#bamf helen wick

[johnwickb1tsch]

you’re the worst thing (i’m addicted to)

a john wick x Helen'sSister!Reader fic You are Helen's baby sister. When you meet John Wick at Helen's graveside, he invites you to dinner to celebrate her birthday. Set a few years after the first movie, 2-4 never happened. Use of y/n. Warnings: canon typical violence. Future reference to threat of noncon, (not John! because he's our assassin sweetiepie). Mourning. Smut. Grey areas. Questionable decisions. Sweetheart!John, BAMF!John Depressed!John - If you can handle the movie you should be fine here...

Part 1.

“Hey, Hels.”

There is no answer, only the warbling of a bird in a distant tree. The day is bright and blue, spring has come again in all her glory. It doesn’t seem right, somehow, that the sun should still shine, and the birds should still sing.

Because she is gone.

It’s been two years, but you still haven’t really wrapped your head around it.

You still have your last text message thread with her in your phone. It’s as though you could just punch a few buttons and still talk to her. Always, she would answer you, no matter what she was doing. Sometimes you want to type in I miss you and hit send, just to see what might happen.

But then, maybe it is appropriate, that today should be such a beautiful day. On this day, forty-two years ago, your sister was born. Roughly ten years later, you followed. As a direct result, your mother died of complications in childbirth.

Your father still blamed you, but Helen never did.

In a way, Helen was your mother, more than the woman who bore you.

It makes it all hurt so much more.

“Happy birthday, by the way.”

You look down at the stone, this massive granite behemoth. You find it rather ugly, to be honest, but it will certainly stand the test of time, nuclear war notwithstanding. Loving Wife, reads the epitaph below.

You know it was true.

You know that perhaps John Wick is the only person Helen loved more than you. But the inscription still seems too brief. Short changing her, somehow. 

But then, John paid for the stone, so you suppose he got to pick what it said. 

You were ensuring her memory lived on in other ways. 

“I finally did as you asked,” you tell her. “I’ve used the photos you left me in a painting. We're going to be in a show together. I wish you were here to see it.”

There is a mean part of you that suspects your submission was only accepted because it contained work from the late, great, photographer Helen Morgan-Wick, but you shove that down into the seething pit with all the rest of your fears and doubts. You didn't use them for the attention. You did it to feel close to her, and because she asked you to. One final art project, the note had said. She knew you too well, knew that the only thing that kept you from toeing the line of the abyss was a good artistic obsession.

You knew she’d planned to leave a project for John too. A puppy, she’d said. You’d shared a laugh over it, through tears, the last time you’d been together. You never found out how that had gone. John hadn’t attended a family gathering since Helen passed.

Too painful.

You didn’t blame him one bit. 

“I miss you, Hels. I feel so lost without you.”

“Amen.”

The sound of another voice behind you nearly makes you jump out of your skin. You turn to find him, in one of his signature tailored black suits, looking unfairly scrumptious despite the dark circles under his eyes. He hadn't made a sound in his approach. He never did. The man moved like a ghost and looked like a dark dream. You'd always found him insanely attractive.

You'd never done anything about that, of course. But goddamn, you had eyes.

“Hi, John.”

“Hello, y/n.”

You’ve never run into him at the gravesite before, though you have seen the wilted offerings of daisies left by the stone, and you always had assumed they’d come from him. You haven’t seen him since Helen’s funeral. He hasn’t changed much, really, though there is a sharpness to his aspect you’d never noticed when Helen was alive. An edge to his gaze; how can eyes so dark convey so much? Despite yourself, it sends a little thrill down your spine that you absolutely know you should not revel in.  

Maybe you haven’t seen him in person after Helen passed, but you’ve gazed at him plenty through Helen’s lens. There had been so many photographs of him in the collection of prints she’d left you. Nothing risqué, but the way he’d looked at her even through the camera had been nothing less than intimate.

There were times, late at night in your studio, when you’d pretended he’d been looking at you that way.

“How…have you been?” 

He offers a grim shadow of a smile and a shake of his head that you understand all too well. 

“Nice to be with someone you don't have to pretend with.”

“Yeah.”

You both stare down at the grave, meditating on your loss of this woman who touched you both so completely.

“Do you think she can hear us?” you ask, unable to lift your voice above a whisper.

There is a long pause from her widower, the man she left behind.

“Not really.” He lifts his face to the sun, eyes closed, as though maybe he can feel something of her presence. “But you should talk to her anyway. I might be wrong.”

You smile at that.

“Do you ever talk to her?”

“All the time,” he admits with a huff of self-deprecating laughter. “But then, I might just be losing my mind.”

“Ah well. That makes two of us then.”

You gently lay down the bouquet of Gerber daisies you'd brought for her. Helen’s favorite. If you ever have a garden, you will plant some for her. As it is, you have to buy them from the store. You remember the patch of daisies she’d cultivated in the garden of your childhood home. Their cheerful faces and soft petals. They had been your mother’s favorite too. When you were a girl Helen would sing to you and braid them in your thick hair. You couldn’t know at the time, how precious those perfect days had been.

The wave of sorrow hits you like a freight train, the weight of your loss a crushing force. You start to cry, hiding your face in your hands; you would prefer to do this alone, but you cannot stop it.

You feel an arm about your shoulders. It surprises you—John was never a touchy-feely man, never one for hugs, always preferring a wave or a handshake. Only for Helen, did he ever display any sort of affection. They had always been touching, holding hands or sitting hip to hip on the couch, his strong arm slung protectively around her shoulders. You didn’t want to say you’d been envious of that, but…perhaps you’d wondered, what it might be like, to be so cherished.

When he pulls you against him you only manage some token resistance. “I’ll mess up your suit.” You sound pitiful, even to you.

“I have an excellent dry cleaner.”

His dry wit had always amused you. This time, it breaks you, and you give in. He is solid as an oak, and as it turns out, his chest is an excellent place to cry on. Under the shelter of his chin you wring yourself dry, until it feels like you have nothing left inside you. His large hand rests lightly upon the back of your head, shielding you from the world. He is warm, and his cologne is subtle but heavenly. Sandalwood, maybe, and something spiced. Cardamom, perhaps. A hint of pepper.

You don’t particularly want to move, even though you absolutely should. Yet his hold on you has not loosened, and you tell yourself that maybe John Wick needed a hug just as badly as you did.

“People keep telling me that it gets easier, and I just want to punch them in the face,” you sniffle.

A huff of laughter escapes him. You feel it stir your hair on the top of your head. “Yeah. I get that.”

Finally you pull back, though not as far as you should. You’ve never actually been this close to him before, and you look at each other from a foot away. Sometimes proximity can shatter the illusion of someone’s attractiveness—but not this man. The impossible angle of his cheekbones, the soft scruff of his beard…is it just you, or does the edge in his gaze soften a little, when he looks at you? It makes your legs a little weak, and you kind of hate yourself for it.

It has nothing to do with you, stupid, you tell yourself. Where you and Helen weren’t exactly twins, you did resemble each other strongly. In profile, you’d been mistaken for her in public plenty of times before. If anything, it was probably unnerving for this poor man who missed his wife so much, to hold you, a sorry facsimile, in his arms. Out of pity, most likely.  

Helen had been the good sister. The upstanding one, the kind one. You? You can be such a twisted little thing.

“Sorry,” you sigh, noticing the smudge of makeup on his lapel.

He doesn’t even glance down, that intense gaze still fixed upon you. “Don’t be.”

Unbidden heat blooms from your cheeks to your toes, finding yourself the subject of that gaze. You’ve got to go, before you really embarrass yourself.

“I'll leave you alone. It was nice to see you, John.”

You turn to go, hugging yourself against the early spring chill. Why did you have to feel so bereft, without his arms around you? You take a few steps before he calls after you, “Y/n?”

You freeze in your tracks, a thrill jetting down your spine. “Yeah?” you dare, turning to half look over your shoulder.

“I…was thinking about going to Helen’s favorite restaurant tonight. Would you like to join me?”

Your heart beats double time in your chest, as you slowly turn to face him. You should say no. There’s a thousand reasons you should say no. This was your sister’s husband. It doesn’t matter that he’s the most handsome man you’ve ever seen, and that he’s been kind to you, and that he’s looking at you like he might drown if you say no.

“I would like that,” you answer, and your heartbeat thundering in your ears sounds like the hammering of nails into your own coffin.

Part 2

[overheardatthecontinental]

THE CLAIM CHAPTER 8 is now posted! I’m sorry in advance. We’re nearing the end people!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/26617504/chapters/65213320

[wolfsrainrules]

There’s some John Wick fic on Ao3, but they’re mostly smut. And no one seems to want to do anything with Helen.

Nooooooooo fbdfv I know. I found a chunk of that, but I just-

I want BAMF Helen. 

I want John being a BAMF of epic proportions. 

I want Helen adjusting to the fact her husband can kill a man- THREE MEN- with a pencil. 

I want John discovering he loves dogs. 

I want John interacting with TINY CHILDREN. I want Dad John.

 I want protective fury rolled in a six foot package of kick ass.

I want John laughing and covered in car oil teaching his kid (son or daughter) to fix the old cars he loves.

I want Helen who KNOWS FULL WELL who she married, and married him anyway. I want a Helen who asked JOHN to marry her and not the other way around.

I want BAMF Helen, who may not be an assassin but can still kick ass and hold her own against them.

I want Helen introducing John to the puppies one of her family members just had and she MELTS watching John just be....in AWE of them.

I want gentle and loving interactions.

I WANT some idiot to break into the house while John is gone to get to Helen only this is THE John Wick’s WIFE, the woman who asked HIM to marry her, and who John Wick said yes to, after he EARNED his way out for her. And Helen WRECKS them.

I want a John who teaches his wife how to work underworld contact’s (Like Charlie) just in case.

I just-

I don’t want sex focused fics. I want FAMILY and bonding and slice of life and I CANT FIND IT--

[ao3feed-sterek]

household gods

read it on the AO3 at http://bit.ly/2JUaLCA

by yogurtgun

Helen's instructions were clear: the moment she was gone John was supposes to call her brother in law to help John deal with her loss. However, tied down with work, it's her nephew that makes his way east to New York.

Noah’s son, the last time John saw him, was an anxious, jittery, fifteen-year-old who smelled of adderall, axe body spray, and hormones. The man who knocks on his doors that evening looks like him, except somewhere in the last three years Stiles had the time to hit a growth spur then have a truck reverse over him twice.

Words: 6181, Chapters: 1/6, Language: English

Fandoms: John Wick (Movies), Teen Wolf (TV)

Rating: General Audiences

Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Categories: Gen

Characters: John Wick, Stiles Stilinski, Derek Hale, Derek Hale's Pack, Winston (John Wick), Marcus (John Wick), Daisy (John Wick), Viggo Tarasov, Iosef Tarasov, Charon (John Wick), Helen Wick, Aurelio (John Wick), Sheriff Stilinski

Relationships: John Wick & Stiles Stilinski, Helen Wick/John Wick, Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Werewolves, Witches, BAMF Stiles, Emissary Stiles Stilinski, Magical Stiles Stilinski, John Wick is a werewolf, Wakes & Funerals, Family Drama, John Wick has to deal with witches and he's not happy, John Wick's bad bad no good week, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is Noah, and i'm sorry about that

read it on the AO3 at http://bit.ly/2JUaLCA

[ao3-sterek]

household gods

read it on the AO3 at http://bit.ly/2JUaLCA

by yogurtgun

Helen's instructions were clear: the moment she was gone John was supposes to call her brother in law to help John deal with her loss. However, tied down with work, it's her nephew that makes his way east to New York.

Noah’s son, the last time John saw him, was an anxious, jittery, fifteen-year-old who smelled of adderall, axe body spray, and hormones. The man who knocks on his doors that evening looks like him, except somewhere in the last three years Stiles had the time to hit a growth spur then have a truck reverse over him twice.

Words: 6181, Chapters: 1/6, Language: English

Fandoms: John Wick (Movies), Teen Wolf (TV)

Rating: General Audiences

Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Categories: Gen

Characters: John Wick, Stiles Stilinski, Derek Hale, Derek Hale's Pack, Winston (John Wick), Marcus (John Wick), Daisy (John Wick), Viggo Tarasov, Iosef Tarasov, Charon (John Wick), Helen Wick, Aurelio (John Wick), Sheriff Stilinski

Relationships: John Wick & Stiles Stilinski, Helen Wick/John Wick, Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Werewolves, Witches, BAMF Stiles, Emissary Stiles Stilinski, Magical Stiles Stilinski, John Wick is a werewolf, Wakes & Funerals, Family Drama, John Wick has to deal with witches and he's not happy, John Wick's bad bad no good week, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is Noah, and i'm sorry about that

read it on the AO3 at http://bit.ly/2JUaLCA

[swaglexander-the-great]

Hey!!!! Dumb question but what exactly is the Iliad?

THE ILIAD: A SUMMARY

The Short Version: A yarn about blokes getting shitmixed in a war over Miss Hellenic Beauty Champion because some gods thought it would be a Lol.

The Long Version: A Homeric epic poem passed down through spoken word over generations that was penned down in about 800 BC. In the mythological timeline, it ends the Age of Heroes (by wasting them all). It covers the Greek seige of Troy, a whole lotta gods Messing With Shit, a Poseidon who needs anger management, a few hundred names and lots of General Epicness ft Diomedes and Patroklus. Sit back my buddy, let’s go through a quick summary of the books.

Book 1: Apollo ghettoblasts the Greeks with Pain because Agamemescunt kidnapped his priestess Chryseis. Being a douchebag, Agadouchebag Mr Steals Yo Girl from Achilles, which leads to in͟ten̛şȩ ͟śul͜ki͢n̶g͡ . Achilles’ divine Ma brokers a deal with the Zeus goose (not literally thank goodness, although it’s a definite possibility) so that the Greeks won’t win until they realize how fucked they are without Achilles and go crawling back to him for help.

Book 2: Zeus messes with Agafuckface by telling him to attack Troy. Agamemhoe messes with Zeus by telling his entire army to fuck off back to Greece. Odysseus, with Athena’s help, uses his wicked ol’ tongue to lick  Agaiceheart back into  shape (not literally, although very possible in Ancient Greece). There are 31 paragraphs of names about Greeks and 16 paragraphs of names about Trojans going to war. The epic story continues.

Book 3: The armies meet. Memealaus (sorry, Menelaus) and Paris decide to have a 1v1 to end this shindig. Paris is saved by Aphrodite and a cloud because he is a Weak Bitch, so we gear up for another 9 years and 11 months of war. Helen tells Aphrodite to go fuck Paris herself if she likes him so much, but Aphrodite threatens Godly Bitch Revenge is Helen ever talks back to her like that again.

Book 4: Menelaus gets grazed by an arrow. Like a football player with a stubbed toe, this means war. He also apparently had ‘shapely thighs and fair ankles’. Watch out for the Zeus eagle, boi. Fighting commences. Diomedes appears. He is awesome, as usual. We continue to the next chapter.

Book 5: Pretty much an entire chapter about Diomedes being a son of a gun and killing fucking everything thanks to Athena. A dude called Sthenelus gets a rock hard boner watching all of this. Aeneas thinks it’s a good idea to take on Diomedes. Mistake. Big Mama Aphrodite has to save him, also with a cloud. Diomedes hasn’t quite reached Critical Awesome yet, so he stabs Ares and Aphrodite as well. Hera calls Ares a little bitch and we carry on.

Book 6: Just a lot of death really. Diomedes was going to kill a bloke, but they realize they are family friends, so just do a little swapsie of armour. Hector gives Paris a spray for being a cowardly little bitch, Paris agrees, and they set off for battle.

Book 7: Hector decides to 1v1 and get this over with. Menelaus tries to accept, but his wingmen Restrain Him. Ajax gets picked out of a hat to fight, but after a bit of a tussle it gets dark, so the fighting pair give each other presents and go home for the night. The next day, they all take a holiday from fighting and the Greeks build a wall. Poseidon is triggered. (reason here.)

Book 8: Due to Poseidon being triggered, Zeus forbids any godly interference on both sides of the war. Hera and Poseidon bitch about Zeus as the Greeks get casually wreckt by the Trojans, but decide not to act on it. Lucky for the Greeks, the Trojans decide sleeping is better than winning, so leave off for the night.

Book 9: The Greeks hit Fuck It and decide to grovel to Achilles for help. Before they do, Diomedes gives Agasaggytitnon a spray for being a douchebag, and everyone agrees that he is indeed a douchebag. Sthenelus probably pops another boner. Back in the tent with the power pair, Achilles and Patroklus, Patroklus tries to be the polite bf to the pleading Greeks, but Achilles is still thinks Agamoomoo called him a ‘vile tramp’ so refuses to help. The drama continues.

Book 10: Odysseus and BAMF Diomedes go on a sneak mission and  heroically stab the Trojans in their sleep. They also heroically steal some horses. The epic heroism continues.

Book 11: Hector takes a leaf out of Diomedes’ book and decides to shitmix the Greeks. He successfully shitmixes the Greeks, giving Agamugface a well-deserved arm wound. Paris shoots Diomedes in the foot, but Diomedes literally does not give a shit. Some random dude gives Odysseus a bit of a stab, Ajax gets Confused By Zeus but survives, but things still look Grim. Sweetheart Patroklus sees the Grimness and decides to try and use his wiles to break Achilles out of his Uber Sulk.

Book 12: The Trojans continue to roadhaul the Greeks, which will come back to bite Hector, but we do meet a dude called Thootes. He doesn’t do shit, but his name is great. There is graphic violence, and the Trojans go to chuck a Greek ship on the barbie. 

Book 13: Poseidon rises from the sea, back being a buddy to the Greeks now the his great enemy The Triggering Greek Wall has been overcome.There is a shit ton of fighting wherein the Greeks do well and Poseidon is happy because he’s getting vengeance for his other traumatic wall experience.

Book 14: Hera sees Poseidon disobeying Zeus and getting sweet wall vengeance and while probably thinking she married the wrong brother, decides to use Titty Distraction so that the Greeks don’t get chucked on the Trojan barbie. Titty Distraction predictably works A+ and the Trojans get slightly shat on with gratuitous eyeball violence. Hector gets hit by a rock and almost has the most anticlimactic death since Amycus, who suffered death by Elbow Punch.

Book 15: Zeus wakes, calls Hera a scurvy knave and tells Poseidon to Fight Him. Poseidon does not want to Fight Him, so melts back into the ocean and stops helping the Greeks. Apollo resurrects Hector from his rock to the face and the Trojans joyously return to their mission to barbeque the Greek ships.

Book 16: Honeyboo Patroklus (still on his way to Achilles since Book 11) sees Apollo and his Brojans on the warpath and breaks Achilles’ heart with Man Tears. While Achilles and Patbroklus have a very, very long, heartfelt conversation, the Trojans start to toast the Greek ships. Achilles gives (yes gives) Patroklus his armour and tells him to fuck shit up, but not to win without him. Fighting commences, we discover the word hurly-burly, Sarpedon dies in a shower of Zeus-induced blood rain and Patroklus becomes Diomedes 2.0 until he is gang bashed by Hector, Apollo, a literal god, and some awkward random called Euphorbus. Sasstroklus delivers a final fuck you, pulls the finger at all three of his killers and blazes it down to Hades.

Book 17: Hector takes Achilles’ armour off Patroklus, marking him as target #1 for the Sulk King. The Trojans and the Greeks spend an entire chapter having a tug of war with Patroklus’ body. Ajax and Menelaus comment mildly on how Zeus is helping out the Trojans, and the god shines a bit of sunlight in chagrin for being called out. The Greeks win the tug of war thanks to Double Ajax Tactics.

Book 18: In which Achilles goes nuts. Everybody has a cry because Patroklus was a Swell Guy (seriously,as swell as a Hawaiian surf that guy). Achilles goes and therapy-screams at the Trojans, who see the mad bloke and back the fuck off -  rightfully so, as Achilles is planning some good old human sacrifice to his dead ‘rider’ Patroklus. Meanwhile, Hephaestus quick-smelts some smashing new armour for Achilles with his household robots.

Book 19: Achilles gets dolled up for battle. Agadickbutt and Odysseus try to placate the madman with gifts, including Briseis, the dame Agamemnope stole from Achilles, but Achilles’ quota of fucks has run out indefinitely. He saddles up and gets ready to fuck up his bae killer.

Book 20: Zeus R͡ELE҉ASE͜S̵ ͝T̀H͜E͡ ́ǴO̷D͞S͝ and lets them play for whichever team they like, so long as Achilles doesn’t sack Troy just quite yet. It’s probably a friendly game similar to football in god terms. Athena invents the spear boomerang, Hera and Poseidon do some casual sunbathing, while Achilles paints the town red rather literally. 

Book 21: Achilles finds men too weak and decides to take on a literal river (Scamander). Achilles realizes this was A̴ B̸ad ̶I͜de͟a͡and decides he’ll stick to men. We’re not sure whether Diomedes would have backed off from a river, but I guess we’ll never know. Apollo saves a dude called Agenor from Achilles molestation and in doing so also saves the Brojans. The epic story continues.

Book 22: Apollo says surprise Achilles, tricked ya into chasing me boi, I’m immortal. Achilles stares him dead in the eye for a full minute then says ‘fuck you’ and rides off back to Troy. Hector decides it’s time for another 1v1, but at the last minute considers that this idea was insane and fuckin legs it. Achilles chases Hector around the wall of Troy three times presumably to this soundtrack. Hector finally stops to fight, and thanks to the Athena Spear Boomerangᵀᴹ, Achilles avenges his Patroklus. Hector performs the minor miracle of talking whilst having a spear sticking out of his throat before he dies, then Troy’s hero gets roadhauled and everyone is Sad. 

Book 23: Ghost Patroklus pays Achilles a visit, like a sexy Obi wan Kenobi and tells Achilles to bury him already. Patghostklus also beseeches that their bones be laid (ha) together when Achilles inevitably gets fucked on by Fate. Achilles says of course bby I was gonna do that anyway, and tries to make out with a ghost, but this isn’t a Whoopi Goldberg type deal, so Patroghost gets sent back down under. They put the fun in funeral by having games and giving out toasters and such as prizes.

Book 24 (The End): After ‘yearning after the might and manfulness of Patroklus’, Achilles continues to roadhaul Hector until Apollo gives his fam a spray about the dishonour of it. Hera says he’s only mortal scum so who gives a fuck and Zeus says chill wife and commands Achilles to RE̵L͘E̡A̷S͢E ̴T́HȨ H̀ȨC̕T̵O̷R͡ (sorry I can’t help it). With Hermes as a bodyguard, Priam (Hector’s dad) goes to get the body back. Achilles and Priam have a man-cry bonding moment over Dead Loved Ones, Hector is whisked off to be buried and there ends the Iliad! There’s none of the ankle-shooting, wooden-horse-building shenanigans in there, they all come in later texts such as the Aeneid and Ovid, although I still can’t find the exact text where Achilles gets shot. If y’all know, send me the link ;)  I fucking found it nvm

Anyhoo, that was…Jeez, that was The Iliad (aka the longest post in existence). Well, my retold, abridged more slightly less serious version.It’s definitely worth a read, if you can get past all the names!

Check out more Greek Stories here :D

[johnwickb1tsch]

you're the worst thing (i'm addicted to) PART 2

a john wick x Helen'sSister!Reader fic You are Helen's baby sister. When you meet John Wick at Helen's graveside, he invites you to dinner to celebrate her birthday. Set a few years after the first movie, 2-4 never happened. Use of y/n. Warnings: canon typical violence. Future reference to threat of noncon, (not John! because he's our assassin sweetiepie). Mourning. Smut. Grey areas. Questionable decisions. Sweetheart!John, BAMF!John Depressed!John - If you can handle the movie you should be fine here... PART 1

PART 2.

You tell him that you’ll meet him there. After your little crying jag, you have to go home and clean up. Maybe with some painkillers and a nap with an ice pack on your eyes you won’t look like death warmed over. He offers to pick you up, but you decline, knowing it would make the drive twice as long for him.

For a moment he seems like he wants to argue, but in the end he lets it go.

The restaurant is in Manhattan. It’s the sort of place you could never afford, and maybe even if you could, it wouldn’t exactly be your scene. You smooth your dress over your hips as you get out of your cab, hoping you won’t embarrass John. It was the nicest thing you own for a respectable rendezvous, a dark green paisley Etro dress with long sleeves that you’d scored at a thrift shop. It bared your shoulders with a wide neckline, but not much cleavage. You were behaving yourself tonight, despite the little suggestions the devils on your shoulders were whispering into your ear.  

Despite the fact that you arrive early, John is waiting for you outside, looking utterly edible in another black on black three-piece suit. Does he buy them in bulk? The thought makes you smile a little, a thing he returns in small measure. There is a sadness that cloaks this man like a mantle, and for a moment you wonder if that is what people see, when they look at you. You’re not sure you’re qualified to help him at all, but maybe, just maybe, there could be some solace in your shared grief for the same woman who left you both behind.

“Hey.”

“Hi.”

Nervously, you look through the window at the glittering lights and swanky diners laughing over their expensive glasses of wine. You feel unbearably self-conscious. “Am I dressed ok for this place?”

“You look beautiful.” He says it so matter of fact, his tone completely platonic. And yet…

And yet.

He looks at you with a haunting intensity that grips you to the bone. He isn't even looking at your body. He's looking at your face, almost as though he's seen a ghost. 

You know you remind him of her, and you wonder if maybe this is a bad idea. 

But he shakes himself out of it, offering his arm, and even though you have an inkling that maybe you shouldn't, another part of you that is usually kept locked up in the dungeon with the rest of your worst impulses pushes you to take it, because you want to. Bolstered by his approval and your own special brand of foolhardiness, you slip your arm through his with your head held high.  

You haven't technically done anything wrong yet. Lusting after your sister's husband in an abstract way you never had any intention of acting on isn't exactly new. But the rest...is edging into a murky gray area.

What would Helen think? She'd probably be amused, truth be told, at least by your own inner turmoil. You remember that she told you once that she never got jealous when women went all googly eyed over her model-handsome husband, because she trusted him so completely. He doesn't even look at them, she said. 

Well. He'd looked at you, like he was a wolf and you were a tasty little bunny. Just the thought made you flush all over again, your fingers involuntarily flexing on John's bicep.

Dear lord, it was like granite. 

He looks down at you, curious, and you know you look as embarrassed as you feel. “Sorry,” you quickly apologize, looking anywhere but at his burning anthracite eyes. He pats your hand, but says nothing, sparing you the embarrassment of making up some lame excuse. 

You go inside, and the maître d’ is exceptionally solicitous. Welcome back, Mr. Wick. This way please, Mr. Wick. He and Helen must have been quite the regulars.

Once you are at your table John waves off the maître d’, opting to push in your chair for you. His fingers brush your shoulder afterwards. It was probably a mistake, but you cannot suppress a small shudder. He does not look at you as he seats himself, opting to pick up the menu.

You follow suit, your skin on fire. 

It was an accidental touch, you tell yourself.

He didn't mean anything by it.

You glance up from your menu, to find he is looking at you out the corner of his eye.

You tell your treacherous heart that attempts to pound out of your chest to settle the fuck down.

“So...what was Helen’s favorite dish here?”

He doesn't look up, and for some reason you are relieved.

“Guess.”

“Hmm.” You scan the offerings. It is mostly French leaning nouvelle cuisine. It all looks delicious, and very expensive. You know the moment your eyes find the line, and you smile. “The magret de canard.”

This time he does smile with you. It is tinged with nostalgia, and your heart aches. For him. For you. For the woman you are remembering together.

“She took me to Europe when I graduated from high school. She ordered that dish in every restaurant in France we went to. She said it was so delicious there was no point in trying anything else.” You cackle with another memory. “Then when we got home she was determined to learn how to make it. It went ok until the sauce. Holy shit, the black smoke in that kitchen was like a tire fire!” You wipe away a tear that is borne of mirth and memory. 

When you look across the table again John is smiling gently, as though he can see it perfectly in his own mind’s eye.

“She was a terrible cook.” He says it fondly, like it amused the hell out of him.

“I know. I am too, I’m not throwing shade here. Do you like to cook?”

The side of his mouth ticks up in a smirk. “Yes. I find it relaxing.”

Figures. He would be so perfect. One of many reasons Helen undoubtedly fell in love with him.

When the waiter comes John orders a filet, and you, the duck. “For Helen,” you say with a wistful curl of lips. He stares at you silently for a long beat before nodding, returning your smile perfunctorily. You marvel that you can already tell when his expressions are genuine, and when he’s playing the part he needs to for the sake of social nicety. Your heart aches for him. It must be so painful to be here, where he'd dined with Helen so many times. Maybe more like sticking a finger in a wound, than a brave act for the sake of nostalgia. What were the two of you thinking? 

It occurs to you, from things Helen had said, that maybe this is more than just her favorite restaurant.

“This is where you met, isn't it?” 

His eyes are fixed on a particular spot at the bar. “Right over there. She was meeting a client, but he canceled. So we had dinner together.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You didn't happen to have anything to do with that?” All Helen had ever told you about John's occupation was that he worked in security, but she had implied multiple times that he was resourceful, smart, and not someone to be fucked with.

The corner of his mouth ticks, his eyebrow rising slightly. You congratulate yourself for lifting him at least a little out of his funk. “I'm afraid it was just luck on my part.” 

“Fate,” you correct, toasting with your water glass, because you haven’t been brought drinks yet.

“It's nice to think so.”

“So then you had dinner.” You know the story. “Where did you sit?”

“Right here.” 

You feel a chill, knowing that once, your sister had sat in this very place, across from this very man, and changed the course of her life forever. You marvel at what that must have been like. You never fall for men quickly, usually keeping them at arm’s length for as long as you can manage. You’ve never experienced love at first sight, or first night, but looking at this handsome man across from you, it's not so hard to imagine.

“Did you fall in love that night?” you ask quietly.

“I did. I think for Helen...it took a little longer.”

Immediately you shake your head. “No,” you contradict, wanting him to know this. “She called me, the next day. She told me she'd just met the most amazing man and that she wanted to spend her life with him. I thought she was crazy.” You look around at the intimate setting, the low soft lighting and the swanky surroundings, a little misty eyed. Then, you look at him. This handsome devil with the soft eyes of a poet.

Helen hadn’t been frivolous. She hadn’t even been particularly romantic. Meeting John Wick changed all that.

“Maybe I understand a little better now.”

You look at each other from across the table. There is a longing in his eyes that you know you do not have the power to heal, and yet you would if you could. You would give a great deal to see this man made whole again—you’re not really sure why.

He looks away first, and you feel…raw. 

“Thank you. I…was the best version of myself, for her.” His long fingers trace a circle in the white table cloth, a hairline of a frown appearing on his brow. “I've slid backwards a bit, since.”

Hoo boy, did you get that.

“That’s ok,” you say softly. “We do what we have to, to survive.”

He looks up at you with those soulful dark eyes through his long hair. Your fingers itch to brush it out of his face. To touch him, and you absolutely know you shouldn't. Shouldn’t even think it. But there is something in the way he's been looking at you today. Something almost like…hunger, and your belly flutters with a thousand butterflies made of bad ideas and midnight longings.

“So…what about you? Are you seeing anyone?”

You shake your head with your heart in your throat. Is he asking out of politeness, making chit chat, or does he want to know if you’re unattached?

The truth is you’ve never had a relationship that lasted more than six months, and a nervous little laugh escapes you.

“I’ve…never met anyone who it was worth the sacrifice. Things are always nice at first, but then he starts to try to mold you into the person he really wants you to be, and you realize all along he just wanted someone to cook his meals and wash his socks.” 

John lifts an eyebrow at this, the corner of his mouth turning up ever so slightly.

“Maybe you should try dating someone who can afford a housekeeper.” He looks up at you then, his dark eyes soft yet penetrating, and you swear he can see straight through to the depths of you. The look almost feels like a challenge, somehow. You try to meet him head on, but in the end the unbearable heat of it makes you squirm, and you look away.

The waiter saves you from what you might say next, bringing the bottle of wine John ordered. 

Thank god, because you need a drink.

[johnwickb1tsch]

you're the worst thing (i'm addicted to) Part 3

a john wick x Helen'sSister!Reader fic You are Helen's baby sister. When you meet John Wick at Helen's graveside, he invites you to dinner to celebrate her birthday. Set a few years after the first movie, 2-4 never happened. Use of y/n. Warnings: canon typical violence. Future reference to threat of noncon, (not John! because he's our assassin sweetiepie). Mourning. Smut. Grey areas. Questionable decisions. Sweetheart!John, BAMF!John Depressed!John - If you can handle the movie you should be fine here... PART 1 PART 2 PART 4

PART 3

The rest of dinner is pleasant, but not terribly emotionally eventful, comparatively. You survive by telling stories about Helen from when you were children, which John listens to with a wistful look in his eye. Maybe it's the wine, and the excellent food, but that sharp edge in his obsidian eyes softens, somehow. It is endearing, and your heart aches more than it should.

You are so full you try to decline dessert, but the special is a chocolate mousse and John insists you should split one, even if you only have a bite. You are not sure if the waiter brings one spoon on purpose, but you watch with fascination as John takes the utensil between his long fingers and scoops up a delectable little nibble.

When he offers it to you from across the table you think you might die. You have had far too much wine to not do exactly what you want to now, which is to accept the sweet morsel between your lips while meeting his eyes, wishing it was something else.

Your panties are drenched by the time the meal is through. You know that you are the worst, living vicariously through your older, better, sister, but just in that beautiful moment, its hard to care.

You can always hate yourself properly tomorrow. 

John's hand finds a home at the small of your back as you are leaving. You know there are Feminist! reasons to hate when a man does that, but secretly it’s your kryptonite at the end of a long evening when there’s a crowd to navigate and you're tired and not really sure which way to go.

“Can I drive you home?” he asks, looking down that straight patrician nose at you. You could draw him from memory, you've studied his features so much tonight. You probably will, later, when you’re alone in your apartment with just the reminiscence of him.

“I live in Brooklyn,” you warn him.

He seems amused by this.

“I know.”

You pause for a moment at this. But then, it’s not so strange he knows. Helen could have mentioned it a hundred times.

“Okay.”

When the valet rumbles up in a sinister black American sports car, you lift an eyebrow. 

“This is yours?”

“Did you think I would drive a Mercedes like some kind of asshole?”

The next car in the valet line is a Mercedes, and the stodgy old dude behind you who just exudes Old Money looks like he's received an extra stick inserted in his ass. You huff, your lips twisting as you are fighting a grin.

“Usually I would make a crack about a midlife crisis, but it really does suit you.” You'd heard tell of The Car, but had never actually gotten to see it.

“Kind of you to say.” It’s so deadpan it takes a moment for you to realize he’s teasing you. 

He holds the door for you, and you can tell by the way he’s looking at you that he has not taken anything you've said seriously, or personally.

“Thanks.”

“My pleasure.”

The car is kind of bare bones inside, but it is undeniably cool. The sound of the motor is a tactile experience—you feel it in your bones as you pull away and take off down the street. You feel it other places too, as you look over at John seamlessly working the gears. Perhaps you look at him longer than what is polite, thinking about how once Helen used to sit in this seat, and they would undoubtedly go on adventures upstate, her cameras in tow.

You close your eyes, because you are tired, and you are thinking, and for the umpteenth time you are fighting tears. As you go across the Brooklyn bridge you roll down the window. The cool air helps clear your head.

The lights of the city at night from up high are a treat. Usually you're taking the subway.

Only once you arrive at your building and John parks on the street do you realize you never really gave him any directions. But once again, you shrug it off. 

There is a long moment of silence after he turns off the engine. The intimacy of an enclosed car at night, the weak light of the street barely intruding. “Do...you want to come up for a drink?” you ask, before you can really stop yourself.

Another long moment passes, as he looks at you in the shadows of the car, undoubtedly weighing the merits of this suggestion. His dark eyes glitter in the night, and your heart is in your throat, hoping he'll say yes.

“Sure.”

He is watchful as a hawk of the street as you make your way to the security door of your walkup. He frowns when you simply pull the door open, no working lock. 

“How long has that been like that?”

“At least a year. Shall we say the landlord moves at his own pace?”

“Give me his number.”

You laugh. “Ok.”

“I’m serious.”

You pause to look at him, his face half in shadow. A chill runs down your spine, the hair lifting on your arms; he is so beautiful, but there is something dangerous about this man. Something only your deepest instincts left over from the days of life in caves picks up on. It is…intoxicating, because somehow you know you are not the one who needs fear him.

Your landlord, on the other hand…you might be getting that new lock sooner than later.

You start to climb the stairs. When your heel catches the edge of the old wooden runner he is there, steadying you with a hand on your waist. You lean into him without a thought. He's taken charge of you, for the evening at least, and you are more than happy with the arrangement.

For the evening, at least.

Your key sticks in the vintage lock, the way it always does. The more modern deadbolt goes quicker. And then you are inside your humble sanctuary, and you can tell John is a little shocked by the cacophony before him. Helen liked the ordered balance of modern design, but you are a maximalist at heart. The walls are covered in art, your own, and friends’, and collected pieces as well. There are little shelves filled with curios from your travels and thrift stores around the city. What isn't filled with art is taken up by plants, on the floor, and side tables you have rescued from the curb over the years, and hanging from the ceiling too.

“Come on,” you say, taking his arm to guide him through. It's not actually messy. Everything has its place, and is fairly clean. The space is just full. “Have a seat. What do you drink?”

He lowers himself onto your cerulean blue couch, still looking around. It’s almost as though he forces himself to look back up at you.

“Bourbon, if you've got it.”

“Sure.”

You slide off your coat, hanging it on a vintage brass coat rack from an old hotel long defunct. 

“Ice?”

“A little.” 

You make his drink, and a vodka tonic for yourself. You cross the room to join him. “Thanks,” he says as you hand him his glass. 

“Sure.”

He is still surveying the room, and you are content to sit in companionable silence while he takes it all in, used to this reaction from newcomers.

“Did you make these?” he asks, looking to a cluster of small but highly detailed portrait paintings on the wall closest to you.

“Yes.”

They had taken months with a tiny 20/0 brush. You can be…obsessive, when a project grips you.

“Impressive.”

“Thanks.”

“May I...” He pauses, taking a deep draught, nearly finishing his drink in one go. “I overheard, this morning. About the piece, with Helen's photographs. I know Helen said you don't like people in your studio, but I was wondering...if I could see it.”

It dawns on you that this is the reason he agreed to come up. Possibly the reason he took you to dinner too. You are relieved, in a way, even if your heart aches a little for it.

Even though it’s true that you usually hate letting anyone into your studio, the place where you think and dream and create, the resting place for the unborn and half-finished creations of your imagination, you do not hesitate in your answer.

“Yes. Of course you can see it.”

You stand from the couch and hold out your hand to him without thinking, and he takes it. It’s as though you both know you're going to need a little extra emotional bolstering for the task ahead. You take him to the second bedroom that is your art studio. The smell of linseed oil and paint is heavy on first entry, though you are used to it.

Helen’s piece is still on your easel, the most recent thing you’ve finished. Usually you like to work small, but this canvas was five feet on both sides. It took you months to go through the boxes of photos she’d left you, then to lay it all out, deciding which photo went where according to value and structure. You could have done it easier with photoshop, but the personal quality of this project demanded completion by hand, from start to finish.

To complicate things more, you used a transfer technique to affix them to the canvas, giving the images a hazy dream-like quality. In between it all you had painted with miniscule strokes, miniature scenes and tiny embellishments, adding color, pumping up contrast and value. There were words she had said to you, short one sentence stories from your childhoods, and miniature daisies sprouting through the cracks. It was a galaxy of image and memory, each square foot containing a multitude. Yet when you stood back and unfocused your eyes, it was unmistakably her face looking back at you, larger than life, beautiful and filled with warmth.   

The subject of the photos ranged from her arty pieces of architecture and landscapes from trips she’d taken, to more candid shots of family and friends. There were also several images of John, and it occurred to you that maybe you should have okayed that with him. You’d been working in the pitch of such a fever dream with the materials Helen had left you, it hadn’t even occurred to you at the time to reach out to ask. You’d made this piece in a damn near fugue state, swinging between working rapaciously and crying in a ball on the floor. There had been some catharsis in finally finishing it, but the process had damn near killed you.

“I hope it’s okay…that you’re in it,” you say as he stands before the canvas, his exacting gaze taking in every detail of every inch.

He has not let go of your hand; in fact, his grip has tightened almost painfully upon your fingers. You don’t think he realizes he’s even doing it, and you let him hurt you, the way you’re pretty sure you’re hurting him with this visceral reminder of the life of the woman he’d loved.

“I’m honored,” he says, his voice hoarse with emotion, his jaw clenched. “Such a full life she lived.”

“Only the good die young,” you answer, barely able to raise your volume above a whisper against the constriction in your throat. “It’s not fucking fair. All the horrible people in the world…and the fates took her.” Your voice cracks. Your eyes are burning, and you know you are on the brink of losing your shit again. He pulls you in against him, and there are no arguments this time about preserving his suit or your dignity. It’s too easy, to settle into the solid warmth of his chest. This man feels like he could be a bastion against all that is bad in the world; it is hard not to wish to just stay there beneath his chin forever.

“I would have traded, if given a choice,” you whisper into his collarbone. “In a heartbeat.”

“Me too,” he answers. “But she never would have allowed it. She loved you beyond measure.”

You give a tinny, sad little laugh—or maybe it’s a sob—for the tragedy of it all. You know that no one—no one—will ever love you the way Helen did. Will ever protect you, the way Helen did. You will wander the Earth for the rest of your days with a Helen-shaped hole in your heart that will never heal.

“I know she felt the same about you.” Minutely you lift your head to look up at him. “It’s easy to understand why.” You touch his face lightly, wiping away the tear that is hovering on the blade of his cheekbone with the side of your thumb. When you realize how casually you have invaded this man’s personal space, this man who has been so kind and tolerant of you, you try to draw away. But his hand covers yours on his cheek, the scruff of his beard surprisingly soft beneath your palm.

Your eyes meet, and you can see that John is drowning in the loneliness of so much loss. You reckon you look about the same; this day has left you feeling like you fed your heart through a meat grinder. Pushed to the brink, perhaps there is little wonder that when his face descends, you do nothing at all to fight it.

Yet he does not kiss you.

His lips hover above yours, and you think you might expire of longing, caught in the limbo of waiting. He brushes the tip of your nose with his. It is almost unbearably sweet. You feel like it’s a gesture between two people who have been in love for ages. A remembered gesture, a sweet habit left from a different relationship, a different woman you resemble, but can never really be. 

You should stop this. You should back away before you both get hurt. But then his lips touch yours, and any small amount of resolve you might have worked up to do the right thing shatters.

At first it is the simplest press of lips; light, and sweet. He is shaking; or maybe it’s you who is? He rests his forehead against yours, savoring the moment, or trying to talk himself out of whatever it is he is about to do.

It’s his choice, you know.

You no longer possess the willpower to stop him either way, and your wicked heart rejoices when he leans in to kiss you again. Still, he is gentle with you, as though you are a thing in his grasp that might break.

 He isn’t wrong about that, and yet as the kisses go on, you feel it in him when something snaps—the change is sudden, and visceral, and you cannot withstand the onslaught as he slants his mouth over yours. It is like being caught in a hurricane, grabbed up by his inexorable strength and the fury of his desire. You’re not really a small woman, but he maneuvers you like you weigh nothing at all, backing you into the wall.

You know it’s wrong, somewhere in the back of your head, but it feels so good. Or maybe, it could be right? Maybe it could be ok, to take comfort in this certain someone who also loved the person you lost. Doesn’t that balance, somehow?

You are full of shit, but you also don’t care.

All you know is that he’s hiked your leg over his hip as he’s kissing you, and you can feel the hard length of him pressing into your center, and you might collapse with the heady pleasure of it all.

You reach for his belt, but he catches your hands, panting as he presses his forehead against yours again. “Let me touch you?” His words are laced with such a mix of fragility and need that you know no matter what he asks you for tonight, you won’t say no.

A trembling sigh escapes you as you nod, and he kisses you again, hard and hungry and you’ve never surrendered so willingly to anyone before in your life. He’s running a hand up your thigh to the molten core of you, pushing your underwear aside to slide a single long finger inside your desire-slicked body, and you are lost.

Utterly wrecked, and irrevocably lost. 

He toys with your swollen little clit with his thumb while he finger fucks you, his mouth on your neck and you are so close, before he picks you up all together like you weigh fucking nothing, and walks you to the couch in the other room. A vague thought enters the cloud of your sex-addled brain, a small sense of relief that he has removed you from Helen’s watchful gaze on the easel.

Any guilt you might feel vanishes with the thrill of him dropping you on the soft cushions, which is only topped by him dropping to his knees before you in that beautiful suit, (that beautiful suit!), and hooking his fingers in your panties, practically tearing them down your thighs.

There is a moment of eye contact, that burning dark stare that bores a hole straight to your soul, before he falls on you like he means to devour you whole and lick the bones clean. You’ve never felt anything like his furious mouth on you, the hard licks and soft kisses, the circling of his tongue around your clit, the relentless pleasure he mercilessly bestows until your back is arching and you cannot stop and you cannot wait, you are cumming in his mouth.

It’s the most magnificent thing you’ve ever felt, this fierce and fiery pleasure that is like fireworks inside your cunt and across your skin, and he keeps licking you slowly through the tremors and the aftershocks until you beg for mercy.

There is a moment of reverent quiet, while he rests his cheek on your thigh, your hands stroking his long dark hair. But when you try to reach for him, “Come up here,”—you are suddenly in his arms again, and he is carrying you to your bedroom, laying you down. You expect him to climb in with you, but with a flourish he covers you with the sheet, effectively trapping you, pressing a hard but reverent kiss to your forehead. “Get some rest, y/n.”

“Wait!” you plead as he is walking to the door, dizzy from the whiplash of this change of direction. You hate the desperation in your voice but at the moment you’re unable to care. “Where are you going?” Even you can hear how pathetic you sound.

He stops in the doorway, looking back over his shoulder. His profile is half in shadow. He looks like a masterpiece by Carravagio, beautiful and terrible to behold. You want to paint him in this moment, almost as badly as you want to fuck him.

“I’m going home.” You cannot tell if that is regret in his voice, or pure exhaustion?

“Why?” You know you sound wretched, like the lost little girl you are inside.

“Good night, y/n.”

Then he is gone like a shadow, like he’d never been there at all. You barely even hear the front door snick shut. If it was not for the glorious soreness between your legs, maybe you would have thought it was all just a magnificent dark dream your twisted little imagination thought up.

You weren’t usually prone to such dramatic thoughts, but it was possible that John Wick had just ruined you for all other men, and you didn’t even get to see him naked.

PART 4>>

Part 1 Part 2

[johnwickb1tsch]

you're the worst thing (i'm addicted to) Part 5

a john wick x Helen'sSister!Reader fic You are Helen's baby sister. When you meet John Wick at Helen's graveside, he invites you to dinner to celebrate her birthday. Set a few years after the first movie, 2-4 never happened. Use of y/n. Warnings: canon typical violence. Future reference to threat of noncon, (not John! because he's our assassin sweetiepie). Mourning. Smut. Grey areas. Questionable decisions. Sweetheart!John, BAMF!John Depressed!John - If you can handle the movie you should be fine here... PART 1 PART 2 PART 3 PART 4

PART 5.

“I really hate this building,” he grouses as you push through the security door without challenge. He sounds grumpy, and it’s almost…cute. You’re not used to having anyone worrying after you like this.

“I’ve never had a problem here,” you try to assure him.

He gives one last hostile look over the street like he expects a horde of marauders to come charging after you. But there’s just streetlights, and the few harmless hipsters who are still out and about on a Friday night. This city never really sleeps.

“Do you at least have protection in your apartment?”

You reckon he doesn’t mean condoms.

“What, like a gun?”

“Yes.”

“No,” you laugh. “I have a bat under my bed?”

He makes a sound through his teeth that indicates that is not the answer he wanted to hear. Again, you stumble on that stupid odd riser, and again he grabs for you, holding your waist with an arm that feels like steel, practically carrying you up the next three steps. He is tense, on edge after the fight, his eyes sweeping the shadows of your stairwell.

You hope that once you get him inside your apartment, he might calm down. For once the tumblers yield without a fight, and you pull him inside, locking the deadbolt again behind you. “Come sit down. Let me look at you.”

Instead he strides to the window, looking out over the street with a suspicious glare. He is manic, going to every window that faces the street and closing blinds and curtains. Then he stands vigil again, looking out through a crack in the blinds, his jaw clenched. He stands like that for a good minute before you insist, “John.”

He reminds you of a hawk, the way he turns his head to look at you without moving the rest of his body.

“It’s ok, honey. Do you want a drink?”

He lets out a deep breath, maybe relaxing a tad, though he’s still grinding his bottom teeth. “Sure.”

You know his poison of choice now. It’s possible you picked up a nicer bottle of bourbon than what you had on offer last time, a small batch vintage.

“Sit,” you insist, pointing at one of your chairs in the living room. You know it sounds like a command, but it seems like the only way to get through to him in this hyper-fixated state. After a long moment he finally obeys, lowering himself down into the cushioned seat with the weariness of a man ten years his elder. He seems as though he has done this all before—and he doesn’t like it anymore.

“You’re taking all this rather well,” he remarks, gratefully accepting the cut crystal glass from you, slugging back half of it.

“Well...that guy was an asshole.” You shudder as your think about what Sasha intended to do to you, and how he’d undoubtedly treated other women before you who didn’t have someone like John on their side. “A knife in the leg was the least he deserved. You taught him a lesson he won't forget.”

“Yeah. Too bad these guys aren't big on self-reflection. They prefer revenge.”

“You think they’ll come after you?”

“It’s not me I’m worried about.”

You digest this, chewing on your bottom lip. “I can’t imagine how they could even find me,” you try to assure him. “It’s a huge city.”

The look he pays you isn’t exactly condescending, but it definitely makes you feel like he finds you naïve.

“Did you pay for your first round of drinks with cash?”

“No, credit card.”

He nods, like that’s all they would need.

“Seriously?”

“They have their ways.”

“Who are they, exactly?”

“I feel like it would be better if you didn’t know.”

“Oh no, we’re not doing that,” you say with your hands on your hips. “If someone’s coming after me, you’re going to tell me who.”

The wistful smile that twists his lips unexpected. “What?” you ask, unable to mask your annoyance.

“It’s just…I feel like I’ve had this conversation before.”

You realize you must remind him of Helen, with your no-male-bullshit attitude. It makes your heart ache at the same time it fills with pride. “Well, I learned from the best.”

You stare at each other for a long moment, and you feel your annoyance melt away as you study this man, so forbidding and yet beneath it all, a little fragile. You see it in his eyes, and there’s still blood on his brow, and you decide you want to patch him up more than you want to argue with him.

For now.

Maybe he feels some obligation to take care of you because of Helen, but it goes both ways. You know Helen would want you to make sure he’s taken care of too. You feel a little guilty that it’s taken this long.

“I’m going to go get my first aid kit. We’ll clean you up, then you can decide what you want to tell me. FYI, the less you know the better is not acceptable tonight.”

“Yes ma’am.”

You cannot tell if he is amused, exasperated, or maybe both.

You return from the bathroom with your medicine chest, thunking it down on the coffee table. “Want another?” you ask, gesturing at his empty glass.

“Yes, but I shouldn’t. Good stuff.” You smile to yourself, wondering if your previous offering had been closer on the scale to paint thinner, remembering how he’d drank it anyway because he was a sweetheart. He was a conundrum, was what he was. This man was dangerous, and after what you’d seen earlier, you suspected he was possibly a killer. And yet, he was sweet. So sweet, at least to you, and those he considered friends. The warmth that bloomed in your chest for him was alarmingly not exactly—or not exclusively—lust related.

“Ouch,” you sigh, inspecting his brow. It’s a deep cut, and might actually require a butterfly. You won’t know until you clean it up.

You actually possess a passable first aid kit. Sometimes, art projects involving blades go awry, and you are in the habit of taking care of your ailments yourself. The cost of healthcare is utterly obscene, and until recently, out of your budget.

John lets you fuss over him, sitting still as a statue as you cleanse his wounds with saline solution then slather him with some antibacterial goop. Though you still feel a bit sick, and a bit giddy from the adrenaline, luckily your hands have stopped shaking. You do affix one butterfly closure to his noble brow, just in case. His eyes are closed, almost as though he is enjoying your ministrations, even though you know it can’t actually feel good.

“I’m not sure what else to do for this,” you say, touching his split lip lightly with a gauze pad, dabbing away the blood.

“It’s fine,” he sighs. “I’ve had worse.”

“I’m sorry you got hurt,” you say.

This could be an excellent window for him to really tell you what’s going on. You suspect he’s purposely distracting you when he reaches for you, tracing the line of your waist before his large hands settle on your hips, pulling you closer between his manspread legs.  

“I’m feeling better now.” He looks up at you with those soulful dark eyes, and goddammit they should be considered an illegal weapon.

You know you should insist on answers before giving in, but your resolve utterly dissolves under his touch and that longing look, replaced with heady desire. This thing between you is a force to be reckoned with; it obliterates your good sense, your sense of propriety, your loyalty to your late sister. Anything that might have stopped you with anyone else ceased to matter with this beautiful man.

You are not sure if he pulls you, or if you just melt down into his lap, straddling him. His long fingers splay on your legs, pushing your skirts up your thighs, sliding higher and higher until he cups your ass with only your panties between you.

“My knight in shining black armor,” you sigh, touching his cheek lightly, wary of causing him pain. You think you see a bruise forming beneath the scruff of his beard.

“Hmm. It’s nice to be the hero, for once.” 

“Are you usually the bad guy, John?”

His touch is feather light down your legs again, then up your spine and the backs of your arms, causing you to shudder uncontrollably. “You have no idea, sweetheart.”

“I think I’m forming an idea,” you admit breathily.

“My clever girl. What ever shall I do with you?” You’re not sure why his praise makes heat and slick pool between your legs, as though you are melting from the inside for this man. His hands are in your hair now, his touch still so gentle, but oh so maddening. Your skin feels like its on fire.

You kiss him gently, because of the split lip. He is the one who deepens it, with a growing desperation and a disregard for his own pain that you find insanely titillating. His mouth travels down your neck, trailing kisses and grazing with teeth as though he means to eat you alive.

You would let him, gladly, and you writhe against him, grinding on the length of his hard cock beneath you. You didn’t even get to see it last time. Tonight, you determine you will remedy that.

Fingers hooked in the straps of your dress pull down, down and down until you are bared before him. His hand in your hair pulls, gentle but exacting, guiding you to arch your back, offering up your breasts for his delectation. His mouth on your nipples is pure magic, sucking and biting and flicks of tongue that drive you to the absolute brink. He could make you cum just like this, you think, with his mouth on your tits and riding his rock-hard cock through his pants.

It hardly seems fair, considering last time, you somehow manage to think through the fog of desire that has you so tied up in knots. You push against him, sliding down his body until you are on your knees before him. He watches you with such blatantly raw hunger it makes your legs weak; he knows exactly what you’re doing, and doesn’t have the will to tell you no. He watches you intensely as you reach for his belt, flipping it open. There is a weight on the belt that confuses you for a moment, until his hand goes behind his back, catching something.

“Don’t be afraid,” he says, and you can’t think straight enough to even entertain it. He pulls out a small black blocky object—it takes you a moment to realize it’s a gun. You've never really seen one in real life until tonight, just in the movies. You are more curious than fearful as he sets it gingerly on the table. The possibility does not even register that he could be a threat to you. After everything you’ve seen tonight, this is just par for the course, and you return to your task with gusto, whipping his belt from their loops with a satisfying snap.

You cannot hide the fact that you are utterly pleased with yourself, and the corners of his mouth twitch, his hand caressing your cheek. You finish undoing his pants with your eyes half closed, so entranced by his light touch, until his manhood springs free into your hand, hot and velvety and oh my he is large. You roll your eyes up to meet his before descending upon him, slowly taking his swollen glans between your lips, swirling him with your tongue.

“Fuck, baby…”

The hand in your hair is not so gentle now; you don’t think he realizes he’s pulling, as you slowly take his length into the back of your throat, toying with the vein with your tongue. You slide more of him into your mouth, knowing you'll never be able to fit it all, but so willing to try. You bob up and down slowly, grazing him very carefully with your teeth, winning the most delicious moan from this man who is usually such a bastion of self-control. 

His fingers comb through your hair, sending chills all down your body as you work him up and down. The tips of your bare breasts brushing his tautly muscled thighs sends spears of longing to your loins, and you press your legs for some relief.

It doesn’t work, but you are enjoying this, and you want to treat him, the way he treated you so generously before. He’s taken a beating for you, fought and bled for you, protected you, and you want to thank him in the most primal way you know how. You take him deeper into the back of your throat, as deep as you can go, savoring every thick inch of this magnificent cock. What a thing of beauty. He groans, and you would have smiled if not for the mouthful.

“Baby...so good to me.” His hips rock against you of their own volition, his grip tightening in your hair. “Touch yourself for me. I want to feel you cum with your mouth sucking my cock.”

He doesn't have to invite you twice. Your fingers find your weeping slit, toying with your clit while you go down on him. You find a rhythm like this, sucking him in time to touching yourself. Maybe it’s a little self serving, but then again...there is something cosmic in this. Something timeless and primal and he seems to be enjoying it all the more with your participation, the vibration of your moans teasing his hard shaft.

You feel that scintillating pleasure gathering in your loins, know you are close. Your pleasure almost takes you by surprise, it is so swift and violent, your body spasming with the mindnumbing explosion inside you. After last time, it’s almost the most intense orgasm you’ve ever had. You take him into your throat fully and he cums with you, no warning, just the hot spill of his seed down your throat, filling your mouth. You swallow it greedily, only withdrawing when he stills beneath you.

You nearly collapse against his lean legs, your cheek resting on his lean thigh. This man is made of muscle and sinew. Through hooded eyes he caresses your face, toying with your hair. You shudder with aftershocks that are almost as pleasurable as the orgasm itself. You feel triumph as those burning dark eyes slide closed, overcome by afterglow, and maybe something else you don't care to name now.

“My sweet girl. You...are a marvel."

Something inside you blooms at hearing those soft words from him.

Slowly you sit up, stretching against him, using his hard body to help push you to your feet. Without a word you step out of your lacy pink panties and stick them in his jacket like a pocket square. He glances down with a lifted eyebrow, a small smirk pulling the corner of his mouth.

He’s so beautiful you could scream. 

“Something to add to your collection,” you quip, alluding to the fact that even though he practically fled last time, you know he took your undies with him.

“I will treasure them as much as the last pair,” he admits with a woebegone smile that crushes your heart.

Your legs are trembling beneath you, and you hold out a hand to him, inviting him to follow you. “Snuggle with me?”

A few long moments pass, until you think he might reject the idea, but then he takes your smaller mitt in his and tugs you down into his lap. It is silly, how secure you feel curled up in this man’s arms, your head finding the warm crook of his neck. His masculine smell is utterly divine, and you could fall asleep there, with his long fingers stroking your hair. You snuggle in the quiet aftermath, spent and ever so content.

This might be what heaven feels like.

You’re not sure how much time has passed, when he brushes his lips against the top of your head and asks, “What would you say to packing a bag and coming to my place for the weekend?”

The suggestion takes you aback. Heat floods you as you think about just what you would get up to on a long weekend away at Casa Wick.

It certainly wouldn't be innocent.

Your little bubble of carnal pleasure bursts when you think of everything that happened outside your apartment, before you pleasured each other into a mind-numbed stupor.

“I would say I feel like you have an ulterior motive besides enjoying my company.”

“I do enjoy your company.”

“And I think you think I'm in danger. Are you ready to talk about that?”

“Am I allowed to say no?”

“No.”

He huffs with laughter, clearly amused with you. But behind it all, you see the shadow of worry in his eyes, a tension at the corners of his mouth. “Come home with me, and we can talk about there.”

You tilt your head, wondering if he would be so diabolical as to fuck you into a blissfully complacent stupor so he didn’t have to answer your questions the whole weekend. You’ve never been good at taking orders—or hell, even advice—at face value. You like to make decisions—read mistakes—for yourself. But maybe, just this once, you could have faith that someone has your best interests at heart. He’s older than you, maybe wiser, and seems to know a little something you don’t about the workings of the underworld of New York City. As surreal as it seems...you could actually be in serious danger.

Seeing that you are still thinking, he sweetens the pot, nuzzling the shell of your ear with his nose. “I will cook for you and spoil you rotten.”

You can only imagine what carnal delights spoiling implies with this man.  

Well…fuck.

“Fine. I’ll pack a bag. But we are just postponing this Q & A.”

“Fair enough.” You extricate yourself from his lap with a stretch, and he gives you a light smack on your rear as you make your way for your bedroom. When you turn to look at him with a raised eyebrow he pays you a panty-melting (if you’d been wearing any) smirk that turns your brain to mush.

This man.

It occurs to you that this man is, in fact, dangerous to you. Not in terms of violence, but…you sense in yourself that if he asked nicely, you just might give him anything. You understand more than ever how and why Helen fell so quickly for John Wick, as you find yourself surrendering to your addiction to him with a secret smile.

<<PART 4 PART 6>>

[johnwickb1tsch]

you're the worst thing (i'm addicted to) Part 4

a john wick x Helen'sSister!Reader fic You are Helen's baby sister. When you meet John Wick at Helen's graveside, he invites you to dinner to celebrate her birthday. Set a few years after the first movie, 2-4 never happened. Use of y/n. Warnings: canon typical violence. Future reference to threat of noncon, (not John! because he's our assassin sweetiepie). Mourning. Smut. Grey areas. Questionable decisions. Sweetheart!John, BAMF!John Depressed!John - If you can handle the movie you should be fine here... PART 1 PART 2 PART 3

PART 4.

When the night of your art show comes, you do not expect to see John Wick in the crowd. You had not heard from him since that night when he gave you the orgasm of your life, then disappeared from your apartment like he’d only ever been a dark dream.

Though your panties had disappeared too, and you strongly suspect he’d taken them with him.

The gallery is packed this night. It’s a group show, and you’re hardly the main act, but it’s a huge stepping stone for you as an artist. Gallery X is nothing to turn one’s nose up at, and you dare to hope that maybe, just maybe, things might get going from here. The art world is just as much politics as it is producing work, and you were never good at that part of it all.

Helen was, bless. She presented strong work, but she also knew how to read a room, and whose hand to shake, and how to tell someone to go to Hell with a polite smile. You know that her final gift to you was the cachet of her name in a collaboration, and maybe, just maybe, if you play your cards just fucking right, this could be your break.

You recognize the faces of people with big names in the art world here tonight. Critics, museum curators, journalists, and collectors. They’ve all come out to play, and your heart has not slowed its frantic pace in your chest for the past hour since opening.

You snag a glass of champagne from a passing tray, even though you hate the stuff, and that is when you see him through the crowd. He’s across the room, tall and forbidding in a dark suit, his long hair framing his angular face. You can practically feel the weight of his gaze upon you, through the crush of all these people. For a moment, time stands still, as your eyes meet his.

You have thought of him a thousand times since the night he left you sated yet ravenous in your bed. A hot flush blooms across your skin, a spear of desire shooting straight to your loins as you remember what he did to you with that perfect mouth, and those big hands, and those soulful eyes. God, but you would have given him anything, after one look from those yearning dark eyes.

He is dressed well, but he doesn’t exactly look well. There is an edge to his stare; an intensity.

A hunger.

An agonizing thrill runs down your spine; for a moment you have to look away. It’s just too much.

By the time you turn back, he is gone.

You continue to mingle, chatting with your friends and acquaintances, sipping some of the bubbly to try to calm your nerves. It doesn’t work; you feel as though you have a live wire under your skin, a thousand volts of raw emotion running rampant through your veins.

It would have been easier, had it only been lust, or even just pity. But there was something more to it, something substantial and heady and warm, and that made it a much harder beast to slay.

You slowly make your way around to look at the other pieces. It’s the polite thing to do, and interesting too. The theme of the show is Loss. Perfectly broad, and the subjects of the works vary wildly.

In front of a massive encaustic abstract a low voice in your ear stops you in your tracks. “I feel like I owe you an apology.”

You turn your head slightly to find John standing ever so near, so close you can feel the warmth of the solid line of his body behind you. The room is packed and it’s almost necessary to stand this close just to be heard, but still, you get a dark thrill out of it.

“Oh?”

“I feel like I took advantage of you, last we met. I am sorry.”

You turn to face him, standing close enough to kiss. Thanks to the heels you’re wearing, you don’t have to crane your neck too far to look him in the eye.

“Actually, I was kind of thinking I took advantage of you.”

This clearly surprises him, his eyebrows rising. Ah, this dear, sweet, man. You didn’t take him for being naïve, but he is a little older, and the claws of traditional gender roles cling hard and deep.  

“Helen wanted me to look after you, and I—”

“Gave me the most incredible pleasure of my life? Yeah, it was pretty terrible. You’re a selfish beast.”

He blinks at you, clearly stunned. Then his eyes narrow, the hunger from before sharpening to a cutting edge, and a scintillating thrill runs down your spine. You cannot shake the feeling that you’ve just pulled the tail of a tiger; a predator both magnificent and deadly. Mostly it’s excitement; but just the slightest hint might be fear. There is something brimming below the surface of this man that you know you don’t entirely understand. You aren’t sure yet if it is passion, or violence—or maybe a combination of the two. You wonder if Helen ever got to see behind the mask.

Somehow, you are certain she did, and she had not run from him. Perhaps that is what makes you brave tonight.

“You don’t mince words, do you?”

“Helen was the tactful one.” 

“I actually found her refreshingly direct.” 

“But I'm just abrasive. I've been told, believe me. It's because I don't apologize before I tell men what I really think.”

“I don't want your apologies.”

“Either way... I'm a big girl, John. You don't have to be the responsible adult between us.”

The corner of his mouth ticks at that. 

“I feel like I should at least try.”

You shrug, unable to stop yourself from fingering his tie, fighting the urge to wrap your fist in it and pull him to you again. You’ve missed him, and standing this close, what you really want to do is climb him like a tree, and the crowd be damned. “Suit yourself.” You force yourself to stop touching him, although he didn’t seem to mind, or intend to stop you. You sigh deeply, warring with yourself as ever.

This is all so very fucked.

Maybe the truth is the best way to go.

“I like you, John. Maybe I’m just lying to myself, thinking Helen wouldn’t be pissed, but…maybe she’d be happy we’ve found each other.”

You dare to look him in the eyes, and once again, he looks as though he is drowning.

Fuck. You have to go.

You force yourself to step away from him, because your skin feels like its on fire. “We’re all going to Bar Rosé later to celebrate. You’re welcome to come, if you want.”

You retreat to greet a friend who’d come all the way to Manhattan from upstate to support you, and you can feel John’s eyes boring into you as you walk away.

For the rest of the opening you follow him out the corner of your eye. As though he's a magnet, you simply cannot help it. You are achingly aware of his presence, even if it's from across the room. 

He pauses before your piece of Helen for a very long time, letting the crowd mill around him like a rock in a stream. It’s heartbreaking, really, the way he stands there before her, transfixed. A part of you wants to go take his hand, support him in what you know is yet another painful moment for him. But in the end, you decide to let him process it alone. A little later, you notice him talking to the gallery owner. Chummily, almost like they know each other. Of course, Carol Banning had known Helen, so perhaps you shouldn’t be so surprised. 

When the evening is winding down John Wick is nowhere to be found. You're a little disappointed, and a little bit relieved. You're not sure what you think you're playing at, but deep down, you know it's so fucking twisted. 

You meet with your comrades from the show, some artists you knew before, and some new acquaintances too. You hail a van cab to go a few blocks to Rosé. Tonight was a success. Someone bought your painting for a massive amount of money. More than you’d ever dreamed you could charge for a piece of your soul put down on canvas with paint. Carol had assured you it was appropriate, and you guessed she knew her clientele. A part of you was distressed to part with the piece you’d created with blood and tears and Helen’s art, and a part of you was relieved to let it go. You completed the cycle. You were sending Helen out into the world, where she would be remembered, and celebrated, for the remarkable woman she was.

It should have felt like victory, but in truth it was bittersweet.

You are 98 percent sure you don't let it show. Your friends are giddy with the success of the exhibition, and the last thing you want is to bring them down. You are too, truth be told. You were interviewed by not one, but two journalists this evening. One who even worked for the Times. Maybe it’s just curiosity about Helen Morgan-Wick’s baby sister, but…Helen would have told you to stop overthinking and enjoy it.

So perhaps, you will.

True to its name, the neon lights that accent the room at Rosé are pink. The glassware is too. You’re sure it’s a play on seeing the world through rose tinted glasses…but the drinks are strong, and the ambiance is fun. After a round your friends want to dance. You agree, and the four of you have a great time until you pick up a bogey. A man keeps trying to dance up on you, not getting the hint when you sidle away, not engaging with him whatsoever. Finally, you get tired of dodging him, and decide to get another drink. He follows you, leaning on the bar while you wait for the bartender’s attention. “I'm Sasha,” he says in thickly accented English, looking you up and down. He’s not bad looking at all, but there is something in the way he looks at you that makes you uneasy.

“Hi,” you answer, not keen to give him your name.

“You come here often?”

“Not really.”

“What are you celebrating tonight?”

“Who said we're celebrating?”

Had this pushy creep overheard you? Had he followed you from the gallery?

Another voice cuts in from behind you, a string of Russian that almost sounds like a command.

Your unwelcome suitor frowns, answering in the same language. 

You turn your head to find John standing close behind you. You hadn’t noticed him come in; it’s as though he materialized from the shadows. When he puts a hand on your waist you do not flinch, hoping the other guy will get the picture. He frowns, looking between you. He says something quick over your head, and the only word you catch is blyad.

 You’re pretty sure it means fuck.

There is a heavy moment rife with tension between the two men with you stuck in the middle, before the Russian makes a hissing sound between his teeth and goes. He doesn’t just go to the other side of the bar, however. He leaves the premises, slinking out the door, and you turn to look at your savior.

“Wow. What did you say to him?”

He shrugs. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Did you know him?”

“Hmm. Sort of. From work.”

You tilt your head, staring up at him. He hasn’t removed his large hand from your hip, and even though its possessive and maybe it should bother you, you revel in his touch. You’re not usually one to get off on men fighting over you, but it’s hard not to feel a little glow of primal satisfaction at the exchange. It makes you feel bold, and maybe you run your mouth a little. “Yeah? So did Helen know?”

“Know what?”

“That you’re an ex mafioso?”

You’re 99 percent sure you’re making a joke, but from the sharp way he looks at you, a trill of warning rolls down your spine. He leans down to speak in your ear, “You have quite the imagination, young lady.”

That warmth in your chest descends to pool between your thighs.

The bartender saves you from digging this hole even deeper.

“What can I get you, Mr. Wick?”

“Blanton’s on the rocks,” John answers, then looks to you.

“Vodka martini, please,” you answer.

“We have Smirnoff, Absolut, Grey Goose, Stoli…”

Before you can answer that Smirnoff is fine John answers, “Stoli.”

You raise an eyebrow at him as the bartender goes to pour your drinks. “Thanks.”

“Life is too short to drink bad vodka.”

You huff a laugh at that. “So, do you know every bartender in New York, or…”

“Probably just in Manhattan,” he jokes with a ghost of a smile.

You turn so that you are facing him completely. You have to stand close to hear each other, you reason. It has nothing to do with the fact that this man draws you like you are an asteroid caught in his gravity. If you collide…you have no doubt you’ll burn to pieces.

“Congratulations, on tonight,” he says, and you believe he means it. “Helen would be proud.”

“Thanks. Feels surreal, to be honest.”

“That’s fair.”

You find yourself looking at his tie again, fighting the urge to use it to tug him closer. My, but you are becoming a needy creature in this man’s presence. You have to remind yourself that you do not, in fact, know him that well. Even if it feels like…he could have always been yours. “It’s nice to see you again,” you dare venture, looking up from beneath your lashes.

“Likewise.” He touches you lightly, just below your chin. Your eyes meet, and you feel pinned by those dark orbs, somehow certain he can see right through you,

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but…are you okay?” Like on Helen’s birthday, you imagine tonight must have dredged up plenty of emotions that just maybe this poor man would like to bury once and for all.

“I guess I deserve that, after how I behaved.” He is, undoubtedly, referring to the way he fled your apartment a month ago.

“I’m not mad, I just…genuinely want to know.”

He bites his lip as he’s thinking, and its all you can do just to watch him, wishing it was you with his lip between your teeth instead. Finally he answers, “I am as okay as it is possible for me to be.”

It is the most non-answer you’ve ever heard.

Sensing your dissatisfaction with this pointed evasion, he digs a little deeper, leaning in so that his words are only for you. “I didn’t exactly lead a happy life, before Helen. After she passed…I was certain I would never want anyone ever again. You kind of threw a wrench into that.”

“Sorry.”

He gives a little huff of self-deprecating laughter. “Don’t be. I…I like you, y/n. Please, forgive me, for…everything.”

You don’t believe he’s telling you all this to win sympathy, or using it as a line, like so many men would. It’s just facts, and you are moved to the bottom of your soul. Somehow you know that this is not something this man would casually admit to just anyone. “John…” With your heart in your throat you find yourself reaching for him, touching his fingertips with yours on the bar. “It’s ok. You don’t owe me an apology. You don’t owe me anything.”

He tilts his head to look at you, his dark hair swinging into his face. You feel bold enough to reach out, brushing it behind his ear. His eyes close at your touch for the barest moment. It’s so easy to forget that you are in a crowded public venue, with him near. “I owe you my gratitude, at the very least.”

You shake your head, prepared to deny it, but then your drinks arrive, and the moment is somewhat shattered. “Want to sit with us?” you ask, indicating your merry band of artist misfits with your chin. He nods, following you, though his hand has found that place at the small of your back again that warms your blood to an agonizingly slow simmer. Carol has joined you, and you wonder if John will feel awkward, fraternizing here in unspecific but obviously friendly capacity with his sister in law.

Yikes. You do not like it, when you think of it that way.

However, Carol Banning is a veteran of the New York art scene, and she has seen much worse scandals than this. She doesn’t even bat an eyelash, greeting him warmly from behind her large black-rimmed glasses. They chat more about the show, and the state of the art world. Carol mourns that no photographers currently working quite have an eye like Helen did. Then she points a crimson painted claw your way, surprising you. “But this young lady. She’s going to do some interesting things, I have a feeling.”

John salutes you with his dwindling glass of amber liquid, a smirk on his lips you don’t entirely know how to read. “I have no doubts.”

After you finish your drink you find you are ready to go. It’s been a long day, and a big night. Tonight, you fulfilled Helen’s dying wish for you, and somehow you feel simultaneously accomplished and sore to the bone.

“Can I drive you home?” asks John quietly in your ear. It sends a bolt of heat straight to your center, warmth pooling in your loins as you remember what happened last time he made such an offer. You look at him, wondering if he wants an encore, or if he just wants to see you home safe. His face in that moment is so handsome it hurts, but utterly unreadable to you.

“Sure,” you answer, sensing that somehow you’ve just signed your fate over to him with your name on the dotted line.

You hit the street, the cool night air a relief after the close press of the bar. John offers you his left arm, and you take it gladly, leaning on his shoulder a little more than you really need to. Part of it is that last martini with what had been truly excellent vodka—and part of it was just a need to be close to him. A part of you thought you’d never see him again. The fact that he is here, solid in the flesh and you can touch him, kind of blows your mind.

“I’m not parked far,” he assures you, and you nod with a sleepy smile. At the end of the block you see his car parked on the street. It’s a little menacing, you think to yourself, looking at the dark paintjob and the sleek lines. Definitely a car designed to be a predator of the road; something that will run you down and eat you, no matter how fast you try to run.

As you near the vehicle three shadows separate themselves from an alley. John freezes in his tracks, pushing you behind him. You recognize the guy from earlier, Sasha, who is flanked by two intimidating henchmen. He speaks to John again in Russian, and John replies in kind. It pisses you off that you don’t know what’s being said.

“Speak English,” you demand, half-stepping out from behind John.

A low chuckle runs through the men before you that makes your blood run cold. “I said,” enunciates Sasha slowly, “That if he hands you over now I’ll let you both live. He’ll just have to watch as I fuck you like the whore you are.”

“Nice. Very original, fuck head.”

His self-satisfaction morphs to anger. You are scared, but you’re not showing it like you should, and it’s ruining his fun. You use John’s body to shield the fact that you are dipping into your purse for your pepper spray. Why the fuck can’t you ever find anything in your purse when you need it?

What comes next happens so fast you almost can’t register it. One of the toughs made the first move forward, but John is like a hurricane upon them, deflecting strikes and breaking arms, punching one guy in the throat and kicking another in the gut. He throws one with some kind of complicated grapple and flip ninja shit before hitting the other again in the knees. In the blink of an eye two of them are down on the ground, leaving John to take on Sasha, who has drawn a knife. You see that one of the grounded henchmen is fishing behind his back for something. Without thinking you surge forward, knowing it’s a matter of life and death. As his hand raises with the gun you goalie-kick it from his hand, dousing his face with mace.

“Motherfucker!”

The gun goes off before it skitters across the street and under a parked car. He howls with agony, clutching his face, trying to wipe the concentrated capsaicin out of his eyes. In the next moment there is an arm around your waist, pulling you towards the parked cars. You are so caught up in the adrenaline rush that you react without looking, but John catches your hand with the mace, keeping it pointed away from the both of you. “It’s me,” he says, taking the tube and slipping it into his pocket like he doesn’t trust you not to let loose again. “You did good, honey. Come on.”

As he is bundling you into the passenger seat of his car you look back to see Sasha is writhing on the sidewalk with his knife in his leg, shouting what undoubtedly are expletives in Russian. You vaguely wonder if he might bleed to death as the Mustang rumbles to life and you roar away.

“Holy shit!” you exclaim, trembling with adrenaline and you guess, a bit of shock. “What the fuck just happened?”

“Are you hurt?” he asks, deeming it the more pertinent question.

“No. I’m…fine,” you say, looking down at yourself. “Jesus, are you hurt?” You look over at him to see that he is bleeding from a cut on his brow. “Oh my god, let me see.” You reach for him but he holds up a hand. “I’m fine, believe me.”

You catch one more glimpse of the wreckage behind you as he makes a right turn, downshifting. The car surges forward, pressing you back into the seat.

“You totally laid those guys out!”

“Yeah.” You study him from the passenger’s seat, his hard expression highlighted by the passing headlights. His jaw is clenched so tight you think he might crack his teeth. “I'm sorry you had to see that.”

You think about the three guys he leveled out like a human tornado.

“You've got some moves, Mr. Wick.”

He just sighs, sounding so very tired.

“Yeah.”

“Should we…call the cops?”

He looks over at you like you should know the answer to that question, but shit, this is the most violence you’ve seen up close in your entire life. Finally, he just shakes his head, seeming a decade older in that moment. “It wouldn’t do any good,” he assures you.

Except, maybe get him arrested, you reason. Because even though it had been self-defense…the carnage he’d left behind was unreal.  

“Helen said you used to work in security?”

“Yeah.”

“Jesus Christ.”

He huffs a laugh at that. “Hardly.”

“I still don’t fucking get it.”

“Get what?”

“Why…this even happened? Men don’t exactly brawl on the street over me.” For Helen? Maybe, more likely, but not you, the boho weirdo who is lucky enough to kind of resemble your model-beautiful older sister, but will never be half as lovely or charming. You suspect there is some other reason this went sideways, that has more to do with John’s professional life before he retired from security.

That job description is holding less and less water the more you think on it. Helen was always super cagey in talking about what John Wick did for a living. You’re starting to get a better idea as to why that might have been.  

John surprises you when he holds out his hand to you across the center console. “I would fight an army for you,” he tells you softly, and goddamn if you don’t believe him. You take his hand, comforted by the strength in the long fingers wrapped around yours. You only let go in between him shifting gears, and you don’t really say anything else until you pull up in front of your building.

“Come on,” you say, swinging open the heavy door of the sportscar. “I’ll take care of you.” The look he pays you is somehow both raw and predatory. A thrill of anticipation runs down your spine, because at this point you’ve lost your mind, and you don’t have the sense to be afraid.

<<PART 3 PART 5>>

[johnwickb1tsch]

Feminist John anon here -- *unholy screeching* They confessed!! The show was a success! (John is Not Okay!) He took out several goons for her (and she was badass too)! He threatens people in russian!

YOU'VE GOT SOME MOVES MR WICK and I'm not just talking about them martial arts moves >:3

Rewinding a bit: of course he thinks he took advantage of her. I liked that line she responded with "you don't have to be the responsible adult between us" HAHA. It seems that he took that to heart because it looks like they're going to get spicy again 🧐

Okay pet theory here. I think maybe, just maybe, John bought her art. Cause it's Helen's photos, you know? Or maybe he got someone to buy it on his behalf so it wouldn't be so obvious.

Anyway, thanks for writing!! *Swoons and faints dead away* I'll be looking forward to the next instalment of Mr tall dark and handsome XD

::SCREAMING WITH YOU!!:: 😂😂😂 Thank you SOooo much!!! I'm so glad you enjoyed. My heart is full! 🥰🙏🙏🙏 John is such a sweetie BAMF, it's so fun to write him. And you, of course!😉 You're such a baddass!

Oooo I love your theory about the painting! That would be spot on for John. Question: would you be touched, walking into his living room to see your piece [of his wife 😜] larger than life in the living room, would you feel weird about it, or would you be annoyed like he'd given you a handout, rather than letting a stranger buy it just because they liked it? 🤔

Thank you again, your kindness and keen observations utterly made my morning!😘

[overheardatthecontinental]

Talk Chapter 4

AO3

In which Helen fights for control from her kidnappers and John is met with deadends.

(The action will pick up in the next chapter

Waking up in a cell is a little easier the second time around Helen discovers.

She wakes up, freezing again, on the floor. Not that there was any other place to be. The cell was still empty.

The guards were different when she woke up but she barely paid them any attention. Instead, she managed to crawl to the little stall in the corner of her cell. Indeed, she was grateful to find a bathroom. The contents of her stomach were emptied into the small toilet and she wondered, idly, if it was the sedative that made her feel so.

She wished there was a window, or any other sort of indication of what time it was. What day it was.

Was it still Saturday? She wasn’t sure.

She wondered if it was Sunday and what would happen tomorrow morning when clients started arriving at her office to find it locked and empty?

Priorities, she tells herself.

No, she wasn’t worried about a few people missing their appointments. Not when her hands were still bound together and her throat burned from the acid of her vomit.

They’d live.

And so would she.

John was coming, she knows. It may take him some time to find her. Helen was certain she was hidden somewhere that wouldn’t be easy for him to find. But she was also positive that John wouldn’t stop until she was safe.

That brought her some comfort.

But even with that knowledge, she wasn’t going to stop trying to get herself out of the mess.

She tries to engage the new guards in conversation, but they kept their mouths shut. Probably warned by DeLuca, she thinks.

Still, one of them disappears upstairs and returns with a tv dinner that he slides through the bars to her, along with a bottle of water. They undo the bindings at her wrists but refuse to give her silverware. While she can only imagine what other uses John would find for a spoon or a fork, she wouldn’t know what the fuck to do with a utensil in a fight.

At least DeLuca isn’t planning on starving her. That was a plus. Especially since John would kill him either way.

She closes her eyes.

John was probably a wreck. He didn’t do well with things being out of his control and his emotional regulation skills were lacking.

This, she thinks, is really going to stunt the progress she’s made with him. Months of building up to him addressing his issues with self-esteem and his own feelings of self-hatred, only to have her kidnapped by his enemies.

It would take months more to work through the blame he was going to feel and probably years before he could even start to forgive himself.

The guards change not long after she wakes up. The new guards are told: “She’s been fed. Mostly quiet. DeLuca says not to interact with her.”

They listen. They ignore her attempts at small talk and don’t even look at her. The only moment of interaction comes when they hand her another meal a few hours later with a gruff, “Here.”

She falls asleep again after she eats. It’s almost too cold to sleep but she manages, blaming the exhaustion on the sedatives.

When she wakes up again, the guards have changed.

Nick, the man who had sedated her is back, along with someone new. The kid is younger than Nick. She’d place him in his early twenties at best. His face was still a little soft around the edges and the scarring from acne hadn’t found its way to clearing up just yet.

“Morning, boys.” She says, “Or is it night?”

“It’s two pm.”

“Hey!” Nick says, “DeLuca said not to talk to her.”

“What harm will talking do?” The new kid asks, looking over at Helen with a naïve sort of interest.

Nick shrugs, “Guess she’s some sort of psychiatrist.”

Wrong, Helen thinks, but doesn’t comment.

“She got inside DeLuca’s head yesterday. Kinda eerie, to be honest. Started spouting all this stuff about his parents and I guess it was true, because DeLuca was pissed. Bastard still hasn’t come back.”

Helen resists the urge to smirk at that.

“Why didn’t he just kill her? What’s she in for?”

Helen perks up a bit. She knew, obviously, that she was here as leverage or bait or something altogether nefarious to entrap John. But the more she could figure out about the details, the better off she would be.

“You ever hear of John Wick?” Nick asks, shuffling the deck of cards.

“Heard of him?” The poor kid almost sounds excited, “The man’s a fucking legend! I heard he killed three guys who started shit-talking him in the bar with a fucking pencil!”

Helen hadn’t heard that little tidbit, but she wasn’t surprised. John’s versatility was arguably his greatest strength. It made sense that it converted to weapons.

Nick hums, “Yep. And that’s his girl.” He throws a thumb in her direction.

The kid’s head flies over, staring at Helen in shock. She gives him a finger wave and the kid looks back to Nick, “That’s the boogeyman’s girl?”

Nick nods and starts to toss out the cards, “DeLuca’s been talking about getting a jump on the Camorra ever since he took over the Syndicate. Can’t help but wonder if this is his ploy.”

John had referenced the Camorra before, a number of times, but she couldn’t recall him ever mentioning the Syndicate. Nevertheless, she now had a name to put to the organization and its face that held her captive.

“But, it’s the boogeyman! You don’t mess with the boogeyman!”

“Sound advice,” Helen pipes in, “I suggest you relay the message to DeLuca before he gets you all killed.”

The kid pales and Nick shakes his head, “Don’t listen to her, Frankie.”

But Frankie was already listening. She just needed one in. “He’s probably right. I wouldn’t want to spend your last hours on this Earth in fear. Play your game.” Helen tries her best to give her a sweet smile. “Have fun with your time.”

“Hours?” he echoes.

“I mean, maybe you’ll get lucky. You might have a few days before John finds this place and razes it to the ground.”

“Disengage, Frankie.” Nick warns but even he looks uneasy.

John had mentioned his reputation a few times, but this was the first time that Helen had ever seen it in action. She knew John was not one for dramatizing but still, it was a little strange to see grown men becoming uneasy at the very mention of his name.

Frankie lowers his voice but she can still hear him echoing in the empty basement. “Look, man, you know I’m all in for the cause but I don’t know if I want to be involved in this.” He shoots Helen a glance, “I don’t want the Boogeyman coming after me.”

She almost felt sorry for the kid. Rationally, she could probably justify his actions. Write it off as a kid looking for a place to fit in, a world to survive in. He was mousy and largely unintimidating. The idea of mafiaso protection probably appealed to him, gave him space to live. But, she acknowledges, it’s harder to feel bad for someone who is keeping you locked in a cage.

“It’s a little late for that, Frankie. You and Nick are already involved.”

Nick shifts uncomfortably at the use of his name. Good, she thinks. She wants him to be anxious. She wants them both to afraid of what was to come.

Poor Frankie hadn’t even been here five minutes, she thinks, and he was already ready to bolt. She had a foot in the door, now she just had to hold her ground and push through.

“Look,” Helen offers him a small smile, “You seem like a good kid. Single mom?”

His eyes widen and he nods. “How did you know?”

An educated guess, but she doesn’t elaborate. “You did whatever you had to do to help her. How many siblings you got?”

“Don’t—” Nick tries but it’s too late.

“Two.”

“Still in school?”

Again, he nods.

“Good.” Helen says, “I hope they won’t have to drop out when you aren’t around. It’s hard for kids who drop out to catch back up. Sometimes you never do. Right, Nick?”

Nick tenses immediately.

She hums and closes her eyes, leaning her head back against the wall.

“Nick, man—”

“She’s just getting into your head. Let it go.”

Helen huffs a small laugh at that.

“I don’t know. How’d she know about my mom? And me dropping out? I didn’t say anything that—”

“It’s all just lucky guesswork. Calm down.”

If her eyes were open, she would have rolled them. “Guesswork, huh?” She glances up. It’s not much, she thinks, but it’s an opening, “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to make a little wager about that?”

“Not a chance.” Nick is quick to say but she can see the curiosity behind them. It’s reflected in Frankie who, with less experience and far less intelligence is quick to ask, “What kind of wager?”

Nick shoots him a glare but doesn’t cut her off.

“I’ll read you. Both of you. I’ll analyze your lives based on what I’ve already seen of you. And, if I’m wrong, on either of you, I’ll shut up. I won’t say anything for the rest of the night.”

“And if you’re right?” Nick asks.

“I get a phone call.”

“Not a chance.” Okay. She expected that. She could compromise.

“A text, then. I’ll keep it short. No more than a minute.”

“DeLuca would kill us.” Frankie says, shaking his head.

“DeLuca doesn’t have cameras here.” She gestures around, “And I wouldn’t be worried about DeLuca killing you when John’s out there looking for me.” She pauses, “I’ll sweeten the pot. Win or lose, I’ll ask John not to kill you.”

She’s met with silence as Frankie looks to Nick to take the lead.

Nick looks indecisive and she takes that into account. She watches the way he glances towards his phone. He’s considering it.

“You’re both part of this.” Helen leans forward, “DeLuca is arrogant enough to think he can get out of this without backlash. You’ve got to know that won’t be the case. John will hunt him down to the ends of the Earth, along with anyone else who played a part in this. Your only shot of making it through this alive is for me to interfere.”

She watches him swallow. Nick isn’t stupid. He’s probably the smartest of all the kidnappers she met but, Christ, he is lost.

John was like that, once.

Desperate for a way out, unable to find one.

“Will he listen to you?” Nick asks finally, “If you ask him to spare us, will he listen?”

She can’t make the promise. Truth be told, she’s never seen John truly angry at anyone other than himself. She doesn’t know how this is going to go.

“I am the only chance at stopping him.” She says finally. Not a promise or a guarantee. The honest truth, if ever there was one.

“Either way, win or lose?” Nick pushes.

“I give you my word.”

The moment lasts an eternity as she holds Nick’s gaze.

“I won’t give you a minute. You can’t touch the phone. You tell me the number, I type in the message. You get to send one word.”

“Three.”

He considers it, then he nods and she breathes easy.

“Start with Frankie.” He says and there comes that guard again. Keeping himself safe. Protecting his secrets.

She suspects but she isn’t entirely sure.

Frankie is an easier read, anyway. He wears his heart on his sleeve.

Nick’s reactions to what she says to Frankie will give her everything she needs.

Helen exhales and looks to the younger boy.

She takes in the clothes, the demeanor. The way he sits, the little bit of excitement in his eyes that proved just how naïve he was. How in over his head he was.

“We’ve established the single mom. You’re the oldest. Different dad’s all around. Your mom’s a dreamer. She kept hoping that each guy would be different. They’d care. They’d stay. But they never did.

“You get that from her,” Helen softens her voice, “that tendency to daydream. It keeps you going on the bad days, but it also keeps you stuck. What do consequences matter when everything will be okay in the end, right?

“But you were smart. You did shit in school, but you were quick to pick things up and acing tests made up for the fact you probably never did you homework. But your siblings do. You prioritized their work above yours, made sure they did well. Because it was too late for you, even then, wasn’t it?”

Frankie’s mouth opens but she keeps going.

“Three boys,” That much is a guess but the subtle intake of breath from Frankie tells her she’s right, “Three growing boys need food. And clothes. Mom was running herself to the ground to keep going. So, you stepped up. Because you’re the oldest, and because you love your mom. And, partly, because she and your brothers are all you have.”

Frankie looks like he’s going to pass out at any minute but it’s Nick she’s watching, out of the corner of her eye.

Nick’s leg is shaking, bouncing with nervous energy and he’s staring at his phone, as if it’s the only thing in the world giving him strength.

She’s willing to stake everything that whatever his lock screen shows is his reason to get up each and every morning.

Turning her attention back to Frankie, she continues, “So you wound up here. It’s local and Italian, so it could be worse in your mother’s eyes. It doesn’t stop her from worrying, though.

“But you have your uses. You’re not street smart like the rest of these guys here, but just clever enough that you see things they don’t. Finding patterns and solving puzzles. It makes up for the fact you’re shit in a fight and you probably can’t even shoot straight.”

Frankie’s face breaks into a huge grin, “Holy shit! That was dead on! How did you do that?” He leaves his chair and comes to sit on the ground outside her cell. “I didn’t know psychologists did that.”

Her face softens, “Most don’t. Technically, we’re supposed to avoid making assumptions but, after a while, you learn to pick up on little things.”

Nick narrows his eyes, “Still seems like guess work to me. The fact we’re both dropouts isn’t written on our faces. You guessed based on the fact we’re involved in Syndicate.”

“It gave me an indication of your socioeconomic status,” she admits, “But, in Frankie’s case, it was the oldest brother, single mother combination that made me go in that direction. I used to do quite a bit of family therapy. There are roles that often come up in enmeshed families,” she explains, looking back at Frankie, “things like enablers who allow everything to happen, or scapegoats, who get blamed for everything.”

Helen tries to watch Nick’s reaction to the scapegoat. And sure enough, he stares at his locked screen.

“What am I?” Frankie asks.

“The Hero.” His chest puffs up at the label, “You try to fix everything, even the things that can’t ever be put back together. Which is how I knew you dropped out to help your mom. It’s what you do.”

“And Nick?” He asks, gesturing back to where Nick sat at the table.

Curious, but tense. Disbelieving, but with a hint of worry.

He had the most to lose from this expenditure.

“Nick,” she says softly, “was the scapegoat. And that’s a difficult place to be because you can do everything right but it doesn’t matter. I imagine you got in trouble a lot as a kid, didn’t you, Nick? You didn’t follow the expectations lined out for you. In your parent’s eyes, you made the wrong choices. Had the wrong friends. Played with the wrong toys.”

“There are no wrong toys.” Frankie says, tilting his head in confusion.

“You’re right.” Helen replies, not looking away from Nick, who is now tapping his fingers on the table in an attempt to appease the nervous energy. “But there were in your parent’s eyes. So you tried to appease them, to do everything right. Just how they wanted but you had already made your bed and they never quite got over it.”

Helen has to close her eyes at the flash of pain she sees in Nick’s eyes.

And she’s careful with her phrasing because she won’t be the one to bring it into the open, even if she needs to communicate to him that she knows his deepest secret. The one he pretends doesn’t exist.

“I’ll admit, I am unsure of what happened. But they found out. Maybe you told them, or they saw something they shouldn’t have, but they found out.”

“Stop.”

“They found out, and you lost everything.”

Nick’s hand reaches for his phone and his fist tightens around it, like a lifeline.

“I don’t understand.” Frankie says, looking between them.

Helen ignores him. “You didn’t have a choice but to leave school. You had to support yourself. Take care of yourself. And you found this place. The Syndicate. A family in its own right and they took you in. But this time, you were more careful. You didn’t let it show.”

“Stop!” Nick shouts and Helen does. His face is red, his chest rising and falling.

Helen swallows but stares Nick down until he brings is eyes to meet hers. “There is nothing wrong with you, Nick.”

“You don’t know shit.”

“I don’t know the pain of what you’ve been through. Your experience is your own. But I know what it’s like to be afraid and to feel trapped. And I know that nothing is going to change until you learn to accept who you are.”

Nick closes his eyes and rubs them.

And Frankie, bless his stupid fucking heart, looks back to Nick in a kind of understanding. “Oh.” He says and he looks to Helen and then again to his comrade, “Dude, I know how this place can be, but if it helps, I don’t care one way or the other. My middle brother is gay.”

Nick winces at the word and looks past Frankie to Helen.

“What gave it away?” He asks, voice heavy with emotion.

“Nothing that anyone else will pick up on.” She eases his worries, “I’ve been a therapist for nearly fifteen years. I know what to look for.”

Nick looks to Frankie, “You can’t fucking t—”

“I won’t say anything.” Frankie is quick to jump in. “I see how the world treats Gio and he’s only in high school.”

“The world can be a cruel place. As humans, we tend to have a hard time distinguishing what is perceived as normal and what is perceived as right. But we all have a responsibility to challenge those beliefs and I am sorry that your parents couldn’t do that for you.”

“I wasn’t a bad kid.” Nick mutters.

“Of course, you weren’t.”

“I just wanted my parents to love me.”

“Some parents aren’t made to be parents. And the fact they couldn’t get over their narrow world view has nothing to do with you.”

“I can’t come out.”

“You don’t have to.” Helen tells him, “You can live the rest of your life pretending to be someone you’re not. Half the world does, anyway. But I can guarantee you that hiding who you are isn’t going to do anything to protect your kid.”

Nick’s eyes widen and he looks to Helen in shock.

“You have a kid? How did that even happen?” Frankie asks.

“Tequila.”

“We’ve all been there.” Helen mutters, lifting her water bottle in a silent salute. “The guys start asking too many questions about why you never date, never have a girlfriend. They start teasing at the truth and you go out and find somebody. Anybody. And things happen, because things always do. And the next thing you know, you’re trapped in another web of lies. It’s easier to play along than to find a way out and, eventually, that web of lies starts to feel like home. And right now, it’s fine. But webs will always begin to unravel. I’d suggest you do it on your own terms rather than watch your world implode.”

Nick shivers, “You really need to stop.”

“Sorry. It’s hard to shut off, sometimes.”

“I can see why DeLuca sedated you.” He mutters and grabs his phone, “A deal is a deal. What’s the number?”

Helen tries not to look to relieved as Nick brings up a new text message. She recites John’s number, forever thankful that she memorized it. Just in case.

He types it in and shakes his head, “I take it this is Wick’s direct line?”

She nods, “Yes.”

Nick exhales, “I’m really fucking glad our shift is almost done. What do you want to say?”

Three words, she muses. They had agreed on three words.

She didn’t know if he already knew where she was, or who had her. Helen didn’t want to waste her one shot giving John information he already had but, she liked to think if he knew where she was, he would already be here.

“DeLuca of Syndicate.” She decides and hopes against hope that it is enough.

….

Dead ends.

After more than a day of searching, John had only been met with dead ends and more questions.

Winston was right. The answer to who would want to destroy the Camorra was apparently everybody. Which meant the only other factor they had to go on was by means.

Who had the resources to stalk and evade John Wick?

Again, the answer was more substantial than he knew what to do with.

They all had money. Especially, the higher up the food chain they went.

While Winston had been able to clear the highest-ranking officials of the High Table, there were still hundreds of smaller echelons to eliminate.

It hadn’t been going well.

John had limited the search to the Camorra’s immediate allies and their top adversaries, local and foreign. Winston was running it now but John could tell he wasn’t hopeful.

It had never occurred to John just how far the Underworld went. Aside from the major players, there were crime families and gangs that all held some sort of stake in his world. And New York was the fucking capital of it all. Anyone and everyone had ties to the city.

The Technician was still there, in his room. He had used the twin bed to catch a few hours of sleep while they waited for the phone to be activated and John had kept vigil. He watched the phone, waiting for any sort of call or message that wasn’t going to come. He watched the computer, hoping that something would pop up.

“I’m sorry. There’s nothing, Mister Wick. If this guy had a modicum of common sense, he would have ditched her original phone and just taken the SIM card. He’ll probably keep the phone off until he intends to use it. Might even be removing the card and only using that when he needs it. Until it’s turned on, we can’t do anything.”

It had taken every ounce of self-control John had not to smash the Technician’s computer. To break the table the way he had done the chair.

He wanted to break something. Needed to see, and hear, and feel something smash apart. Something else had to break before he did.

Thirty-six hours.

It had been thirty-six hours since he had gotten the phone call and he was still no closer to finding Helen.

His stomach churned.

He’d never had trouble eating before or after a mission before. Nothing rattled him. Not blood, or entrails, or the crack of breaking bones. He could see brain matter spattered along a floor and go for a cheeseburger right after.

But this uncertainty, the not knowing… it was killing him.

Had she eaten?

There was a frost over the weekend. Was she someplace warm?

Was she scared?

Did she know he was coming?

He hears the door open and jumps to his feet, heading to the main room. The Technician was hunched over the laptop, needlessly running security cameras and traffic footage near Helen’s home.

John feared it wouldn’t be enough.

A table full of weapons brought by the Sommelier is prepped near the door that Winston is walking through.

He has a bag ready in case Winston is unable to find anything. In case he has to go after the D’Antonio’s.

Winston shakes his head at John, almost in defeat.

“We need to reframe our parameters.” The Manager says, “It’s still too broad.”

John leans against the table. He hadn’t been expecting much but anything would be better than the constant attempts to narrow their search.

What was he missing? What was he leaving out?

What if he went too narrow and ended up missing Helen?

“Have you slept, Jonathan?”

It’s the third time they’ve had this conversation.

He’s tried. But he can’t. Every time he closes his eyes, he can see Helen, bound and passed out on the cold floor.

He can’t remember how many coffee’s he had but it’s keeping him going.

“I suppose I should be grateful you’ve showered.” Winston says, obviously still disapproving. “Still, you won’t be any good to her if you’re strung out on caffeine.”

“I’ve tried, Winston. I just…” He trails off.

This is your fault. You should have protected her better. You should never have showed weakness. Should never have gone to her house. To her office. Should never have brought your fucked-up life into her safe one.

He runs a hand through his hair.

The sitting, the waiting, the hoping is doing absolutely nothing.

He has to fix this.

“I can’t wait any longer, Winston.” John shakes his head, “I’m going after Lorenzo.”

Winston responds in kind, “Don’t be stupid, Jonathan.”

“I can’t sit here doing nothing. If I kill the D’Antonio’s, this is over. She’ll be released.”

“You’re banking on an unknown enemy being honest.”

It was true, but what else was there to go on?

“He has no reason to keep her once they’re dead.”

“That you know of. This could just be the beginning of his plan.” Winston keeps arguing.

“It’s all ifs right now!” John can feel the anger brimming within him, “But it’s all I have! And Helen… she’s tough but she has her limits.”

Winston frowns, “Well, perhaps you should have thought of that before you became involved with her.”

“You think I don’t know that! I know that this is my fault but I will get her out of this. I gave you time, I gave the Technician a chance.”

“My time isn’t up.”

“You have a handful of hours and no fucking leads.”

“Um, Mister Wick…” The Technician pipes up, turning around in his seat.

“Then help me narrow down what I should be looking for. You know I can’t just let you go off to kill a member of the High Table.”

“You won’t be able to stop me.”

“Mister Wick!” The Technician shouts and both John and Winston turn to look at him, “You, um, sorry. But you just got a text from an unknown number.”

He holds up the phone and John takes it.

A New York number, that he doesn’t recognize, but opens all the same. The message is short, deliberate.

The miracle he’s been praying for.

DeLuca of Syndicate.

[overheardatthecontinental]

Talk Chapter 9

AO3

The sun is peaking through the curtains when John feels the fog of sleep begin to roll away. Immediately, he is caught off guard by the sheer heaviness of his blankets, practically pinning him to the bed.

He blinks away the sleep only to find himself suddenly very awake.

Helen is splayed across him, an arm draped over his chest while her head rests in the crook of his neck. Her leg is entwined around his. One of his own arms is wrapped under her while the other is wrapped around her back, holding her in place.

John isn’t entirely sure how they ended up like this. He moves the arm draped over her back and Helen makes a sound of disproval. The arm around his chest tightens and she burrows her head deeper into his the crook of his neck, her body sliding a bit further onto his. Her thigh brushes over his cock and he winces as it stirs to life.

The feel of her body entangled with his, the scent of his bodywash clinging to her skin is all too much. And while he kind of wants to stay like this forever, he needs to get the fuck away.

He gently takes her arm off his chest and presses it back to her, rolling her off and onto the bed as carefully as he can. She pouts in her sleep, making a huff as John slips out from under her.

Immediately, Helen curls into a ball, leaning into the spot of warmth he’d left behind.

Her legs are mostly bare, he notices. She changed before bed, it would seem. No longer is she wearing his sweatpants, rolled down at the waist and up at the pant cuff. Instead, she had found and taken a pair of his boxers from his bag.

He stifles a groan at the sight and his cock hardens all the more.

Fuck.

He needs a shower.

John slips from the room and down the hall. His suits, which he’ll need if he’s going to the Continental, all remain in the back seat of his car.

Marcus is up and about in the kitchen as John passes through, a pot of coffee dripping behind him. John grabs his keys off the counter and ducks outside.

The grass is dewy, the sharp smell of fog and clear air are in stark contrast to the usual city air he’s used to breathing every day. He grabs the suit bags from his backseat and hurries back inside, ignoring the painful ache of his cock.

“Coffee?” Marcus asks as John comes back in, closing the door behind him.

“Gonna shower first.” He mutters.

“You bring shower stuff?”

“No, gonna need to buy shit later.”

“Cold shower kind of morning?” Marcus asks with a large grin. John flips him off, only serving to make Marcus laugh at his misery.

John decides he hates everything. Well, he spares a glance at the bedroom door… Almost everything.

He closes the bathroom door behind him and slams the shower on. John shucks his clothes, laying them on the sink before grabbing a towel off a shelf. He finds one towards the middle that doesn’t have a coating of dust and makes a mental note to bring the dirtier towels to the basement to be washed.

The mirror steams around its edges and John slips into the shower. The water burns just a bit and he closes his eyes.

Nothing in the world could have prepared him to wake up to Helen atop him. Her arm wrapped around him, her face against his neck. He could feel the warmth of each breath she released.

He pictures her on top of him, like she had just been, but awake. Sleep still clinging to her eyes as those soft, pink lips pressed kisses to his neck. Her hand inching its way down his chest, his stomach… pushing under the band of his sweatpants to take his hardened cock in her small hands.

Those hands, which he has held in his. Softer than they had any right to be, wrapping around his cock. Would she be able to fully reach around, he wonders?

He takes his cock in hand, giving it a pump.

He can see her, in his mind, looking over at him with those beautiful brown eyes… her lips curl into a devilish grin as she presses open-mouthed kisses to his neck, teasing him with her teeth.

He can see her climbing down his body, agonizingly slowly until she lays between his legs. Her eyes fluttering as she holds him in her hand and licks a long stripe up the underside of his cock. Her wet, hot mouth dragging up and down his length before she takes his tip between those pretty pink lips…

John feels himself stiffen as he pictures it, his hips rolling as he strokes himself to the thought of her face.

She’d need to use her hand, he thinks. She might not be able to take him all. At least at first. She would bob her head up and down, his cock sliding in and out of her little mouth while her hand switches between stroking his base and massaging his balls.

Fuck…

He can hear her, in his mind, making that soft little moan that drove him wild. Her breath hitching as she tries again and again to take him deeper, to swallow him down.

So eager and needy and willing…

He’d try to keep it together, to hold off and not lose his load like a teenager.

But she’s staring up at him with those eyes, gagging on his cock as she tries again and again to take him all. Watching his dick disappear again and again into her mouth, down her throat while she makes those little wanton moans against him…

He bets she’d be dripping. Soaked for him so that by the time he is done, he can feast upon her sweet pussy…

He swallows a swear, forcing himself not to call out as he comes. White stripes shoot over his hand as John breathes heavily.

He stands under the hot stream of water until his breathing is back to normal, until his heart no longer feels as if it’ll beat out of his chest.

Fuck.

He pushes his wet hair out of his face and looks up into the water.

He’s grown used to the temperature, so he turns it up, just a bit. Just enough that it burns some life back into him.

Today, he thinks, is going to be hell.

He needs to go to the Continental. Needs to consult with Winston, needs to check his phone and see if DeLuca reached out again.

He needs to get a hold on the situation before he loses any more control.

Needs to put the fear of god into anybody stupid enough to consider targeting Helen.

He turns the water off and steps out of the shower, grabbing his towel. He starts to dry off, considering his options. Helen will be safe here. She’s far enough away from the city that no will be looking for her here. And Marcus will protect her.

She needs clothes, John thinks. And a whole lot of other things. He’ll have to stop at her house which means he’s almost certain to pick up a tail. And while he isn’t quite as paranoid about taking a ten hour detour without having Helen in the car but he isn’t going to go the direct route either.

John sighs, not looking forward to having to spend half his day in the car. At least it would be faster to get to the Continental than if he were going home to Jersey.

He dresses, putting on everything but the suit jacket. That he carries over his arm as he opens the door.

The bedroom door across the hall is open and the bed has been made up.

Down the hall, he can hear Helen and Marcus chatting.

“Yeah, I’m all good on that.” Helen says as he rounds the corner into the kitchen. Marcus shrugs and sips a bright orange beverage.

John finds himself rolling his eyes, “Did you bring your juicer here?”

“No.” Marcus says, “I bought a new one yesterday when I learned the only appliance you had was a coffee maker.”

“Thank fuck for that.” Helen says, saluting John with her mug of coffee.

He resists the urge to lean down and kiss her head.

She’s back in his sweats and t-shirt, hair mussed from sleep. She’s not quite fully awake yet, he can tell, and he longs to wrap his arms around her and carry her back to bed.

“I’m going to swing by your place today,” John tells her as he goes around Marcus to said coffeemaker. “Pack you some clothes. Is there anything else you want from there?”

“My shower stuff would be nice. And my glasses. I can read without them, but it gives me a headache.”

“Do you need more of the pills Doc sent?” John asks, looking over his shoulder in concern.

“Not yet. It’s not too bad right now.”

“You know,” Marcus adds, “You probably shouldn’t be drinking coffee with a concussion, either.”

“Come and pry it from my fucking hands.” She mutters, sipping at the beverage.

“Careful, Marcus, she doesn’t joke about her coffee.” John says as he tastes his own. It’s not the best, having been stored in the cabinet for a good few years, but he’s had worse.

He makes a mental note to stop for coffee on the way back as well.

Helen looks up, her soft gaze landing on him. He can see the curiosity reflected in her eyes but there is also trust. He’s not sure what he’s done to earn that trust considering the past few days but he swears to himself that he’ll do better this time.

“You might want to talk to Marcus before you leave. He might be able to give you a shortcut to the city that cuts out an hour or seven.” She teases.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Are you going straight to the Continental?” Marcus asks, smirking as he looks back at John. Like he’s trying to prove something from Helen’s teasing. What Marcus doesn’t understand, John thinks, is its not flirting. It’s just the way they talk to each other.

John ignores his smirk and nods, “Need to get an update from Winston and see if Karl managed to dig up anything on DeLuca before anything else.”

“Make sure you look into his mom. DeLuca’s the face, but his mom is definitely pulling strings in the Syndicate.” Helen adds before taking a sip. She makes a noise, her eyes widening as she quickly swallows her coffee, “And I swear to God, John, I’m going to be really pissed if you kill Nick and Frankie.”

He resists the urge to roll his eyes again. Truth be told, DeLuca’s henchmen and everyone else who played a role in her kidnapping had slipped down his list of priorities. He hadn’t forgotten, wouldn’t ever forget, but revenge would have to wait until she was actually safe.

And then he would consider her request to spare DeLuca’s men.

“Nick and Frankie?” Marcus asks.

“Those would be DeLuca’s men who she made friends with.”

Marcus turns and looks at Helen, raising an eyebrow. “You made friends with your kidnappers?”

“They’re hired guns, at best. And they’re both sweethearts, in way over their heads.”

Marcus looks back to John in disbelief.

John just shrugs, not sure what else to fucking do.

“John.” She says again, looking at him as she waits for a confirmation.

“I won’t kill them today. We can argue about tomorrow when I get back.”

She hums but accepts the answer.

John finishes his coffee and sets the mug in the sink before looking to Marcus, “Contingency: I have another house in Maine. Under a different name than this one, not connected to me in anyway.”

“Address?”

“11 Morningstar Road. Norcross. Key is in a small safe embedded in the lamppost by the door. Combination is 1605.”

“I thought we weren’t followed.” Helen says, looking between them.

“We weren’t.” John tells her, walking back over to her, “But there are always risks. Things we could have overlooked.”

“We can discuss your increased paranoia when you get back, if you’d like.” She says with a smirk.

Marcus chuckles as John throws him a look.

He ignores her comment, “Is there anything else you’ll need from your house? I’m not sure when I’ll be able to go back.”

She shakes her head. “Clothes, shoes, shower stuff, and my glasses.”

Glancing back to Marcus, John says, “Keep her safe. And Hels,” he looks back to Helen, almost beseechingly, “Don’t break him.”

Her face breaks into a smile and she says, “No promises.” The smile lessens, her face becoming a bit more serious, “Be careful.”

“I will be.”

Marcus snorts and John flips him off as he heads towards the door.

Helen watches as he slips out, the door closing behind him. She hears the sound of the car starting and then the rolling on the gravel as he leaves the driveway to head to the city.

Away from the safety of the house.

She sips her coffee, noting the feelings of anxiety that are building in herself.

“I’d rather you didn’t tell him I said this,” Marcus says, capturing her attention, “But John is the best at what he does. He’s going to be okay.”

Helen hums, because she knows this. She doesn’t belong to the Underworld, but she’s never had any doubt that John Wick wasn’t the best at anything he ever did.

He was defined by his control, his focus.

She understood why others were afraid of him, but John worked hard to keep that side of himself away from her.

No, her concern is not in John's ability.

“Can you look me in the eye and tell me he’s not going to do something stupid?” Helen asks.

Marcus’ mouth is drawn into a thin line.

No, she thinks. He can’t. Because John is emotional and irrational. That made him unpredictable, which in turn made him a hazard to himself.

She sits back in her chair and feels the breath leave her body.

It would be hours before he reached New York but she couldn’t help the feeling that he was already gone from her reach. She should have told him to stay. DeLuca was the kind of unpredictable that only came from someone figuring shit out as they went along.

“He’ll be back tonight.” Marcus says and he’s a bit more confident in that statement.

“I know. I just always worry when I know he’s working, and…” Helen peers up at the older assassin, “John is protective when it comes to me.”

Marcus snorts, “That’s an understatement.”

Helen inclines her head, “I’ve avoided asking him questions thus far because I think it will distress him.”

He nods in understanding.

Taking a breath, she asks, “What am I looking at, Marcus?”

Marcus walks over to the table and takes the seat across from her. There’s sympathy on his face, which makes her brace herself for what is to come.

“Like I said last night, when I left New York yesterday, you were the biggest monetary hit in North America. On paper, you’re a desirable contract. You don’t have any skills that serve as protective factors, so when somebody looks at you, they see a civilian. Educated, yes. But they know you probably can’t do much to defend yourself.

“Right now, your connection with John is the only thing stopping Hell from raining down on you. In our world, favors are currency. A lot of people owe John Wick favors. And a whole lot more don’t want his wrath directed at them if something happens to you.”

Helen nods. She had gathered as much from what Marcus had said the previous night.

“But it won’t stop everyone.” She says, alluding to what he wasn’t saying.

“Killing the Boogeyman’s woman, because for better or worse that what you are, would be an impressive feat. The kind that turns nobodies into somebodies overnight.

Semantics, Helen thinks, but appearance matters more than truth. For all intents and purposes, regardless of the fact she and John had never so much as kissed, she was his woman.

“John is going to do whatever it takes to keep you safe.” Marcus tells her.

“That’s what I’m afraid of.” Helen says, sipping her coffee “There isn’t a way out of this, is there?”

“Removing a hit is complicated.” Marcus agrees, “The only person who can cancel it is the one who ordered it.”

“DeLuca.”

Marcus nods and she considers the implication.

DeLuca wouldn’t make it easy. He certainly wouldn’t remove the contract out of the goodness of his heart.

“How much danger is John in?”

“That depends on what DeLuca is going to want in exchange for the contract. If he asks for what he wanted originally, it could get bad.”

“How bad?”

“Really bad.” Marcus emphasizes, “I can guarantee he doesn’t want you to know how bad. But John could wind up in a bit of trouble.”

Helen places her head in her hand.

“He’s not going to let anything happen to you. He got you into this and—”

“We got ourselves into this.” Helen interrupts sharply, correcting the assassin.

Marcus regards her curiously, his head to the side as he considers her words. “You know, John denies that there’s anything going on between the two of you.”

“Technically, he’s right.”

He rolls his eyes, “Don’t tell me you’re in denial, too. You’re smarter than that.”

She huffs a humorless laugh, “It’s complicated.”

“Because you’re his therapist?”

She can hear the skepticism in his tone and Helen inclines her head. She gets what he’s thinking: the boundaries between her and John had never been great, but they had shattered upon her being targeted.

What were boundaries in the face of kidnapping and a four-million-dollar price on her head?

”I don’t agree with all of the ethics surrounding counseling but I understand why we should not dating clients. There’s too much of a power imbalance. Some people bare their soul in therapy but it’s one-sided. The therapist learns all about them but never share about themselves. It's an uneven exchange, in terms of emotionality.

“And sometimes, because the relationship is so formal, the client can start to idolize or project their own feelings onto the therapist.”

“And you think John is projecting?”

“I know John is projecting.” Helen looks away, “He puts me on a pedestal in his mind. Thinks that I’m far better a person than I am. It would be… a shame to disappoint him.”

…

The moment he pulls onto Helen’s street, John witnesses nearly half a dozen cars driving away. He feels his rage spike inside of him, knowing that they were waiting for her. To hurt her, to kill her.

His nostrils flare as he looks for any other cars that don’t belong on her street. It appeared as if they’d all pulled away at the sight of him. A smart move, he thinks, though he wishes someone had stayed behind.

He wanted to hurt someone. He wanted to hurt DeLuca but since he wasn’t able to do that, anybody out to hurt Helen would have to do. But no one, it seemed, was willing to deal with him.

John pulls into her driveway and throws the car into park. He finds her house much like he left it, late Friday night. The door is still unlocked. John finds that nothing appears disturbed, but he’s certain a few dozen assassins have been through. Looking for information on the largely unknown target.

He goes up the stairs to her room.

Guilt flares as he looks at her bed, the covers still thrown about from when she had been taken form her bed by DeLuca. Her sanctuary; invaded by more than just him.

Would it ever feel safe for her again?

He shakes the thought from his head. He will make it safe for her again.

John walks over to her closet, where her suitcase is tucked away, and narrowly misses the slash of a knife.

He jumps backwards as young man jumps out of her closet with another thrust of the blade.

Yes! John thinks, watching with rage-mixed-amusement as the man tries to show off his prowess by spinning the knife around his hand.

John smacks the man’s arm and watches the flash of fear that follows as the knife clatters to the floor.

John backs up and waves his hand, giving the boy the permission and the time to pick up the knife.

He wants a fight. A real one.

Hell, Helen probably could have knocked her way out of that one unscathed.

Helen.

This neophyte was here to kill Helen.

He approaches again, lunging forward in his ill-fitting suit.

Young, inexperienced.

Stupid.

John gets the feeling that it won’t be the fight that he wants but he’ll take it. He’ll fucking take anything at this point.

This time, when he thrusts, John grabs his wrist and twists until it snaps. There’s a holler of pain as the knife falls again to the floor. John kicks it away, not yet releasing the limb.

The man tries to kick John’s legs apart, but John avoids it with a sigh. He shoves back on the broken wrist and the man stumbles back into the wall.

John waits.

The kid looks pissed. John knows the feeling.

He rushes forward, cradling the broken wrist to his chest, but ready to through a punch with his left hand. John steps out of the path and throws a punch.

It’s cathartic.

Breathing rituals and meditations were well and good, but sometimes the best self-care was a punch to the face.

John throws another one, lower, to the gut. It winds him and John uses the opportunity to grab the him by the ill-fitting suit and throw him across the room and onto the floor.

John drops to the ground, kneeling above him and strikes out again. His fists fly of their own accord, slamming into his face again and again and again until a sickly snap jolts John out of it. He hadn’t meant to break the man’s neck, not yet anyway.

Fuck.

John pulls out his phone. It had been off since yesterday. He powers it on and sets it on the bed, letting it load. It vibrates continuously with an influx of messages and John grabs the bag from the closet.

He opens it on the bed and goes over to her bureau. She won’t be working, he thinks, so she’ll probably prefer casual and comfy over her usual professional ware. He picks a couple t-shirts but throws in a few blouses, in case he’s wrong. He finds jeans and sweatpants that will actually fit her.

He tries not to think too much about it when he has to pick her lingerie. He grabs an assortment, trying not to look, and drops it in the bag as well.

Shoes, shower, glasses.

He grabs her slippers from beside the bed, and a pair each of heels and sneakers from the shoe rack next to her closet.

John enters her bathroom and wonders if he’s supposed to bring all of it. As someone who got by on a 2-in-1, he wasn’t sure what the hell half of the things in her shower were for.

Shaking his head, he takes it all.

Shoot first, ask later.

He carries the bundle over to the bag and tucks the seven bottles and razor into the front pockets on her bag.

His phone had stopped vibrating by then and he picks it up.

A few dozen texts, ten missed calls, and four voicemails.

He resists the urge to roll his eyes at the three voicemails from Winston. There’s another from Sofia.

He ignores them all as he hits the speed dial option for Charlie. He leaves a message for the clean-up crew with the location of Helen’s home. He promises to have the payment forwarded from the Continental since he doesn’t have the time to just sit around and wait. They'll know he's good for it.

He grabs the bag, scanning the text messages as he leaves.

Some curious assassins looking for information or permission, more information from the Technician… but what catches his eye is the unknown number with an Italian area code.

John opens the message, pausing before he reaches the door.

It’s time to make a choice.

7pm; the Gilded Rose. No weapons.

John resists the urge to roll his eyes. No weapons wouldn’t make a damn difference and they both know it. But fine.

He’ll play along.

John leaves the house, not bothering to lock it behind him.

He puts the bag into his trunk and gets back in his car. To be safe, he tucks her glasses away in his glove compartment, and sets off for the Continental. It’s just as well, he thinks, given that he has hours to kill before he meets with DeLuca.

Or walks headfirst into a trap.

John shakes his head and thinks wouldn’t be the first time.

He leaves his keys with the valet and makes his way inside, well-aware of the stares that follow him from the moment he walks through those doors. He’s used to be watched but this is different. They were looking for weakness, for confirmation that Helen Kingston was related to him in any way.

He tries not to show anything. The fact that Helen is out of the city and safe gives him a great deal of comfort as he passes through the lobby. He pauses at the desk.

“The Manager?” he asks.

“Eating brunch in the dining hall.” Charon answers, “He is expecting you.”

“I’m sure he is.” John mutters, “Thanks.”

He makes his way back through the long winding halls of the Continental to the elaborate dining room. John notes the new wave of people turning to look at him as he moves through the hall and resists the urge to roll his eyes.

Winston sits in a back corner, sipping on brandy, the newspaper laid in front of him.

“Good morning, Jonathan.”

“Winston.” John takes a seat across from him, “Brandy for breakfast?”

“I had a slice of toast.” Winston folds up the newspaper. “How are you this morning?”

“I’d be better if everyone stopped looking at me.” John mutters, staring down a man a few tables over who had been watching him intently. He looks away and John looks back with a heavy sigh.

“DeLuca may not have gotten what he initially wanted from you,” Winston says, “But I’ll admit, his retaliation is impressive.”

John shoots the Manager a glare.

“Glare all you want, it’s true. With that contract, DeLuca single-handedly revealed your weakness to the world, while simultaneously reminding the entire Underworld that even you are human.” Winston offers a small smile, “That said, you did well by beating a man to death in your girlfriend’s home.”

“She’s not my girlfriend.” John sits back in his seat, “Word gets around fast.”

“Yes, well, with such a substantial hit upon her head, her house didn’t stay empty for long. And believe me, Jonathan, you’d rather have people thinking she was your girlfriend, or at the very least your lover, than knowing the truth. It would make you look weak and neither of you can afford that right now.”

Bullshit politics John thinks as he looks away. But Winston was right. He needed to appear stronger now than ever.

“But again, you beating a man to death with your bare hands has helped to remind everyone beginning to think of human of exactly what you are capable of.”

John rolls his eyes.

“How is she holding up?”

“Honestly?” He looks up at Winston and admits, “Hels is tough. She’s doing better than I am with all this.”

“Judging by your state over the weekend, I’m not surprised.”

John inclines his head at the blow. It was fair, he knows. Even Helen had laughed at how much of a mess he had been.

Letting out a breath, John asks, “What am I looking at?”

“If you were anyone else, the entire Underworld would have already descended upon you.” Winston says pointedly, “Instead, you’re looking at mostly contractors and legacies who have yet to earn their stripes.”

“Novices.”

“Largely, but that is how we all began.”

“And it only takes one.” John finishes.

How fragile humanity was, John thinks, to have the light in one’s eyes taken by a flash of steel or a piece of shrapnel.

In the past, that fact had served to help him. To make his job easier, knowing how breakable humans all were. Now…

Helen was that breakable; that fragile.

“Indeed.” Winston nods, “I hope for her sake, she is safe.”

John nods, not trusting their privacy enough to reveal specifics, but confirms, “She’s safe.”

John finds himself lingering on the word. Safe, safe, safe. Helen is safe. And that’s the only reason he’s able to breathe right now.

He swallows but forces himself to add, “For now.”

He takes out his phone. He brings up the message from earlier and hands it to the Manager. Winston adjusts his glasses, taking it and reading. He hums before handing the phone back to John.

“Am I right in assuming you’ll be attending the meeting?”

John nods.

Winston hums, “And if DeLuca makes the same demands as when he first took your Helen?”

John still doesn’t have a good answer. He’ll search for another way out but, the reality is, he’ll do whatever he has to.

Apparently, he doesn’t need to answer. Winston sighs, seeing it written all over John’s face.

“Is she worth all of this?” Winston asks, not unkindly. “I understand that you care for her, that you love her, but is she truly worth the consequences from this hopeless endeavor?”

“Yes.”

Winston drinks down his brandy, “Do you have a plan?”

“Not yet. I don’t know how I’m going to get out of this one.”

“It won’t be easy.” Winston confirms, “You want to get out of this alive, while protecting the woman you love, getting revenge, and avoiding the wrath of the High Table. Something will have to give.”

Whatever it takes.

He would do whatever it takes to get Helen through to the other side.

But until he can, John thinks, he still has it within his power to remind the rest of the Underworld exactly what he is capable of.

“I have seven hours to kill before I need to meet with DeLuca. I don’t suppose you can tell me who’s taking the contract?”

“As the Manager of this establishment, you know I can’t.” Winston says with a chastising tone, “However, I might be able to point you in the direction of a certain bookie, holding certain bets with certain odds, about who will be the one to assassinate a certain well-protected therapist.”

[overheardatthecontinental]

There is no line that Omega Helen won't cross to protect her students. So when one is forced to drop out to work for the Russian Mafia, she is ready to go head-to-head with its leader, Alpha Viggo Tarasov, to save him. She soon finds herself in a new world of trouble when Mafia contractor, Alpha John Wick, steps in to place her under his protection.

... Winston glares at him, “I heard that you, while in the middle of Tarasov’s compound, put a Claim on an Omega that you had never met before. You did so formally, in front of witnesses.”

“I did.”

“A Claim, Jonathan!” Winston leans forward, “You only have one, you know. One person to put under your protection and you used yours on a stranger!”

“Yes.”

Winston breathes heavily and John realizes it’s the first time he has ever seen the Manager truly at a loss for words. The older man pinches the bridge of his nose.