..? (Little Bunny)" He asks, condescendingly.

You nod and moan, unable to form a sentence as his fingers pounded your sweet little pussy.

"Очень жаль.. (Too bad)" He says, his voice dark and deep as he suddenly pulls his fingers out.

"No! Please, John.. need to cum!" You whine out grasping at his forearm to try and make him continue.

John growls and climbs fully on top of you, grabbing your wrists and pinning them over your head, his chocolate coloured eyes darkening, a fire burning within them. He only needs one hand to pin both of your wrists, he grips your face with his other hand, making you look him in the eye.

"Who's in charge? Hm, Принцесса (Princess)?" He asks, a small smirk on his lips. He leans down and kisses you hotly, his tongue invading your mouth, making you moan at the sensation of his hot tongue tangling with yours.

"Hnn.. please, John.. I need you.." you moan into his mouth softly, begging and whining for his touch.

John lets out a dark chuckle, "That mouth.. that tongue of yours.. Those will be put to better use than talking or licking Icecream.." He whispers into your ear, his breath hot on your flesh.

He releases your wrists and pulls you up to stand, your feet touching the floor softly. John lets go of your body and sits down at the edge of your shared bed, undoing the button of his jeans and pulling down the zipper. He pulls his pants and underwear down, finally making it fair by making himself as naked as you are, pulling off his white shirt after his jeans and underwear, throwing his clothes to the floor with the rest.

"Get on your knees, Маленький кролик.. You know what to do, (Little bunny)" John grinned, spreading his legs for your torso to slide between.

You do as he says, knowing if you disobeyed him, it would have great consequences, uncluding him denying you your right to cum. Your small hands caress his abdomen, hips and thighs before taking his hard cock in your hand stroking him a few times. He groans at the feeling of your hand pumping his cock slowly, his hand snaking its way into your hair and tugging your head back harshly.

"Stop teasing, малышка.. (little girl)" he warns, looking you in the eye, making sure you know he isn't playing around.

You suck in a breath, your pussy clenching at the fire in his eyes. You nod slightly and kiss his leaking tip, licking away the precum dripping from his slit. You then wrap your mouth around his thick cock, taking in as much as you can without gagging, your hand helping with the rest. You begin to bob your head on his cock while your hand strokes the rest of his shaft in sync with your mouth.

John keeps his hand tangled in your hair, but doesn't force his hips up into your mouth, he may be rough, but he doesn't want to hurt you, so he lets you do what you can with your mouth. He groans and leans his head back, enjoying the feeling of your hot mouth and tongue suck and lick his cock, your hand adding to the pleasure. Eventually he pulls your mouth off of him with a sharp tug at your hair, not wanting to finish in your mouth, as if you were a whore.

He drags you up off your knees, standing up aswell, towering over you, picking you up and dropping you onto the bed once again. He positions himself between your legs, bringing one of your knees up over his shoulder to get the perfect angle. His cock prods at your entrance, rubbing his shaft in your warm slick before anything.

"Ready, моя любовь? (my love)" He asks softly, knowing his cock was big and would hurt stretching your small pussy out for the first minute or two. It always did.

You nod and whisper, "Yes.. please, love, I need it.."

He pushes in slowly and gently, groaning at the sensation of your pussy squeezing around him, tight and wet, all for him. Only for him.

"Ah! John! So fucking full.." you moan in both pain and pleasure, your nails digging into his broad shoulders.

He grunts and grips your hips, his hands nearly wrapping around your whole waist. His fingers dig into your flesh, trying to control himself, to stop himself from just pounding into you with no remorse. He takes your other leg and places it on his shoulder along with your other one, making him slide deeper into you.

Your eyes widen at the sensation, and you gasp, moaning at the feeling of his cock, deeper than ever.

"Please.. move, John. And don't hold back.." you pant out, a shaky breath leaving your lips as your pussy adjusts to his thickness.

John grunts and nod, doing as you say, fucking into your small, tight pussy with little remorse. You moan loudly at the feeling of his cock slamming into you, throwing your head back at the immense pleasure. With every harsh thrust, your tits bounce, and John is mesmerised. He wasn't going to last long tonight.. but neither were you.

You cling to John's body as he fucks you fast and hard, your nails scratching at his back and shoulderblades, your body contorted, your knees practically over your head as they rest on top of his shoulders. Who knew you were so flexible..

John fucks you as if fucking a toy, his hands pushing you onto his cock further as he thrusts into you desperately, his large form covering yours, your body looking absolutely tiny compared to him, as if you were his little.. doll..

"Gonna cum for me, Принцесса? (Princess) Gonna cum around my cock, like the good Маленький кролик you are..? (Little bunny)" he growls out, grunting, removing a hand from your hip to rub his thumb violently on your clit.

You scream at the sensation, your stomach bubbling with immense pleasure, the band in your stomach about to snap at any second.

"Yes! Fuck, John, wanna cum so bad! Please let me cum, I've been a good girl for you, haven't I?" You stutter out, the knot in your stomach getting tighter as his thrusts and his assault on your clit continue, starting to become sloppy and losing their rhythm.

"Then fucking do it! Cum on my cock, let me feel you.." he growls and presses his thumb harder onto your clit.

That was enough to make the band snap. You scream out his name and spasm around his cock, legs twitching, your head thrown back in a silent moan, losing your voice in the pleasure.

John roars your name and gives one last hard thrust before pulling out and cumming on your stomach. He slumps over your body, bringing your legs down gently on the bed from off his shoulders. His body covers yours, his arms wrapped around your shoulders, stroking your hair as you both come down from your highs.

"Fuck.. моя любовь, you are absolutely amazing, (my love)" He praises, kissing your forehead, taking in your sweet, post-coital scent.

"You're tellin' me.. holy shit. I think that's the hardest you've ever made me cum.." you say, letting out a breath, a sigh of relief.

"I can tell. Maybe next time I'll make you squirt.." John suggests, kissing your cheek with a playful smirk.

"Oh, I'm looking forward to that day.." you reply, grinning. John chuckles and leans down, kissing you sweetly. That was a promise.

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harleyqueen24 · 11 months

Text

Freedom, or not

Vincent de Gramont x Female Reader

Warnings: Fluff, Talk about illegality, invasion of privacy, power imbalance, swearing.

WORD COUNT : 1.8k

Summary: You do your studies in Lille's city. Suddenly, Vincent come to visit you. But, you know that it’s gonna be bad.

Thank you to @murasakispace for the correction.

Part 1/Part 2/Part 3/

Friday, your lessons were over. You left class with your friends, happy to have finished your group project for the semester. You wanted to go out for a drink to celebrate. Your second MASTER was over. You and your friends were so happy. You were on your way to a café, when a black limousine stopped in front of you. Its window rolled down and you saw a familiar face. He wore black glasses and had immaculate hair.

"Good evening, Miss Y/N." You knew why he was there. You knew who weas in the car and who was waiting for you. You gazed at your friends and sighed. They knew your situation and shrugged their shoulders with a broken smile. The driver continued to focus on you. "Sir waits you at..."

"The back. I know. Thank you Simon."

He replied you with a nod and pulled up the window. You gave them a little wave and smile to reassure them. They replied you with a "Salut !" and you got into the car to join the man you never wanted to see again: Vincent. He was dressed in a blue and purple checked three-piece suit. The envy of laughing at this extravagant costume overcame you. Although, you had to remain as neutral as possible so as not to start another argument. If he was here, it was because he had something important to tell you. You sat down in front of him, seriously.

These five years far away from him had done you the most good. You remembered the last time where you saw him. It was in Paris, at a dinner to celebrate his diploma. His parents had been so proud of him. Now, he was working with his father. It seemed that Monsieur was too lazy to continue his studies.

"So, are you going to speak up at some point?" he said, irritated. You had been watching from the window since you got into the limousine. The driver had the time to leave Lille and get on the motorway. It was normal for him to feel insulted. You turned your head towards him.

"It depends. If you tell me what you want."

"Chérie, we have two hours ahead of us. We have the time to come to the main issue."

"All the more reason not to talk to you. And I'm not your 'chérie'." His fists clenched. You knew he hated that. He sighed.

"You have not changed. Always so frank, serious and boring." His words were like spikes, piercing you to the core. He knew how hurt you were. Even though you were not supposed to show your feelings under any circumstances.

You looked out the window again. "And you, always so contemptuous and arrogant."

He smiled. "That's normal. It's part of my charm."

"Your charm. Mon cul, oui." You thought. Trees and houses were marching in front of you. A few minutes later, you realised that you were leaving the Lille area. "Where are you taking me?" you asked him.

"Are you only asking me that now?" he replied with a grin. "This is a surprise."

"You know that I don't like it."

"Yes, I know. That’s why I’m making you one."

You sighed. "You annoy me." He smiled, proud of himself. And it was only been an hour since you had left the city. "Is it far away?" you asked him.

"The destination ? Not really." He picked up his cup of coffee and he drank a sip.

"So, are we almost there? I have a lot of work to do."

"It will wait."

It will wait? You refused. You broke your back to be the best in your class. You did everything you could to show your father the leader you’d be if you took over his business. And this man said it as if there were more important things to do. Outraged, you grabbed your PC and started working on your project.

He gazed at you and sighed. "So, you don't want to talk to me."

"I would rather work." Your fingers tapped the keyboard quickly and you were so focused on your work that you lost track of time. The car pulled up and Simon opened the door. You lifted your head. "Are we there yet?"

"A few minutes ago." Vincent got out of the vehicle. You joined him and discovered where he had taken you. The great glass pyramid of the Louvre stood proudly before you. It was not the first time you had seen it. He reached out to you, waiting for you to grasp it.

"Will my fiancé please accompany me on this visit?" You gazed at his hand, then at Vincent and walked towards the main entrance without taking his hand, which was waiting for yours. He closed it, clenching his fist. "Alright." he said, annoyed.

You walked along the long corridors of the museum, observing at the paintings and statues. You stopped in front of Le Sacre de Napoléon by Jacques-Louis David. To admire it for the umpteenth time. You loved everything about this painting, the brushstrokes, the colours, the lights. It captivated you.

"Wonderful, no?" Vincent told you, next to you.

"Yes. Wonderful." You answered, stars in your eyes. "Did you know that Napoleon’s mother was not present at the son's coronation?" You asked him.

"Yes and that is why Napoleon the First asked the painter to install it."

You gazed him, surprised. "Finally, you know something."

"Why? Did you doubt it?"

"Sometimes." You continued down the long, high corridor.

After a few minutes, you saw a table. Vincent invited you to sit down. You looked around before moving to one of the two chairs. A butler came and served you tea, cakes were in front of you. Your fiancé took two teaspoons of sugar and mixed it into the tea. You decided to take the lead.

"Why did you bring me here?"

"You don't beat around the bush." he said you with a little grin. "We need to talk about..."

"If it's about the marriage, I'll stop you. Your father always reminding me." you cut him off. He laughed.

"It was not in my mind to talk about it. I just wanted to spend some time with my fiancée."

"And about what? Business?"

"Oh, you know how to talk to me, Bébé."

"Don't. Call. Me. Like. This." you said, enraged.

"Wow! Calm down! It was a joke."

"It wasn't fun." You sighed and took your cup of tea to drink. You observed at a few paintings while your fiancé talked. For almost an hour, he only talked about his business with his father. But one thing caught your attention: your father's business. Vincent knew a lot about it. Even a little too.

"Working with your father gives us something extra."

You fixed. "What do you mean?" you said, confused. He put down his cup and crossed his legs.

"The illegal art market is not very well known, only the richest have access to. But that’s what gives it its charm and power. Doing business with your father is always a pleasure."

You stood up suddenly. "An illegal market?" you exclaimed. You knew nothing of your father’s activities or of his relationship with the Marquis. Although, you did know one thing: art is above all a passion and pure. That's what your father taught you. Your father would never have tolerated this. Vincent watched you, intrigued.

"What?"

"What? What! Tu te rends compte de ce que tu viens de dire ?"

"Judging by your reaction, I see your father didn’t tell you."

It was right. Your father didn't tell you anything about his business. At the same time, you had gone to another town, a two-hour drive from Paris. So, you didn't know much.

"My father? Doing that? That's impossible..." you murmured.

"If you weren’t so far from Paris, you might know the latest."

You glared at him. You remembered why you had gone to Lille. You didn’t want to hear him, see him, or even feel him. You didn't want to listen to this guy who was going to be your husband. Just thinking about it mad you want to throw up. He took a sip of his tea when you said:

"Maybe if you didn’t exist, I could live my little quiet life by my side."

His jaw clenched. He hated it when you said things like that. It touched his ego. He put his cup down violently. "Because you think I’m happy to marry a woman as boring as you?" Now, it was your turn to go mad. You stood up quickly and walked towards one of the museum's many corridors. Vincent sighed and followed you.

"Y/N!"

He called you, but you didn't care. You were so angry when you heard him. Suddenly, his hand grabbed your handle. You turned in front of him, violently. You were standing in front of La Liberté guidant le peuple by Eugène Delacroix.

"What? Are you gonna ask me again why I’m angry? Why am I reacting like this? Or are you gonna ask me why I'm running away?"

"I..."

"No! Don't talk! I’m talking here!"

He took a breath and folded his arms. You continued to speak. "I was very happy to be in Lille. Happy to be doing something with my life. And just for what? A job. A fucking job that I know I may never achieve." You took a breath, before continuing. "And you... You’re back in my life after two fucking years. Two fucking years of doing what I wanted, going to parties, making friends and studying what I wanted. I was free!" His eyes widened. He wanted to speak but no words came out. "Do you understand, now? Your mere presence reminds me that I could never be happy!"

"And for me? Don’t you think I feel the same way?"

You smiled. "It's different for you. You’ve always accepted what your father told you to do. Like a good boy to his daddy!"

"Don't talk about my father like that! Did those girls you hang out with teach you that vocabulary? I should have kept a better eye on your entourage!"

Your eyes widened. What? Did he spy on you and your friends? "Unbelievable. You were spying on me!"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because you're my fiancée!"

"Et alors ? That's not a reason!"

"For me, si !"

A bodyguard suddenly interrupted you. "Sir."

"What?" you said together. For the first time, you agreed on the same thing. Which surprised you. The man in the corstard scraped his throat before he spoke. It smelled bad all that stuff.

"Sorry to bother you, but…"

"Talk!" Vincent shouted.

"I have to inform you that your father is dead."

----------------------------------------

Translate French - English :

MASTER : degree after 5 years of study.

Salut ! : Hi!

Monsieur : Sir

Chérie : Darling

Mon cul, oui : My ass.

Bébé : Baby

Tu te rends compte de ce que tu viens de dire ? : Do you realize what you just said?

Et alors ? : So what?

Si ! : Yes!

210 notes · View notes

kiwisbell · 23 days

Text

helen ; chapter four

nowhere to run

Si vis pacem, para bellum. Or, the capture.

series masterlist | my masterlist pairing: joel miller x f!reader tags/warnings: 18+ (MDNI), john wick AU, hitman!joel, husband!joel, established relationship, artist!reader, love as worship (and blasphemy), sacrilege in the name of romance, flashbacks, graphic violence, guns, blood + injuries, tommy gets stuck with the babysitting gig, joel is still a bit of an idiot, childhood/religious trauma, joel in a church, violence against pastors, criminal underworld, secrecy/lies, betrayal, Big Angst, we're getting there though, the smut returns, fingering, conflicting emotions, kidnapping, Angry!Joel, cliffhanger (oopsie daisy), the typical alcohol/smoking/profanity, dividers by @/saradika word count: ~ 9k a/n: fucking hell. i'm so sorry for how long it took me to bring this chapter to you, friends! my thesis sucked all the life from me and i had to go on a quick trip to the underworld and back to get it back again. thank you so much to my baby @cavillscurls for beta reading and as always being the biggest goddamn help throughout the process. below is the moodboard that mya made for this chapter and the reason i'm her no. 1 lovergirl. prev | next

When he was young, he fed stray dogs on the street.

He would steal sandwiches, pluck out the meat to gnaw on himself, and toss the bread onto the pavement. He would sit back on his haunches just like them and lick his chops when he was finished. Being a runner earned him good money, but it was hard to find jobs that would take a scrawny eight-year-old with dirt on his nose. His memories of those days are far away, foggy around the edges, but he still smells the eye-watering prickle of trash, cigarette smoke, wet fur of the dogs. He still remembers the moist scratch of soaked-through denim after a night sleeping outside in the rain, the bone-deep chill that lasted for days in winter.

One night, a Sunday in July, a hand stretched out toward him. He had not eaten in days, and he’d begun to feel the stretch of his skin around his ribs. A skeleton haunting the wrong body. The face is blurred now, but he remembers the hand. Long-fingered and a little wrinkled, a bracelet dangling from the bluish vein-ringed wrist, a charm in the shape of a cross.

The hand brought him from his bed of ratty blankets and old newspapers to a giant cathedral. The bold lettering above the grand doors read The Sisters of Saint Eustace. Joel had been too small, too weak, to reach up and touch the golden words, but they were tarnished with age and buffed around the edges. He looked up at the owner of the hand—the hand which then lowered onto his shoulder, collarbones protruding, and squeezed just hard enough to sting.

He felt the warm soak of the daytime breeze on his face.

“You must come inside with me,” said the woman. He remembers that the hand belonged to a woman. There was a black hood around her head that made her appear as wraithlike as death itself.

The Creation of Adam was immortalised on the north wall. It was the first thing he saw when he walked inside.

“I can’t go inside,” he said.

“And why not?”

He turned his head away from the image of Adam and God, whom he did not know at the time, and could never have hoped to know. How could he, after all, when God had never appeared to him? Then, God was only a man, frail and old, reaching out a wrinkled hand. Why should the weak ask for aid from the strong?

“The dogs need someone to feed them,” he said.

He still does not know God. He does not suspect he ever will. But there’s a warm, soft palm encasing the skin and muscle over his heart, irradiating down to the bone. There’s an intermittent puff of air on the back of his neck, slow and ticklish, the way snow melts. The dog that still lives in the core of him shows its belly.

You’ve moved closer in the night, your soft skin warming his back where your shirt rides up. You breathe silently, catlike, as measured as the rise and fall of the winter sun. He listens for a while, his chest pushing out to match you. As he settles into the new rhythm, he feels for a moment as if it’s all been a dream. As if he never lost you, never lied.

His name leaves your sleeping mouth and his heart ceases altogether. It’s the breathless sound of need, of a desire he supposes you’ve forgotten. In your sleep, some stale withered flower blooms under a fresh rainfall, and he wonders what you’re dreaming about.

Before Joel put his mouth between your legs for the first time, you had forgotten what pleasure tasted like.

It was July, sweltering, and you were draped across the sofa with his head in your lap. It was date night, and his turn to choose the movie: some god-awful karate action film that was a sequel to a sequel to a sequel and so on, infinitely repeating. Neither of you were paying attention to the exchange of staged punches. You were occupying yourself with threading your fingers through Joel’s hair, and he’d taken to toying with the little bow that held up the waistband of your shorts. You watched him pull the strings until they unfurled only to tie them again with one hand. The white noise of on-screen blows lulled you into a gentle doze as you both lay idle.

“Joel.”

“Hm,” he said, the scratch of his beard tickling your belly.

“The door,” you said. “Someone’s knocking.”

“Hm,” he said again, his questioning pitch the only indication he was truly listening.

“You should probably get it.”

His sleep-soaked eyes fluttered shut, his lashes brushing your skin. He gently squeezed your hip. “I’m just fine here.”

“What if I told you I had a surprise for you? And what if I told you I worked very hard to find your surprise?” you cooed.

Joel blinked up at you. “You got me somethin’?”

Your heart swelled. “Yeah, I did. Come on, cowboy.”

Outside, Tommy lounged against the hood of the surprise as you guided Joel outside, your fingers over his eyes.

“I don't like bein’ blind,” he grumbled. “Can't you just tell me?”

“How about I show you?”

You lifted your hands. For a moment, Joel blinked, his eyes adjusting to the blazing light of the sunset, and his lips parted at the sight before him.

“Jesus,” he said under his breath. “You… got me a car?”

“It's not just a car. Boss Mustang 429,” you said sheepishly. “1969. You know, the one you never shut up about. I thought this might help.”

Joel’s breath hitched, and you watched him swallow it. “How…”

“Tommy called me a while back. He'd sourced it from another garage; it was bound for the dump, but I wanted to surprise you by fixing it up. So… surprise.”

Tommy tossed the keys to Joel, who caught them without even looking. “Your girl can get her hands dirty. Helped me fix up the whole damn thing.”

You tried to gauge his reaction, the slight hollow in his throat where he seemed to store the falling sunlight, a faint sheen of sweat turning him gold. Your heart plummeted into your stomach when he didn't say a word.

“It's too soon.”

His head whipped around, his brows curving up in the middle. “What?”

You wetted your lips, panic closing your throat in at all sides. “I know we haven't been dating long, but… I don't know, I couldn't pass up the chance. But now I know it's too soon. I shouldn't have presumed��”

Faintly, he shook his head, his eyes darting across your face as if he were trying to trace it, and closed the distance between you. You gasped as he slanted his mouth over yours, his hands cradling your face, old paper and salt and your perfume. You threw your arms around his neck, a buoy for the drowning man whose arms wound around your waist and pulled you so close he could disappear altogether. Maybe he was trying to. Selfishly, you would let him.

Tommy grumbled something—“You’re welcome, asshole,” probably—and his own car roared to life as it pulled away.

The car keys jingled in the bowl in your foyer as Joel tossed them blindly behind him, his heel shutting the front door. He kissed you like you were a fever he needed to burn out, and you felt the match strike where his hand curled its heavy weight around your neck.

“What time do you fly out?” he grumbled against your mouth.

“Not until morning,” you said breathlessly, watching him drop to his knees in front of you, taking your little shorts with him. Your chest heaved at the sight of your Joel, made humble at your feet, pressing his searing-hot lips to the bare skin of your belly. “Joel…”

“Nobody,” he said, his voice the velvety drag of night, “is like you. Not a goddamn soul.”

The admission caught in your throat the way a web ensnares dewdrops. The intricate folds of your brain would forever carry the imprint of the words—words no one else had ever said.

A starving artist, an old teacher of yours had said, remembers every kind word said about their art. They eat from them when there's no other food in the house.

“You're it for me,” he told you. “There's nothing else.”

You wake slowly, serenely, a yawning ache blossoming in the core of you.

Maybe that's why, even now, you cannot forget the way he touched you that night. You still recall every thumbprint, every stroke of his tongue, every soft cry into the otherwise empty room.

The fact is that nobody can love you the way Joel Miller does. Not even when his love hurts more than anything else.

He's watching you now. His eyes are half-open but alert, instinct pulling him closer to your side of the bed. Or, maybe you're the one who’s crawled closer to him.

“Joel…”

He doesn’t speak, but you feel the pads of his fingers on your belly, the soft fabric of your shirt bunching over his bruised knuckles, and his eyes shutter at the touch alone, a worn sinner.

“Tell me what you need,” he whispers, and it's chipped porcelain, the sound of his voice.

A part of you wants to cry, to let the pressure build until it crests, to feel the salt settle in the pores at the sight of him so close, so open. But you've shed your tears and he’s slept in your bed, and now his fingers brush the hem of your panties, not begging entrance, but asking, wondering—

You say so weakly, “I need you to touch me,” and he nods because he knows, because he's Joel, because your body has not become foreign to him even if you've made your heart a stranger.

You shiver as his hand dips beneath the cotton, two fingers sliding through the gathering wetness between your legs. Joel's gaze is fixed on you, black as the sky, his bicep flexing as he parts your folds with his fingers. Absently, possessed, you sling your leg up over his hip to spread your thighs.

The shockwave brings you down as he slides his middle finger inside you, sinking to the knuckle. The gasp that leaves your mouth feels like inhaling glass. You cup the back of his neck for purchase, tugging the little curls at his scalp, and watch as he bares his teeth.

“That's it, baby,” he says brokenly, the heel of his palm applying pressure to your clit as you writhe. Back in his arms, your heart thunders in your chest, the ache of his absence ringing in each rib like the aftershocks of a blow. He pumps his fingers inside you, curling up against the spot he knows as intimately as his own hand, studying your face as if he has become the artist and you the muse. For a moment, you think you see the reflection of your face in the whites of his eyes, and you’re overcome with a shudder that compresses your spine.

He’s too close. Too far away. Your hand curls around the scruff of his neck, a misbehaved dog. You’ve let him in, it’s too late, too soon, and you’ve assumed all the blood he’s spilled, taken it inside your body with the press of his fingertips past your begging entrance.

You hate that your body still sings for him, that your eyes cannot shutter, that you cannot shuck the curtains closed despite all he’s done. You hate that his eyes still hold the sorrow you’d seen in him since that very first night, and you hate that you existed so happily, so blindly, with him, in spite of the arid darkness that has always lingered just under the brown you thought you knew so well.

But he’s always known you, and that may be what hurts the most.

He’s always been keenly aware of your moods, your tastes, your body, and he plays you now like a pipe, lending his body to yours in supplication. Your heart aches as you let him inside, some feeble breach of contract, as if nothing is wrong, as if nothing was a lie.

He slides his fingers from you and spreads them before your eyes, the sight of the slick webbing eliciting a gasp you can barely hear. He licks his fingers clean and dips them back between your bodies, circling your clit with a renewed fervour.

“Fuck.” Your eyelids droop, your stomach tightens, and the glint of Joel’s bared teeth is that of a wolf’s in the dark. “I’m… fuck, I’m…”

“I know,” he says, “I know,” and you wish he wouldn’t.

The rhythmic, meticulous path of his fingers is nothing like the desperate writhing of your hips, the feverish grinding, the cries. Prey caught in a trap, you grasp the iron bars of his shoulders tight and beg for mercy.

And it feels so good, so right, that it slashes open your heart and spills the blood. The cold bite of his wedding ring bumps up against your opening as you blossom, brittle as a new bud, his fingers pumping in, out, in—

“Oh, God,” you whimper, burying your face in his throat, sinking into the familiar warmth.

Joel grunts, his nose sliding across your temple. “C’mon, baby girl, c’mon… I’ve got you… Can feel it…”

Normally, you would lick and bite and kiss the sweet, humid skin of his throat until you came, soft as dough in his arms. There’s a steel edge to the way you come now, fingers stiffly prickling his scalp, eyes bleeding tears into the crook of his neck. It feels good—good to slash at the bars that cage you in, good to weep over the loss of some willpower you let dissolve.

He doesn’t stop until he’s wrung every drop, inhaling the cloying smell of soiled linen and sticky perfume and saltwater. He closes his eyes against your temple and you can feel the caress of his lashes—wet, like yours.

His lips always carried the faint bitter bite of black coffee, and he always said yours tasted sweet. Like goddamn honey, he’d whispered into your throat the first night you let him inside, and you’d laughed—maybe the graze of his mouth was ticklish, or maybe you thought it was funny: the idea that you could be so sweet.

Now, you’re splintering as your eyes flicker down to his mouth, plush lips moist but split from the blow of an enemy. If you kissed him now, he would only feel a sharp sting. If you kissed him now, you’d let the blood win out. You would only hurt him and yourself alike.

“What are we doing, Joel?”

His eyes shimmer in the dark, his palm tentatively cradling the crown of your head. The hollow of his throat deepens, and you hold your breath.

“I’ll be anything you want me to be,” says Joel. “If you want me just to use me, then use me. You can have me whenever you want. I just wanna be someone you need—even if you don’t need me the way you used to.”

The sob lurches out of your throat, your forehead dropping to his as the climax burns out, smoke from a snuffed candle.

When you can breathe again, you push yourself upright and cross the room to gather your toiletries. “I’m not going to use you. I never should have done this.”

“Stop.” Joel grunts as he stands, apparently forgetting about his wounded ankle. “Don’t say it like that.”

“Joel, let’s just—”

“I don't want it to be like this,” he says. “I don’t want it to hurt when I touch you.”

“It doesn't,” you whisper, hugging your bag to your chest along with a bundle of clothes. “That's what scares me.”

His brows curve upward in the middle and you're overcome by the need to fix your eyes to the floor. “Baby, please… Please just look at me.”

You swipe your thumbs under your eyes and pin him with your gaze. “I feel like I’m mourning a marriage that didn't even end,” you tell him, and Joel lurches forward as if he means to grab the words in mid-air.

“And maybe we did lose it,” you say softly, though the words sting on the way out of your mouth. “But maybe that's… good. I don't want a relationship based on lies, Joel. I don’t want to wake up every morning next to the man I love and wonder what he’s still keeping from me.”

Joel lowers himself into the chair by the table like a weight is tied to his chest. He's still shirtless, his wound bleeding through the gauze around his arm, but he's staring at you. Suffocating you.

Twisting his wedding band around his finger, he says, “If there's even the smallest chance that you really could still love me… that this ain't over, even though I’ve done everything wrong by you… I’m gonna fight for it.”

Not everything, you want to say. Not everything, or I wouldn't be so hurt right now. It’s funny that the words won't take shape—wraithlike as the black ink snaking up and down his back. “I know you will.”

“And if you want all the truth I‘ve got, even if it's bloody, I’ll give it to you.” He leans forward, muscles flexing under inked skin. “You’re my everything. Nothin’ about that has changed. Not one goddamn thing.”

You chew on the inside of your cheek, the tang of iron flooding into your mouth. “It’s not just about the lies,” you say, dropping into the chair across from him. “You've put me on a pedestal. You may be strong and you may know how to fight, and everyone in the world may know your name, but… I don't think I can survive being all that you breathe for. Not if it leads to this.”

He remembers waking up each morning in the orphanage, sunlight turning technicolour through stained glass images of praying hands. He’d always thought the sun was so strong, gathering pieces of itself just to wake half the world, reviving dead plants, rattling the bones that stirred dead in the earth. He’d put his fingers through the many colours just to watch them dance. He’d wiggle his digits and remember he was alive.

He watched you walk down the long aisle toward him in a white dress, a bouquet of daisies in your hands, the sun carving your path. His hand flexed at his side like it did on those long-gone mornings, and he briefly doubted he’d be able to touch you at all—like you’d disappear, smoke curling around the contours of his fingers, a dream.

“My heart hurts, Joel,” you say brokenly, your palm flattening against your chest. “I’m not as strong as you are. I’m just a girl who married the man she loved. One day, you're going to realise that I don't bleed gold. I’m not a deity. I’m not someone you go to war over. I’m not fucking perfect, and if you keep treating me like I am, you’re only going to be disappointed.”

Joel just watches the tears fall, somewhat enraptured by the way they linger like dew on your lashes, until you blink them away and they cascade down the curve of your cheek. He wonders if this is how it feels to be the painter, desperate to capture even a brushstroke of the subject in front of him. He used to watch you paint for hours, holed up in your studio, covered in splotches of oils he would later take his time to wash away. The colours would curl around the drain, a snake poised to strike, and he’d kiss you, his canvas, tasting the poison of paint at the corner of your mouth.

He’s made something dark of the light that grew inside you. He’s tainted your image with the blood he’s shed, and every one of the thousand cuts has struck true. He thought he was protecting you.

He was only hurting you.

“I just wanted to have you. And you wanted to forget.” Your eyes no longer meet his, tracing the lifelines in the oak table back and forth. “So where do we go from here?”

There’s a troubled tic in his brow, punctuating the feverish flitting of his eyes between each of yours, always restless. “You think I fell in love with you because I thought you were invincible?”

You lift your head, the whites of your eyes gleaming. Joel brings his chair closer to yours, and you don’t make a move to pull away.

“I fell in love with you because you’re human,” he says. “Because you’re kind. Because you have a heart bigger than any I’ve seen. Because you’re funny, and talented, and you love to make art, and when you find something you love, you give your soul to it. I love you because you’re an angry drunk and you hate mornings and you’re so fuckin’ frustrating when you won’t give up. I fell in love with you because you were the only person who’s ever taken a real shot at lovin’ me.”

Your bottom lip quivers and he wants to coax the heavy ache from your very soul, venom from the wound.

“You are my everything, baby. You are. And I know it ain't healthy, but I don't care. If that means I see you as a god, fine. You think I can stop lovin’ you the way I do? I can’t. But I never once thought you were perfect. Perfect people don’t fall in love with men like me.”

You laugh a little, but it’s taut, stuck in the back of your throat.

“I don’t expect you to forgive me. I’m not even sure I want that. But I do want to be the kind of man you’re willing to love again. You’re my best friend, and I’ll do whatever it takes, you hear me? I’m not givin’ up.”

You sniffle, your quivering hands folded into one another atop the table. He wants to reach out and touch you, pull you back into his gravity, smell your perfume. He wants to do a thousand other things he does not deserve.

“You’ve killed Manuel’s son,” you say quietly. “There’s still a contract on your head.”

Joel nods. “And he’s gonna pull it.”

You shake your head, lips parted around words you choose not to say. Instead, you look away, and he feels he's lost something he'd been holding.

“Do what you need to do,” you say, and every syllable cuts him along the bias of the bone.

He has known your hurt, your anger, your sadness. Something in an artist’s heart has never seen a day of peace, you told him once. He thought it was a joke; he may have even laughed.

I loved you.

Joel swallows. “I need you—”

“—to stay here.” The corner of your mouth pulls up despite your sombre tone. “Yeah, I know.”

There’s a knock at the door before he can open his mouth to reply. You stay apprehensively glued to your seat as Joel peers through the peephole only to unlatch the chain on the door.

“Anyone see you come in?” he asks Tommy.

“I’m sure plenty of people saw me, brother. But they can’t do anything, now, can they?”

A muscle in Joel’s jaw feathers. “You bring everything?”

Tommy scoffs, gesturing toward the bags weighing down his arms. “Everything on your fuckin’ mile-long list? Yeah. You gonna let me in?”

Joel ushers him inside and triple-checks the hallway to make sure nobody is lurking nearby. Your voice brightens by a fraction and it feels like an electric shock tingling at his fingertips.

“Tommy.”

“Hey, sweetheart.” He squeezes your shoulder and drops the bags at your feet. “You hangin’ in there?”

Joel watches from the shadows of the hall, his heart leaden at the sight of you smiling for someone else. He’ll do anything to earn that. He’ll forsake all he has, all he is. He’ll crawl on his hands and knees all the way back through hell; he already knows the way.

“Brought your supplies,” says Tommy, kneeling at your feet and opening the bags. Your brows knit together at the sight of your oils from home, your brushes, your pallets long ago stained with colour. “Heard you were feeling inspired.”

Your gaze lifts to Joel, eyes narrowed. “Is that right?”

He’s sheepish, ducking his head. “Just… thought you might be goin’ crazy, stuck in here.”

“That's not why I’m going crazy,” you grumble.

Tommy chuckles. “Well, if anything’s missin’, it's his fault. Most of your canvases were destroyed, but these are all good.”

Your heart feels a little lighter now that you can smell the tangy, cloying scent of your paints and run your fingers over the bristle of your brushes. You give Tommy’s hand a pulse, your thank-you barely snaking past the lump in your throat. “Tell Maria I said hi.”

He gives you a knowing look. “I’m holdin’ you to your promise, y’know. You still have to paint the nursery.”

You cast your eyes toward Joel, who leans against the wall in the dark corridor. “Yeah,” you say softly, stripped to the bone by the way he watches you, unblinking. “I don't break my promises.”

His fingers twitch at his sides, and the gleam of his wedding ring lingers in your periphery long after you've torn your gaze away.

“Tommy’s gonna stay with you,” says Joel, “while I take care of the rest.”

The rest. Of course. “Why now?”

“He just killed Cabrera’s son,” says Tommy. “And we don't want to risk anyone comin’ around, lookin’ for revenge.”

“But you said no business can be conducted here.”

“For enough money, a person will break any rule.”

“That kind of undermines the entire concept of your entire Underworld, doesn't it?” you say. “Rules aren't really rules.”

“But there are consequences,” says Tommy. “Just… if you’ve got enough money, you can hide from ‘em for a while.”

“Until they hunt you down,” you utter, looking across the room at Joel. His silence feels like hot hands on your bare skin. You turn back to Tommy. “What about Maria?”

“She's with her mom this weekend,” says Tommy. “Won't even notice I left the house. You need someone to model, I’m your guy.”

“No,” says Joel.

“I didn’t mean I’d get naked,” says Tommy.

Joel clips Tommy’s shoulder on his way to you, and his brother takes the hint to make himself scarce, disappearing into the bathroom. Joel kneels at your feet and places his hand on your calf. The weight of it is warm, carrying words he has no time left to give.

“This will be over soon,” he says, and he sounds so sure that you almost believe it.

“And then what, Joel?”

He sets his jaw. There's little of the predator, of the boogeyman, in his eyes. All that rich brown betrays now is a quiet resolve. A promise.

“Home,” says your husband. “We’ll make another.”

You squeeze your eyes shut only to open them again and find the hand that rests on your skin. He's bruised, bloodied, and violent, but he does not squeeze or press. He never once has. You wonder idly how often he's put those hands on your body while thinking of a time he'd taken the life of another.

“And what if we can’t?” you ask him.

The first time you'd unveiled a piece to him—the first piece you'd ever painted of you and him, together—Joel had instinctively touched the supple blue skin beneath the woman’s breast, as quickly as a nurse finds a vein.

“She’s blue,” he said. “Is that… how you feel? Like you’re… blue?”

“Blue doesn't just mean sadness,” you told him. “It could almost mean serenity. Stability.”

He looked at you, puzzled, for a while, his hand still extended, pressed to the barely-dry canvas. “Where I grew up,” he said, “I was never really taught anything besides black and white.”

“Colours are different that way,” you said. “They mean a thousand things to a thousand people. They can all look at the same painting and feel something unique.” You gave him a wry smile. “You look at a painting of us having sex and see sadness. I’m trying not to read into it.”

He chuckled. “You should know that's not true. And I like the way you think.”

“You never told me what you think about the painting,” you said playfully. “Do you like it?”

Joel’s hand travelled from the woman’s breast to her hand as if pondering the wash of blues that coloured her skin. Her fingers, intertwined with her lover’s, squeezed down on him—a lifeline.

“It’s beautiful.”

“It's the way I feel when you touch me,” you said. “Like I’m falling apart and coming together at the same time.”

Joel tentatively reaches for your hand and turns it over in your lap, palm to the ceiling. “If you decide a home isn't what you want with me,” he says, tracing your lifeline, “then that’s all right. But I just… I want to know if—”

“Don’t,” you whisper, pressure accumulating behind the inner corners of your eyes. Joel meets your gaze and it takes all you have to suppress the shudder at the feeling of his thumb making its ghostly pilgrimage across your palm. “Don't ask me yet. Please.”

He bows his head and his hand slips from yours, and you choke on the memory of a love uncompromising, effortless, simplistic.

“Just come back alive,” you tell him. “Come back to me, okay?”

Joel rises to his feet, and a kiss plants its roots at your hairline. “Always.”

“When he said to watch me, I don't think he meant the whole time.”

Beside you, Tommy clears his throat, averting his gaze to the floor. “Sorry. Just… it’s impressive, what you do.”

You’re still outlining the tangled limbs of the man and woman, their bodies disappearing into one another, each line indistinguishable from the next. “Well, if it helps, I don't know how cars work.”

He laughs. “Yeah, all right.”

You set down your pencil, casting a glance out the window. Outside, the stars wink down at you. “Will he be okay?” you say softly.

Tommy sighs. Now that he no longer needs to hide the fact that it isn't his brother doing the books, the sting of the reminder rings in your chest with the sound of his binder closing.

“I don't blame you, y’know,” he says, “for stayin’ pissed at him.”

“Good,” you reply, “because he's an idiot.”

“Yeah, that's one thing that's never gonna change.” Tommy leans back in the chair, taking a swig from his beer. “I tried to tell him he was makin’ a mistake. He's a stubborn bastard.”

“He is,” you say, frowning at the curl you've drawn over your subject’s forehead. He looks back at you, brow furrowed, one eye visible, the other blending with hers. It's gruesome, in a way: the frenetic lines, the frantic way their fingers dimple one another’s flesh. “But I can be stubborn, too.”

Tommy leans forward, studying the beginnings of your sketch. “I know he's made mistakes, and Christ knows I’m crazy for defending my dumbass brother. But if you knew how much he loved you…”

“Tommy,” you cut in, setting down your pencil. “Loving me isn’t the problem.” The outline of the bodies on your canvas blur as your eyes burn with tears. “I wonder if he ever really left—in his heart, I mean.”

Tommy’s voice is quiet. He’s twirling a small switchblade in his hand. “All he's ever wanted is peace.”

You cast your eyes toward the ceiling to stop the tears from spilling over, or to find some answer spelled in stars you cannot see. “Then why couldn't he just stay out?” you whisper. “Why did he have to come back?”

“You know, when we were kids, Joel would take all my beatings,” says Tommy, flicking out the blade. It glimmers in a way that catches the light as easily as a flame on kindling. “He'd say everything was his fault when it was really me who knocked over a shitty old vase or vandalised a fresco. And he'd just fuckin’ grin and bear it because that's who he is.”

He’d just been a kid. Just a kid who wanted to protect his little brother, who took every beating, who grew up in a faith he never had faith in.

The fragile wobble in your voice betrays the steel wall of your back. “He let me fall in love with him, Tommy. He let me give my soul to him.”

He ducks his head, folding the blade back into its wooden hilt. “Yeah, I know,” he says softly.

“And Maria?” You let out an airy laugh. “How did she react when you told her about all this?”

He doesn't meet your eye, and you feel your stomach turn over as he sets the blade on the table, bringing his hand over his jaw.

“Oh,” you say.

“We all do things we’re not proud of. Anyway, I had it easier,” he says, lifting one shoulder in a shrug. “I’m just a mechanic.”

“And my husband’s a killer, right?”

Tommy sighs. “I know you shouldn't take my word for it. But he does want peace. And he came back because he didn't see another choice.”

On the canvas, the man holds the woman close, pulling her tight to his chest, as if he knows she's about to fall. “I hate it,” you say softly, “knowing he's felt so much pain, and I can't make it better. I hate that this is something he needs to figure out himself, Tommy. I hate that I can't be the person he thinks I am.”

“I think you don't give yourself enough credit.” When you turn to face him, Tommy puts the switchblade in your open palm. Your fingers reflexively close around it, and it's cool to the touch. Smooth. The grain in the wood looks like the wriggling lifelines in a human hand. “You made him leave this life. You got him to care enough to make a real one, and you didn't even know it.”

You flick open the switchblade. “This is beautiful.”

“Gave it to me for safekeeping when he retired,” says Tommy. “It was the prize for completing his first job.”

You frown at your reflection, angling the knife up and down. “How old was he?”

Tommy covers the blade with his hand and retracts it. “Keep it,” he says. “It never belonged to me.”

You try to push it toward him, suddenly repulsed. You've heard from his own mouth about the lives he's taken, but the thought of your Joel holding the very same weapon, sinking it into flesh, slicing through the strings that hold a person together, makes your fingers tremble. “It doesn't belong to me either, Tommy.”

“Maybe not,” he says, “but I think you’d know what to do with it better than me.”

You swallow hard. “A man declares war because he wants peace.” Your thumb slides along the smooth edge of the hilt before you hide it inside your bag. “I can't pretend to understand what you both went through, Tommy. But know that I’m glad you found a good life. And know that if you break Maria’s heart, I’ll make you swallow paint.”

Tommy nods sombrely. “I’ll tip the can myself. We're thinking green for the nursery.”

“Green is good.” You give him a conciliatory smile.

“Joel’s a good man,” he says. “He's just… misguided.”

“Are you a man of God, Tommy?”

He laughs. “I don't think anyone who came out of that place alive still believes there's a God. If only the Sisters could see us now.”

“I hope they never do,” you tell him. “I hope they never get the satisfaction of knowing they hurt him.”

“I don't think they’d be much satisfied,” says Tommy, “if they knew he'd found peace after all.”

Hours unfold. The canvas sits untouched as you and Tommy sit next to one another, the moon outside slowly enveloped by clouds. The silver silhouette casts a halo through the grey, and you think of your Joel, alone on his warpath, bloodying the ring on his finger. You think of your name on his back, nestled above the praying hands, and the pit of restlessness yawns wide open.

“He should be back by now.”

Tommy rubs his palms over his thighs, a behaviour you've noticed in Joel. “Yeah, he should.”

“But he'll be okay,” you say, a minute warble colouring your voice, “right?”

“He's Joel,” is all he gives you in return.

Your fingers twist themselves into knots in your lap until the jab of a car horn outside jolts you back to life. “Tommy,” you rasp, wetting your lips. “Go find him.”

He nods, standing abruptly from his chair and yanking his coat free from the hook by the door. “He’ll kill me for leavin’ you alone,” he says.

“We both know he needs you,” you say, turning your head to watch the moon peek out from behind the sheet of grey. “Just bring my husband back.”

There's a distinct sensation that erupts across the skin of a nonbeliever who crosses the threshold of a church. It begins in the floorboards, where the soul of a supposed Christ lingers, and radiates up through the soles of the feet, through the knees, until it circles the brain, persistent as a murder of crows. You don't belong here.

The little church is nothing extravagant, which Joel has to find a little funny. Five rows of pews on either side, a basin of holy water next to the pulpit, a smattering of devotees kneeling on the padded seats in front of them. He swallows the burn and approaches the pastor.

“My son,” says the man, spreading his arms wide as if welcoming Joel back from a pilgrimage. “Welcome. What troubles your heart today?”

Joel pulls the Benelli from his canvas bag and blows out the pastor’s kneecap.

His deafening roar echoes off the domed ceiling and reverberates through the stained-glass paintings of the Virgin Mary. “Fuck!” cries the pastor, scrambling backward with a hand covering his bloodied leg. “Fucking cunt, fucking asshole, vete a la mierda! What the fuck is your problem?”

Joel turns and fires another two shots at the guards on the balcony. One of them tumbles over the edge. The kneeling figures flee the scene, some screaming, some praying.

“Donde esta Cabrera?” Joel growls, bunching the pastor’s white collar in his bloodstained fist. When he doesn't reply, Joel applies pressure to the wound in his knee between his thumb and forefinger. “Habla.”

“Fuck!” he howls. “He isn't here. Hijo de puta, he's not here!”

“Fine,” says Joel, hauling the man upright with little regard for his obliterated knee. “Then we're takin’ a little field trip.”

Joel knew many of Cabrera’s secrets during his time working for the bastard. He would have changed the codes to the vault, but it’s the same nonetheless. Joel shoves the pastor down the winding staircase and aims the barrel of the shotgun between his eyes.

“Open the vault.”

“Manuel will kill me,” pleads the pastor.

Joel lifts a brow. “You see me cryin’?”

A pale, trembling hand rises to the keypad and types in the code. Inside the vault, two women are counting piles of cash behind the counter. Joel gestures toward the door with his shotgun. “Ladies,” he greets, “out.”

They scurry out of the vault with their hands in the air. Inside the small concrete cell, safes are embedded in the walls, twice Joel’s height, one of them unlocked and brimming with neatly piled heaps of bound bills and documents. Joel reaches up and unlatches a shelf, watching the avalanche of blood money cascade onto the floor around his feet. With one hand, he produces a lighter from his pocket and flicks on the flame. It ignites the piles of cash and papers as Joel walks out, leaving the wounded pastor on the floor.

A whisper goes up in flames behind his back. “El espectro.”

At the aggressive slam of car doors, Joel climbs the staircase to the balcony and looks over the rear exit. Outside, Manuel Cabrera and his men cross the concrete toward the church. Joel curses, ejecting the shell from his shotgun and inserting a new clip. The stained glass crumbles with the first shot as he puts a bullet in a bodyguard’s head. The shouts flutter toward the sky in the ensuing panic. Joel hears Manuel cry out his orders: Around the back. You two, flank him. The bastard’s here; go fucking kill him.

The smell of smoke begins to stick to his throat as he takes another shot. The sound of dress shoes clatters, echoing, across the floorboards below him. “Goddamn it,” he growls. He’ll be flushed out before long if he doesn't move. Joel checks his clip, fruitlessly searches the body on the balcony for more ammunition, and kicks him over the edge. The resounding thud of his corpse against the pews is somewhat gratifying. Cabrera’s men crowd the dead man, which gives Joel just enough time to descend the staircase and shoulder open the back door. The parking lot teems with Cabrera’s army ants, creeping around parked cars as they search for the boogeyman.

One of the bodyguards ducks behind a Range Rover, and Joel bares his teeth, the wolf at the hunt. He shoots out the front tires, which deflates the car just enough to give him a glimpse of the man’s head. He takes the shot.

“Puta!” someone cries. Joel ducks as a shot pings off the front bumper of the Cadillac next to him, and he briefly takes stock of his ammunition. Fuck. He would have really liked to keep the fucking high ground. Now, he's as trapped as they are. Rats in a maze of shiny new cars.

Joel peeks around the corner and feels the heat of a bullet seat through the sleeve of his jacket. He shoulders the sting of the new wound and rounds the corner, raising his weapon and firing. He counts another two, three, five dead, and the moist air begins to cling to the back of his neck, sweat lining his collar, blood soaking his sleeve. He calls Cabrera’s name. He calls again.

“Let's end this,” he growls. “Come out, and I’ll spare the rest of them.”

An explosion nearby sets him off-kilter, rattling the earth beneath him. The church goes up easily, flames licking the sky, sirens blaring several blocks over, the steady eruption of chaos like golden nectar in his mouth. Joel rises to his feet and continues his charge.

He calls Cabrera’s name again. He thinks of your body, prone and cold on the floor, reaching for him. He thinks of that night and imagines himself saving you before any of it happened. He imagines turning out of the restaurant that very first night, retreating into the darkness where it was comfortable and you were safe.

No—he'd gone to the light. He’d let it all topple, and he'd do it again. This world is not where he belongs. You are what the word has led him to. All the gospel and the hymnals and the nights spent praying on his knees to a false god led him to your soft, supple side, not to the jagged edges of this unforgiving Underworld.

He calls Cabrera’s name again, but he hears the roar of the engine too late. The circle of vehicles crowds him, claustrophobic, and it's Manuel Cabrera who steps out.

He looks the same as he did eight years ago, when Joel approached him and asked to be released from his contract, if not a little more grey. He's dressed in an Italian suit and his shoes are unscuffed. His hair is combed back and his eyes are sunken into his face.

Something strikes Joel in the back of his head, and he sees the Creation of Adam on the north wall of the orphanage, the wrinkled old hand, the stray dogs.

The starchy scent of the canvas sack jolts him awake. Someone yanks it up over his head, and he blinks in the harsh light of day.

He's in a giant empty warehouse. Light filters through the broken glass windows high above their heads, shards and empty bullet casings and cigarette butts crunching underfoot. Judging from the scuffling of feet around him, ten or so men surround him where he sits in an old folding chair, bound by the wrists. He feels a throbbing ache in his skull and winces. You’ll give him hell for this.

“It’s good to see you, Joel,” says the silhouette sitting across from him, flanked by two more shadows. Joel blinks them into focus. “It’s been a long time.”

The edges soften until he can see the whites of the eyes, the cool detached gaze, the glimmer of a silver watch. “Manuel,” says Joel. “¿Cómo está su hijo?”

A huff of air is all he gets in reply. Manuel sheds his long coat and leans forward on his elbows. “You know, Joel, my son was a fucking moron.”

“I could've told you that,” says Joel, “and I would've saved you a lot of breath.”

“My son,” growls Manuel, “was a moron, but he was my son. I told him as much—told him there was nothing he could do, not when Joel Miller was hunting him down. And when I asked him what he had done to warrant the boogeyman’s vengeance, he said it was because of a girl.”

Manuel rubs his hand over his stubbled jaw, laughing like the situation is amusing. “Well, that’s good for you, Joel. Good to finally find something you care about, to find a reason. I see you're putting your retirement to good use. Fighting for your very own Helen of Troy.”

Joel says nothing, studying the manic glint in Cabrera’s eye. He recalls that same look from the night he asked to leave, placing his gun on the desk between them.

“I want out,” he said.

“Out?” said Cabrera. “And why, Joel, would you ever want out?”

“Because I’m done here,” he said. “I'm done in this world and I’m done with you.”

Joel wonders if Cabrera had been waiting for that exact moment: for Joel Miller, the ghost in the corner of the Underworld’s bedroom, to step forward and give Manuel Cabrera the opportunity he needed to rise to the very top.

“Very well,” he said after a long silence. “But I want you to consider whether your freedom is worth what I’m about to ask of you. It will not be easy.”

“It’s worth it,” said Joel. “Now tell me what I need to do.”

Cabrera sits across from Joel the same way he did eight years ago, the same insidious gleam in those black eyes, smiling smugly without moving his face at all.

“You've changed,” he says. “You’re softer, Joel. That wedding ring must've done a number on my killer.”

“Maybe I never stopped bein’ a killer,” says Joel.

“Maybe not. But the difference is that now, you have a reason to keep living.” Cabrera has the gall to feign remorse as he shrugs his shoulders. “You took my son from me, Joel. You understand how this world works.”

Joel kicks out his leg instinctively, baring his teeth at Cabrera like a caged dog. Two henchmen clap down on his shoulders and abruptly pull him backward in the chair. The rope around his wrists chafe.

“When I signed that contract,” he growled, “I had nothing to live for. Nobody to love. Until the day she showed up in my life. She gave me a word to follow that wasn’t yours or your God’s.” His mouth hardly fits around the name. Yours has always felt softer on his tongue. “Trust that Emiliano deserved worse than the death I gave him.”

“A woman above God,” Cabrera utters under his breath, rubbing his palms over his thighs before he rises to his feet and grabs Joel by the hair at the scruff of his neck. Joel winces at the prickling sensation erupting across his scalp. Cabrera’s breath stinks of weed. “El espectro,” he says mockingly. “The fuckin’ boogeyman. You're not so scary like this.”

Cabrera forces Joel to look up at him. The pressure accumulates behind his nose, painful enough to make his eyes water. “You burned my church down, Joel,” says his captor. “Money is replaceable, sure, but the leverage I had on this city… Hijo de puta. Just for a fuckin’ girl, Joel?”

Joel can't help but sneer. “Yeah, I enjoyed that part.”

It earns him a blow across the jaw, and he relishes the electric lash that wriggles down his side. Cabrera lets go of his hair and gestures with a glance to his men before he turns away, plucking his coat from the chair.

“Manuel.”

He watches Cabrera consider it: to indulge Joel, or to let him rot.

The first hit he executed on Cabrera’s behalf earned him just ten thousand. Then thirty-something, having long ago left the Sisters, the hard wooden floors worn with the pressure of so many kneeling bodies, the Marines, and the sound of warfare, Joel didn’t have many places to stay. He took the red money, earned from the body and probably the pockets of a dead senator, and rented a place.

Nighttime in the city didn't mean quiet, not outside nor in. That night, Joel sat on the side of his bed in a cockroach-infested Brooklyn apartment whose walls smelled of cigarette smoke, and he put his face in his hands. Leaving one war only to enter another, Cabrera told him, is just the way of life. You, Joel, are a killer.

But that can’t be all, he thinks now, his hands bound and his blood singing in his heart. He wonders if you're asleep by now, if you've taken to his side of the bed like you used to, if you've stretched your hand across the linen for a taste of the memory of that love-like-sunlight.

It's your blood, he realises, that courses through him. Your blood that tastes sweet as ichor, your blood that runs in his blue-green veins. It's your blood he hears whispering to him when the dreams go black as pitch and he cannot hope to breathe.

The last contract he took for Cabrera earned him no prize but his freedom. Nothing but the smell of your perfume and your warm body tucked neatly into his every night and the cool kiss of your twin wedding bands could have satisfied him. He was not just a killer. He’d proven it. He’d lived it in eight years of gentle mornings, kissing you awake starting at the roots of your hair, and he’d loved it as much as they all had tried to make him love a God that never loved him.

He’d never forgotten how to kill. But he hasn't forgotten how to love, either. That, he figured out all on his own.

“All I wanted was peace. And your son took that from me.” Joel lifts his head to watch Cabrera: the way his spine stiffens, the way his eyes narrow minutely. “He killed my peace and so I killed him. So you can either pull your contract,” Joel says, feeling the snarl pull at his vocal cords like jagged claws as his voice begins to rise, “or you can die screaming like your bastard son.”

He barely lurches forward in the chair before a plastic bag is shucked over his head, suctioned tight around his throat. Two men hold him down as Joel struggles against his bonds, gasping against the cool plastic. He's overpowered, hands wrenching his shoulders back against the chair. He kicks out for leverage, but his strength is waning, and the brief high of losing consciousness brings him back to you.

He took you to Greece for your honeymoon—or, rather, you took him. You were more travelled, more comfortable in the bright spots of the world, more settled in the spotlight. He thinks about how the sun adorned your skin like sequins, how eyes followed you everywhere you went, how you would see him frowning at all the attention and quietly take his hand.

They don't exist, you would tell him. You're all mine now, Joel Miller. And it’s just you and me.

Maybe there's a scrap of truth to fate. He's always been yours, long before he ever knew your face.

He basks in the sunlight on the beach for the time being. You wore his sunglasses when yours broke. You let him apply your sunscreen and you tucked your head into his shoulder on the luxurious chair. You fell asleep with your hand on his chest. Joel spent an hour studying the band around your ring finger.

Maybe Greece was a dream. Maybe the sun was a trick of the light and the clouds were smoke and the sky was black and the memory dwindles to a pinprick and he's grasping onto the image, your smile, your laugh, bells and perfume and a candle set at the foot of a golden statue—

“Stop.”

“Stop,” says a voice, and the air comes rushing back in. Joel wheezes, blinking hard to clear the spots or maybe to preserve the picture. But you're gone, slipping softly away as the brush of your knuckle over his cheek, and Joel is alive again.

“Tommy?”

His brother doesn't look at him, but Joel sees the brief shimmer of gunmetal hidden in his waistband.

He can feel the bruises blooming in a circle of fire around his throat. You’ll really be furious with him.

Joel watches his brother pull the handgun and feels the ropes cut into the tender skin of his wrists, helpless as he feels now. “What in the hell…”

“I’m sorry, brother,” says Tommy, turning the gun on Joel.

#fic: helen #kiwisbell's fics #pedro pascal #joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller x you #the last of us #the last of us hbo #tlou fic #joel miller angst #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller au #john wick au

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chiffxna · 10 months

Text

A Love Too Dark (05)

The Marquis Vincent de Gramont x Reader

Chapter 05: Dark And Primal

WARNING: THIS IS A DARK FIC.

Story Masterlist

PREV : Chapter 04

NEXT : Chapter 06

Chapter Summary:

After enduring a little more of the Marquis' lust and receiving the compensation, she finally quit. But will that stop the Marquis de Gramont and his unhealthy fixation on her?

The next morning, Yn awoke as the light of dawn hit her through the curtains. She grimaced before she forced her eyes to open. The first thing she saw was the walls of a bedroom - deep burgundy, richly decorated with accents of golden trim. She glanced to see the bed she was lying on and finally registered in her head that the bed was the largest she had ever seen, with a thick mattress and comforter of the finest down, embroidered in intricate patterns of gold thread. The sheets were made of a delicate silken fabric, soft and inviting against her skin so that she felt like she was in heaven.

She looked down and realized she was naked and under the covers. She shifted and finally felt them - a pair of long arms with bulging veins wrapping around her waist from behind. It was at that moment she finally remembered everything that had transpired last night.

She took a glance over her shoulder and confirmed that last night was not a nightmare. The Marquis de Gramont was asleep and spooning her from behind, his arms wrapped around her waist as if it was a very normal thing to do between them, when in fact, they hardly knew each other.

She carefully lifted his arms off of her and scooted away from him till she sat up on the edge of the bed. The dried semen, juices, and blood between her legs did not go unnoticed by her as she gazed at them with disbelief and slight horror. She then looked to the side, noticing more of these dried liquids smearing the bedsheets visibly.

She frowned, feeling disappointed and repulsed in herself for what happened last night. She felt sick and disgusted for being so weak and not fighting him that well. She believed she was partially at fault for allowing him to violate her.

But, one thing for sure, the Marquis was a demon in disguise, she thought. She was no longer a virgin; she had been corrupted and taken advantage of. She was used by him like a cock-sleeve by a ruthless man. The worst part was she knew that she had enjoyed most of it, orgasmed at least three times, and it disgusted her.

However, she really abhorred that he had come inside her two times and he was so unapologetic about it. He did not even show any bit of remorse too after fucking her into the bed. She thought: Does he not care that he would get her pregnant? With his child? Wouldn't any typical rich man hate it if a commoner like her got pregnant by him?

She shook her head as she began to mull over her situation in her nakedness, disregarding the cold air brushing against her skin. The first solution she could think of was that she would run to the nearest pharmacy or healthcare store and buy the morning-after pill. She had heard that the pill could be effective if one takes it within 24 hours of unprotected sex, but it's not guaranteed.

She signed inwardly. She wished she wouldn't have to undergo this kind of issue. The mistake was having unprotected sex in the first place. No. The first, major mistake was having sex in the first place. But how could she avoid that when he... when the Marquis...

She glowered and shot a hateful glare at the sleeping man behind her before she gathered her wits and stood up, rising from the bed with shaky legs, and felt the carpet beneath her feet and the sheer impression of softness against the soles of her feet. The floor was of the finest polished wood and she felt like she was in a fine palace. She was naked and alone in an unknown place with a man she barely knew.

Moving her legs cause her to feel more of the dried juices in between her legs and she felt revolted yet again. She couldn't bear to put on her underwear and dress without washing them off, so she made the decision to look for the bathroom first.

Glancing around the bedroom, she searched for a door or pathway that might lead to the Marquis' personal bathroom. There's no way this room wasn't attached to its own bathroom, she thought.

She perceived a door other than the main door of his bedroom to the hallway. Inside the bathroom was a luxurious sight to look at. Cream walls and marble flooring shone in the light shining from the beautiful chandelier above. The jacuzzi was a deep, inviting pool of clear blue water. Besides that, there was a wide clear space with a modern ceiling shower attached above. There was a large, plush vanity with a full-length mirror, and counters lined with expensive toiletries. The room was filled with everything one would need for a home spa experience.

She was mesmerized by everything inside it until she felt yet again the dried semen dribbling from her sore pussy. She immediately grabbed several tissues and sat on the wall-hung toilet. After peeing, she used the water hose beside it to wash off the dried liquid between her inner thighs.

"Ugh!" she grunted as the cold water touched her sensitive skin. She winced and let it flow, washing the residue of the Marquis' ejaculation away.

Her fingers were delicate as they rubbed her private area with light, quick motions, cleaning the sore spot. She whimpered quietly while her hands cleaned her most private area, trying to forget what happened.

The water turned a pinkish hue as the cleansing water swirled around the toilet bowl. She cleaned herself up thoroughly, but there was only so much she could do when she could feel that some of them were still inside her pussy. She thought: She has to take a thorough shower if she wants to clean up as much semen as she could from inside her pussy.

But no. She could not take a shower in the home of the man who had taken her forcefully - who had to threaten her to get what he wanted. She knew in an instant that she had to get out of this place immediately and if possible, leave without waking up the Marquis.

She had just flushed the toilet when a familiar voice, thick with a French accent, enacted behind her, "Good morning."

She shrieked, swiftly turning around, covering her breasts with her arms and pinching her thighs together in an attempt to obscure her full nudity from the Frenchman. She felt her heart beat faster and faster in her chest, making her feel so vulnerable, as she stared up at the tall Marquis.

He stood tall and imposing in the doorway, blocking her escape. His body was accentuated by his toned arms which were folded over his bare chest. His dark eyes were smug and arrogant, as he looked down at her with a smirk. He appeared to be enjoying the heightened tension in the room, relishing in the power he held over her.

Yn then scowled at him which plainly showed she was angry and disgusted by him before she headed straight for the sink to wash her hands. She remained in silence, not giving him any response to his greeting. Now that he had awoken, she decided to just get out of the mansion with her promised 50 thousand dollars.

"I take it you slept well?" he asked, his voice telling her he still had that smug smile on his face.

He did not show an ounce of remorse for what he did to her and that made her feel even more angry and disgusted. She splashed some cold water on her face, trying to freshen up her face, when the Marquis spoke up, "Why are you in such a rush? We have all the time-"

Yn whirled around sharply to look him in the eye - despite the intimidating height difference between them - and said with a firm tone, "I'm going home. I have done my part and the deal is settled. Now give me my 50k."

The Marquis let out a brief laugh as though it was amusing to watch her like that. He replied, "Don't be hasty, ma lapine. I've asked my chef to prepare breakfast for us."

Yn's eyes blew wide, knowing this was his tactic to get what he wanted. She almost instantly answered back, "I'm not hungry. I am leaving now!"

She stormed towards him, intending to brush past him and exit his lavish bathroom. However, just as she was about to reach him, one of his hands suddenly rose to flick a switch on the wall next to the door.

In an instant, the ceiling shower inside a wide empty space inside the bathroom turned on. Yn halted in her tracks and glanced at it while the Frenchman stepped inside and closed the door behind him. Once she cast her eyes back on him, he pointed towards the shower and said, "We can't let you go home in that state."

"I'm not staying any longer," stated Yn with a firm voice, slowly feeling agitated that he did not listen to her or at least give an effort to understand her.

The Marquis slowly stepped closer, his dark eyes never leaving hers as he said, "I was not asking."

Suddenly, he grasped her arm and yanked her with him towards the running shower. Yn immediately struggled against his grip but her feet ended up skidding across the floor as the Marquis never relent or at least loosen his hold on her.

Meanwhile, Sydney had woken up as usual and came out of her bedroom to search for what she always looked for first thing in every morning - her big stepsister, Yn. However, after scouring the living room and the kitchen of their dingy apartment, she gloomily dragged her legs towards the couch in the living room where Barbara was sound asleep.

"Wake up! Wake up!" the little girl cried out.

Even Rosie, their cat, had come into the scene and meowed at the babysitter. Sydney continued wailing at the babysitter, hoping she would wake up any moment now. She was in too much of a dreary mood, especially after she found out that her sweet, big stepsister still had not yet returned.

Soon enough, Barbara slowly stirred awake and drearily opened her eyes. After seeing the small child leaning over her, she let out a small yawn and drawled, "Is Yn back already?"

"No!" the little girl cried out. "She's still not here!"

Barbara searched for her smartphone which happened to be pressed into the couch beneath her bum. She unlocked the phone and noticed that Yn still had not replied to any of her messages. That got Barbara concerned about her cousin, yet she still remained calm since she did see Yn going out in a pretty dress.

Barbara told her, "She's gonna be fine, Syd. Do you have school today?"

Sydney nodded, "Yeah."

Barbara glanced at the time in her gadget and asked, "What time does the school start?"

"Eight-thirty."

In Barbara's phone, the time was 8:15 in the morning.

Barbara suddenly shot up from the couch and began to blabber about the little girl being late for school and whatnot. She sent Sydney to the shower and began to muse. She knew she couldn't prepare breakfast in time for her so she decided that they could buy some sandwiches on their way to school.

Meanwhile, back to Yn...

Obscene noises of moans, groans, and wet slapping of skin against skin erupted from the bathroom of the Marquis de Gramont. The man was having his way with Yn in the shower, fucking her deep and rough under the endless shower, uncaring that he had forced himself on her. He smirked as he towered over her. His powerful arms held her legs in the air, wrapping them around his waist and pushing her against the shower wall with his body.

Yn felt helpless as she was held in the air and pinned to the wall. Her heart raced, her breathing coming out in short, shallow gasps. Despite her mind screaming for her to get away, her body could not escape from the insatiable lust of the Marquis. The man had her wrapped in a tight grip that seemed impossible to break free from. She felt powerless and trapped between the wall and the beast that was possessing her body for his own pleasure.

The Marquis seemed to take pleasure in seeing the fear in her eyes and he continued to thrust into her harder and faster with each passing second. She whimpered in pain and pleasure as she started to push her hands against his chest, signaling him to stop. The man seemed relentless as he kept pushing himself onto Yn's body, forcing himself deeper and deeper into her until she felt like she would break apart any moment soon.

The pleasure she had initially felt was quickly replaced by aching exhaustion from being constantly pounded against the wall by his cock like she was a mere fucktoy to him. Tears stung at her eyes but she refused to let them fall - she would not give him the satisfaction of seeing how broken she was feeling at this moment.

Their skin and hair were utterly drenched under the running ceiling shower. The steamy water from the shower continued to cascade on their bodies, the heat radiating off of them as the Frenchman held her to his liking. Yn's body ached and her strength seemed to have left her; making her lay there and let the man take his pleasure from her. But then he suddenly stopped, and Yn felt relieved that it had all ended - until he started to grope her body, exploring every inch of her skin with a possessive caress.

She tried to push his hands away, but he held her tight against him. His hands wandered around her curves as if mapping out his property and claiming it for himself. She gasped at the sensation, feeling completely violated at this moment.

But then he started to kiss her. His lips were rough and demanding against hers, his tongue exploring every corner of her mouth with a passionate intensity that demanded a response from her own body.

And before she knew it, he pressed her firmer into the wall, ramming balls deep, as he climaxed inside her under the shower head. Skin against skin, their slick bodies, and bare nipples slid together as he explored her with open mouths and yearning hands. She could feel his warm seed filling her womb in large spurts. Every touch seemed like a possessive caress as the man held Yn close to him while his hands held her ass to keep her upright against the wall.

Two minutes had passed and he tenderly let go of her, letting her stand on her feet before he withdrew. Yn felt her legs turn to jelly and she slowly collapsed onto the floor, completely spent and used. Embarrassment crept up on her as she scrambled to cover herself with her arms, desperate not to be left exposed in this state of shame despite how he had just used her like a fucktoy.

"My apologies, ma lapine. I could not resist," the Marquis spoke up, the apology seemed sarcastic and mocking. It was crystal clear that he was not feeling remorseful at all for keeping her in the shower and taking advantage of her. He added, "We have to take the shower again and get ready for breakfast."

Yn wanted to protest. She wanted to shout at him, hit him, or yell at him. But the strength she had felt during the forced intercourse upon her was gone and she felt too tired to even form a coherent thought anymore. Her body was sore in places. Her skin felt tender from the way he had used her. Her mind was still flooded with thoughts of disgust and humiliation.

The Marquis ended up lifting her from the floor by the arm and washed her body with bubbly soap willingly. It's as if they were both a married couple. He even took care of her hair with what appeared to be a unisex shampoo.

When it came to drying themselves off, Yn did it herself and was quick to dress up, wanting to obscure her nudity from his eyes as soon as possible, fearing that he would get aroused and force himself on her again.

The Marquis de Gramont appeared to be completely unaffected by their earlier activities. He showed her a smile - one of satisfaction and confidence - and looked entirely composed and ready for the day while he sat across from Yn at the dining table.

On the table was a variety of fine French breakfast dishes. There were croissants, jams, jellies, and other sweet treats to start the day off. There were also savory dishes like omelets, bacon, sausage, and ham. An array of fruits was laid out in a colorful fashion to bring color to the table. There was a variety of freshly brewed coffee and tea, with cream and sugar to get the day started. Everything looked warm and inviting, and there was an air of elegance in the way it was all laid out.

Yn ate with no appetite, but she forced herself to eat as she needed the energy to start her day. Her mind raced with questions and confusion. She had been promised $50,000 by the Marquis de Gramont, but the events that had unfolded in the past few minutes made her doubt his sincerity. He had the tendency to do whatever he wanted regardless of the other person's consent. She feared he would do the same to the deal they made and break it.

Gathering her courage, she mustered the strength to break the uncomfortable silence. Her voice trembled slightly as she asked, "Umm, sir... you had promised me 50k dollars. What about that?"

The Marquis paused for a moment, his gaze fixed on Yn, his expression unreadable. Then, he leaned back in his chair, a smug smile playing on his lips.

"Ah," he replied, his voice dripping with arrogance, "Do not worry. I am a man of my word. You will receive your payment, as promised."

He suddenly raised one hand into the air and flicked his fingers with one loud snap. Chidi came into the scene and approached Yn. He stood beside her and placed a thick envelope on the table. As if to ensure it was not another scheme of his, Yn grabbed it and checked the content.

$50,000 was indeed inside the envelope. She inwardly exhaled a long breath of relief. When she looked up at the Marquis de Gramont, he was smiling as if he was amused at how distrustful she was about him.

"Had you given in without resistance, I would have given you double the amount," he said, smugly.

"What?" Yn blurted out, shocked beyond belief and incredulous.

"I'm joking," the Marquis said while chuckling at his own joke.

"But why?" Yn asked, her voice quivering with a mix of anger and vulnerability. "Why did you do that to me? Why do you seem so... focused on me... when there are other girls who would do anything to entertain you?"

The Marquis' face lit up with amusement and admiration, his eyes twinkling as he studied Yn, his lips curling into a mischievous smile.

"Yn," his smirk widened as he spoke her name as if relishing in her vulnerability, "There are things about you that have captured my attention. There is a certain quality, an essence, that sets you apart from the others."

Yn's brows furrowed in both curiosity and suspicion. She couldn't comprehend what the Marquis found so compelling about her, especially when there were countless other women who would love to have his attention, like Sabrina from the casino, for example. Yn was certain that the Marquis also knew of Sabrina's lust for him, but he seemed to disregard her or did not reciprocate it.

Nevertheless, Yn chose to ignore the Marquis' mysterious fascination with her. With this 50 thousand dollars of cash in her hand, she could finally quit the casino for good. But first, she had to do a couple more things to make sure she was good to quit.

Eager to start her day, Yn stared the Marquis directly in the eye and stated, "I have to go. I really should be leaving now."

The Marquis stared at her a while longer with an unreadable look on his face. His eyes still held that glinting fascination for her. It's like he was cherishing the picture he was viewing before it was gone. Yn was donning her previous, same dress. She was insistent on wearing it again despite his offer to wear something else she could find from his wardrobe.

"Of course," he finally spoke with a half-smile, "I am sure you have much to do. My best bodyguard, Chidi, will send you home in my limousine."

Yn got up from the table slowly, her eyes still fixated on the Marquis de Gramont as if expecting he was this insatiable beast that would pounce on her over the table again. But he simply smiled and stood up in a relaxed manner. He began to lead her to the entrance of the mansion and told her, "I wish I could take you back home myself, but I have a duty that needs my attention elsewhere."

The both of them followed Chidi out of the mansion where numerous bodyguards lined up from the main door to the limousine parked by the road. Yn stepped out of the mansion, feeling a mixture of relief and apprehension. She had just received the promised cash from the Marquis, and yet, she still couldn't help but feel a bit wary of him. He had this aura about him that made her feel like he could twist every word to get what he desired.

Yn took slow breaths, hoping to control her racing heart as she passed each guard. Once they reached the car, Chidi opened the door for her. She was about to sit down inside it when the Marquis halted her by speaking up, "We will see each other again at the casino, Yn. Perhaps tonight."

His voice was smooth and filled with a certain promise that made her heart squeeze. She looked up to meet his gaze and felt her skin erupt with goosebumps as she saw the intensity in his eyes.

"Until then," he said before he stepped closer to her.

That was when he leaned his head closer to hers. Yn's eyes blew wide as she perceived that he was intending to kiss her on the lips. She swiftly turned her head to the side, causing him to brush his lips against her cheek.

Yn quickly spun around and practically jumped into the limousine, eager to escape from the Marquis' presence. She took a shy peek at the man and noticed that he was pursing his lips, his right eye twitched in silent anger, as he kept his silent yet fiery gaze on her figure inside the vehicle.

Chidi glanced at his master, still holding the door open. With his eyes locked on her, the French aristocrat nodded to his loyal bodyguard. Chidi then shut the door to the limousine before he walked to the driver's seat, sat inside, and started up the engine. Yn looked away in slight fear and cast her eyes to her hands which were gripping the envelope of cash.

The limousine finally drove away from the mansion. It moved slowly through the streets, past tall buildings and busy roads until it reached the city. It was then Chidi first spoke to her, "Where is your home, miss?"

Yn hesitated for a moment, unsure of how much she could trust Chidi. She didn't want to reveal the location of her humble apartment, as she valued her privacy and safety. The casino seemed like a safer option, a familiar place where she could go home from there.

"I would prefer to be dropped off at the casino, please," Yn replied, her voice steady but cautious.

Chidi's brows furrowed as he glanced at her through the rearview mirror. He seemed torn between following her request and fulfilling his duty to ensure her safety.

"Miss, it would be best I drop you off at your home," Chidi insisted, his tone gentle yet firm. "It is my duty to see that you arrive safely."

Yn's heart raced as she weighed her options. She didn't want Chidi to know where she lived, but she also didn't want to raise any further suspicions. Finally, she decided to lie.

"Okay," Yn relented, forcing a nervous smile. "Drop me off at the Silver Crest Apartments."

Chidi nodded, accepting her answer. He adjusted his course, maneuvering through the city streets toward the designated area. Yn stared out the window, her mind racing with both relief and anxiety. She hoped her lie would be enough to protect her privacy.

As the limousine pulled up near the apartment complex, Yn thanked Chidi and stepped out of the vehicle. She watched as the car slowly and hesitantly drove away. It's like Chidi wanted to watch if the apartment was really her home. Her eyes lingered on its retreating form until it disappeared from sight, finally making her feel safe and away from any trace of the Marquis de Gramont.

However, she was not at peace yet. She glanced at every direction in the crowded city before she began to rush off to her next destination - the pharmacy.

Yn's heart raced as she stepped into the nearest pharmacy, her mind still reeling from the fact that the Marquis had come inside her many times and that her getting pregnant was possible. She approached the counter, her eyes scanning the aisles for the packaging of morning-after pills.

The pharmacist, a kind-faced woman with a warm smile, greeted Yn and asked if she needed any assistance. Yn mustered a shaky smile and requested the morning-after pills, trying her best to appear calm despite the turbulent emotions churning within her.

The pharmacist nodded understandingly and retrieved the requested pills from behind the counter. As she handed them to Yn, her gaze turned sympathetic.

"Would you also like to consider using birth control pills?" the pharmacist gently inquired. "They can offer additional protection and peace of mind."

Yn hesitated, her mind filled with conflicting thoughts. She had never considered using birth control before, but the recent events had left her feeling vulnerable and unsure of what the future might hold. After a moment of contemplation, she nodded and decided to take the pharmacist's advice.

"Yes, please," Yn replied softly. "I'll take a pack of birth control pills as well."

The pharmacist smiled warmly, appreciating Yn's decision. She retrieved a pack of birth control pills and placed it alongside the morning-after pills on the counter. Yn paid for the items, the weight of the situation becoming all too real as she watched the cashier process her purchase.

Leaving the pharmacy with the pills safely stowed in her bag, Yn felt a mix of relief and uncertainty. She knew that taking precautions was essential, given the circumstances she had found herself in. However, the decision to use birth control also served as a stark reminder of the control the Marquis had exerted over her body.

Determined to regain her agency, Yn walked briskly through the city streets, her mind focused on her next steps. She needed to find a safe place to regroup, gather her thoughts, and chart her path forward. And that was home. Her apartment.

She quickened her pace, navigating the busy sidewalks with ease, her thoughts consumed with the events of the past few days. Despite her best efforts, she couldn't shake the memory of the Marquis's touch, the feeling of his hands on her skin, the way he made her... feel disgusted with her own body.

By boarding a bus, she arrived at her apartment as soon as she could. Once she entered her humble abode, she almost ran head-on into Barbara, her cousin. Both of them were astounded to see one another that they almost yelled.

"Barbara!" Yn said in surprise.

"Yn!" shouted Barbara, "Where were you, girl?! I called you many times! Spammed you with messages too! You didn't reply at all! I know you're getting dick but at least answer!"

Yn's brain almost shut down because of what her cousin said. She was flabbergasted that she asked in subtle disgust, "What?"

A naughty grin curved Barbara's lips and she said, "I saw you in your pretty dress yesterday. You had dinner with some guy, right? And then you got laid with him. Had some mind-blowing sex that you couldn't even answer your phone."

Yn began, "No, it was just-"

"And you came back with the same dress as yesterday!" Barbara pointed out, "You need to tell me the truth, sis! At least don't get me and Sydney worried!"

Upon hearing the little girl's name, Yn remembered instantly where she was supposed to be and she inquired instantly, "Sydney! Where is she?! Is she at school?!"

"Yes! I sent her and just came back here!" stated Barbara, "And don't change the subject, Yn! I want to know the guy you're hooking up with! Is he rich?! Oh wait, first of all, did you use protection?"

Again, she was reminded of another thing that she had to take care of immediately. With her hands holding the plastic of pills, she zoomed toward the bathroom. Barbara also followed her.

As Yn reached the bathroom, she closed the door behind them and leaned against the sink, her hands trembling. Barbara's concerned gaze met hers, and she immediately noticed the package of morning-after pills in Yn's hands.

Barbara approached her cousin, her expression filled with empathy. She gently reached out and took the package of pills, her eyes scanning the instructions printed on it.

"These are morning-after pills," Barbara explained softly. "They are most effective when taken as soon as possible after unprotected intercourse, preferably within 24 hours. Let's make sure we follow the instructions correctly."

Yn nodded, grateful for Barbara's support. She watched as her cousin carefully read the instructions, absorbing the information. After a moment, Barbara looked up, her voice steady and reassuring.

Barbara guided her the entire time, giving her instructions on consuming these emergency pills since she had experiences in this before. She continued, "Remember, these pills are intended for emergency use only. They are not meant to be used as a regular form of contraception. If you have any concerns, you should consult a healthcare professional."

Yn nodded, grateful for Barbara's guidance and the accurate information she provided. Together, they carefully followed the instructions, ensuring that Yn took the pills correctly.

After taking the morning-after pills, Yn felt a sense of relief wash over her. She knew that she had taken the necessary steps to protect herself and minimize the risk of an unplanned pregnancy.

Barbara stood by her side, offering a comforting presence. "You did the right thing, Yn. If you have any questions about this, just ask me. I'm here for you."

Yn's eyes filled with tears, gratitude shining through. "Thank you, Barbara. I don't know what I would do without you."

Barbara smiled, noticing how this issue was big for her cousin. She asked her, "Did you get birth control pills? We might as well take care of that too."

Yn nodded swiftly, "Yeah. Could you guide me on that too?"

"Oh, Yn, what kind of sex-positive cousin would I be if I don't help you with that," said Barbara before she guided her on the birth control pills as well.

After several minutes of discussion, Barbara was confident that Yn understood the proper dosage and frequency of taking the pills, as well as the risks of using them. After taking a deep breath and opening the pack of birth control pills, Yn carefully removed one pill and held it in her hand, her fingers trembling slightly. With Barbara by her side, she swallowed the pill and then took a sip of water to help it go down.

Once everything was done, Barbara couldn't help but lightly reprimand her, "But seriously, Yn. You had sex without protection? That is so risky."

Yn sighed. She did not want to tell Barbara that she got threatened with having sex with a man who turned out to be so influential in a foreign country - the Marquis de Gramont. In other words, he forced himself on her. She didn't want to tell anyone about that. What matters most was that she prevented a pregnancy, got a lot of compensation in return, and that she could finally handle the matter with her mother's medical bills.

Yn took a deep breath, trying to find the right words to respond to Barbara's question. She knew she couldn't share the full details of what had transpired with the Marquis, but she also didn't want to lie to her cousin.

"I made a mistake, Bar," Yn admitted, her voice tinged with regret. "I found myself in a situation where I... couldn't think clearly. Now, I just want to forget it."

Barbara's expression softened as she listened, understanding that there was more to the story than Yn could reveal. She reached out and squeezed her cousin's hand, offering her support and reassurance.

"I'm here for you, Yn," Barbara said gently. "I won't pry. Just know that you have me, okay?"

Yn smiled in gratitude as she looked at her cousin. Despite not knowing the full extent of what had happened, Barbara's unconditional support meant the world to her. It reminded her that she didn't have to face this alone.

Nodding her head to her, Yn told, "Thank you so much. And for everything. You helped me a lot with babysitting Sydney."

Barbara smiled back and replied, "She is such a joy to handle. Will you be working again tonight?"

Yn started to contemplate her options, realizing that with the substantial compensation she had received, she no longer needed to continue working at the casino. She could finally fulfill her responsibilities towards her mother's medical bills and provide a stable life for Sydney without having to rely on late-night shifts.

She turned to Barbara with a bright expression, eager to share her decision with her cousin, and said, "No. I won't be working tonight."

Barbara's eyes widened in surprise, a mix of concern and relief crossing her face. "Really? You've been working so hard to support Mom and Sydney. If it's about Sydney, don't worry! I can take care of her again tonight!"

Yn smiled wider and shook her head saying, "There's no need. I'm going to rest up tonight and spend more time with Sydney. But thank you for taking care of her all these times, Bar. I truly appreciate it."

Barbara's eyes lit up with understanding and a hint of relief. "That's great, Yn! You deserve some time to heal, and I'm sure Sydney will be thrilled to spend more quality time with you. Just let me know if you ever need my help again, okay?"

Yn hugged her cousin tightly, feeling a surge of gratitude for the support Barbara had provided. "Thank you, Bar. I'll definitely keep that in mind. Take care, and I'll see you soon."

After bidding her cousin goodbye, Yn took a moment to collect herself. She knew she had made the right decision to prioritize her well-being and her family. With renewed determination, she showered, got ready, and prepared to face the day ahead.

As she stepped out of her apartment, a sense of purpose guided her steps. She went to the nearest ATM to withdraw cash. Once she took enough money, she hailed a taxi and directed the driver to take her straight to the hospital. Today was the day she would finally pay off her mother's medical bills and ease the burden that had weighed on her shoulders for so long.

Upon arriving at the hospital, Yn approached the billing department with the envelope containing the funds she had saved up and also some funds she got as compensation from the Marquis. She felt a mixture of nervousness and anticipation, but above all, a bright hope.

"It's done!"

Before she knew it, the nurse from behind the counter was already grinning at her, placing documents and a small piece of paper on the table and sliding it towards Yn. The nurse started, "The payment is complete! Here are the documents for your record and this is your receipt, Miss!"

Yn stared wide-eyed at the documents before her, especially the receipt which plainly showed that the huge amount of money she had collected was accepted and was exchanged back to her in that tiny piece of paper. She couldn't help but ask the nurse again, "Then, my mom, will she...?"

Yn's heart raced as she eagerly awaited the nurse's response. The weight of her mother's condition and the hope of a possible treatment hung in the air. The nurse looked at Yn with a warm smile, understanding the significance of this moment for her.

"The payment has been received, Miss," the nurse said kindly. "We will now proceed with assessing your mother's current condition and determining the next steps. The doctor will evaluate her and determine if she is fit enough to undergo the surgery soon enough."

Relief flooded over Yn, mixed with a surge of nervous anticipation. She knew that the outcome was still uncertain, but the fact that she had fulfilled her part by paying the medical bills gave her a glimmer of hope.

The nurse continued, "We will need to conduct a thorough examination and perform some tests to assess your mother's overall health and suitability for the surgery. This will include checking her vital signs, reviewing her medical history, and possibly conducting diagnostic tests. Don't worry, miss. We will handle everything from now on."

Yn nodded, her emotions intertwined with anxiety and optimism. She understood that there were still challenges ahead, but having taken this crucial step and having taken off a huge burden of expensive medical treatment, she felt delighted and hopeful. She felt like she was on cloud nine.

"I hope everything goes well," Yn whispered, her voice filled with both gratitude and trepidation.

The nurse offered her a reassuring smile. "We will do our best, Miss. Our medical team is experienced and dedicated to providing the best care possible. For now, you may visit your mother while I notify the staff about the next step."

Yn nodded gratefully, appreciating the nurse's kind words and guidance. With a mix of nervous excitement and relief, she made her way to her mother's room. As she entered, her eyes fell upon her mother lying in the hospital bed, frail and weak. She was quick to notice her daughter and she greeted her with a weak smile, "Yn, my heart. You are here."

Yn approached her with a gentle touch, a mixture of love and concern evident in her expression. After taking a chair and sitting down next to the bed and holding her mother's hand, Yn stared at her with a loving yet relieved smile. Her mother was bewildered by the look she gave her, but she did not have to express her question because her daughter finally told her:

"Mom," Yn whispered, her voice filled with tenderness. "I did it. I took care of the medical bills."

Her mother's eyes widened and a glimmer of hope flickered within them. It was then Yn noticed her energy rising back up as her mother began to sit up in the bed. Yn helped her, and once done, the older lady gawked at her with astonishment and elation. She was silent for a while as if she half-expected Yn to say it was a joke. But Yn kept smiling at her assuredly.

To Yn's surprise, tears brimmed her mother's eyes as she asked with a shaky voice, "Really?"

"Yes, really," Yn's smile became brighter and more confident. Her mother was now filled with excitement, her frail body shaking as she spread her arms toward her daughter. Yn knew what she wanted and instantly came forward, going into her mother's open arms and embracing her.

Her mother patted her as she squeezed her tighter lovingly. "You did it, Yn. I couldn't be more proud of you. Thank you. Thank you so much!"

Yn's eyes filled with tears as she held her mother tightly, feeling an overwhelming surge of love and relief. The weight of their struggles seemed to lift momentarily, replaced by a profound sense of accomplishment. She had completely let go of how some of the money she collected was actually compensation she got in exchange for her body to the Marquis. No. She did not have to worry about him now.

"Be strong now, mom," Yn whispered, her voice choked with emotion. "I did it so that you could receive the care you deserve."

They pulled back and her mother nodded, her eyes still brimming with tears as she tried her hardest to not make them spill. She answered, "I will. What you did for me will not be wasted."

Her mother's hands cupped Yn's face as she looked into her eyes with unwavering love. Tears streamed down Yn's face as the mother asked, "Does Sydney know? She must be at school now, right?"

Yn shook her head and replied, "No. And yes, she's at school."

Her mother nodded with a warm smile and said, "Then I want to surprise her. By coming back home."

Yn's heart swelled with joy at her mother's words. The idea of surprising Sydney with their mother's return filled her with an immense sense of anticipation and happiness. A radiant smile spread across Yn's face as she imagined the sheer delight that would wash over Sydney when she saw her beloved mother waiting for her at home.

Laughter bubbled forth from both Yn and her mother, mingling with tears of relief and love. Their laughter danced through the hospital room, carrying with it a resounding symphony of triumph and gratitude.

Yn's heart swelled with determination as she focused on the future and the steps she needed to take to create a better life for herself and her family. She pushed aside the memories of her encounter with the Marquis de Gramont, choosing not to let it define her anymore. The compensation she had received, tainted though it may be, had served its purpose in securing her mother's medical treatment.

Now, with the medical bills paid and her responsibilities fulfilled, Yn knew it was time to move on from the casino job. She had endured enough. She did not have to see the Marquis again and it was time to prioritize her own well-being and seek a new path.

As she made her way back home from the hospital, a surge of determination coursed through her veins. Yn's mind raced with thoughts of her resignation letter. She knew it was necessary to formalize her decision and bring closure to that chapter of her life.

Upon arriving at her apartment, she wasted no time. Yn settled herself at her small desk, grabbed a pen and a fresh sheet of paper, and began to write. With each stroke of the pen, her words carried a sense of conviction and liberation.

In her resignation letter, Yn expressed her gratitude for the opportunity to work at the casino and the experiences she had gained. However, she firmly stated her decision to resign, citing personal reasons and the desire to pursue new avenues in her life. She kept the letter professional and concise, yet it resonated with her determination to reclaim her agency and forge a brighter future.

After carefully reviewing and signing the letter, Yn sealed it in an envelope. As she held the envelope in her hands, a weight lifted from her shoulders. Now she had to take care of another matter - How to send this letter without going to the casino?

The next thing she knew, she found herself standing before an unfamiliar door. After knocking, the door was soon opened from the inside and revealed Emily, her close friend from the casino. Emily was not as shocked to see since she had expected her. Yn had told her through texts that she would come by.

"Yn!" Emily smiled brightly and she immediately opened the door wider, "Come in! Your text surprised me!"

Yn returned Emily's smile gratefully, stepping inside the welcoming embrace of her friend's apartment. The air was filled with a sense of familiarity and warmth, a stark contrast to the high-energy atmosphere of the casino they had worked in together.

"Thank you, Em," Yn said, her voice laced with gratitude. "Sorry for surprising you like this."

Emily shut the door and replied, "Hey, it's okay. I'm actually excited to have you here. You've never been to my apartment, right?"

Yn chuckled, "No, I haven't."

"And I haven't been to yours," added Emily with a grin as she disappeared into the kitchen.

As Yn settled into a comfortable chair, Emily offered her a hot cup of tea. Yn accepted it gratefully, holding the warm cup in her hands and savoring the soothing aroma. She took a moment to compose herself before sharing her decision with Emily.

"I've been thinking, Em. I'm quitting my job at the casino," Yn stated firmly, her eyes filled with determination. "I've collected enough money for my mother's medical treatment."

Emily's eyes widened in surprise, but then her face lit up with admiration. "Yn, that's incredible! You did it! I'm so happy for you and your mom!"

Yn's smile grew wider as she felt the support and encouragement radiating from her friend. It was moments like these that affirmed her decision to leave the casino behind and embrace a new chapter in her life.

"I've written my resignation letter," Yn continued, reaching into her bag and retrieving the sealed envelope. "But I don't want to set foot in the casino again. Do you think you could help me deliver it to Mr. Malone?"

Emily's eyes sparkled with excitement as she enthusiastically took the envelope from Yn's hand. "Absolutely! Consider it done. I'll make sure it reaches his hand only, and you won't have to worry about a thing."

Relief washed over Yn as she entrusted her resignation letter to Emily. She knew that her friend would handle the situation with professionalism and discretion. With this weight off her shoulders, Yn felt like she was truly free. She felt her shoulders become much lighter.

"Thank you, Emily," Yn said, her voice filled with appreciation. "I will definitely miss you."

Emily smiled warmly, placing a hand on Yn's shoulder. "I'm so happy you got to quit the casino, Yn. And remember, even if you're not my colleague anymore, we're still friends, okay? Just text me whenever you want. Come over too!"

Yn chuckled lightheartedly and nodded, grinning at her close friend whom she could trust. Suddenly, Emily's smile dropped and she asked, "Oh, Yn, what about the Marquis?"

Yn's smile faded slightly as Emily mentioned the Marquis. She took a deep breath, her gaze focused as she considered her response.

"I don't want to dwell on him anymore, Em," Yn replied, her voice filled with determination. "I've made the decision to leave the casino, and with that, I believe I won't have to see him again."

"But..." Emily started, "I don't know. It seems like he likes you. By the way, I know."

Yn raised an eyebrow and quizzed, "Know what?"

Emily stared at her pointedly and revealed, "I know you went on a dinner date with him last night."

Yn did not respond as she turned her head to the side and mulled over. Emily continued, "Amelia told me. She told me, Sophia, and Emma. That the Marquis took you out after Amy tried to apologize to him. Something about you taking the consequences on her behalf. When Amy said you were all dressed up, we figured it was a date."

Yn's heart sank as Emily revealed that she knew about the dinner date with the Marquis. She felt a mixture of frustration and vulnerability, not wanting to disclose the truth about what had transpired between her and the Marquis.

"Yeah, a date... umm..." Yn was clearly feeling uncomfortable talking about the Marquis, and Emily noticed that. Yn added, "He did ask me like that. A dinner date with him and he would not fire Amy. That's all."

Emily observed the unease in Yn's voice and expression, realizing that there was more to the story than she initially thought. Sensing her friend's discomfort, Emily decided to tread carefully and respect Yn's boundaries.

"Hey," Emily replied gently. "You don't have to say more if you don't want to. I'm here for you, no matter what."

Yn's eyes met Emily's, filled with gratitude for her understanding. She took a deep breath, feeling a sense of relief that Emily wasn't pressing for further details.

"Thank you, Em," Yn said, her voice tinged with vulnerability and appreciation.

"Yn!"

Yn turned around, disregarding the little kids dawdling around her, as she looked at the entrance of the preschool. There she saw Sydney skipping towards her with eagerness, her radiant grin was so infectious it caused Yn to smile widely as well.

Once Sydney reached her, the former effused, "Yn! You're here!"

"I'm here, Syd," Yn spoke up as she held out a hand for the girl, "Let's go home."

On the way to their apartment, Sydney - just as Yn expected - asked her, "Where were you this morning? I was scared you got taken by bad guys, sissy."

"Aw, Sydney," Yn lied, "I'm so sorry! I had too much fun with my friends last night and I fell asleep at their house."

"Oh," Sydney looked up at her with her wide, doe eyes of innocence, "Okay!"

That was all her young stepsister could say before she started chattering about what she had learned from preschool. Soon enough, they arrived in their apartment. Yn prepared a delicious lunch for herself and Sydney, their shared laughter filling the cozy apartment. The aroma of home-cooked food wafted through the air, creating an atmosphere of warmth and comfort. Yn couldn't help but feel a deep sense of fulfillment as she watched Sydney's eyes light up with excitement.

As they sat down at the table, Yn served the food and they began to enjoy their meal together. Sydney's animated storytelling and Yn's attentive listening created a bond that transcended the mundane, filling their small apartment with an undeniable sense of joy and love.

In the midst of their conversation, Sydney paused for a moment and looked at Yn with hopeful eyes. "Sissy, can we buy a new Barbie movie today? I'm tired of watching the same one all the time."

Yn smiled affectionately at her stepsister and replied, "Of course! We can buy a new Barbie movie. And you know what? I'll watch it with you tonight."

Sydney's eyes widened with surprise, her face glowing with delight. "Really, Yn? You'll stay at home with me tonight?"

Yn nodded, her heart swelling with a newfound sense of purpose. "Yes, Syd. I will stay and I have a movie night with you. How does that sound?"

Sydney's joy was palpable as she clapped her hands and exclaimed, "Yay! I can't wait! It's going to be the best movie night ever!"

Yn couldn't help but share in Sydney's excitement, knowing that this simple act of being present meant the world to her young stepsister. It was a small but significant step towards rebuilding the bond they had lost during the difficult times.

After finishing their lunch, Yn made sure to give Rosie, their affectionate cat, some treats. The contented purring of the feline added to the comforting atmosphere, filling the apartment with a sense of peace and companionship.

As the afternoon stretched before them, Yn and Sydney engaged in various activities, painting pictures, playing games, and immersing themselves in imaginative adventures. The walls echoed with their laughter, filling the space with an undeniable sense of joy and love.

In the evening, as darkness descended, Yn prepared a cozy movie night setup. They snuggled up on the couch, surrounded by blankets and pillows, eagerly awaiting the start of the new Barbie movie. Sydney's eyes sparkled with anticipation, while Yn's heart swelled with a profound sense of gratitude for this precious moment.

Together, they embarked on a journey of imagination and wonder, the colorful world of Barbie unfolding before their eyes. As they watched the movie, their shared laughter and whispered commentary filled the room, creating an atmosphere of pure happiness and connection.

At that moment, surrounded by love and the innocence of childhood, Yn realized that she had made the right decision. By stepping away from the casino job and prioritizing her family, she had found a newfound happiness and purpose that money could never buy.

As the movie played on, immersing Sydney in its enchanting world, Yn couldn't help but feel a sense of unease. A lingering thought nagged at the back of her mind, reminding her that the life she had left behind at the casino might not be so easily forgotten. The ominous message from a certain Frenchman about consequences and haunting repercussions lingered in her thoughts.

Just as the tension was building within her, Yn's smartphone buzzed with an incoming call. Glancing at the screen, she saw it was Emily. She then stole a quick look at the wall clock and realized that Emily was supposed to be working at the casino at this moment.

With a quick apology to Sydney, she excused herself and stepped into her bedroom to answer the call, a sense of trepidation gripping her.

"Hey, Em," Yn greeted, her voice filled with a mixture of anticipation and concern. "What is it?"

Emily's voice on the other end of the line sounded urgent yet hushed, "Yn, sorry to disturb you but it's about the Marquis."

Yn's heart skipped a beat. She had hoped that leaving the casino and cutting ties with the Marquis would distance her from his influence. But now, it seemed that he had resurfaced in her life, bringing a wave of uncertainty and fear.

"What about him?" Yn asked, her voice trembling slightly.

Emily hesitated before responding, "He found out about your resignation from Mr. Malone. He's... not happy, Yn. He's quiet but... I saw his face."

Emily still had not finished but Yn immediately became pale as blood drained from her face. She stared into space as she remembered a flashback of what had occurred this morning. That time when she evaded his attempt to kiss her lips...

Yn quickly spun around and practically jumped into the limousine, eager to escape from the Marquis' presence. She took a shy peek at the man and noticed that...

Emily's voice continued from the other side of the call, "He was pursing his lips tightly."

He was pursing his lips...

Emily added, "His eye twitched and he just stood there."

His right eye twitched in silent anger, as he kept his silent yet fiery gaze on her figure inside the vehicle.

"I swear I felt his anger bubbling around him. It's eerie," ended Emily.

Yn felt her hands tremble slightly in fear and trepidation at the thought of the infuriated Marquis. She then balled them into fists to stop the tremble, but it was futile. That was when Emily appended, "Sophia noticed it too, and she wanted me to tell you to be careful. She has suspicion that the Marquis is involved in the underworld, and we don't know what he could do with his immense power and influence if provoked. Just let us know if you see any sign that he's stalking you."

Yn's heart sank at the revelation, a sense of dread creeping over her. She had always known that the Marquis was a dangerous man, but to have a notion that he was involved in the criminal underworld only added to her fear. She knew that she needed to be careful.

"Thank you for letting me know, Em. I'll be careful," Yn replied, her voice determined yet tinged with fear.

The phone call with Emily left her with a deep sense of unease. She couldn't shake off the image of the Marquis' angered face and the implications of his reaction to her resignation. Fear coiled in the pit of her stomach as she considered the dark possibilities that could unfold.

As the evening wore on, a foreboding silence settled over Yn's apartment. Sydney had drifted off to sleep after the movie, and Yn had tucked her into her bed. Shutting the TV and ensuring the locks were secured, Yn was allowed a moment to gather her thoughts.

A chilling silence hung in the air as Yn absorbed the gravity of the situation. She had hoped that by leaving the casino, she could sever her ties with the Marquis and find a safer path for herself that wouldn't damage her dignity anymore. But now, it seemed that she had only awakened a sleeping beast, a man consumed by anger... and revenge.

She began to ponder: Had she ever revealed her personal information to the Marquis?

When it comes to where she lived, she did not tell him an inkling at all, including Chidi who had sent her to the Silver Crest Apartments this morning, which was actually another apartment complex located a few blocks away from hers. So she was certain that at least the Marquis had no idea where her humble abode was. Perhaps Chidi had already given him false information about her living at some apartment.

Other than that, the Marquis did not know her phone number, unless he coerced Mr. Malone into giving him. She had to be prepared in case a mysterious caller contacts her phone in the future.

As the night grew darker, Yn couldn't shake the feeling of being watched. Shadows seemed to dance menacingly outside her window, and every creak of the floorboards sent shivers down her spine. The air felt heavy with a sense of impending danger. She even went and double-checked the locks on every door and window, yet the fear persisted.

That sense of terror continued till the next morning and Yn did not sleep well because of it. She was on alert the whole night and morning that she couldn't get enough sleep, resulting in dark bags under her eyes. She had to wave off Sydney's concern when the little girl mentioned about it.

As the two of them left the apartment, Yn double-checked the lock again and went out of the apartment complex. That was when her fear and vigilance caused her to survey the surrounding and noticed a mysterious car parked outside the building, its dark-tinted windows concealing the identity of its occupants.

She became paled right away, feeling coldness surge through her body, as she gaped at the black car in horror. She couldn't take her eyes off of it as she wondered who was or were inside it. She even had a thought to confront it and make the occupants roll down their windows. But what if it's just some innocent people who were waiting for someone?

Yn ended up shielding Sydney from the car's view and walked faster to her preschool. After sending her off and ensuring she entered the building, Yn looked around again. This time, the car from before did not show up anywhere. She thought she was going crazy for suspecting anything as a trail of the Marquis.

She then boarded a bus to head for the cafe she worked the morning shift at. As the bus made its way through the city streets, Yn couldn't shake the feeling of being followed. She kept glancing over her shoulder, searching for any sign of the mysterious car she had seen earlier, but there was no trace of it. She told herself that she was being paranoid, that it was just her imagination running wild after the events of the previous night. But deep down, she knew that something wasn't right.

As Yn walked into the cafe, she was still feeling uneasy and kept glancing over her shoulder. Edric, her coworker who had a crush on her, immediately noticed her tired and anxious demeanor.

"Yn, are you alright?" he asked with a concerned look on his face.

Yn hesitated for a moment, unsure of whether or not to confide in him. However, the events of the previous night and the mysterious car outside her apartment had left her feeling vulnerable and exposed. But it was a matter that couldn't be talked so easily to someone. She did not want anyone else to get dragged into this mess involving a powerful French aristocrat.

"I'm okay, Edric," she claimed, "I just... did not get enough sleep last night."

She could not help but once again look over her shoulder and outside the cafe's large windows, searching for any suspicious car parking outside the cafe ever since she came in.

Out of nowhere, a large hand landed on her shoulder unexpectedly, causing her to flinch with surprise and fear, as she gawked at the owner of the hand - Edric. He noticed the terror in her expression and was filled with more concern for her.

"Yn," he queried again, this time massaging her shoulder as a comforting act, "Are you really okay? You know you can tell me anything."

Yn took a deep breath, trying to calm her racing heart. She appreciated Edric's concern, but she couldn't burden him with the truth. It was too dangerous, and she didn't want to involve anyone else in this mess.

"I'm fine, really," she said, forcing a smile. "Just a little on edge today."

Edric eyed her skeptically, but he didn't push the matter further. Instead, he offered to make her a cup of coffee and told her to take a few minutes to sit down and relax before starting her shift.

As Yn sat at a small table, sipping her coffee, she couldn't shake the feeling of danger that loomed over her. She couldn't believe how much her life had changed in just a few days. She used to be a simple bunny girl in a casino with no worries other than saving money for her family and collecting money for her mother's medical treatments. But now, she found herself constantly looking behind her back in fear of a French aristocrat who had taken an unhealthy interest in her - who had taken her virginity mercilessly.

She took another sip of her coffee and closed her eyes, trying to calm her nerves. Soon enough, Yn tried to push her fears to the back of her mind and focus on her work. She greeted the regular customers with a smile and took their orders, all the while keeping an eye out for any suspicious activity.

The next thing she knew, her morning shift ended and she was free to leave the cafe. Yn's heart pounded in her chest as she boarded the bus, her mind consumed by thoughts of the Marquis and the ever-present sense of being followed. She glanced out the window, scanning the passing streets for any signs of the mysterious car or the looming figure of the Marquis. But everything appeared normal, the city bustling with its usual activity.

As the bus neared the preschool, Yn's anxiety grew. She anxiously stepped off the bus and walked briskly towards the school, her eyes darting around, searching for any indication that the Marquis was closing in on her. The weight of fear settled heavily on her shoulders, making each step feel like an eternity.

Finally, she reached the preschool and hurried inside, her heart racing with a mixture of relief and trepidation. She found Sydney among the crowd of children, her bright smile a welcome sight that momentarily eased Yn's fears.

Yn and Sydney walked hand in hand toward their apartment building, their footsteps echoing in the quiet street. The weight of the day's events lingered in Yn's mind, her senses heightened, and her instincts on high alert. She couldn't help but feel a constant prickle of unease, a nagging presence that seemed to follow her every move.

As they approached their apartment door, Yn's eyes landed on the bouquet of tuberose flowers and the square-shaped box of Ferrero Rocher chocolates placed on the floor mat. Her breath caught in her throat, a mix of curiosity and apprehension surging through her veins.

Sydney's eyes lit up with excitement, tugging on Yn's hand as she pointed at the gifts. "Yn, look! Someone left us flowers and chocolates! How sweet! Did a prince drop by?!"

Yn's heart raced, and her mind flooded with questions. Who had left these tokens of affection? Was it a kind gesture from a well-meaning neighbor, or was it another calculated move by the Marquis to unsettle her? If that's the case, then that means the Marquis knew for certain where she lived through some means. This also meant that her home was at risk. She and Sydney were at risk.

With trembling hands, Yn picked up the bouquet of tuberose flowers, their delicate fragrance enveloping her senses and making her feel... odd. The fragrance caused her pussy to throb subconsciously, but she paid no mind to it. The white blooms stood in stark contrast against the somber darkness of the hallway, their beauty tainted by the weight of uncertainty.

Besides the flowers, the golden-wrapped box of Ferrero Rocher chocolates beckoned, tempting yet foreboding. Yn's mind swirled with a mix of caution and curiosity. She couldn't help but wonder if this was a twisted message, a reminder that the Marquis had found out where she lived and that he still had power over her life.

Suppressing her unease, Yn put on a brave face for Sydney. "Yes, Syd, it seems someone has left us a surprise."

Sydney clapped her hands in delight, picking up the box of chocolates and shaking it enthusiastically, "Who is it? Maybe it's a secret admirer!"

Yn forced a smile, her mind racing with possibilities, none of them good. She knew that she couldn't take anything from this, not when the probability that the Marquis was involved was huge. The timing was too great. Her apartment door had never received gifts like this before. But she also couldn't let Sydney know how worried and alarmed she was.

"Open them, Yn! I want to eat the chocolates!" Sydney said, hugging the box of chocolates close to her body.

Once inside, Yn placed the flowers on a table and carefully opened the Ferrero Rocher box, tearing off the wrapping paper. Sydney was by her side, eyes glinting with excitement, and was eagerly awaiting her turn to devour it.

As Yn observed Sydney consuming the chocolates with no worries in her mind, her head raced with questions. Other than the Marquis, who could have left these gifts? And more importantly, what were their intentions? She was trying to look at this situation positively and try not to suspect the Marquis in everything but... If it's not him, then who?

As the hours ticked by, the apartment remained cloaked in an unsettling silence. Yn couldn't shake the feeling that she was being watched, that invisible eyes were peering into her private sanctuary. Every creak of the floorboards, every gust of wind outside, sent a shiver down her spine.

As night fell and Yn prepared Sydney for bed, the weight of the situation bore heavily upon her shoulders. She tucked Sydney in, ensuring her safety and comfort, all the while knowing that she couldn't let her guard down.

Yn couldn't shake the feeling of being watched, not even as she slipped into her own bed. The darkness enveloped her, and she could hear nothing but the sound of her own breathing. She knew that she had to be vigilant, that she couldn't let her guard down even for a moment. Because if it was indeed the Marquis who was behind the gifts, then she was in grave danger.

The thought made her heart race, and she tried to calm herself by taking deep breaths. She closed her eyes and tried to picture a peaceful scene, but her mind kept going back to the Marquis and his endless games.

Suddenly, her phone beeped, causing her to jump in surprise. She picked it up from the nightstand, her heart thumping in her chest. It was a message from Emily. She opened it and paled in an instant.

[Emily: Yn, sorry to disturb you again. But I just want to tell you that tonight, the Marquis did not appear in the casino at all.]

[Emily: Just wanted to inform you.]

Yn's mind raced as she read the message from Emily. If the Marquis wasn't at the casino, then where was he? That sort of proved that he was the one behind the bouquet and chocolates, right? Or perhaps not. Maybe she was overreacting, she thought.

Those texts kept her up at night, tensing up every time she heard something out of the ordinary, or practically any noise at all. The stray dogs' barks and howls outside the apartment complex added to the eerie atmosphere, heightening Yn's unease. The sounds seemed to echo through the night, a constant reminder of the lurking danger that awaited her.

Every creak of the floorboards and gust of wind outside seemed to whisper the Marquis' name, a chilling reminder that he was watching, waiting, and planning. The sense of being trapped in a web of his making grew stronger with each passing moment.

As the night wore on, Yn's exhaustion began to take its toll. Her eyelids grew heavy, and her mind became foggy with fatigue. Yet, every time she started to drift off, a jolt of adrenaline shot through her, jarring her back to full alertness.

Hours passed, and Yn barely got any sleep that night. The first rays of sunlight peeked through the curtains, casting a pale glow in the room. Yn's body was weary, her mind overwhelmed by a mix of exhaustion and apprehension. She knew that she couldn't continue like this, on the brink of exhaustion and paranoia.

She thought she would be done with the Marquis de Gramont upon quitting the casino, but apparently, it made her remember about him even more than before. It felt like she was going to live her life like this forever - always on edge and wary of everything as she had to look over her shoulder for any trace of the Frenchman.

She could not stay like this. She had to do something, but what? She couldn't confront him or else, he would make her life a living hell using his influence, power, and resources, and possibly rape her again as a consequence for any wrongdoing he thought she had done to him. She couldn't see him again.

It was Saturday that day, so Sydney did not have any preschool this morning. Not only that, but Yn did not have any morning shifts at the cafe on weekends, so she and Sydney were completely free on weekends. Yn then decided to bring Sydney and visit their mother together at the hospital and get some information regarding her treatment and upcoming surgery.

Yn and Sydney got ready for their visit to the hospital, hoping to find solace and support in the presence of their mother. Yn dressed Sydney in her favorite outfit, ensuring she looked presentable, and chose an outfit for herself that showed her modest yet confident, despite the turmoil she felt inside.

As they made their way to the hospital, Yn's mind swirled with a mix of emotions. She longed to see her mother, to feel her reassuring touch and hear her comforting words. She yearned to not worry a single thing about the Marquis, and she had hoped that seeing her mother would give her that peace. After all, she did see her mother's hospital room as a sacred place of serenity for her.

Upon entering their mother's room, Yn and Sydney were initially relieved to see her smiling and in good spirits. However, as they took in the scene more fully, Yn's relief turned to shock and disbelief.

Their mother's laughter echoed in the room, and Yn's gaze fell upon the Marquis de Gramont, sitting by her mother's bedside. He had seemingly made a joke that had elicited her mother's laughter. The sight of the Marquis in such a familiar setting sent a wave of panic crashing through Yn's body.

Yn’s body stiffened and her gaze froze on the Marquis. The color drained from her face as a chill ran through her spine. Her mind raced with questions and worries as her heart raced too quickly to keep up with it. Her mouth felt dry and her breathing quickened, though she could not move for the fear that had taken over.

Her mother finally noticed Yn's presence and a mischievous twinkle danced in her eyes. "Ah, Yn, my dear, why didn't you tell me about your dashing boyfriend?"

It was at that moment the Marquis turned his head around, looking at Yn with a tender smile. Despite his attempt to look loving and warm, his eyes betrayed it all. They bore darkness and self-satisfaction, and they were filled with a smugness that spoke of secrets - her secrets. His gaze was piercing and steady as they gleamed with sinister energy.

It's as if he loved seeing her again yet he desired to devour her in the most filthy way again and again upon laying his eyes on her.

Yn's heart sank, her mind struggling to process the situation. How did the Marquis know about her mother in the hospital? How did he manage to infiltrate even this sacred space? How did he deceive her mother into believing that he was anything more than a dangerous man?

Sydney skipped into the room and looked up at the tall Frenchman and asked innocently, "Mom, who is this?"

Her mother replied almost proudly, "His name is the Marquis Vincent Bisset de Gramont. He is from France, and your big sister's close friend, you see."

Yn frowned in bafflement at how her mother knew his name - his full name, even. He then stole a glance at the Marquis who was somewhat smug to know that her mother had remembered his name correctly.

"Wow!" Sydney inched closer to the Marquis and pointed at his three-piece suit, "I like your clothes! You look like a prince!"

The smile on the Marquis' face widened as he grinned at the little girl and said in his thick French accent, "That is sweet of you. Thank you, little mademoiselle. Do you want chocolates?"

He fetched something out from the inside pocket of his jacket and revealed it to be a Ferrero Rocher ball. Yn's eyes widened in alarm while Sydney squealed in delight before she took it excitedly. The little girl spoke, "My favorite chocolate! Were you the one who put gifts on our door?"

The Marquis chuckled, "Yes, I did. Do you like them?"

"I love them!" effused Sydney, "I ate all of the chocolates while my sissy took care of the flowers!"

Yn's mother then laughed lightheartedly and chimed in, "Oh my, Vincent. You even gave them gifts? How nice of you, really."

Yn’s mind raced as the Marquis charmed her family members, she knew that he was playing a dangerous game. She knew that he was capable of unspeakable things, and the thought of him being so close to her mother and sister made her skin crawl. She couldn't shake the feeling that he was plotting something, and she needed to find a way to get away from her family. Her precious family.

She could tell that the Marquis was up to something sinister, but she couldn't cause a scene here. What if she exposed him to her mother and sister? Would he reveal who he was and threaten them all, putting them in grave danger because of her mouth? Maybe he already had a pistol inside his pocket. No. She would not let him point that at her family.

She had to play along and act like everything was fine.

Yn could feel the Marquis' gaze on her, and she knew that he was enjoying her discomfort. She could see the way that he watched her when no one else was looking, and she knew that he was trying to intimidate her. He stared at her longingly, like a wolf would stare at a deer.

Yn began to ponder on how to ensure the safety of her family when the Marquis spoke to her out of the blue, "Yn, you seem pale."

He rose from his seat and went to stand in front of her before he placed his open palm on her forehead, stunning Yn to silence, while her mother was wearing a restrained grin at what she thought was a cute display.

The Marquis then turned to her mother and sister and said with a fake, charming smile, "Excuse us for a moment. Yn needs some fresh air."

He took Yn's hand and led her outside of the hospital. The air was cool and crisp, a welcome relief from the stifling atmosphere inside. Yn's heart was pounding in her chest, and she was sure that the Marquis could feel it through their connected hands.

They walked through the semi-busy hallway of the hospital in silence until the Marquis was the one who broke it by saying, "You did not tell me you have a sister."

Yn yanked her hand out of his hold and she inquired with mild fury, knowing she had to keep her voice down in the middle of the hallway to not cause a scene, "What are you doing here?"

"Is it wrong to meet the family of my lover?" he countered with his heavy French accent and his usual triumphant smile.

Yn hissed, "What did you say to my mom?!"

Instead of responding to her, the Marquis said, "You never cease to amaze me, ma lapine. You quit your job at the casino after I gave you that 50k. You used that for your mother's treatment. Nice use of the compensation for your body and virginity."

"Don't say that," Yn hissed, "People will hear you."

The Marquis smirked, "Then let me find an empty room for both of us."

Without waiting for her response or consent, he grasped her hand and tugged her toward a direction.

"Where are we going?" she whispered as they entered a narrow, empty corridor.

"We need to resolve something somewhere," he said as he pushed her into a room.

The hospital room was white with brightly lit fluorescent lights that illuminated the interior. The bed was crisp and white with thin blankets and a pillow, making it look inviting. There was a small wooden table with a couple of chairs for visitors to sit on, as well as a personal bathroom equipped with a toilet, sink, and mirror.

The Marquis then pushed her against the wall and pinned her down with his body. He pressed his lips close to her ear and said with a sensual voice, "You seem to be forgetting a lot of things after I gave you that 50k. You cannot escape me, ma lapine. I will make you remember that."

Yn struggled against him and the wall and cried out, "Stop! You're not doing this to me again!"

Before she could scream more, he captured her lips with his and ravaged them with his tongue. Suddenly, she managed to break free and slap him angrily. That caused him to back off in shock and held his stinging cheek in an instant.

Yn stared at him wide-eyed, eyes blazing with rage and indignation, with slight fear, before she immediately spun around and rushed towards the door.

However, just before she could grab the doorknob, a pair of strong arms wrapped around her waist from behind and tugged her back into the room. She was thrown onto the bed and he crawled over her and pinned her down by the wrists, straddling her thrashing thighs roughly. She tried to scream, but he muffled her mouth with his.

"You think quitting your work at the casino will set you free from me," the Marquis said, his eyes ablaze with fury and dark lust, "You are mistaken. I will make you remember your duties, ma lapine."

One hour later, Sydney was lying with her mother in the latter's bed as they chattered away about the difference in their daily lives. Her mother had known all along how much time had passed, but made no mention of it, until Sydney spoke up:

"Hey, mom. Where is Yn?" the little girl looked up at her mother with wide eyes of curiosity and child-innocence.

The mother smiled warmly and brushed her daughter's hair back, "She is with her boyfriend. She's gonna be fine, Sydney. Maybe she is bringing him around the hospital."

The two of them were clueless that the man - who claimed to be Yn's boyfriend - was fucking her senseless at the moment in an unoccupied patient's room. He pinned her in the inescapable mating press as he rammed into her mercilessly. Her pussy was overfilled with the semen he had filled her to the brim previously, but he was not done yet. He drilled his cock into her cunt with unrelenting vigor - as if she was truly his cumdump.

His hard cock was completely coated with his semen and her juices, creating filthy squelching noise as he fucked her cum-filled cunt as if he was really aiming to breed her womb.

His eyes were ablaze with a dark and primal lust as he held her down, her arms pushed down to the bed as if she was chained. She was utterly at his mercy as his hips pistoned in and out of her, each thrust pushing her further and further toward the edge of pleasure and pain. The smell of sweat and sex filled the air as he fucked her with animalistic intensity.

He was grunting with each thrust, his groans of pleasure echoing off the walls as he thrust harder and faster. The sound of flesh slapping together was almost deafening in the small room as her muffled whimpers mingled with the sound, echoing off the walls around them, tarnishing the fact that the hospital was a safe haven for Yn.

PREV : Chapter 04

NEXT : Chapter 06

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multific · 7 months

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The Ink Under Your Skin

Vincent De Gramont x Reader

Summary: Vincent wonders why you never wear short dresses, he assumed you were covered in scars so he didn't ask. But then, one evening he realizes just how wrong his assumption was.

He watched as you entered his office wearing another long-sleeved shirt with long pants. The only skin you showed was your neck and your decolletage.

Even if he longed to see more of your skin, he knew better than to ask.

The truth was that he absolutely adored you. Being the one to finish many missions for and with him the two of you grew even closer after John Wick.

And now, Vincent noticed the small things about you.

One was that he had never seen more of your skin revealed.

He figured you might have scars due to your line of work.

But he was dying to know more to see more of you.

He knew your flirting was only a game, but he wasn't sure anymore.

"Here is the coin you asked for and the extra." you said as you placed a briefcase on his desk.

"Perfect. Merci." he said and you only nodded as he checked everything.

Everything was perfect, yet again.

"Do you have anything else for me? Or can I go home?"

"Go home, rest for a bit. I have an event coming up, you are invited. The event will be the opening of the new Continental."

"Oh, lovely, I shall go then. Will you text me the details?"

"I don't expect you to come as a member of my... ring. More as a date."

"Date?" now that caught you off guard but then you smiled and gave him a nod. "Alright, I'll make sure to wear something nice."

"And short." he said immediately and you looked at him in the eyes.

"Nice and short, you got it. Then, wear that black suit I like so much."

"I'll be sure to impress. The opening is tomorrow. I'll pick you up."

On your way out, you made sure to sway your hips just a little bit more.

Only to impress him.

And he was impressed.

---

The next morning you received a text saying Vincent would be there to pick you up at 5pm.

You knew how sharp he was, so you knew better than to waste time.

You picked out your favourite short dress and got into the bath.

You did your hair, make-up and finally, you were all done.

When your doorbell rang, you quickly gave yourself one last glance.

As soon as the door opened, Vincent's jaw hit the floor.

You looked stunning and now, he understood why you were always wearing long clothes.

You were covered in tattoos.

Almost every inch of your skin was covered by ink.

Various things were craved into your skin. Many resemble you as a person, your likings but Vincent also noticed a couple of achievements.

"Ready?" you asked as his eyes never stopped roaming your skin.

All he could do was simply nod.

On your way to the new hotel, you two sat at the back while his driver was focused on the road. You were looking out the window, looking at the people you passed when you suddenly felt his hand on your thigh. You looked at him but he wasn't looking at you. Instead, Vincent was focusing on his phone, so you let his hand stay near your knee.

All night, he kept staring at you, more than usual.

Normally you didn't care when people looked at you a certain way because of your tattoos.

But with Vincent, it did bother you.

You liked him.

Perhaps more than you should like a psycho like him.

But you weren't much better.

Working with him did rub off on you maybe in the wrong way.

But you liked working with him.

He was too charming for his own good.

And he definitely thought he was a lot more slik than he actually was.

He really thought he could be staring at you like that and you wouldn't notice.

But you did like to play dumb.

Men liked dumb women.

If you reveal to him that you knew about his attention all along, he would bail.

So, you played your part for as long as you could.

You stood out on the balcony, looking at New York when someone stepped beside you.

"Nice view."

"For me, New York is not that impressive."

"I wasn't talking about the city." Vincent said as his eyes roamed all over your body. "I never imagined you would have tattoos, let alone so many of them."

"Do you not like it?"

"I do." his reply was immediate, making all of your doubts fly out the window.

"I won't lie, I was a bit worried about your reaction."

"Why so?"

"People around us only have tattoos related to their work... I have my interests."

"Which is why I adore them even more." his hand moved to your forearm, letting his thumb run down the skin, he watched in adoration.

"I need to know Vincent." you spoke and looked up at him, your eyes meeting his. "I need to know if you are only interested in me so I would work for you."

"You already work for me. I don't need to seduce you in order to convince you to do things for me. I will say this, it is quite the opposite, I believed for a while that you were the one seducing me so that you could get more money perhaps. At least I know the money went to a good place." he said as his hand moved to your waist

"I'm getting a new one done next week." you smiled.

"Perfect." he whispered as he leaned down and his lips met yours in a short yet sweet kiss.

Who knew that the ink under your skin would be the breaking point for the two of you.

Vincent Taglist: @l4venderia

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#vincent de gramont x reader #vincent de gramont x you #vincent de gramont imagine #vincent de gramont imagines #marquis de gramont x reader #marquis x reader #marquis imagine #john wick x reader #x female reader #x reader #john wick x y/n #john wick x you #the marquis x reader #the marquis imagine #the marquis imagines #the marquis #john wick marquis #john wick marquis x reader

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joannasteez · 7 hours

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almost blue (1)

pairing: cody rhodes x black reader warning: explicit descriptions of violence and sexual activity. minors please do not interact. readers eighteen and older interact only please. descriptions of alcohol consumption and the use of deadly weapons. authors note: JOHN WICK AU!!! so excited to share this! i had this sorta kinda in my back pocket for a while, while trying to build up tanks of blood, which you can find to read here. not everything in this is super true to the world of john wick but the most im using as inspo is the aesthetic anyways. also a one off mention of john wick lol. that and some of the names for certain things. italics in the beginning represent flashback perspective music inspo: almost blue by chet baker word count: 4800 tagging: @333creolelady @harmshake @theninthwonder @kill-the-artiste @empressdede @southerngirl41 @2-muchsauce @crxssjae

new york. the continental hotel and it's flatiron shape. september 2019. the rain, this soft unsteady pitter patter. a gentle gray coloring the sky. the air cold and biting. the city filling its brim with a sleepless droning.

and amongst the deathly sort of decadence—gold trim and blood red carpet floors—bath water disturbs till its sloshing to overtake the tub. a messy spill against the floor. his lips working over yours. fingers kneading deep enough into skin that it stains with the print of his touch. nails tender in his hair and your body melting in till the heat of him breaks over your skin. his everything settled into the wisp and charm of your voice as his pleasure becomes whole. too great.

—but his memory tires from old moments like these, a shell of itself as it attempts in vain to restore to it's former glory. has been in a perpetual state of exhaustion for sometime. but this straining is singular. a throbbing at the forefront of his skull. a tight pulling pain at the nape of his neck till it's creeping wild at the tip of his spine. forcing him to grow ill as he works to reminisce. body wistfully undone. and what words do the men of our time say about insanity? to be in a perpetual state of trying, doing, in hopes of something new. and so on he went, flirting with this disaster, this run of nostalgia, so much so that memory has forsaken him, taking these little complexities —the new york rain and the taste of your lips— along with it.

but cody can handle the load and reload of a glock 26 as fast as he does it well. a deft maneuvering before the barrel raises and he pulls the trigger, the recoil driving sharp. a bullet through the skull and the splattering of blood. whoever meant to kill him, now dead in his wake.

but what cruelty this is. a traitor to his own body. living with nothing but the means to kill and tattered memory. with him still, only, all of the things left unsaid—

you'd smelt of vanilla. the yearning about his tongue deep and yet to be settled. his lips a shadow as they feathered against yours. his questions overdone with a frightening passion. "where are you ten years from now?"

your fingers slipped over his skin, as easy as they would over porcelain. a delicate taking over wet soapy muscle till it clawed over his shoulders and against the heat of his cheeks. "somewhere warm and comfortable. retired".

where ever you were, is where he wanted to be. "am i with you?"

a reversion, just barely perceptible, but there all the same. something like fear, like hesitation, pushing against a situational sort of tenderness in your eyes. the warmth slowly but forcibly outdone by the cold. lukewarm. just like the fate of too old bath water. not enough of either extreme. lukewarm.

"seems more like a question for you to answer".

"answer it anyways".

and he couldn't feel your lips anymore. too much air, too much distance. caution thick. woven about your words. the tones. the inflections. "ten years from now, you'll be somewhere as warm, as comfortable and retired too".

"am i with you?"

to draw such a long length of need into the air. passions and hopes and dreams. cody knew. it would've been easier to take the sear of a bullet, the ripping tear in of a knife or the crack of something blunt and unforgiving to his skull. those things easier than the down trod of such a silence. your eyes having gained more and more distance. fear peaking soft and brown before the quick slip over of indifference. like you didn't care for his whispered words sounding too much like forever. and recovery from bullets and knives and blunt force was tedious. sewn up skin and the reformation of fine motor skill. but this. the way you suffered him to feel the drift away of your body and the simple, delicate, eager push in of your touch. something in his heart—amongst the lukewarm water—failed. this low dropping into a less lively place.

new york. the continental hotel and its flatiron shape. june 2024. a peak of the sun amidst more grayish than white clouds against an icy pale blue sky. the air breezy with a teasing smell of rain. like a stray tendril before some great unraveling. the city as sleepless as it's ever been.

and amongst the deathly sort of decadence—scarlet sage in bloom and the ever present air of readymade violence—cody sips at a short glass of brandy. an edgy spike to his tongue as it settles. everything of the continental he possessed now lost to time and the overwork of his sore tired memory. lost to a bout of corrosion done by words left unsaid. because he did not remember your answer after the persistence of his "am i with you?” all thats left, this great blurring. of words and the finer littler complexities. your lips and your eyes and the soft ways of your touch. and maybe it came to be this way for good reason. using such a burn to his ego to fuel the fire of his rage. revenge for memories unforgettable. around the glass of brandy, his hands feel stronger. less careful in how they hold. caution be damned. he sips again to finish. his finger buttoning his suit jacket, making way from the bar and across the communal space of the hotel.

warmth at his ear and a twitch in his trigger finger. something like eyes resting over him. watching him.

he continues to a connecting hallway. elevators and mosaic floors. maybe the brandy wasn't the best idea, but neither was coming to such sacredly awful ground. lovers trauma and all that bullshit jazz.

the fourteenth floor is quiet. his steps carpeted by soft wool. a second twitch in his trigger finger that leads into the sharp driving heat reminiscent of staggering gun recoil. a sweet burning in his arm, the muscles knowing, remembering. but he has nothing of use on him. nothing to snuff out and quiet that vicious call of death. his hotel room styled with a modernistic flare to it's luxury. clean and unadorned. a simple reflection of his own style thankfully, but nothing extravagant to weaponize. he would have to, if needed, to make due. a slim ball point pen, sleek and multifunctional, rests next to a complimentary bottle of wine. "enjoy your stay", in cursive. cody feels the warmth at the tip of his ear again, something greater than a simple bout of paranoia. his fingers slip the pen into his pocket, a reversing in his steps to triple check the locking function of the room doors.

and he shouldn't be so wound up should he? conducting business was, is, has always been forbidden on hotel grounds.

his fight or flight saying otherwise. breathing over his skin overwhelmingly warm. lingering wearily. intuition always a nagging son of a bitch but never wrong. it's never failed him.

cody showers, stands amidst the icy rain of too cold water. cody showers, because warm baths terrify something in his body. the possibility of turning stale and lukewarm. too distant and uninviting to be either extreme. like eyes and soft lips he can barely form well enough to reimagine.

and the bed sheets are welcoming. slipping along his skin with a delicate relief. but still, something feels wrong. a heaviness to the air that precedes this faithful old tryst with life. with death. the ring of his phone working to unburden him suddenly, but for only some seconds. the number blocked. he answers, rushing to fish that ball point pen from his dress pants. sleek and multifunctional in his grip. but the urgency in his maneuvering cuts short with the slip in of something dangerously angelic. memory sore and exhausted no more, but now rushing back to him fervid and unrelenting. a tender charming tone in his ear that disrupts the stalwart build of his resolve. september 2019. june 2024. five years of an almost complete pain. icy feeling wind with the teasing of a torrential down pour. almost there but not quite. the anger and the pain never red enough. the sadness almost blue.

"the loft in tribeca" you start. cody commits it all to memory. the words, the tones, the inflections. shuffling to rough his pants on. pen in his pocket. phone wedged to his ear as his fingers rip off the casing of a pillow. body easy as it maneuvers to protect his six o'clock, leaning against the wall. his eyes scope along the room. an over examination. waiting. "if you're not dead in the next 30 minutes, meet me there".

the call drops.

the slow unlocking click of his hotel room door. his muscles burn with remembrance. eyes sharp. his ears attune. the shells of them warm. cautioned steps approach the entry way of the bedroom but they fail to go unnoticed. thudding against the soft carpet. and if not for the possibility of his demise, cody would laugh. surely this was amateur hour. boots and inconspicuous were no more suited together than suede in the rain. and he'd made that rookie mistake before. back when he was a rookie. but the high table were no idiots, sending rookies to bring his head in, unless they hated him that much and felt he should feel the brunt of that hatred with some disrespect. and disrespect it was.

cody's breath holds. his head thumping against the wall before he makes a swift crouch to his knees. a gun rounding the corner, and a bullet flying aimed for where his head had knocked in. a simple quick diversion. nothing special or particularly extravagant, but enough to give him seconds to maneuver. and oh this is disrespect in deed. dominik mysterio the source of his current heavy breathed, adrenaline rushing circumstance. cody knuckling the hold of the still upward pointed gun with a punch before another sinks into domink's abdomen. a short grunt breaking from the scrappy, ill-sophisticated, mullet wearing piece of shit. and surely dominik is more of a piece of shit when his heavy boot toughs into cody's jaw. racing for the gun.

but cody is quick. has felt and faced harsher things. if anything, its more of an irritation he feels than a full measure of pain. it was hard maintaining good skin considering the life he led. he spits against the carpet. iron on his tongue. red staining the clean line designs. he reaches for dominik's leg just before he's in reach of the gun. pulling him near and flipping him over quickly. a rough hand in the silk of domink's mullet as he rains down punches with the other. cody ill satisfied as he hears the sloppy singing of grunts from the younger mysterio. and as his frustration mounts, swindled by the audacity of the high table, dominik gains an advantage. his hips shifting up to propel cody, his arms lean and tight and trapping over cody's and rolling.

"you three piece suit, hugo boss wannabe wearing motherfucker", dominik's face bloody and angry. his fists balled and quick as he comes down against cody's face.

the impression of the pen presses into cody's thigh. memory and dexterity working like a trained muscle. amidst the barrage of fists, cody reaches for the sleek ball point pen. clicking the tip and rushing it into dominik's side. harsh vicious stabs till the pain takes hold enough for him to hesitate. plunging the inky tip into his neck, where blood flows to gush. breaking up out of his skin. choking on air and the pain of a slow to come death.

"bulletproof three piece suits asshole", cody roughs out. kicking dominik for satisfaction.

if you're not dead in the next 30 minutes, meet me there

the loft is the same. unadorned by that uncanny but natural weathering of time and neglect. warm homely autumn inspired tones with splashes of green and hand carved wooden furniture. cody ever the horrendous sucker for hand carved shit. an intimate union of labor and passion. ever the reflection of a once lively relationship. carefully cultivated, ending poorer than a bastard dying with his eyes wide open. because when you go that way, you deserve it. but cody? his passions didn't deserve that violent abrupt end. and yet here he is, creeping past the entrance. a painful stuttering of footfalls as he goes. muscles sore and his skin on fire.

dominik mysterio was a warm up. a warning even. the call must've went out. a bounty worth enough for people to try him. the train ride to tribeca interestingly violent. a woman with a knife, a man with a gun and another thinking his bare hands were some great unstoppable force. and no, cody did not make quick work of them. not as quickly as he would've liked. but he managed. and at the very least, he'd suffered a slitting cut to his cheek and a laceration to his chest. that piece of shit running the blade right through his tattoo. some maybe secondary bruising and a bad headache. but he's not dead. not like the idiots that tried and failed to kill him.

the loft, much like the continental hotel, is agreed upon neutral ground. a place for trysts and the sharing of information. or rather, thats what it used to be. now, cody isn't so sure.

and his limping is pathetically loud. shoes a heavy clack against the floor. makes him bristle annoyed. you stand just behind the kitchen island. wine bottle opened. a glass in hand as you sip. more beautiful than he remembers. soft looking still, your eyes casting over the rim as you sip, undeniably deceptive.

a gun lays easy on the coffee table sat between two couches. too easy. but his displeasure gets the best of him. he shifts for it quickly. a swift up of his hands positioned about the gun, aiming for your face.

you knew his whereabouts. so much so that you knew the whereabouts of the people trying to kill him. taking the chance to trust could cost him his life. and cody quite likes his life.

"you had me scared a little bit". a gentle float of words. a finger dancing along the rim of the wine glass. a daring stare down the barrel of the gun. "i thought you got bested by a second rate mysterio". and when cody doesn't move, captured by pain, caution and the mystique of your presence, your eyes roll. his form fixed and perfected. trigger finger cool, but his heart unsure. "cut the melodrama. put the gun down cody".

"you knew i was being followed", he clips. jaw tight.

"i mean...duh...", you give. dry and teasing. finishing your wine. "half of that was me, and lets not be silly", covering the length of distance between your bodies slowly. a stalking patience. a fierce feline approach. "you shot a bullet through the skull of one of thee most important men. finding out don't come cheap when you fuck with the high table".

"everybody seems to forget I had to bury my father", the barrel of the gun kept high with perfect aim as you near closer. "killing that sack of shit was just me evening the score".

"i didn't kill your father cody".

was that sincerity? empathy? a sudden waft in of warmth after years in the cold. it felt unreal. true but unreal. and he was sure it wouldn't last.

"obviously", cody bites out.

your forehead nestles against the barrel of the gun. his memory overwrought. his senses in a frenzy. a horrible mixture in his skin of pain and elation. steeped with the fear of having to endure another sudden vanishing. angry that such an endurance was his portion in the first place.

"so then why is the gun still pointed at me?"

his fixed form eases. your hand slipping the gun from his hold gently. fire over his skin as you touch him for the first time in five years. a deft maneuvering about the cold heavy metal to expose the contents of the magazine. amusement coloring your eyes and spreading over your mouth for a teasing little smile.

"they're blanks anyways", emptying the magazine as the faux bullets fall to the floor. your hand settling down the gun and its magazine on the coffee table. leaving him in an exasperated awe as you head toward the kitchen. "just wanted to see how thin your patience has worn".

your chin jutting over to the couch. hands full of medical supplies as you pad over to him softly. his body aching and slow as it rests into the tender leather seating, but moving without delay still. always under the gentle charm of your voice, his being falling under this servile sort of subjection. making him bristle silently within himself. all that time and distance amounting to nothing for his resolve.

cody surrenders. mind over matter no longer needed. succumbing to the full weight of his pain. hair messy with red droppings of other peoples blood. his muscles sore and the hammering about his skull diligent and taunting.

"my pain has always been a funny little joke to you".

you pull the coffee table closer to the wide spread of cody's legs. your own slipping over to straddle the strength of one of his thighs. your body warm and comforting against his skin. an old feeling blooming in his chest. you were doing this on purpose. he's sure of it. to see him waver and yield to the charm of your presence. gentle touch dabbing to rid his cheek of dried blood before you went about cleaning the wound. his fingers itching to form to your body, desperate to push dull nails into your skin again. to form in and caress with the intent to renew his memory.

your eyes flit to his crotch. "its a lot more than little. give yourself some credit", you muse. applying butterfly stitches.

the air is thick. forces him to maintain a steady breath. memory overwrought once more. a mighty rushing in that heats him whole. your hands working his button up open. the lax take of your palm to his belly forcing a throb to the crux of his thighs. the closing in of the distance makes for easy intimacy. a registration of the lesser noticeable, more complex things. the prick of your nails telling familiar stories, as they work to rid him of the shirt all together. tender and caring, similar to how they used to be. your eyes roaming and thinly glazed over. he spares a glance at the wine bottle. halfway done. your ministrations functional but indulgent of the moment. of his skin.

a quicksand sort of state of affairs. if he doesn't pull himself together now, he would fall into you. full consumption. and he can't possibly risk his life because he's half hard and overdone with sentiment.

"how long have you been following me?"

you apply something like a salve after cleaning the nasty chest wound. an anesthetic. how sweet of you. to suddenly take his pain into consideration.

"a few months".

"why am i not dead?"

your body adjusts a top of him. somehow closer. your knee nearly running into his crotch. "yet", you give. beginning the process of suturing. "the question everyone wants to know is why is cody rhodes not dead yet". breaking shortly to peer over him. a full examination it seems. heat rising in his cheeks. "cause he's no john fuckin wick. so why is he still here". pressure of the needle feeding into his skin. your lip tucking under your teeth in full concentration. "people don't know resilience is the bane of even your own existence. a little meat puppet made to take push pins".

he scoffs. "this doesn't feel like a compliment if it is".

you finish off the suture. a hesitant but delicate maneuvering off his thigh to rid of the medical supplies. the heat of you gone in an instant. "its an observation". the uncorking pop of that half drunken wine bottle. a generous crimson pour that you sip at.

"on what basis exactly?"

a whipping swing of kitchen cabinet doors. a bottle of brandy and a short glass. for him it seems. and the pained parts of him grow excited at the possibility of a simple taste. anything for a temporary fix. something to numb the burn in his bones.

"very close encounters".

and no you don't dip into the leather to sit beside him when you return. you assume a much more compromising position. a full straddle of his legs as you gift him his little amber colored remedy. and if at any moment he ever thought he needed it and actually didn't, let this be the moment where that edgy spike to his tongue becomes essential. something to help him as he searches for a secure hold at control. and of course he drinks it all. an easy burning slip against the back of his throat as he feels the heat of you settling back into him. once dormant urges awakening in his fingers. supple thighs lined up over his kevlar woven dress pants. the baggy button up you'd decided was good enough for his visit thin and something like revealing. the other details left to his imagination. and God was that prone to running at any moment. tripping and falling away from him well enough till his crotch became to uncomfortable to bare the perfect fit of his pants. your empty hand returning to where it'd been. roaming tenderly against slow but steady bruising skin. his nose picking up the sweet wine on your breath. the glaze about your eyes. thighs over him, clenching slightly.

"you were always a little too indulgent with the wine", cody gives.

your eyes flitting to his crotch again. bulge more prominent. the teasing of your nails inching over past his navel. your throat humming. "and you with me".

"don't think much of it". an attempt made in vain he thinks. feeling the hard throb of himself as soon as the words leave him. "it tends to happen. adrenaline from almost dying multiple times", his thigh knocking up into yours to grab at your attention. tipsy eyes drifting to the cold blue of his. "now spill. why am i still breathing?"

"because the number isn't high enough yet". another sip of wine before turning to rest it at the table. your hands free to run over the muscle of him. about his shoulders till your thumbs are caressing at his nape and the hard cut of his jaw. and that nearly drives him to insanity. the weight of you resting right where he pulses with life. "i take your head now, i'd be settling. and the game of it all ain't that fun right now anyways. its too amateur hour-ish for me. i wanna battle it out with the adults".

"im flattered", cody deadpans.

you smile. thumb soothing over his lip. "as you should be".

"why else", the pulse about his blood wild. an unadulterated beating that coaxes to life the run off of his imagination. his touch a staggering grip at your jaw. pulling your eyes to him. lowly sat pretty brown eyes with a penchant for doing him inexplicably dirty. but they draw him in all the same. his stomach empty. filled with nothing but the slosh of brandy. cody feeds into the daze of it. the possibility of a buzz. your lips a breath from his. desire on your tongue by way of the sweet smell of wine. "talk".

your hips shift over him. a rut into the fabric. friction to appease the ache, he's sure of it. thin panties and the desperate curl in of your nails. running into his scalp. trying to persuade him with tender touches and the charm of such wanton need. and its working. fuck, itsworking well. had worked some time ago and doing well now just the same. because cody, despite such deadly skill, was not immune to this type of torture. could not battle it with stalwart patience or dapper precision. and as you rut against him again, mind clouded by wine and your own intent, his fingers burn to touch you more. not so simple and plain but disgustingly greedy. his lips smooth against the seam of yours. amber brandy and red wine a near perfect melding together.

"fuck", you relent. your nose knocking soft into his. laughing with a wry sort of amusement. "it would stroke your ego to a nice little finish if i did say it wouldn't it?"

cody hums. slips his hold till its anchored about your neck. measured in its pressure. his tongue licking to wet his lips. the slight of it forcing a tremble into your body.

maybe his suffering isn't a lonely one after all.

you whimper. taking a hard swallow.

"vindicate me", cody rasps.

your struggle is apparent. surfaces with a tear that stains your cheek. body undone by the defeat of such an intimate admission.

"i miss you", fragile and nearly unclear.

he smiles mirthless against the soft ways of your skin. his nose buried into the dip of your neck. "i don't trust your sentiment".

"it's true cody".

"she says, after admitting she wants to kill me".

"better me than someone else". your fingers abandoning him to grip into the leather of the couch. a tight take to it that fastens your body into him. your mouth lax as your lips slip over his. the tease of a kiss filled with too much tension to bare. "touch me", you give. a plea and a command all the same.

his fingers working in swiftly, a firm obedience, cupping your cheeks to steady the wild go of your tongue as it snakes to slip at his. a frail whimper singing from your chest and the return of your sharp nails. digging against his scalp to bring him impossibly closer. nearly suckling his tongue whole as your hips rut at him again. a less cautious shifting as you look for harsher friction. the pain of a murderous sort of labor and the pleasure of touching you again warring over the tenderness of his skin. coaxing him to groan and wince. strong, tired fingers forcing your hips to rock over him. an easy, stable grind along the hard bulge of his cock that leaves you living without the proper brilliance of words. reduced to the struggle of too pleasured moans.

your teeth prickling and sharp as they snag against his lip. fingers deft, undoing his zipper. the heat of him hard and throbbing dangerous. his headache out done by more pressing matters, hazy and his senses going numb with lust. palms persistent, sinking into supple flesh. and fuck does it feel good. even better when his patience thins. fingers stretching the fabric of your panties till they tear. the slick way of your arousal making for an easier pace. a sweet teasing slip through your slit. his imagination wild and unfettered. even the thought of slipping in to have his full way with you enough to twist the base of his belly. groaning into your mouth.

fire in his fingers as they pull against the fat of your ass. sweltered skin sweet in his palms. forming with every push and spread and pry that he gives.

your mouths depart. a hesitant slipping away. breaths heavy. your face hiding in the dip of his neck. your pussy messy. bewitching even as you grind mindless into him. an undulating heat over his skin. "cody", a mantra as it travels to slight the beating of his pulse.

the tell tale trembling in your body. a breath away from bliss. and he can feel the build in his bones. the return of an ache thats been transformed. throbbing and restless. an urgency he works to relieve. and with it so does your mouth. less desperate to consume him. melting to linger at his lips. breathy and stuttered.

"right there angel", he gives. a whisper against your lips. corralling the last bits of resolve to break. your hips stuttering but caressing faithful still. coming undone. rutting greedily to grasp at the last bits of pleasure.

and here he finds that charming sort of relief. an unfurling warmth about his skin. snatching your body into him as he strokes against you and throbs, coming undone. release pooling and spurting against the baggy button up you'd worn to tease him with.

your lips finding his again. needy still. and he accepts without wait. ready and willing. your moaning along his tongue delicate and wispy. reminiscent of a memory once forgotten. new york. september 2019. cody cups your face again. thumbs dusting over the apple of your cheeks. on a mission to stain himself with this moment. sweet red wine mixed with aged brandy.

she was getting to be a lil too long so i had to break her up! but how do we feel about our little hitman?

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