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red-riding-wood · 1 year

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Verum Vindictae - I

Masterlist, Chpt. II

Pairing: Marcus x OC (Josephine "Jo" Carlisle)

Fandom: John Wick (2014)

Summary: Bound by a blood oath she made fourteen years ago, Jo is desperately trying to escape a world she used to dream of when she is tasked with killing the infamous "Baba Yaga" and must face the truth of her past as everything she has ever known unravels around her.

WARNINGS: violence, language, eventual explicit sexual content

Notes: Okay this could probably use some editing lol but oh well. One of my current WIP novellas.

This story is part of my Willem Dafoe Challenge.

Taglist: @glitter-and-gasoline, @giona45-5, @imwithyoutiltheendofthelinebucky, @emilynightshade89

18:05, October 21st

“I need you to kill John Wick.”

The words still lingered in the back of my mind, drowned out not even by the sheets of rain that splattered the pavement of New York, that pummeled the umbrella that I clutched with numb, icy fingers. They were the very words that had sentenced me, the very words that had made the past fourteen years all for nothing. The very words that had shattered my existence – or my hope of one – in just a few seconds.

As I walked, I paid attention this time to the advertisements in the shop windows, on their TV screens, in an attempt to distract myself, to bring even a semblance of normalcy to the circumstances I had found myself in.

One of the screens was alight with flame; tendrils of bright orange lapped at the black smoke that poured from the windows of a suburban house.

I snapped my head away, my heart quickening in my chest, the stench of smoke seeming to cloud the damp, Autumn air, the roar of the flames making the rain soundless for a few moments. I brought my arm up to shield my face from the heat.

My lungs ached from how much I screamed, wailing something blood-curdling into air thick with smoke. I must’ve been dying. Someone’s arms wrapped around my fragile body, and I buried my face in the fabric of their shirt, sputtering pitifully to expel my lungs of this cruel calamity. I wasn’t sure who it was, couldn’t smell them past the horrid stench of the fire.

A jolt passed through me as a beam, white-hot with fire, came tumbling beside us, my saviour lurching to the side and holding me tighter. I threw my arm up, the heat attacking the side of my face, stinging my tear-streaked eye. And then, cold washed over me, and I let a shaking arm fall around their shoulder, and my head was light, the world spinning, but the last thing I saw was the house lit like a torch, an orange flash, bright in the dark of night.

My eyes darted to another store window, my breath coming shaky from my lungs as I lowered my arm. A few confused stares bore into me, but I ignored them, focusing instead on the merchandise behind the glass.

Costumes, colourful and lurid, lining racks. Pink tutus, elegant leotards in every shade, flowy skirts and dresses and sequined purple top hats. There was an odd, unsettling familiarity, and so I let my gaze travel to the shoes positioned in the store window. Black jazz shoes, tap shoes that glinted with metal outsoles, and a pair of ballet slippers, stark white save for the beads of crimson that speckled them.

My heart seized, and my ankles seemed to ache beneath me as I walked, and I blinked.

The red was gone.

Every limb held rigid, my toes screaming at me in pain, my heart in my throat as I moved not in beauty or grace but in fear. The stern gaze of my mentor on every flick of my fingers, every dart of my feet.

Pain like I’d never felt before shot through the nerve of my leg up to my spine, and I plummeted, my vision undulating. I collapsed on the stage in a tangle of my own limbs, my fingers reaching gingerly for the misshapen ankle that bled, speckling my white slippers in an awful shade of red.

I was going to die, and the worst moments of my life were flashing before my eyes.

I couldn’t kill John. He’d been the one to help clean my slippers, been the one to tell me that someday, he’d get me out of there, that someday, I wouldn’t have to dance for anyone, wouldn’t have to be a slave to anyone.

He’d been wrong about that last part, of course. Funny, how things worked out. But that wasn’t his fault; it was mine. I had chosen this path. I had chosen vengeance and murder. It was my blood on that marker, not his.

I waved over a taxi, and sunk into the backseat, my black overcoat and raven locks blending with the darkness of the faux leather. I wished to disappear, to be gone from the nightmare that was this life, to no longer look over my shoulder and wonder if each face I passed on the streets was out to get me.

The taxi pulled in front of the Continental – a towering edifice sat nestled between tree-shadowed roads that branched into a somewhat quiet intersection. The structure had never ceased to amaze me when I was younger, even before it had been remodeled, but now was a sight to behold to anyone – the ivy, growing along otherwise seemingly-untouched architecture, the modern outdoor sconces that sat nestled between each pillar in the vintage colonnade either side of the gold-accented doors.

It was my only safe-house; the Continental, for years, had served as the only grounds that assassins were forbidden from conducting business on. But that wasn’t why I was here.

I folded my umbrella as I came beneath the awning: a black canopy marked with the letter “C”.

Upon entering the Continental, the roar of the heavy rain all but ceased, replaced by the subtle notes of classical music and the faint hum of activity in the lobby. My boots seemed to strike the marbled floors with a piercing conviction, catching the attention of the concierge – a familiar, friendly face.

Fourteen years, Charon had been nothing but kind to me. Though I knew it was all because I was living in Baba Yaga’s shadow, I couldn’t help but feel a certain comfort when he greeted me, the subtle lamplight gleaming in the frames of his glasses and the hint of a warm smile quirking at his lip.

“A pleasure seeing you, Miss Carlisle,” the concierge said.

I dipped my head slightly in acknowledgment, but, like John, I wasn’t one for formalities – especially not when I was on a job.

“Has John been here?” I asked.

Charon’s gaze bore into mine for a second or two, but his hint of a smile never faded. “Mr. Wick? Yes, he checked in earlier this afternoon.”

“I need to see him,” I said. “What room?”

“Miss, you know I cannot disclose that information.”

I nodded slowly, and bit my lip. Everyone at the Continental was bound by a code, the same code that forbade violence on the grounds. It transcended business, rivalries, markers and even family. Because everyone knew what happened when you broke it.

“The usual?” I asked Charon. John had always favoured a suite on the seventh floor. Habits. Even the most feared hitmen couldn’t seem to break them.

Charon said nothing, but his gaze told me enough.

“Thank you,” I said, and dipped my fingers into the pocket of my overcoat. I withdrew a gold coin and slid it across the marbled counter.

Charon’s eyes darted down to the coin, and he asked as he slipped it into the register below the desk, “Would you like a room, Miss Carlisle?”

I hesitated. Occasionally, I’d stayed at the Continental when it was more convenient for business, or when my boss became too insufferable, but I’d always had a home to return to. Now I was truly on my own, and I needed a place to stay.

“Yes, please,” I said, and slid another coin across the counter.

Charon handed me a room key, and said, “I believe Mr. Wick is out on business at the moment. May I suggest a drink at the bar?”

As I tucked the key into my pocket, my stomach clenched. Though I shouldn’t have doubted John’s capability in conducting said business, the little girl in me who’d found solace in his company when our mentor had pushed me too hard, who’d once cried into his shoulder, had seen him as a brother – she couldn’t help but fear for him, no matter how infamous he’d become.

Deft but vicious in their movements, they had all the elegance of the dancers, but none of the refined absence of freedom. They bled from savage blows, not pointed toes or fractured ankles. One boy, his dark hair tied back from hard-set eyes, fought as if he were dancing, though each movement was unpredictable. Graceful yet raw. I could’ve watched them spar for hours.

The boy was quick to pin his opponent to the ground, and their instructor uttered some words in Russian – a language I was still learning –, seeming to dismiss them. The trainees dispersed, and the boy let down his hair to his shoulders, seemingly eager to be unbound by the customs of the Ruska Room.

I had received my ballet slippers that morning, and they were held stiffly in one hand as I approached the boy – practically waddled over, for my legs were so short.

His gaze lowered to me instantly, though his face was void of emotion, brown eyes still cold as the earth, brows still strung by a faint knit.

“Can you teach me?” I asked him.

His gaze wandered to the slippers I clutched beside me, and then back to my eyes. “Maybe when you’re older.”

“Miss Carlisle?”

Charon’s voice snapped me from the memory, pulled me from the rich incense and bitter vodka and the tincture of sweat and the sharp commands in a once-foreign tongue.

“Yes, thank you,” I said, the faintest tinge of my old accent bleeding through my words, and he told me to enjoy my stay, as per usual, though my feet guided me almost insensibly through the halls to the club.

The bright marble of the lobby was a stark contrast to the club; I found myself swathed in its mellowed lighting of shamrock and tangerine, ensconced in the slightly-more upbeat notes of the live jazz music played by a bedazzled singer and her band. Rich, red curtains were strung alongside the wall adjacent to the bar, where several members of the Continental sipped at martinis and cocktails.

The dining area was densely-populated at this hour, many couples and singles seated at small, white-clothed tables near the stage. The red-black, half-circle booths that lined the darker, quieter corners of the club were seldom occupied, most usually reserved. But my eye caught on one occupant, a bright amber eye flashing like a torch in the dim light, the other half of his face obscured by that mask I knew all too well, the collar of a black coat tugged up around his neck as if he were hiding something.

His one-eyed stare was immediately on me, freezing my stride in the middle of the dining area, my spine setting itself rigid.

Only when a woman stopped to pay him a greeting did our gazes break, did the breath return to my lungs. I scowled, watching as a couple others took notice of his presence and went to exchange greetings.

Cain was one of the most renowned assassins in the hotel. Though he boasted nowhere near the same accomplishments as Baba Yaga, he still had his tales told in hushed tones by those in the business, like the couple that sat beside me, glancing over to him and whispering bashfully in each other’s ears.

These tales were all true, because they were my tales. I should’ve been the one that they were whispering about.

I turned on my heel and started towards the bar, smoothing out my overcoat as I took a seat on one of the tall stools. No sooner did I take a seat did my phone buzz in my pocket, and as I went to reach for it, my fingers just barely ghosting across the case, my head snapped to my left, where the man beside me drew his attention from his drink to his own pocket. He procured his phone.

I dug mine out, heart thudding wildly in my chest, and nearly fumbled for the unlock button. My screen read:

ANONYMOUS CONTRACT. JONATHAN WICK. 2 MIL.

My heart plummeted into my gut, and I shoved the device back in my pocket, swallowing past a suddenly-dry throat. I cast my gaze around the club, at every face, now lit by the light of their phone screens, now big-eyed and awed. Everyone was whispering now; everyone was speaking in mad, hushed tones.

I had anticipated that the name on that contract would’ve been mine, but this… this was worse.

“Let me try,” he said, taking the slipper from the hands that I’d practically scrubbed raw in an attempt to work out the stains of my blood.

Tension was released from my diaphragm in a shaky mess of a sigh, and my fingers, ruddy and chafed, trembled. Once finished my feat of raw adrenaline, I collapsed, back sinking against the side of the tub and my tailbone hitting the ceramic floor with a sharp jolt of pain. But it was nothing in comparison to the ankle that brushed the tiles the wrong way as my leg folded before me. Spilled, soapy water seeped into the cast, and I couldn’t suppress my whimper as every nerve screamed at me, pain coursing through the tendons of my leg like fire.

He looked up from the slipper, dusky locks falling in front of eyes that were usually impossible to read, but now shone faintly with a gentle concern.

“Let me take a look at your ankle,” he said.

I shook my head stubbornly, hair fraying from its bun as my head rocked against the side of the tub. “She told me to have my slippers clean by tomorrow morning,” I protested, voice straining not to break under the stress, a tear threatening to bead at my eye.

He sighed, and set my slipper aside to begin peeling at the bandaging of my ankle. My leg seized, and I bit my tongue, iron spiking it as I tried desperately to keep the tears at bay.

“Hey,” he said, and swept a thumb beneath my eye, to collect the moisture that had spilled. “It’s okay to cry. She’s not here.”

“No,” I murmured past gritted teeth. “No, it’s not.”

I clenched my jaw now, teeth grinding, as I stood from the bar, and marched myself to the booth in the corner.

Cain’s eye, flashing bright, was trained on me as I took my seat across from him.

“Take the contract down,” I hissed.

One dark eyebrow curved upward, as if surprised, but quickly fell back into place, framing that wretched eye that burned with an ember of barely contained rage.

“I will if you do what I asked of you,” he replied, voice low. He wanted to keep this discreet; everything was always discreet.

My jaw clenched tighter, and I growled, “I told you, I won’t. I can’t.”

“You can,” he said, and a slender hand reached to clasp over mine, but I yanked my arm back with a virulent animosity.

His mouth curved into a bitter line, and he said, “He’s not your brother, Josephine. He’s not your family. Your loyalty is displaced. When is the last time you spoke to the man?”

My gaze hardened, and yet I found it difficult to look him in his eye, so it dragged across the leather of the mask that obscured the half of his face that I’d never seen, adorned by tiny, silver cogs and banded around a nest of gelled, silvering-black locks. A sharp chin dipped downward, brow knitting as he studied me from that burning eye.

I met it finally to say, “Then I have no family.”

The flame of his eye may have flickered, something akin to hurt dampening the fire that lit an amber lamplight. But I didn’t spare him so much as another glance as I stood from the booth, and turned my back on the man who, despite possibly being the closest thing I had to family since John’s retirement, had done nothing but trick me, use me, betray me.

I was done playing by the rules. I was done weighing one’s life with mine.

#john wick #2014 #marcus #willem dafoe #fanfiction #fanfic #writing #my writing #oc: josephine #oc: cain #eventual smut #slow burn #mdni #verum vindictae #the willem dafoe challenge

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flamemittens · 3 months

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random OC ask: if your OC was in a modern!AU, what would their job be? what would their day-to-day life look like? would they be very similar to their canon conception, or different?

(the modern!AU can be in the fashion of your favored iteration, whether that is a 1:1 version of our universe, modern-with-magic, etc.)

The Devil's Advocate

Early mornings in the offices of Avernus Inc, law firm to the rich—and any poor souls desperate enough, of course—are always charged with delicious, anticipatory tension.

Josephine strides through the frenetic throng on her way to the main office, cutting any collateral enquiries off with a dismissive yet polite wave of her hand. The unfamiliar, inexperienced eye would blanch at the apparent chaos, but all who matter know that, in truth, within is only order and productivity—the fires of industry, burning in tribute to the firm’s bank account. Remaining focused is key, especially at this time of the day—for the boss will soon arrive, and there are certain…expectations.

There is one, however, who feels no such compulsion. As the PA enters the main office, she sees them, slumped in one of the chairs next to her desk, head in one hand, lazily flicking the desk toy in absent minded amusement. Or boredom. Likely the latter. The terms of their employment are a mystery to most, seemingly only here on Mephistopheles’ order—and Raphael seethes.

“You do know that you don’t have to hit it repeatedly, don’t you? Just once tends to do the trick.”

Haarlep sits up and then sprawls back in their chair to observe her approach. “Oh, I know, but where is the fun in that?”

Josephine smirks and moves around the desk, depositing the stack of client files before taking her seat in the high-backed, black leather chair. She nudges the mouse to wake her workstation. “Using something in the way it is meant to be used? How preposterous.”

“This is what I keep telling you, dear. Let go a little every now and then, exist out with the box you limit yourself to. Like that quaint little apartment of yours.”

“What of it?”

Haarlep draws lazy circles on the desk surface with an elegant index finger, tail swishing languidly back and forth. “So plain, so minimal. In need of much more nightly excitement than a risotto and a glass of Sauvignon Blanc.”

“What’s wrong with that? I like it dry.”

“That’s not what I hea—"

Josephine smacks Haarlep’s hand with the end of her fountain pen.

“Ouch, you cruel thing. That weapon is heavier than it has any right to be.” They pause for a moment, before tilting their head in contemplation, and asking “Montblanc?”

“Yes, the order arrived the other day by special delivery. Including the boss’s custom request.”

“The special ink colour?”

“Yes.”

“It’s red, isn’t it?”

“Technically, it’s vermilion. The colour of life and eternity.”

Haarlep sinks down in their chair in a show of cringing despair. “Of course it is.”

Josephine leans forward. “He wrote the invoice letter to the old widow with it. And added an extra touch too.”

“Despite the certainty of regret, pray, enlighten me” they say, from underneath the hand now covering their face.

“He scented it. With palmarosa and black pepper.”

Haarlep groans loudly and continues their dramatic slide downwards, off the chair and onto the floor. Korilla, on her way to the printer room, passes by the door, pauses, and backtracks to briefly observe the scene, before rolling her eyes and continuing on. Sometimes—well, most times where Haarlep is concerned—it is better to not get involved.

“Was that necessary? Are you quite alright?”

“So, you’re telling me—” they pause suddenly. After a brief moment she feels a nail tapping inquisitively on her shoes underneath the desk. “Nice Louboutin’s, dear. ”

“Irrelevant. But thank you.” They continue. “—he is scenting his correspondence now? How painful it is to bear this knowledge.” A deep sigh. “And what horribly expensive suit is he wearing today, then? The Prada again?”

“One of the Brioni ones, I believe.”

She can hear Haarlep grinning. “How do you know this, clever girl?”

“I know everything, Haarlep.” She smirks as they lift themself off the floor and back into the chair. “But on a serious note, I have seen him already this morning. When I dropped the case files off.”

“His mood?”

“Uncertain. Likely terrible. Definitely changeable.”

“I am unsurprised.”

Suddenly, there’s an increase in activity in the office beyond, a rise in tension which can only mean one thing. Haarlep leaps to their feet like a startled housecat, hurriedly straightening their clothes, in what must be the fastest movement she has seen them make in an age.

Raphael sweeps into the internal suite, scowling deeply, raw displeasure rolling off him in waves.

“Josephine, a glass of—”

“Already in your office, sir.”

The cambion’s frown lessens to a paltry degree. A minor victory, but a victory nonetheless, especially so early in the morning.

“You” he points a finger towards Haarlep, as he strides into his office. “Follow me. We have much to discuss.” The younger man walks over, turns back towards the PA, quietly mouths ‘Think of me, when I am gone’, and closes the door.

Josephine smiles. Hopefully he’ll be alive enough to go for lunch later, she thinks. No guarantees, though.

#this is dumb but i tried lol #asks #modern au #bg3 #baldur’s gate 3 #bg3 raphael #haarlep #oc: josephine #flamemittens writes

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