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the-darklings · 4 years

Note

yooo!!!! that 2nd part to the vampire au was soooo good, i think you should at least make one more, just saying. also, loved how you included more of john in this one!

𝙑𝘼𝙈𝙋𝙄𝙍𝙀!𝘼𝙐: 【01】| 【02】| 【2.5】| 【03】| 【3.5】|

wc: 4.1k 🤡

“The situation in the East keeps escalating,” the man beside you speaks and you listen silently, not letting any emotion show at his reproachful tone. “Camorra’s power keeps growing. The more treaties they establish, the more creatures they recruit into their ranks, the more their power peaks. You and Johnathan must stay focused. The High Priest says that this war is just beginning.”

“We are focused, Winston,” you say and wince when a jolt rushes through your body. Walking is painful and even with the mild warmth of the sun and gentle breeze brushing against your skin, a bead of sweat still trails down the back of your neck. Your back feels raw and inflamed but you fight not to let your discomfort show. “John has been away for two weeks dealing with the werewolves and—”

“And your little incident was deemed as a failure,” the older man cuts you off, glancing your way as his hands fold in front of him. “The Camorra Devil…honestly. What were you thinking? You’ve been told not to use the Holy Text. You’re lucky it was Charon that found you and not one of the many foul things prowling those streets.”

You huff a breath, clenching your jaw. “I'm aware. What was I supposed to do? Let the Devil drain that girl?”

“One human life is not worth your life,” Winston says sharply, his eyes narrowing. “You and Johnathan are the only Holy Hunters of your generation. You fail to realise your own importance.”

Hardly.

Stronger, faster, smarter, and with prolonged lifespans. You are not supernatural but you are hardly human either.

You are neither. You are both.

Your and Jardani’s names are known wide and far and being considered a legend before your death comes with a certain amount of scrutiny. Expectation.

Something the High Priest, The Adjudicator, nor Winston ever fail to remind you of.

“I thought the Holy Church protects all. Cares for all life equally.”

Winston’s head slants, the look in those old eyes knowing. “The Holy Church cares for the bigger picture. Which, at this time, is winning this war.”

He steps ahead of you and you watch his dark robes in the sunlight as his fingers brush over the rose petals.

The Prayer Garden is in full bloom. It’s a site of reflection, of prayer, of hope and atonement.

But the sickly sweet scent of flowers makes you dizzy so you try to slow your breaths, focusing on the man before you instead.

“You will track down the necromancer again and remove him,” Winston states after few minutes of tranquil silence between you. “And once that is done you will return to the church for your Remaking.”

“Why?“

It slips out before you can stop it and your mouth snaps shut, a sting of regret following right after. Winston twists to face you, his eyes narrowed, and he pointedly glances around the garden, making sure that no one heard your slip up.

At the church, there are no questions, only obedience. The will of the twelve priests and especially the High Priest himself is to be followed without questions or doubts.

And their will is that you are not ready to use the Holy Text. That you need to undergo Remaking often—at least twice a year, if not more—and do so without question. Despite the agony of having to lay down on that cold slab of stone and feel the Holy Text being recarved into your skin anew.

You’ve learned long ago how to stop the tears and the screaming. Not when you know that the High Priest’s hands will not be gentler for it. If anything, the blades always cut harder, more intently, and whether it’s to encourage or quell the anguish has always been beyond you. But the way the man always traces his work as if in reverence after never fails to leave you feeling dirty and used.

It’s unfair that you have to go through it over and over again when Jardani hasn’t visited the catacombs in years.

They say it’s because your power is less stable than his. That the Remaking simply keeps that potent holy power in your veins flowing freely so it never fails you.

Yet it always makes you feel the opposite. Usually, you’re left feeling heavy and aching with pain for days after. Muffled somehow.

Winston gazes at you for a long moment before nodding his head. “Come with me.”

You, as always, follow him without question and the priest is mute as you approach a more secluded area of the garden. Few wander here, and if they do it’s for reflection only.

“You have a fierce heart,” Winston begins and you blink, trying to focus on his words. “It burns right out of you. And while it makes you special, it’s also your greatest enemy. You feel too much. Want too much.”

His brief glance at you is telling enough.

Jardani.

Winston has never spoken his suspicions out loud but you know he’s always suspected that the nature of your relationship has long since changed.

“I—”

“Don’t bother. The less I know the better.”

His words are hard as the look in his eyes and your gaze lowers.

He knows that if anyone found out the punishment that would befall you would be terrible. Brutal. So he doesn’t ask. He won’t risk it.

Silence follows again and you swallow heavily, blinking at the heat of sun against your face. Gods above, even with your lightest clothes, you can’t help but feel like you’re cooking in your skin.

Your back is twinging with dull pain and you silently curse the vampire prince for the thousandth time.

Every since your encounter with the Camorra’s Devil, the prince has been appearing in your sleep every night.

It’s been two weeks of him haunting every second of your slumber.

Every night you escape by breaking out of his grip and every night he makes it harder to do so. He’s testing you, you know that. Seeing just how far that power in your veins can be pushed.

He drives you near insane with his silky whispers and promises of joy and pleasure and power. With every sly suggestion and accidental caress. He never oversteps and that, perhaps, makes it even worse. You want to hate those green eyes.

But he’s found a way to burrow himself deep under your skin. He marvels at your abilities, always eager to see more—as infuriatingly alluring as he is arrogant.

Every night you awaken from your feverish dreams with your skin slick with sweat and your back aching. The Holy Text seems to itch for hours after, and the only way to suppress the raging fire in your veins is to submerge yourself in a tub of freezing water for at least half an hour.

It’s gotten so bad that you see him in every dark corner now. Catch glimpses of his green eyes everywhere you look and hear a whisper of his voice in your ear wherever you go. However hard you look, however, he’s never actually there and you know that he can’t be. He is breathtakingly powerful but even he would never risk coming into the beating heart that is the Holy Church itself.

“Are you listening to me?”

“What?”

You blink, snapping out of your thoughts and find Winston frowning at you, his lips twisted into a dismayed line.

“What’s gotten into you lately?” he questions briskly, the heavy furrow of his brows telling a tale of his subtle worry. “You haven’t been the same since—”

“Your Holiness.”

Your address interrupts Winston’s shrewd words and you bow to your waist, gritting your teeth at the flare of agony through your back muscles. The High Priest, or The Elder as some still refer to him, expects nothing less. As one of his Holy Hunter’s you only have to bow your head, others have to get on their knees before the man.

Something deep down in your chest scratches and snarls as you stare at the ground, your head ringing.

Do not bow to him—

A hand touches your chin, raising your head and effectively banishing the distant voice that sounds too much like the green-eyed prince from your head.

“My child,” the man utters, his voice soft. You keep your eyes lowered respectfully but he raises your chin higher and you focus on him only, overlooking the familiar raven-haired man behind him. Even if your heart yearns to look at him. It’s been two long weeks without him after all. “It pleases me to see you out and about once again.”

“I apologise for any worry caused.”

The High Priest brushes his thumb against your jaw and something in your gut twists.

Winston and your Jardani are quiet and you don’t dare to look away from the man before you. His white robes billow in the faint breeze, adding to the sounds of nature and trees.

The man inspects you for a long, solemn moment, unblinking.

“I hope this can be a valuable lesson to you, my child,” he says, and there is just enough ice lacing his voice that it feels like one of your blades scraping against your throat. “My words are to be heeded. Always.”

Your heart hammering in your chest, you only manage to dip your head in small a nod. “Yes, Your Holiness.“

The man finally releases your face and you try to mask you relief.

“Good,” he mutters, his dark eyes piercing. “I assume Winston has informed you of your next course of action?”

He doesn’t wait for your reply, his voice stern but tempered, “You will hurry with your task and then return for your Remaking,” he continues, pausing on the last word and something shifts in those dark depths just for a second as he scrutinises you. “I need my Holy Hunters strong and pure. This war will get worse before it will get better.”

Pure.

A manic laugh almost bubbled out of you there and then.

Pure. What a joke. If only he knew about the wicked, sinful things you and Jardani do in the folds of the shadows. If only he knew how your bodies tangle together till you can’t separate your edges from his as you drive each other to ecstasy. Smothering every whimper and moan and sigh, stealing and hoarding every moment between you out of fear that it might be your last.

There is nothing holy about what you two do in the dark. Or perhaps you’re wrong. Perhaps the holiest thing about either of you is how you share each other.

Because there is divinity to be found in the feeling of his mouth on you.

“Come, Winston,” the High Priest calls out, his gaze finally moving away from you and towards the older man. “Johnathan has returned with some interesting information regarding the werewolves. The Table must hold council.”

Winston dips his head graciously and the High Priest glances at you again before looking behind him where your Jardani stands clad in black. He’s like a storm could, an ink stain, marring a perfectly happy scene.

“Do not disappoint me, my children.”

A warning if you’ve ever heard one, even if his voice remains amiable.

You know better than to doubt its sincerity though.

You both bow as one, and force yourself to speak the monotonous oath out loud, “I have served. I will be of service.“

You don’t look at each other the entire way back to the Northern Building.

The Holy Church has massive, sprawling grounds with several buildings all blessed to withstand attacks from the darkest creatures lurking throughout the land. You doubt even Giovanni D'Antonio with all his endless, monstrous power could break through the wards etched into the very air here.

You and Jardani keep easy, meaningless conversation as you pass other members of the Holy Church. Nuns and priests and healers. Forgers of weapons. Other hunters. Just human. Ordinary apart from being trained.

You and Jardani are a different breed. Standing apart from everyone else here.

You’ve managed to keep your relationship a secret by never giving anyone any room for suspicion. Except for Winston, clearly, but that man always had a gift of reading you both like an open book.

The Northern Building is special for one reason. That reason being that the entire structure belongs to the Holy Hunters and no one else.

Of which there are only two in this generation.

You keep several feet distance between you, partake in dull, meaningless conversation that won’t catch anyone’s attention the entire way there.

But the moment the doors close you slam into each other eagerly, your hands greedy and desperate as you tangle in each other.

Your back hits the door and you hold back a wince of pain as he kisses you with enough passion to stall your breathing. His warm sigh tickles your lips and you moan into his kiss, tangling your fingers in his raven strands. The heat between you, the tingle of pleasure that comes from simply kissing him, manages to dull the pain a little and you melt into his embrace.

Your dark shadow.

Gods above you’ve missed him. So very much.

“I heard about what happened,” he whispers against your mouth when you part for breath and his thumb strokes down your cheek. There is a brief second in which his touch gets replaced by a man with cold eyes and eerily calm voice but you shake it immediately. “I worried. Are you injured?”

His other hand rests against your lower back and you ignore the pain that touch brings, focusing only on him. You lean forward, pressing a kiss against the corner of his mouth.

“I’m fine,” you reassure him and tug on his hair, delighting in the familiar gleam in those dark pools. A desire for you. A flame that never stops burning no matter how much he insists that you shouldn’t do this—shouldn’t touch or kiss or fuck like the world is seconds away from ending. But he can’t deny you. He can never deny you. “Missed you,” you add because it’s true.

His expression softens, the impassive man fading for your eyes alone. “I missed you more,” he tells you softly and lays a careful peck against your lips; fleeting and tender.

But you don’t want fleeting and tender.

Your nails drag against his neck and his expression strains under your deliberate coaxing.

“Jardani,” you hum quietly and kiss his jaw, pressing into him. “My Jardani. My umbra mortis.“

“You’re upset.”

You still. “I’m not.”

“The Remaking—”

“Don’t.”

Your voice is an icy, shaky exhale. Jardani just looks sad but a shadow lingers across his expression, too. He hates seeing you suffering. But this isn’t the outside world, he can’t kill those that would harm you. All he can do is wait for when you are brought back from the ceremony, swaying and delirious, and too weak and drained to do anything for the next three days. All he can do is hold you as you sob into his chest after, begging him to never let them touch you again even though you both know that there is no other choice. He doesn’t bother making you promises he can’t keep.

He touches your face then, your foreheads almost touching. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s agony, Jardani. I can’t—”

His fingers smooth over your hair, his expression dark, distant. “If there was another way…”

Your smile is bitter. “But there isn’t. I must obey or they will force me. And if they ever find out about us they will kill me or banish me—”

“No,” he cuts you off and this time his voice is lower, harsher; practically a growl that rumbles from deep within. “I would never let them hurt you. I would kill them all.”

You cup his face, desperate to have him closer. “I hate it here, Jardani,” you confess in a wet whisper. “This place is a prison. I feel like I'm suffocating here. Have been for years.”

He kisses your cheek and then again, trailing up. Your brow, forehead, nose; a handful of caresses at the time. Lastly, he kisses your lips, dragging you to him carefully and you hold onto him. Your shadow and sanctuary and home.

“I will find a way,” he vows quietly against your quivering mouth, his voice a deep rumble. “I will find a way, moy svet.”

My light.

His mother tongue rolls off his tongue effortlessly and you shudder at the dark, reassuring blanket those words wrap around you.

You kiss him again—all teeth and hunger and fingertips seeking his heat—and with his strength he picks you up easily, your legs wrapping around him soundlessly.

You don’t make it to the bedroom.

You awaken in silk.

You’re so used to it by now that for a handful of seconds you don’t stir, simply lying there.

He isn’t beside you.

A surprise.

He seems to delight in watching your expression when you wake up with him hovering near or trailing his fingertips down your arm. Once you woke up with his arm partially curled around you, holding you close, practically against his chest.

You punched him right in his smug face.

A downside of this being the dream world is that no real damage could be done. It still didn’t stop the swell of satisfaction you felt at the way his head snapped to the side, clearly haven’t had expected an attack even with his finely honed predator instincts.

Or perhaps he simply didn’t see you as a threat.

Or trusted you enough to lower his guard which was a thought you had banished the second it came because it was absurd.

You had felt self-satisfied until he laughed, grinning widely, his cheeks dimpling.

“You’re a delight,” he had purred and his lack of wrath had been as surprising as realising how appealing his smile is. “Now imagine what you could do with an immortal’s strength, hm?”

But he is not beside you this time.

Your head slants and you find him sitting a little further away from the bed, bathed in the beam of light coming from a window overhead.

It takes you a moment to realise what he’s doing.

He's painting.

A brush between those long, graceful fingers moves lovingly like he’s taking all the care in the world to make sure that whatever he’s trying to capture is done so to perfection. As if not one mistake could be afforded.

At least this time he’s not naked.

It took you a few visits to realise that you come to the dream world dressed in whatever you had fallen asleep in.

Though the realisation that the vampire prince sleeps naked between his silken sheets had warmed something in your blood.

“My mother was a great lover of art,” he begins conversationally, still focusing on his work. You sit up deliberately, watching the ripple of his back muscles as he shifts in his seat, facing away from you. “Personally, I never saw much appeal in it. Just a bit of paint on canvas, you understand? That changed after she met Eternal Death. There is indeed something, hm, extraordinary about creation in such a form.”

Your bare feet touch the floor and your fingers grip the edges of the bed as you observe him silently.

From this angle, you finally get a glimpse of what he’s working on.

It's you.

But not.

The woman depicted on canvas has your features. Your lips and nose and hair and colouring but—

But your eyes are something else. They look like they’re raging from within even though your expression is captured as calm and composed—almost empyreal. Your gaze is strong, consuming, sensual and fierce. It demands to be looked at. Respected. Admired.

He’s painted you as you could be, you realise numbly, an immortal like him.

His head turns towards you when you stand shakily on your feet, your fingers gripping the side of your nightgown tightly between your fingers.

The vampire prince eyes you with a slight twitch of his lips as light plays across his tanned skin and wild curls.

He’s dangerous.

For the first time, you feel that understanding settle deep in your bones but—

“Do you not like it, amore?”

“I want to leave.”

If you didn’t know any better you would say that he looks disappointed at that. But it’s gone in a blink, whatever it is, so you can’t be sure.

“You are free to leave whenever you please, bella,” he tells you dismissively, raising the brush back between his fingers. “Don’t let me stop you.”

Brushing past him, you let your fingers clench, trying to pull on the power in your veins.

“I don’t want to come here anymore,” you bite out, glancing at him over your shoulder before turning to face him fully. “I'm done playing your games.”

Santino’s head tilts, humming in consideration, and it’s hard to think of him as a vampire—the enemy—when he looks so breathtaking in this blinding, warm light. When he looks so approachable, almost normal.

“Hm. You are exceedingly attractive when angry,” he notes with a sliver of a smirk, peering at you curiously and the green of his eyes is piercing. “What other angry words are you going to bestow upon me, hm? I do so admire a sharp tongue.“

His attention transfers to your mouth and you scowl at him.

”Enough, Santino.“

Shit.

It slipped out.

You’ve always addressed him as “D'Antonio” or “vampire” but never by his given name.

His smirk disappears instantly, something stuttering across his expression; a flicker of emotion you don’t quite understand passing over his features.

“Say it again.”

You don’t think you have seen him sound or look quite so serious.

“What?”

“My name,” he utters, his gaze burning. “Say it again.”

Forcing oxygen into your lungs, you breathe a deliberate, vicious, “Santino.”

He’s in front of you in a blink and fear is not the reason why you step away. He stalks closer, his lips parted and you see his fingers form loose fists.

“Again.”

It’s an order and your lips press together when your back kisses the cold stone of his room.

This isn’t real, you try to remind yourself, it’s just a dream. But one’s mind has the power to make things real. The Dream Realm is just as powerful as any other reality.

His hand braces next to your head and you stare at each other for a halted breath.

His body is tense, coiled, his attention focused solely on you. With the light falling from behind him, it looks like a halo is caressing the crown of his head. He resembles an angel even if you know the devil lurks beneath.

“San-ti-no.”

He leans closer and you exhale forcefully, your lips parting.

“You,” he murmurs softly and you feel his fingertips brush up your bare arm, making goosebumps explode across your skin. “Are more dangerous than sunlight."

You force your suddenly dry tongue to work. "I thought… that the sun doesn’t affect a pureblooded vampire like you?”

He’s close enough that you can feel his breath against your lips.

Not real. Not real. Not real—

“No, it doesn’t,” he agrees lightly under his breath, the velvety promise of his lips brushing against the edge of your jaw. “Ah, but it’s very good at something else, bella. Can you guess what that is, hm?”

His lips part against the curve of your jaw, a puff of air tickling your skin, and your head tips to the side, his large hand coming to grip your hip. You’re not sure which one of you he’s trying to steady.

“No.”

His nose slips down, dragging against your skin and he freezes, inhaling deeply. A low snarl erupts from deep in his chest and he nuzzles against your neck intently.

Through the dizzying haze, there blooms confusion, but then you remember the fact he can no doubt smell Jardani on you. Maybe even scent you earlier lovemaking. You would be surprised if the intensity of it didn’t leave a mark.

“It’s very good,” he hisses against your ear, his breath prickling against your skin and his fingers flex against your hip. “At making us weak.”

Choking down a gasp, you try to pull back but he ducks his head against your neck again, his lips pressing a featherlight kiss against your fluttering pulse.

“They’re lying to you,” he reveals in a hoarse whisper when his head lifts and your eyes clash. He looks ravenous, wild. His eyes are more black than green. “You are so much more than they’re trying to convince you, amore. Let me show you. Let me."

His grip on you constricts.

You blink; once, twice, and bare your teeth at him before promptly snapping the tether between you in half.

There is a glimpse of fury before you are dragged back to wakefulness.

You fly up into a sitting position, your skin damp and throat dry.

Every inch of you tingles made only worse by an acute ache between you thighs.

”Fuck.“

…

an: hahaha…….i’m in trouble :) also apologies for any mistakes. one edit only and done at 2:30am ayyyy. hope you enjoyed jfghfdg please don’t try and ask me why i’m actually trying to build a world/lore/plot because “i’m stupid” will always be the answer jhdfg. also I just really dig the feral/dark vibe of this AU so *shrugs*

#john wick x reader #santino d'antonio x reader #john wick #john wick fic #vampire au #supernatural au #we love clownery!!!! goodnight!!!#s: no one could be him #s: i can wait

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