"What Do You Have In Mind?"

"Fuck... daddy!"

Mmh.

Yeah.

He liked that.

That felt good.

The way she rubbed herself against him. Touched him, kissed him. It was erotic. Hot. He knew deep down he shouldn't touch her. This was the bosses' girl. But she was so... Hungry? Yeah, she made him hard. He caught himself staring. Those heels, those legs, those hips, that ass. Damn. Boss is a lucky man. He wanted a piece of that action. But Nah man. His brothers elbowed his ribs. Shook there heads. Look but don't touch they said. Okay. So he tried to not satisfy himself remembering the night he watched his boss eat that pussy down the length of a scope.

That made him cum hard. Way harder than was prudent. And he'd gotten hot with his boss before. Been a daddy then too. The Prince came home, pissed off, hurt after a bad fight in the streets. So he got him cleaned up, got him a drink. Lit him a smoke. Rubbed him down like a lathering horse. Right there, between his legs. Great big Italian cock. Felt good in his hands. Both boys got... Experimental. Good night. Really good night. He was on guard duties a lot more after that. But this!? The bosses' dancer. Yeah, he made her dance. Deep. Against his tongue. Made her watch as he sucked her deep into his mouth and roll under pleasure. He didn't make her beg. Just focused on getting her there. Three times.

Mmh. Now he understood what Tino tasted in her. Sweet. Lusty. He liked performing for her. And yeah, he even had a tattoo on the underside of his cock in a calligraphic script that read the words ' Until it hurts'. He liked cumming for her. Moaning and grinding his hips. He almost asked her to get on. He was a big boy but he knew she'd adjust. Girls always did. He wanted to know what she felt like on the inside. But he didn't ask. Touching himself under her eyes was enough. He loved being her attack dog. In the morning. No regrets. He cleaned her up. Fed and kissed her. Sent her back to her Papi. ‘Cos Tino was a stud. He deserved to be tapping that. He'll, he almost did. But he made her promise. No calls, no texts. No marks on her body. Just a knock on his door. Late. After work. Glass of wine. Good meal. He'd go hungry just to eat her. Fuck. He was addicted to this rush.

"Wanna touch it, baby?" His body. Her fingers over the words. He wanted to purr for her.

Until it hurts.

{[ @lalienna-dementriento @f0rtis-fortuna-adiuvat   || You aren’t the only one that did a thing. I did it too. And we are taking this too far. Right to the end of the line. It’s sinfully delicious, the mess this Camorra crew are capable of getting themselves into when it comes to love. ]}

Daddy. Not Papi

@laserglassspider - @f0rtis-fortuna-adiuvat // I uh...did a thing...and uhm...yeah.

———

“I can’t sleep. Hector is with someone...Ares is with Santino...tony and Marcus and I aren’t that close. Can I-“

She didn’t even have to finish. Christov let his door swing open completely, allowing her entrance. She thanked him softly, stepping past him. She left her shoes neatly by the door, noticing now that her coworker wore only loose fitted pants. She had never seen all of his tattoos. Her eyes trailed down his chest, the bear on his abdomen baring it’s fangs at her. She smiled slightly, making her way around him to his back. He stayed still, allowing her to check him out. Like a cat stalking something. Or a wolf. Seeing if he was a friend or foe.

“I was your last choice? Ouch.” His hand went to his check in mock hurt. His voice was husked from sleep, the gravel of his tone making her stomach flip. She laughed slightly, backing off from him, distracting her eyes by taking in his rooms.

“No, I just...didn’t want to annoy you or bother you. You may have company.” She suggested with a dark tone, a smirk on her lips. She never saw the women he was with. He was discrete. Shuffled them in and out quickly. Never staying overnight. She didn’t know what his type was. He chuckled, shaking his head.

“Just missed them.” He teased. “Come on, babygirl. You know you can always come to me, right? How long have you been up?” It was past four am. She debated just getting ready for the day. Still, she wore shorts and a thin strapped tank top, eyes tired and dark under her eyes.

“I haven’t gone to sleep yet...” she admitted.

“God, woman! Let’s go. Bed. Now.” He pointed, directing her to his bedroom. His tone threw her off, swallowing thickly as a slight arousal washed over her. No, no. She was tired and missing her papi. Her papi... she missed him. So so much. That was all. She wasn’t fighting a slight shaking of her thighs as he commanded her...

She obeyed his commands, biting her lip. The bed was messed as he had been sleeping. A half finished wine glass sat atop the bedside table. She looked to him, a suggestive smile, cheeky. He took care of his women.

“Long day.” He corrected. “Earlier was a joke. There were no guests over tonight beside you. You may rest easy knowing the sheets are virgin of a woman’s touch.

She blushed, turning her head. She crawled onto the mattress, the crisp white sheets smelling of him. He took residence on the other side, yawning deeply.

“Sorry to wake you. Thank you.” She met his eyes.

“Don’t worry about it, sweetheart. Get some sleep. I’ll protect you.” His eyes shimmered with something...she couldn’t place what it was. Her eyes traveled down his ink, awed at the dark marks. A smile appeared on his face, laying on his back so she could see better.

“Wanna touch em?”

“Can I?” She asked, slightly afraid to. He nodded, amusement on his features.

“I’m not gonna hurt you.im you’re attack dog, babygirl. Promise I don’t bite...that hard.”

“I do.” She mumbled without much thought, smiling sheepishly as she realized what she said. She avoided his dark gaze, instead looking at his shoulder. She reached out, running her fingers down his arm, tracing a head of a cobra. It’s tongue was frozen on its lower lip, fangs tearing up at her. He seemed to have a whole zoo on his arm. A flower bloomed on his forearm. On his elbow was a spider web.

“Do they have meanings?” She asked like a bewildered child. She was entranced by their beauty, the sexiness. She liked the pain when she was given her coat of arms. It was erotic and sensual. She fed from it. Did he like the pain as well?

“Some. A lot are drunken night when I was younger.” Christov answered, blinking slowly, wanting to capture this moment forever. Goosebumps rose where her fingers landed. She brushed over his strong hands, veins prominent. She nearly moaned, imagining his grip around her throat. Tattoos everywhere, even on his fingers.

“What’s...this one from?” She pointed to a bird on his wrist, pulling his hand closer to her to examine it.

“That was in Vienna. Maybe three years ago. I saw a bird while on the job and I liked it. I got the guy to draw it pretty exact.”

She met his eyes, nodding slightly.

“Pretty. Or...whatever you’re supposed to call men’s tattoos. Handsome?” She asked herself, laughing. “It’s sexy.” She decided finally. Next she went to his neck, tracing tentacles along his skin. Some type of octopus. They went all along his neck, to the back of it and spreading to his shoulders. She grunted slightly, motioning for him to turn. He did, lying now on his stomach. She straddled his back, licking her lips.

“This okay?” She asked. He chuckled. She could feel him underneath her...

“Yeah, baby.” God, his voice...

She prayed he couldn’t feel her arousal through her shorts, hating herself for feeling this way. She wasn’t his. He wasn’t hers. They worked together. Co workers. He acted as her protector... like a brother. But she didn’t want him as a brother right now... his boss was her boyfriend. Yet, she stayed as she was, moving up his back, scratching her nails gently back down. He sighed, eyes shutting as he relaxed. The day had worn him out. Running errands for his boss like a slave all day even though he was in another country. Leaving his Spanish flower alone...unattended....horny...it was almost as though he was asking for her to get fucked. Maybe that’s why he took ares. Because he knew they were frisky. He probably didn’t think that Lalienna would try anything with his other men. Hector was an obvious no. They were close siblings. Hector was her brother by association. It would be weird. She never thought of him that way. She didn’t really notice Christov either...she knew he was handsome. Sexy. But she hadn’t become aroused by him. Not until tonight. Tattoos...his tattoos against his flesh. The way his muscles contracted and expanded as he moved. Breathed. She was a mess.

Lalienna didn’t know what came over her. Whether she was possessed or simply went insane, but she bent down and kissed the back of his neck, tracing the ink with her finger. That was fine. It was a chaste kiss...but she didn’t stop there. Oh no... she kept going.

Her tongue then traced the tentacle under his hairline, clawing at his shoulder slightly. Maybe that was a bit risqué...but it could be fine. If she had stopped....

Kissing to the crook of his neck, hands roaming his back... she bared her fangs like the snake on his arm, sinking her teeth into the flesh above his shoulder blade. And she had moaned, rolling her hips involuntary against him. His eyes opened, moving his neck to allow better access for her lips. She was given permission, not denied this pleasure. Her lips ghosted his ear, whispering darkly.

“You’re my attack dog? Then attack.” Her sultry tone, her lips against his skin, her hands, her hips grinding against him drove him insane. He was quick to move, her falling against the mattress barely having enough time to react as he pinned her down, holding her chin. Those eyes. Boring into her, ripping her heart out, lighting a fire inside of her flower. She burned with passion and arousal, biting her lip suggestively, writhing underneath him slightly.

‘Do something....please.’ She eyed him. He growled huskily; it drove her mad, arching her back off the mattress to feel him...his erection. She shivered in delight knowing he was enjoying this as much as she was.

“You’re not my papi. But you can be my daddy for the night.” She whispered in his ear, tugging on his lobe as she brought her head back against the sheets. Another growl.

Papi was passionate. It was personal. An emotional name she had given Santino. Her caregiver.

Daddy held no meaning. Simply someone she wanted in the moment. Christov had been called daddy many times before by many women. He held that aura. He was powerful, strong, a daddy. He enjoyed it. It was a turn on. Maybe a fetish. And now...this young Spanish maiden was begging for him.

“Santino would kill me. And you...you know this, babygirl.” He said in a semi defeated tone. She shrugged, giggling.

“Yes, if we fucked.”

His eyebrow raised, catching her hint. Sex...what was the textbook definition? A male penetrating a female with his manhood... so...that meant that head and oral weren’t sex by definition...

That also meant that when his thumb found her erect nipple from under her shirt that...it wasn’t sex. It was fine. And, when but at her neck, that it was okay. She pushed him slightly though, shaking her head.

“No marks. No hickeys. Okay?” She grabbed his face, narrowing her eyes.

“Yes ma’am.” He answered, dipping his lower half of his body against hers. Her legs spread for him, wrapping around his waist. She rolled her eyes, laughing.

“You’re older than me, daddy.” She watched as his eyes darkened, lust washing over him. She smiled, nipping at his lower lip. She found the waistband of his pants, palming his arousal through the fabric. He groaned hotly, attacking her lips as he pushed her flat against the mattress. His hand snakes up her shirt, squeezing her breast over her bra. She thanked her past self for dressing in purple lace tonight. He was careful as his lips trailed down her body to her stomach to not mark her. She watched with intense curiosity as his tattooed hands ran up her thighs, up her shorts. She whimpered, shivering in ecstasy. She throbbed against his touch.

“Daddy...Christov...”

she had said his name before, sure. When’s he greeted him or wanted his attention. But never like this...the breathy pleasurable sigh. Like a prayer fleeting from her lips. He craved it.

She pushed herself up in her elbows, pulling him into a passionate kiss, her tongue dancing with his.

“Lay down.” She whispered hurriedly, lifting the tank top from her body, placing it to the side. She resisted the urge to fold it, shaking herself from the thought. She’d be fine.... no, she wouldn’t. She folded it, shimmying out of her shorts as well and folding them, returning to her dark lover of tonight. She adored his ink, kissing up his arms while she straddled his abdomen, his hands on her hips and pushing his groin up against her ass. The thin fabric of his pants and her underwear did little to interrupt grinding his manhood along her skin. She gasped, gripping his shoulders, biting her lip to suppress a moan.

“I want to hear you, princess.”

“We’re going to get a noise complaint, daddy. Besides, do you really think it’s a good idea to be loud when tony is not five doors down?” She now moved between his legs, but not before he pushed her down against his chest, grabbing her barely covered butt, bringing her heat hard against him. She moaned then, hiding her face in his chest as she sighed and groaned, nipping at his flesh in a frenzy.

“Fuck, daddy....”

her eyes traveled up to his as she kissed just above the fabric, licking her lips in anticipation. She wanted to taste him. Intended to. But he was faster, flipping them once more, tsking.

“No, baby. You’re the one who can’t sleep. Let me wear you out.” A dirty smirk on his lips. He dipped his head to lick up her flower above the fabric teasingly.

“Daddy!” She whined, gripping the sheets. He chuckled against her, nose rubbing against her bundle of nerves. Finally he ripped the fabric from her body, tearing the fibers. She gasped, panting in need. His tongue lapped at her opening, demanding her eyes. He would fuck her with his tongue and make her keep eye contact. Again and again he sucked, licked, teasing her with his mouth. Anytime she shut her eyes or moved them from his gaze, he would stop, waiting for her attention once more. She hated him for this, but quickly learned to keep contact, needing his attention on her needy core. She came hard against his tongue, nearly screaming his name along with a string of Spanish curses, gripping his hair. All while looking into those eyes. Christov licked her clean like a dog devouring a meal, moaning softly against her flower. She tried to protest against him continuing, wanting to repay him. He simply shushed her with a gentle nibble against her clit. That shut her up quickly, falling apart quickly after. She came three times before passing out from exhaustion, mumbling a Thanks as christov tucked her in, kissing her forehead. He held a sly grin on his lips, stroking himself slowly till he got off, the memory of her moans and taste still on his tongue being enough to send him over the edge. He fell back against the mattress, and Lalienna curled herself into him, sleeping soundly.

“All you gotta do is ask, babygirl. I’ll take care of you.” He mumbled into her hair, eyes becoming heavy as he too fell into a slumber.

And one day.... She'll take it all back.

JW. Blood of The Raven King

First week of Inktober: this year I’m doing a few of my favorite bands chronologically and candidly as to when I got into them.  I’m selling the originals (each is about 4x4, 5x5) and am open to doing prints as well. Hopefully I can compile a zine of all 31 of them at the end of the month. message me on tumblr or email rp0@comcast.net, my paypal is the same. 

I was wrong.

I sinned against you.

I've always known I was beneath you.

Your dog.

You've always cut me, down to the bone.

And I've never been strong enough to fight you off.

Even if I told myself otherwise.

Stop it. Stop hurting me.

I've got no soul to sell.

I gave you the last piece.

It's killing me.

Losing you like this.

Help me get away from myself.

You bring me closer to God.

{Don't make me sleep alone.}

When you love till it hurts....

John Wick || Blood of The Raven King

This work of fiction is dedicated under inspiration and by request of @rubydian and the founding concept as published on Twitter by English Sci-Fi/Fantasy author, Matt Dovey

Act One || Scene One || Irreversible

And thus it started, the way it usually does in tales such as these.

With a letter.

On this particular wet August afternoon in New York City, the mailman had been discourteous enough to not wipe off his boots upon the runner carpet that had been rolled out specifically to capture the wet footsteps of guests and visitors going to and from The Continental lobby. Instead, he shook out his high visibility fluro-yellow raincoat with a shower of water that hit the marble floor and the hotel reception counter in a splatter. Some of those wayward, wind chilled droplets struck Charon’s computer monitor. The elegant African American man, in his dark Italian wool suit, offered the wet plastic covered parcel of letters that was unceremoniously slapped atop his counter, a cursory glance before sliding them off the counter top and shaking them into the waste paper basket at his feet. His displeasure did not reflect in his profound features. Rather, he offered the mailman his thanks and fixed him with a poignant glare that seemed to work wonders, for the middle aged mailman gestured vaguely to the general wet mess he made and apologized sheepishly. 

“Sorry, Mr. Charon. I didn’t mean to bring the storm in with me.” Charon, the hotel Concierge, softened his features somewhat and replied in his rich accented baritone,

“It is unavoidable. Perhaps, you might shake yourself and the mail out under the awning next time?” 

An obvious consideration. The mailman nodded his assent apologetically once more before tapping the brim of his sodden baseball cap in respect, replacing the hood of his raincoat and turning on his heel to march back out into raging storm. Charon watched his receding footfalls for a moment or more before finally seeking to pull out a clean dusting cloth from beneath the counter’s tidy shelves and wipe away the errant droplets from the marble surface and the back of his thin computer screen. Once he was satisfied that all was as it should be, the cloth was replaced and the plastic covered mail satchel was again addressed with his customary care. A silver letter opener that was taken from the hands of a small kneeling iron Roman warrior statue upon the desk made quick work of prying the plastic sheathing apart. Within, dry and protected from the rain, rested an organized and fairly typical arrangement of letters. These included utility bills, insurance reports, tax department assessments, sundry receipts and reconciliation invoices for repairs, maintenance, linen and fresh food and beverage supplies. All of these letters would be addressed in due time, for there was a management and administration process that Charon followed religiously in his years of employed service. And it ensured every article would be considered carefully and addressed appropriately. What was of highest import at this moment was what Charon picked out to be internationally addressed personal mail. These letters arrived with a reliable systematic frequency and were almost always addressed to his employer, the hotel owner/proprietor, Winston. Occasionally he would receive a personally addressed letter as well, but these were few and far between. 

There was a very particular letter that he was expecting on this day. It arrived fourth to last in the pile and featured the neat, calligraphic penmanship that was characteristic of a female hand that valued the aesthetic pleasure of ink on paper, compared to type and print labels that were so readily available in this day and age. The stationary the letter was mailed in was of quality off-white paper stock. It featured an Air Mail stamp and beneath it another that presented the face of Queen Elizabeth II for her Sapphire Jubilee. Sixty-five years a reigning British Monarch was an exceptionally long time to reign, even as a figurehead for an entire empire. Charon turned the letter over and noted the sender’s name, ‘Miss Bobby Kent’. Naturally. Roberta, whom had endearingly and playfully always been known to the world as ‘Bobby’ was Winston’s niece. 

A charming young woman of thirty-three years of age with sharp blue eyes, a sun kissed complexion and a shock of forcefully tamed frosted mahogany coloured hair. She had grown into a striking young lady post the bloom of her girlhood for as much as Charon remembered. Bobby lived in Essex, England in a peaceful cottage by the countryside that she had inherited from her deceased parents some nine years earlier. After completing her high school education she sought to attend Oxford University, boarding in their slightly cramped and out-dated sorority dormitory for five years as a means of escaping the country life. In truth she wished to live somewhere exciting, like London. But considering her financial garnetour, Winston, was the manager of her family’s estate after his sister’s passing; he was forthcoming in advising that her monthly allowances could not support the exorbitant additional cost of Central London rent without depleting her inheritance substantially. He wished to preserve those funds for as long as was prudently possible, at least, until the day of which Bobby announced her intent for marriage. 

Sadly, such proposals with eligible suitors were regular and regularly discouraged. Bobby was a woman of big ambitions, plans and social pursuits in the world of discovery and education. An independent cartographer that specialized in alternative tour guide manuals that celebrated and relegated geographic explorational pursuits in breathtaking exotic landscapes and oceans across at least six of the seven continents. An impressive feat of achievement for a such an academic lady and her fellow organized crew. Winston had suggested archaeology and ruins preservation was another ample field of study that he hoped Bobby would consider for employment. Unfortunately, a Peruvian cartel of ex-mining gangsters with designs upon North American narcotics trade saw her exciting life of travel and adventure cut short. Bobby was captured, as a bargaining chip, imprisoned, tortured for eight, painstaking days and put to ransom in a gory array of eight millimeter video footage that arrived on Winston’s desk in the midst of a frantic police investigation for missing persons. The investigation was heavily handled, media suppressed and eventually filed as a cold case. The gang cartel in question, with their methamphetamine inundation was infiltrated; and quietly picked off. Neutralized. By a gentleman that was said to be a ghost of myth and legend. His origins confused. Russian? Belarusian? Ukraian perhaps? Some even ventured, Italian; for he had noted affiliations across a council known as The High Table. And there were twelve councilors there that were international Crime Lords, owners of cartels, arrangements and syndicates that dated back some many hundreds of years. Holders of honour and tradition. Corrupt and wayward as much of it may have been considered, there was purpose and method to their madness. War was something that happened. It was corrected. Acknowledged. Crushed where possible in hopes of peace. Continual fire prevents germination of the new growing forest. If all the soldiers are dead, there is no army. And without an army, of what are you a leader, a general, a king?

Bobby never saw the face of the man that had saved her. She never even learned his name. But when she recovered from her coma and years of intensive therapy, she sought out her Uncle and began to ask him some very direct questions. Questions that related to his historical origin. Questions that related to his business enterprise. Questions that related to his religious, moral and ethical fibers. Questions that parsed his psychological profile into theoretical components, that precipitated into a murky conclusion that she was finally relieved to comprehend, even in an unclarified and subsumed level. The revelation did not leave her suffering as deeply as she thought she would. 

“You’re a mob boss, aren’t you, Uncle? One of those impossible underground criminals that runs this hotel as a front for terrorists and black market trade. Am I right?”

“….Well…. Roberta,”

“Bobby.”

“Bobby…” He corrected, on knee-jerk reaction, “It’s not quite that cut and dry nor that sinister to be honest, darling.”

“Don’t you darling me, old man! You’re full of horse shit! They knew about you! About what you were capable of! Of the class of people… creatures… beasts you surround yourself with. And they found me, and bled me to get a reaction out of you! What did they ransom me for, hm?”

“Bobby, please, I need you to calm down-”

“You fucking calm down! You bastard! Before mother died she promised me you would look after me. That you’d care for me, make sure I wouldn’t be led astray. I thought she meant just boys and drugs and wild parties! I had no idea she would entrust me into the hands of a lunatic black-market hoon! You disgust me! I wish I was never born into this wretched family! I had plans once! Dreams… now look at me!”

“Bobby…” Winston breathed. His eyes glazing over dangerously from behind his reading glasses that he finally removed so as he could bury his head into his hands.

“Oh and now you weep! Collapsed lung, crushed skull, they took a kidney and I’ll never walk properly again with this spine injury. Every day of my life for two years has been an endless agony of horror and torment. Because of you! Because of your twisted, depraved fucking empire of criminals and darkness.”

“YOU’RE WRONG ROBERTA! IT’S BECAUSE OF ME THAT YOU’RE STILL ALIVE!” The elder gentleman snapped at last, losing his temper within the confines of his guilt ridden sadness. 

“…I don’t call this alive. Not even remotely.” She whispered in her compounded sorrow. She’d long since promised herself she’d never cry in front of another human being again. 

“I want you to tell me what you know. No ifs… no buts… no lies.. No bullshit. I want everything. I want the truth. Because you owe me this.”

“Roberta-”

“Bobby.”

“Bobby… If I do this…thing… you ask of me… If I drag you into this world… As you are right now… You need to understand, that there’s no going back. Ever.”

“Just as well. My scars are irreversible, Uncle Winston. You gave me this life, be it by divine providence or bad fucking luck. But I’m in it now. The least you can do; is show me how to live.” 

Winston considered his options for a very long time that day. He considered everything that he thought would be just and ethical and compared it to everything he knew would be considered immoral, unjust and socially perverse. He looked deeply into his niece’s eyes. He read her, the pieces of her he wished he’d never have to see. He found himself, for the first time in his life, praying. Wishing that his sister would not have burdened him with this young woman. So that he might have saved her from the trauma of the world around her. This was why he’d never married. Nor had children. So as he could rule an empire that would not fall to complication when the genuinely innocent are caught in the crossfire of havoc and fury that does not concern them.

Winston considered his options for a very long time that day. And after that long time; he made his decision.

And he told Roberta Kent, aka 'Bobby’, everything.

Act One || Scene Two || Letters of Warning

Charon concluded his administration processing with his customary efficiency, until his relief management staff took the front desk and permitted him complete the day’s hand over seamlessly. A final glance around the foyer with its range of ambling guests waiting out the rain or waiting on friends and colleagues, revealed that at least on the surface, this oasis of calm and civility was very much still in working order and could do without his vigilance for at least an hour or more.  With a smile at the uniformed ladies that had taken his place at reception, he sought to attend the lounge that was relatively quiet at this hour of the day.  Sure enough, he discovered his friend, colleague and employer, Winston, seated at the lounge by the fireplace, sipping at a steaming tea cup and decoding possibilities for the crossword puzzle that '12 Down’ was occupying him with.

"Good afternoon, Sir.” Began Charon by way of greeting. Winston looked up over his reading glasses and put down his pen,  fixing his Concierge, friend and colleague with a smile. He’d already noted the letter in Charon’s slender fingers and was expecting its arrival hourly.

“Ahh! Charon, welcome, pull up some leather. Have a sit down won’t you?” He indicated the tobacco coloured chesterfield lounge before him on the opposite end of the fireplace separated by a provincial coffee table. Charon complied with a smile, grateful to be off his feet for a moment. The morning had been busy and the afternoon had finally worked into a lull that said sitting down was a very good idea.

“That letter you have there, Bobby, I take it?” Winston asked with a quirk of his brow.

“Bobby.” Charon replied with a curt nod. He leaned over the coffee table and placed the letter beside Winston’s teacup. The elder gentleman folded down his newspaper and set it aside. He took another sip of his tea and waved for the bar hand to bring another cup. The uniformed woman in her pink blouse and black pencil skirt took stock of Winston’s guest and arrived immediately on rapid footsteps to set down a fresh teacup before Charon. She served him then. That fragrant bergamot Earl Gray with notes of lemon and rose petal that was just delightful. Both gentlemen thanked the young lady and waited for her retreat to the bar before continuing their conversation.  Winston picked up the letter and used his pen to break apart the top of the sealed envelope.

“Second one this fortnight.” Winston commented as he freed the thick, quality paper from its confines.

“I do hope the young lady is keeping well.” Charon commented. He meant it too. He thought Bobby’s adventures prior to her misfortunes were magnificent. He had many of her travel guides in his personal collection and found her photographs to be spectacular.

“We’ll soon find out.” Winston replied as he unfolded the letter and took a moment to appreciate the blue ink and cursive hand that was so characteristic of his niece.

He read:

 Dear Uncle Winston,

 I do hope you’re keeping well, all things considered. The weather in London is not as terrible as everyone would have you believe. If anything the heat is every reason to keep indoors and just as well, I’ve been in mostly air-conditioned luxury more or less. Spending a great deal of time in and out of the houses of University scholars and other learned ladies and gentlemen that have been spending the better part of two hundred years compiling research in the form of accounts comprised as to the reason for true magic having disappeared from the streets of England. As per my previous letters to you, I am determined to follow them as deeply down this rabbit hole as I dare. There are less honorable pursuits by which a woman might entertain her time. I might add that I’m recently returned from Harlech Castle in Wales where my research has opened out some spectacular and purely mind-blowing avenues.

As always, I’m still very much following an elusive lead for the legend of a man known as 'Brân the Blessed’ from as far back as the 14th century. They say he was the first incarnation of the legend for the anthromophic personification known as 'The Raven King’, objectively, disappeared from the human/mortal plane in 1389 but made reappearances in unusual circumstances at many points that are heavily contested, both for and against, throughout history. The latest resurgence appears to be in 1847 and then again as late as early 1975.

There are pieces of this puzzle that are missing, Uncle Winston. Pieces that I’m determined to gather and engage.

My latest research has revealed that this legend has had appearances all over the world. For what could be considered charitable and extortive reasons. Some of the learned underground call him 'John Uskglass’, The Black King, The King of the North. I’m not convinced that his origins or disappearance from the mortal plane are as extravagant as I’ve been told. There is more going on beneath the surface. More that I have learned, that I have uncovered or been told.

Uncle, I need you to know that this legend has tendrils as far into the gypsy clans of Russia and beyond. Across Belarus, Poland and the Slovak nations. There is a story that I’ve been following, and you may think it mad, but I’m telling you, the world which we perceive around us and the plane of existence that we may traverse in dreams holds the key to secrets that are beyond mortal comprehension. That does not mean they do not exist. I know you’ve been discouraging my line of work, but I have been told, by our mutual friend that you alone in your hotel may possess the key that I’ve been looking for. This 'Raven King’… this fairy… fae… however you wish to spell it, is real. This legend of a man, or creature that moves in and out of shadows and takes with him the souls of the living, is more than just a myth. Our mutual friend tells me that you know him personally. That were it not for him, on that night so many years ago, I may not have lived to write this letter I do you today.

Uncle, I plan on visiting you shortly. In fact, I have booked the next plane to New York arriving Friday, 16th at 4'o clock. If perhaps you might arrange for a car to come collect me from the airport, I should be very grateful. I will call you before I board my service and again when I touch down. I don’t mean to intrude on your personal space, but if I could request your hospitality for the duration of my stay, I should be very grateful and will naturally pay my own way. I am due to meet my old crew mates Connie Barker and Nate Serville who are traveling from Los Angeles and mean to rendezvous in New York to take in the sights and sounds. They will act as my guides and have shared in much of my research, as you already know.

I look forward to seeing you, Uncle Winston. I have missed you terribly. We parted on inamicable terms last time I visited, and I have told you I am very sorry. Unfortunately, my history and unintentional involvement in affairs that should not have concerned me have left me bitter. I do want to make amends. And you’ve never let me down. But for now, Uncle, I beg your honesty one last time. I’m coming to you again for answers.

Answers I know you have.

My love and good tidings,

Your adoring niece,

      Bobby

The elder gentlemen set down the letter with a heavy sigh. Charon, whom was nursing his teacup and enjoying the flickering flames of the gas fire looked up in question.

“Sir?” He inquired quietly. Reading his old friend’s disquiet expression.

“When it doesn’t rain,” Winston began, handing Charon the letter. The younger, dark skinned gentleman took the paper and absorbed the ink letters with a practiced eye.

“It pours.” He rejoined, some few minutes later, folding the letter down and handing it back to Winston who replaced it in its envelope. It would join the thick pile in his locked writing desk drawer where every other correspondence from his niece lived.  

“Shall I prepare a suite of rooms for the young lady?” Was his first question. Although it didn’t need to be asked.  Every other visitation for years had seen Bobby cloistered safely within the finest apartments The Continental had to offer. Winston and Charon had taken professional pride in ensuring the young woman had been accommodated in a luxury that her otherwise provincial countryside English manor or the myriad of rustic campsites had not afforded. Never a “tall poppy”, Bobby maintained a genuinely likeable, down-to-earth personality that saw her often saying things like:

“You needn’t go through so much trouble for me, Uncle, honestly. A blanket by the kitchen hearth on the floor is good enough.” or

“A single room with three other girls will do, Uncle. I lived in university dorms for the better part of my young adult life. I’m not adverse to sharing.”  

These sentiments were all very sweet and well-natured, but that just wasn’t how business was done as far as Winston or Charon were concerned. They had standards. Their hotel was the bespoke Gold Class in international and local accommodation. Their rooms were almost always fully booked, all year round with underground professionals as well as local and touring civilians. Even so, there were always reserved room suites that were maintained on various levels and marked as “Private Residence”. These were withheld from the public and were always set to accommodate family and friends, friends of friends, staff and their relations or on exceptional and frequent occasion, the absolute royalty of the criminal underbelly.  Gold coins exchanged hands. Room keys were given. No business was allowed. Winston had already lived through a recent excommunication mandated by his order. The price of its completion had been high. He still regretted pulling the trigger on that pistol.  When the body of his friend was not recovered from the streets below, he had glowered in a semblance of hope. The Adjudicator and her department of vipers retreated to the bowels of whatever circle of hell they came from. But not without warning.

As far as he was concerned, they could shove their warning some place largely uncomfortable. He wasn’t about to fold to the ideals or criticisms of a faceless organization for which he had little to impart upon. He was New York. Had been for almost forty years. And he wasn’t about to give it up now.

So when the ghost, known as “The Boogeyman” resurfaced upon his doorstep some three months later, with a fire in his eyes and a woman at his side, he ensured the premium penthouse suite was at their disposal. Through correspondence in England, from The White Tower of London, he learned a great power shift had recently come into play. And that woman, that “The Boogeyman” was escorting was in fact now the owner of England’s council seat of The High Table. Royalty.

Yes.

He was accustomed to accommodating royalty.  Charon had informed him that Mr. Wick and Lady Clayton had taken an extended residence and requested their penthouse be serviced only under express request. Otherwise, they were to be left perpetually undisturbed. Mr. Wick had his beloved dog, that charming charcoal blue coloured Pit Bull Terrier that simply answered to 'Boy’ and 'Dog’ follow at his side along with the Lady that dressed in black and was held at his arm. Charon had noted that Mr. Wick now wore a ring that was not of the same origin as his wedding band, but to those learned underworld on-lookers had the same weight if not more. It was a black onyx stone framed in sterling silver and emblazoned on its surface was the ancient caduceus symbol. That ring, was a symbol of amnesty and regal entitlement.  It meant he had been selected as the royal consort to the new grey queen of the English underworld. Lady Clayton, ethereal, removed and strikingly otherworldly, with deep green eyes and a piercing demeanor, had superseded her predecessor in a blood feud that had ended the lives of hundreds so as she might have ascended the throne. The grapevine called her “The Reluctant Queen”, for she had requested abdication of the council seat at The High Table, citing emotional and physiological instability to be her primary point of contention. The Department of the Adjudicator did not care for her confessions. They cared about establishing stability until her use was fulfilled and a suitable replacement to absorb her criminal enterprise across London could be secured. She may well have been a holder of a seat upon The High Table, but she did not treat the honour with the respect which others felt the council so readily deserved. It was said she had help, in her blood feud. That Mr. Wick had absconded from American soil on her commission soon after Winston’s betrayal. That war was once more brewing on the streets of New York. Simmering beneath the surface. Coming, like the gathering storm. Across the water. Torrential, like the rain that very afternoon. The ground was due to give way again. And so many would be sucked down into the abyss for which they would never return.

He had no choice but serve his duty. For Lady Clayton, entered the hotel with her retainer, Mr. Wick, and paid an exorbitant price for the privilege of their isolation from the world around them. And he was wearing her ring. The ring of the Royal Consort. The caduceus symbol that meant he was now a “kept man” under the protection of England’s latest grey queen. Protected. Revered. Coveted. Retired.

It suited him, Winston had said, when he met his old friend in the lounge some many days later. But Mr. Wick was hesitant to respond with anything that looked like even forced cordial civility. His eyes had seemingly changed colour as well. Winston was positive, in the years of which he had known Johnathan, that the middle-aged assassin both before and after his marriage to Helen, had eyes of a deep and compassionate chocolate brown. They seemed to capture you, entrap you. Bring you into the moment of focus that was otherwise so readily able to slip away.

He actually wondered if he was very much mistaken. For that night when he attended Mr. Wick’s table, as he was seated alone and nursing a glass of top shelf whiskey, his eyes appeared a great deal lighter. In actual fact, they were a startling, almost inhumane shade of green. Green, and the iris ringed in a perfect circle of black.  Almost a horror to behold. As if… as if his eyes were a mirror of the demons and vampires found in literature and film. Were they coloured contacts? He meant to ask. And his ring finger on his left hand… was missing.  Cut away entirely from the second knuckle joint. His wedding band gone. Though the discoloured mark that was left behind after five years of marriage meant the memory of his wedding vows would never fade.

The questions he meant to ask died in his throat. Along with his better judgment. Mr. Wick was never one for many words. As he was now, whiskey glass in hand. Missing his ring finger, his wedding band.. wearing a new ring of the Royal Consort and those eyes… those eyes that were positively burning, inhuman. Like, something had torn free and blazed in the fire of irresistible resurrection. He thanked his old friend for his patronage. He withdrew from the table and attended his rooms, locking the doors and bolting them heavily behind him. The shutters in his windows were down. And the lights were reduced to a single reading lamp. He’d slept fitfully that night. And with one eye opened.

It was Mr. Wick’s shadow that had disconcerted him more than anything. For he could have sworn that the man’s shadow as he sat reflected by the firelight of the lounge, set across the floor to appear as though he had the wings of a massive, impossible moth… or perhaps a butterfly. And he’d stood for a moment, rooted to the floor. Horrified. Watching that shadow. Those wings. They moved. Beating the air silently. Pulsing. Once… Twice… Three times… Could it be so? That this man was the harbinger of doom? Had The Raven King returned to possess and destroy those whom would have wronged him? Stolen from him? Killed from him?

“Goodnight, Winston.” Mr. Wick had said. His voice, rich and deep snapped him from his tormented reverie, he looked up and almost stammered,

“Yes… Enjoy your stay, at The Continental.” He looked back down. The shadow of those wings were gone.

It was just his old friend Johnathan Wick, sitting at his table, nursing his whiskey glass. His eyes were still the colour of rich coffee that they had always been. But his ring finger was still missing. As was his wedding band. He nodded his goodnight. And walked away.

Now Winston sighed again, nodding to Charon and wishing very much that Bobby’s timing could have been a great deal better. Sooner than Mr. Wick and Lady Clayton’s arrival, or in fact later, once the couple had left his hotel entirely to disperse into the underground. Back into the cold city streets or away back to England where Mr. Wick had been commissioned to rule, off field, as an overseer at the side of the Lady Judeth Clayton. There was something wrong with them. The pair were both strikingly unnatural. The air grew colder around them when they were together. And the guests hesitated to sit so close. The couple spoke in hushed tones to each other. In different languages. French. Italian. Sometimes Russian. It was something about their eyes. They appeared like mirrors. Reflecting the sins of the world. In blood and torment. You could almost hear the screams of the dying and smell the acrid iron of spilled blood. Darkness… dark magic. John Wick, Excommunicato Survivor and Judeth Clayton, The Reluctant Queen. What a pair they made. And they were here. Now. Upstairs in their penthouse overlooking the fountains and gardens. Away from the street. The entire top floor was vacated for the honour of their accommodation and would remain so as long as they stayed on in his hotel.

His maids had complained that 'Dog’ growled at them when they attempted to take on their cleaning duties of the rooms. And that Lady Clayton was often seen at her dressing table, with a great ball python coiled about her arms and lap, whispering, speaking words of unintelligible origin as she looks on into the depths of her mirror. That the maid had noted the room was cold… freezing cold, although the thermostat was turned up to its highest heat setting. And that Lady Clayton’s reflection did not meet her in the mirror. That something horrible was there instead. A blackness… a murky forest or swamp. The Lady did not respond when called to or prayed to, or upon. The maid ran from the room screaming. Insisting they needed an exorcist or at least, a priest. That penthouse suite was unholy.

Winston had no choice but to retire these maids under stress leave.  There was too much pressure building around his returned guests.

And now Bobby was coming to New York. Merely three days away. Another problem to compound his already growing list of extremely provoking concerns.  “Perhaps, Charon, you might put Bobby and her friends in the vacant Queen Suite on level five, near Mrs. Rainthrope and her charming granddaughter. Room Five-Twelve, I think.”

Charon nodded to this sentiment but returned with his own admission,

“Don’t you think, Sir, it might be more prudent to put her on level eleven? Rooms One Hundred and One and One Hundred and Two are vacant and closer to Mr. Cesknoc and Ms. Halloway, being as she is, now consumed of our line of work….” He let the thought hang in the air. And Winston absorbed it with his thoughtful eyes. But did not agree.

“No, my old friend, I don’t think so. If anything, I’m certain Bobby would better appreciate the normality of being surrounded by harmless civilians. Just because she’s now privy to the arrangements under which we operate, does not mean we now have license to embroil her or her friends any deeper into this cesspit of darkness than is absolutely necessary. Not that I don’t appreciate your foresight. Her protection is paramount. Especially now more-so as she refuses to desist with her investigation of the other side as it were.” He paused here, to drink the remainder of his Earl Gray tea before setting down his teacup and pushing it on its porcelain saucer aside.

“No, I think, Room Five-Twelve beside Mrs. Rainthrope and her granddaughter, Shirley, will be just fine. If we’re lucky, the two ladies might become friends and they might seek to move on their American tour together. And Bobby might be so good as to leave this notion of the other side behind.”  

Charon also finished his tea as he listened to his employer’s logic. He dared to pro-offer the crux of Winston’s concerns as he said,

“You’re worried about Mr. Wick and Lady Clayton, aren’t you, Sir?”

There was silence between the old friends for a long series of heartbeats. Winston collected his pen and his paper and reading glasses and straightened himself, getting to his feet and taking Bobby’s letter into his coat pocket.

“Worried? That’s a mild way of putting it, Charon. The cleaning staff are calling for exorcists before even considering the option of entering their rooms. I’d say, unequivocally terrified, is a more accurate summation of it. Alas, Que Sera, sera.”  He finished finally.

The two old friends exchanged a knowing glance that spoke more than the words they each held in their hearts.

They were both, deep down, very sorry that Bobby had been caught in the crossfire of a world that never concerned her. It had almost killed her, that day, so many years ago. And Winston was given the choice, whilst she was in a coma, advised that her quality of life was greatly deteriorating. As her last and only next of kin, would he consider turning off her life support? He deliberated deeply for days and nights at her bedside. And finally whispered into his niece’s ear.

“There are some things, in this world, that are worth fighting for, Roberta. Some things that are worth dying for. But this, darling girl… this lapse in judgment is not it. Come back, sweetheart. Your time’s not up yet. If you can hear me, Bobby… And I’m sure you can… Come back.”

And so, Roberta 'Bobby’ Kent, was coming back to New York City. She had plans to visit her Uncle Winston in The Continental. She had survived her ordeal. And she had become obsessed with the myths and legends of a man that was said to have left the human world in anything but a blaze of glory. It was said this man was reincarnated from time to time. To come from the depths of the underworld, to appear, to live, to change and influence events and then to disappear into the ether, as though he had never been. And never was.

They said, in the recent folklore, that this man, moved in shadows and served a power unlike anything the underworld had ever seen. That he had “got out” once. That he retired… and took on a married life, with a beautiful woman named Helen. That his life had changed when she had passed away. That in actual fact, the day she died, he’d gone with her. To the land of the other side. But he was caught. Trapped upon a bridge that would never end. No shore in sight. He walked on and on and on and called her name. Helen… Helen… He was driven… By the sound of beating wings. But this bridge… The was no ground beneath it… No opposite bank he could discern. And no way to turn back the way he had come. Was this purgatory? To carry on… forever? Chasing the memory of a loved one? Chasing the sound of beating wings?

A good man had died on that night. And left behind a ghost. A shade. A dark angel… Black blood. Risen from the banks of the earth and disconnecting life one bullet at a time. He was bound back into service. A blood oath marker that he fulfilled. Unwillingly. He came back for love. But it was not him that returned to the mortal plain to fight on. To keep living the life of which he had been pardoned, so as he could remember what he had forgotten. The life he had once lived. The love he had once shed.

They said, John Wick was no longer a man. That he had gone to the other side and stayed there. That the woman… Judeth Clayton… she was not even human anymore. The blood she had shed to bind his soul to the earthly plain had been enough to topple a whole empire.

The old legends… The folklore. It had said to watch for the change in their eyes. For there are those amongst us whose eyes are green. But there are shades of green of Dutch and French origin. Those are neither here nor there.

It’s the others that you watch for. The ones whose eyes are green like  the deepest, darkest forest with no end. Like the eyes of demons, mirrors into a non-reflective soul… And you can feel the air grow colder around them. And you can smell the scent of iron and blood. And animals would go out of their way to protect them. And mirrors do not show their reflections. And that you must watch their shadows. For the shadows are honest and true. And they show the beating of wings. Like a butterfly… or a great, massive moth.

It rained that day in New York City.

It rained.. but you could hear the cries of ravens in the air. In the distance.

It shouldn’t have been like this.

Ever.

But it was.

JW. || Blood of the Raven King Uncut

This work is dedicated to all my fellow John Wick fans all over the world, no matter where you are. This is an unusual supernatural/alternative universe cross over request. Constructed solely on a prompt and some beautiful artwork as supplied by our friend @rubydart; who, along with a Tweet by author Matt Dovey in May of 2019 suggested that if John Wick was a Fae of Folklore, he would:

Only works for favours, tallied through gold coins

Can be bound by blood promises against his will

Lives in the world unseen by passers-by

Values sacred ground and rituals

Has a special bond with animals

Does not tire or feel pain as a human would

The other fairies speak in awed tones of him as the only one to “get out” through sheer strength of will he crossed over into our world for the love of a human

Can only be harmed by weapons containing iron

Each of these are elements I hope to bring into the story in time. As an organic free-form writer, I work on a concept and let it build into something beautiful. The following Two Scenes for Act One are a precursor for the future. There is a whole host of inspirations and concepts that I’ve every intention to give credit to in a proper bibliography in time. For now, I ask you, the readers, to write in with your thoughts and feelings on the work. Would you like to see more? Has this story excited you? Do you enjoy the characters? Feel free to like and share this work with your friends and fellow John Wick fans, making sure you link me back with a credit. If you wish to leave a review, I’m always reading what is left behind. Would you like me to tag you for latest updates? Please send me a direct message via Tumblr messenger or an Ask request. I’ll make sure you’re added to my list.

With Love and Peace,

L.G. Spider

{[ Reader’s List: @jardanijovonovichs @rubydart @rubydian @f0rtis-fortuna-adiuvat @lalienna-dementriento ]}

Come to dinner, wear a dress.

I came to dinner

He invited me

I wore a dress

In black

For him

He watched me over the dinner table

Refilled my wine

Reminded me to breathe

Though I forgot long ago how to live.

John Wick || Beatitudinem

There was beauty in the air today.

This late summer afternoon as the breeze rolled fresh off the heat-hazed horizon with the scent of the sea entwined in its crest. The tang of salt in the air. It caressed her skin and lifted her hair. She loved to work in the soil. Especially here, in this house on a high hill overlooking the ocean. The summer's heat dissipated, but the dirt was warm in her hands. Under her nails, between her fingers, under her wedding ring.

She smiled to herself, happily. Still very much in love. These past two beautiful years. And she thought the name was still magical. She could barely believe it. In these quiet moments where she was an earth mother, her hands in the soil as she sought to plant these succulent flowers in the landscape of their garden, she caught her name revolving around her head.

'I am Helen Wick. Helen Wick now. God... How did I get this lucky?'

She'd planted the last of her seedlings and meant to water them gently except her tin water canister was empty now. She'd been working the soil for at least four hours whilst her husband slept upstairs on this glorious Sunday afternoon. She'd water them a little later.

Helen rose to her feet and clapped the dirt off her hands, looking out over the horizon. So beautiful this day. She could see on forever, out over the hill and into the valley where the beach brought its eternal tidings along with the first star of the celestial heavens above.

She loved to work the earth on days like this. It helped her feel grounded. It reminded her that we all returned to the earth eventually. For now, she was thirsty. It was easy to lose track of time when working in your own garden. Especially when it was a labour of love.

She made her way up the patio steps, across the landing, and through the garden door into the kitchen. Attending the sink that overlooked a grand arched window into the garden where her beautiful plants were growing. She'd planned on building a gazebo where she and her husband could rise on early mornings and have breakfast together. Or make love under its arching roof.

That was a romantic fantasy. She wanted very much to make it come true as she took a glass tumbler and filled it with chilled filtered water from the tap.

The embodiment of her marital bliss had padded on silent footfalls down the stairs and was now dressed and leaning against the kitchen doorframe, smiling at her. Warm, chocolate-coloured eyes and radiating passionate humility. She caught his reflection in the kitchen windowpane and turned to admire him as she leaned back against the kitchen sink. God. He was beautiful. Her husband. She could do nothing but smile at him. Smile and love him with every piece of her blossoming soul. Her Johnathan.

"Are you...smiling, Mister Wick?" She teased him playfully. A glitter in her eyes as she looked him up and down. Dark blue jeans, a white low cut t-shirt and a calf brown leather jacket that they had bought together in their first year of marriage. He wore it everywhere. It was his absolute favourite. But she wished he'd opt for something lighter in the summer.

"Maybe... yeah." He replied, that smile unwavering.

"Well, I wish you wouldn't. It's indecent." She teased. Not far from the truth. He had a way about smiling that always felt a little too intense around her. Borderline romantic. He pushed his shoulder away from the door frame and came forward into the kitchen proper to caress her hips with his tender hands and whisper,

"Just as well."

"What's that?" She whispered back coyly, setting the water glass down upon the sink and turning her attention to again look up into those tender, heartbreaking eyes.

"That I'm not shy about being indecent." He replied warmly. Their lips met. And it was heaven suspended in magic. Infinity forever. She wrapped her arms around him, forgetting her hands still carried the soil of the afternoon summer land that she was mothering into life. He didn't seem to mind anything that she had. Whether it was dirt or blood, so long as it was hers he'd accept everything with passive gratitude. His warm fingers caressed her jaw as he pulled away and she smiled in the wake of his kiss. Coming gently back down to earth. He had a way about him. Her Johnthan. Of making her feel as though she never wanted to come back down from this cloud he had her perpetually suspended on.

Her husband. She loved him. But he occasionally needed correcting. Gently, lovingly. But definitely correcting. Her heart swelled with hopeful pride as she said to him,

"Hmm, well.. That said, it's Sunday... and I was wondering if I might convince you to stop tinkering with the car and head out to the hardware store for me?"

Now that sultry smile he wore dissolved into something a little smoother. She pushed a lock of his ebon hair out of his eyes.

"What for?" He asked gently. Gravel in his voice. Deep and reverberating so that even at a distance she could feel it in her chest.

"What for he says? John! It's been two months, that gazebo isn't going to finish building its self. I'd like to have it ready before New Year, if at all possible."

That glitter in his eyes as he leaned forward to grace her with another kiss. She tilted her jaw away, playful in her need to refuse him. But his lips met her chin all the same and made her sigh as he whispered, "Anything is possible." against her skin.

That made her laugh. Gentle, like wind chimes in the distance. She stepped away from him and arched her brow suggestively,

"Well, are you going or...?" He hesitated. Watching her. The scent of the sea and soil against her skin. The lines of her neck, the curves of her breasts and hips.

"I'm thinking...." He murmured.

"John..." It sounded like exasperation, but it was honestly veiled lust. He seemed to breathe this nuance between them in.

"I'll go. But I'll need you to do things for me in return."

That was very much her husband. Johnathan Wick, every bit the negotiator. Willing to compromise but for a price. She paid him willingly but not without gentle rebuke as she corrected him again now.

"Do things? Don't I do enough for you? I clean your house, I cook your meals, I press your clothes."

"These are all things I could do for myself, baby. You know you don't have to do any of it."

"That's not the point, Johnathan, I've seen you with an iron."

"Well, you shouldn't have distracted me."

"Distracted you?! John, you can't iron suede!"

"And you shouldn't bend down in a short skirt, but I'm not holding it against you, am I?"

Johnathan Wick, her husband. Negotiator and master debater when the mood suited him. And it suited him like a second skin. Always. Forever. She loved him. She loved him with every ounce of her heart and soul. But he could stand to be corrected every now and then. She really wanted to finish that gazebo before their anniversary. She wanted to lay in his arms so they could take in the evening sea breeze on their hilltop home and talk about their dreams of forever.

"Will you just go please, baby? I've left a list of timber beams and bolt specs pinned to the board by the door. And can you make sure they're Imperial, please? And get a tube of Liquid Nails while you're there, we're out. Now, get outta here, will you? I need a little alone time. You don't need to hover about my shoulder every two minutes like a stalking butler. I can take care of myself, surprising as that may seem."

He committed her words to memory. His eyes never leaving her face, he watched her lips move and felt the swell of her hips against his palms, sighing in contentment as her hands came up to his chest. Oops! She forgot about that. She brushed the dirt off the cotton with her forearm whilst he smiled at her.

"I never doubted it, baby girl. I just like checking up on you." His left hand strayed, lower than was prudent. She purred the words,

"With your hand on my ass?"

He squeezed the flesh he had purchase on. A reminder that his hands could bring about the coils of pleasure she'd only ever dreamed about.

"At least one of us needs to keep it covered. They're shrinking lace like it's going out of fashion." He replied. There was heat in his voice now. He looked hungry. Protective and hungry. And for a moment she thought about it. About taking off his jacket and t-shirt and rubbing her soil-covered hands against his chest. He did this to her. Conjured visions and dreams and desires she'd never experienced before. Except when she stood alone in his presence. In the heat of his eyes. Mmm. She loved him. The way he made her feel. But she'd make him wait. On principle if nothing more. Because she enjoyed feeding him when he was hungry. Nourishing him took on many forms. And she delighted in being instrumental in overseeing all of them.

"You fool! Get outta here. Give your wife thirty minutes alone, won't you? And stop at the drug store on the way back. I need a refill of my pill prescription." She pecked his cheek, dancing out of his tender embrace and turned back to the sink, to take the olive oil soap and lather her hands under running water.

"You're gonna need more than the pill to keep you protected from me."

There was humour in his voice but it was thin and veiled in the heat of a man that had long since decided he wanted to spill his seed as a willing father. They'd discussed their options quietly in bed together. Not yet. She just wasn't ready. She wanted more time to love her husband alone before giving a piece of herself to rear his children. He understood. But he made the offer all the same. A vow to her. For when she changed her mind. He was ready.

"That's a funny way to file for divorce, Mister Wick." She called over her shoulder. Teasing him again. She caught his reflection in the kitchen windowpane as he stalked down the hall waving her comment away. She could imagine the smile across his lips vividly.

They knew each other. First as friends, then as lovers, then as husband and wife. Their history secured their bonds with each other. There was nothing that either of them could say that would ever be grounds for devoicing. Except for when he left the garage door open. Or came back inebriated from a good night with his work friends and stumbled about the following morning hungover with a ringing headache.

Who was she kidding? She'd never detach herself from him. He was a good man. And they were rare to find in this day and age.

Even so, he could stand with a little correcting. She heard him mutter to himself in the hallway and then call to her.

"Keys, baby?"

"Bowl on the hall table." She called back, listening. That's right. He had them now. She counted the heartbeats. He asked another question,

"Phone?"

"Coat pocket...on the hat stand by the door."

That's right. He had it now. She counted the heartbeats and sure enough, her beloved husband asked yet another question that made her smile and laugh inwardly.

"Wallet?"

"Next to the vase, John. On your left... your other left." She heard him mutter to himself. Something about how grateful he was to have a woman as organized as she to depend upon. So she padded out of the kitchen, drying her hands on the dishtowel and met her husband at the foot of the hallway. He turned and looked up at her with a self-satisfied corona of radiance. In marital bliss.

"I love you, baby." He said to her. To his wife.

"Mhm. I love you too. Drive safe." Said Helen Wick.

Watching as her husband made his way out of their marital home door.

Beatitudinem Uncut

The word ‘beatitudinem’ is Latin for ‘happiness’.

The John Wick film franchise features little content for the wonder that is the beautiful Mrs. Helen Wick. Performed by American actress: Kathryn Bridget Moynahan. Helen Wick appears in mobile phone film footage and a range of tender and romantic flashbacks in the original John Wick film released in 2014.

Helen, along with Daisy and John’s beloved antique 1969 Ford Mustang Mach 1 which is referred to in the film as a Boss 429, are three central motifs that surround John’s life with meaningful importance both before and after his retirement from the criminal underworld where he is renowned and feared as a spectacular master assassin.

Fans feel, that were it not for Helen’s passing, John Wick may have moved into the ether of his retirement happily ever after. Beatitudinem, seeks to explore a moment in time where Helen is alive and well, two years into their blissful marriage. Naturally, the narrative takes on the creative license to assume the thoughts, feelings and attitudes of the woman who is otherwise a foreshadowing figure to her husband and his grieving process after her passing.

Little is known about Mrs. Wick, but the fans agree, she was a magnificent woman to have been able to bring this man so much warmth and salvation in their five years of happy marriage.

Beatitudinem, is written as a tender one-short short story that celebrates the simplicity and domesticity of every-day married life. We sincerely hope you enjoy it! If you do, please share, like and reblog the story with your friends and fellow John Wick fans. Spread the love. You’re welcome to add the work to a Master List, just don’t forget to send a message or comment our way to let us know how far the tale has travelled.

This work is dedicated to my special friends:

@f0rtis-fortuna-adiuvat  &  @lalienna-dementriento

We Love You!

Short story for @small-fortunes' #weekly writer's prompt ! This was alot of fun to do and when I started I couldn't stop- I apologise if it goes off the rails slightly I haven't practiced in a while!

They stood there, facing each other down from across the room amidst a cacophony of noise.

Ed’s mind was crumbling. It was crumbling as he was desperately trying to pick up the fragments, to understand. The delicate and complex machinery of his brain had failed. He knew it would happen one day, one day he wouldn’t understand.

But that day had come earlier than he had expected. But that’s the irony of it; It had failed because he couldn't comprehend his current situation. It wasn’t predictable. His greatest ally had failed.

His mind had now blurred into one white slab as he shakily fell to his knees. He felt Oswald’s demeaning gaze piercing his head.

“I have a riddle for you, Ed.”

No! No more riddles Oswald please he pleaded silently, his ears ringing as an explosion crumbled the building next to them.

“A nightmare for some. For others, a saviour I come.”

Colourful lights flashed past Ed’s closed eyelids as Oswald began limping closer, clutching his cane.

“My hand’s cold and bleak. It’s the warm hearts they seek.”

Oswald hobbled closer as Ed knelt on the floor, hands protectively over his head. He savoured seeing Ed in such a weak, vulnerable position.

“What’s the answer, riddler?” He mocked, eyes pointed.

Ed didn’t answer. He was still trying to piece his mind back together. Whatever Oswald had done to it, whatever he had done, he would fix it. He would.

Oswald was getting impatient.

“Answer me!” he yelled threateningly, raising his cane and striking his face aggressively.

Ed flinched as blood trickled from his now bruised cheek. What had put them in this situation? How had it turned out like this? He tried to rewind his mind back, to find the missing information, but it was corrupted. The tape had burnt out and broke.

“I-I don’t know” Ed muttered, his voice cracking as he weakly looked up to Oswald. 

His brain felt like it had been pulled apart and that a toddler was attempting to fit it back together; like some cheap, colourful puzzle to challenge the child’s mental capacity. 

That’s all it was now.

Oswald smirked approvingly, crouching down so that his eyes were level with Ed’s.

“What was that?” 

He sneered, making an ‘i can’t hear you gesture’ with his hand.

Ed’s eyes dimmed as the last of his reputation was pulled from him. He feebly looked up at Oswald, his gaze focusing in an out at random.

“I don’t know!” 

He sobbed, his bones shaking as he fell into a heap.

Oswald laughed heartily. It was a horrible, maniacal laugh that made Ed’s eyes sink into their skull. Oswald suddenly took hold of Ed’s suit and shook it violently, making Ed look into his eyes. 

“Look at me” he spat

“Look at me and see how you have failed. How, because of me, your whole life has begun falling around you. Look at me and see fear. You have nothing, Edward Nygma. Not me, not Gotham, not even your own Mind.”

Ed sobbed harder. “What did you do…”

Oswald laughed again as Ed heard a click as he drew a pistol. He loaded it and pressed it into the side of Ed’s head.

“Look around you, Ed. Look out the windows. Look properly.”

Ed slowly turned his head to look. It was Gotham. In ruins.

“This is my fault, Ed. I did this! I bet you hate me now, don’t you?” Oswald shook him violently again.

Ed didn’t respond, he just stared solemnly at Oswald. There was a pause as Ed closed his eyes, wishing this wasn’t real.

Oswald smiled and rested his finger on the trigger of the gun.

“The answer was death, Edward. Ha! Couldn’t even answer his own riddle. So this is what I've reduced you to, Hm? Well, not to gloat but i think i’ve done a pretty good job myself” He smiled gleefully and gave himself a mental pat on the back.

“Look at you! Wow, the great Riddler, no longer safe in his own body! Your own Mind hates you!” He tilted his head to the side “Well, I might as well put you out of your misery. You’re ruining the mood” He frowned. 

“Oh, also, the answer was death!” He chuckled and pulled the trigger.

Ed’s pupils dilated as he realised what was happening. He welcomed it. His world was no more. He had nothing left.

He heard the click of the pistol and felt a sharp pain. He felt his conscious splattered against the floors and walls of Gotham. He felt his mind obliterated, and he felt the cold. The cold was the worst of it. The endless cold that never stopped. 

It crept over his whole being, inside and out. It grasped him and held him tightly.

It suffocated him, and his mouth constantly gasped for freedom. But it never came.

No. What?

That’s wrong. Is it?

How did this happen? You know.

What happened…? You know!

No, he wouldn’t do this. Would he?

This is wrong. It’s completely correct!

No. Yes! 

Ed’s mouth finally gasped the freedom and warmth that he had searched for, as he was plunged upright through the cold waters of death suddenly. His pupils were small and his gaze shook as his eyes adjusted to the sudden light. He coughed dryly and wheezed for air.

“Ed..?”

 He flinched as he heard that voice, and slowly turned his head to see Oswald looking at him, confused.

“What happened, you look like you’ve seen Fish Mooney’s ghost”

He chuckled lightly and reached over to hold Ed’s shoulder reassuringly. Ed flinched away from his touch, and raised his hands defensively. He took a sharp breath in as he realised he was covered in a cold sweat.

“N-no leave me alone, I know what you did! I saw you!”

He began muttering inaudibly, his eyes growing wide as he sat face to face with the person who had just killed him.

Oswald frowned and shook his head gently.

“Ed… I don’t know what happened, but it wasn’t real… it was just a nightmare”

Ed didn’t seem convinced.

Oswald slowly raised his hand and cupped Edward’s cheeks gently. Oswald’s touch was warm, and Ed melted into it, slowly warming up.

It was enough to reassure him, and suddenly he felt a heavy stone in his stomach. He hadn’t trusted Oswald, of all people!

“I’m sorry Oswald… I didn’t mean it, I don’t know what came over me…” 

He rested his head on Oswald’s shoulder as Oswald smiled and embraced him. It was just a dream. That was all. Oswald wouldn’t do that… He smiled as he realised the truth, and relaxed into Oswald’s touch.

“Hey, Ed?” He queried softly.

“Mmm?” Hummed Ed, closing his eyes.

“I have a riddle for you.”

The ending is left open for interpretation!

“Everything you ever did to me. when you did it. Cut like a knife. More than any bullet wound, Lalienna. I would have saved you from the world. But you didn’t trust me enough, did you? It was never enough. You needed more. Nothing seemed to satisfy you. So I can’t force your hand. I’ll get up, get dressed and leave.  But you will remember this hour. This night. You will remember me. I’ll see you ‘round.” - J. Wick. Tower of London.