NO WIFE. ㅤNO LIFE. ㅤNO HOME—

𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄,ㅤ𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦.

[deathwick]

breaking news: local lesbian disaster makes another blog. extremely private john wick. please don't follow unless followed first; otherwise you will be hard blocked. this is a very serious rp blog.

meme tag. pinterest.

[deathwick]

@hightabled: what's it like to be you?

seated across from the marquis, the air running thick with tension, the question puzzles him. john had never been one for introspective, but the question lingered in his mind— what was it like to be him? a man of few words, allowing his actions to continuously speak volumes for him, but now he finds himself seeking an answer. hickory irises glancing up, taking note of the smug smirk playing at the corners of the man's mouth, john can't help but scoff— even while attempting to bite it back. “ it's... complicated. ” he finally speaks, voice low & measured— everything is calculated in this room. how quickly he can reach for the gun resting in the holster on his belt, how fast he can kick the coffee table in front of them upwards if the marquis were to aim his first— everything has to be measured with this encounter. “ it means being ready for the next fight, the next danger. it means carrying the past on my shoulders. ” the people he's lost, the things he's done.

looking down at his hands, he recollects the countless lives he had taken throughout the years— as the baba yaga & the quest for revenge. [no matter how hard he scrubbed, the blood on his hands never truly washed away. no matter how hard he tried.] eyes flicking back up to meet the other's gaze, he takes a deep breath; an attempt to shake off the edge that threatened to consume him. “ that's your answer. what it's like to be me. ” he doesn't extend the courtesy of the same question to the other— john doesn't care to know the answer.

[jedinctarchive]

this is obi-wan kenobi : a phenomenal pilot who doesn't like to fly. a devastating warrior who'd rather not fight. a negotiator without peer who frankly prefers to sit alone in a quiet cave & meditate. jedi master. general in the grand army of the republic. member of the jedi council. & yet, inside, he feels like he's none of these things.

inside, he still feels like a padawan.

[berleezymoved]

𝚆𝙷𝙰𝚃 𝙲𝙾𝚄𝙻𝙳 𝙿𝙾𝚂𝚂𝙸𝙱𝙻𝚈 𝙶𝙾 𝚆𝚁𝙾𝙽𝙶 𝚂𝙴𝙽𝚃𝙴𝙽𝙲𝙴 𝚂𝚃𝙰𝚁𝚃𝙴𝚁𝚂.    feel free to change pronouns/tenses to suit scenarios, etc.

“baby, come here.”

“i get so lonely at night.”

“why can’t you tell that i’m desperate?”

“why can’t you tell that i’m bad for you?”

“i wish i was you.”

“so, why can’t you tell me what you think i should?”

“if you were here for the other night, you’d be terrified.”

“you know, i think the lines you’re afraid of are all made up.”

“last night, it was bad.”

“i wanna slow it down, but nobody would’ve let me.”

“maybe if you feel out of place, maybe it’s because you are.”

“i hope they crucify me.”

“no more parties in los angeles.”

“as of right now, my job is to lie down.”

“i hope they cancel me.”

“i pretend i’m ten times stronger for you.”

“you show so much promise.”

“it’s okay to be unhappy with all this.”

“what’s it like to be you?”

“do you see me that way?”

“do you remember my name?”

“i want her.”

“i want her to be just like you.”

“you know you’re my favorite.”

“just like me in my day, but you got all your priorities mixed up.”

“what’s it like being famous?”

“do you see a stranger when you look at my face?”

“sometimes, i wanna save you from everything.”

“it’s impossible to say what you’re gonna be.”

“it’s no business of mine how you waste your time.”

“i bet you miss what you had.”

“do you ever wonder why everyone is out to get you every day?”

“do you question anything?”

“how many warning signs until it hits you?”

“gravity’s your friend.”

“too many factors to be sure.”

“so many reasons to think twice.”

“you fall out of touch sometimes.”

“simple things make a difference in your day.”

“when you cry, i get fucking anxiety.”

“take the time to tell me how it ended up this way.”

“your love is cheap; it doesn’t cost anything.”

“what happens when you can’t keep doing it?”

“am i just scared for you?”

“can you feel the weight of their eyes on your neck?”

“i know you didn’t make any plans.”

“are we dead?”

“were you feeling left out?”

“they can tell that your mind is a mess.”

“these days don’t end.”

“you lost the things that brought us closer.”

“forgot how good it feels to be alone.”

“is this how i’m supposed to feel?”

“make it easy for me.”

“take it easy on me.”

“i still don’t know how you felt.”

“you can’t blame me.”

“why switch like different seasons?”

“you won’t find heaven, not in these hills.”

“you shouldn’t be here.”

“you can still make your mind.”

“i can’t save your life.”

“you can’t carry me through this.”

“i got your back sometime.”

“you’ll still be my favorite.”

“i wish i could save you.”

“i guess you got what you wanted.”

“you got your answer.”

“i’m in a dark place.”

“just know i’m not proud of everything i did so far.”

“i do it all for you.”

“can you follow my lead for once?”

“i can never make up for the time.”

“this is not love, i’m a glorified doorstop.”

“you wonder why we fell into a standstill.”

“we don’t need long.”

“still in the same boat.”

“please don’t ask to stay with me.”

“yeah, i’m still the same.”

“i feel insane.”

“don’t take this shit too serious.”

“look at what we accomplished.”

“i can tell you what it means.”

[balieryna]

→        @deathwick            “    i’ve something to ask you…but i don’t think i’ll get a straight answer.   ”

the studio was quiet,   it's previous occupants had cleared the room once the double doors opened and in came the ballerina.   they left behind hushed whispers in their places,   their delicate breath swaying in the air amongst the particles of dust made visible by streams of light entering through the floor to ceiling windows.  although her profession was unknown to those at the studio,  her associations with the russian mafia and the ruska roma branded her just the same as the ink on her back,   and in a city that never sleeps,  neither do the whispers.   

it was early hours,   and after lowering her bag to the ground,   darya's body followed.    a pair of pale pointe shoes sat beaten at the very top,   the platform of them scuffed and worn from hours of practice.   the process of slipping into them had just begun before it came to a slow stop as the doors opened once more.   had it been anyone else interrupting her morning,   perhaps darya would have felt a sense of urgency to reach for the nearest weapon  (  today it was a polished set of three rotational throwing knives  )  however in this case, there was no need.

a subtle hmph noise thrums from the ballerina's chest as she repositions herself on the floor,   “   good morning to you too,  jardani.   ”  the sweetness such a sentiment could have held didn't quite reach her eyes,  her relaxed tongue allowing the r in his name roll right off of it, revealing a faint russian intonation that was typically buried beneath aritificial american.   their time at the ruska roma had not coincided,   but it was hard to live up to the legacy of a prodigal son,   and so together,   darya and her fellow students carried the weight of that expectancy with them throughout their time under the director.     

“  tighten these for me and maybe i'll be a bit more   ..  forthcoming.  ”   still remaining in the position she had been in upon his arrival,   she at least gave him the courtesy of extending her legs outwards,   leaning back on her hands.

[deathwick]

his eyes and ears take in the quiet atmosphere that had settled in the wake of the ballerina's entrance into the studio. devoid of the whispers that had followed darya's entrance, it was a fitting aura for a room suffused with a feeling of tension. this was not ideal for the man. a visit to the studio > an opening of the door of his past with the ruska roma. yet, john stands with his arms akimbo, stare finally landing on the woman sitting on the floor before him — a study of contrasts.

her delicate appearance belying her associations with the ruska roma, at first glance, she looks like any other new yorker. he was not any other new yorker; nor was she. john also has a job to do, the woman was just another piece of the puzzle he was trying to solve. [and with the ink sprawled across her back, he surmises he's come to the right ballerina.]

the woman's greeting held a faint russian intonation, one that he recognizes immediately. a door opens > a reminder of his own time spent under the watchful eye of the ruska roma. he halts in his tracks, choosing to ignore the sentence. he swallows his pride with a clenched jaw. “ need to get some information about someone. heard you might be a good starting place. ” he proposes as a starting point, a deep exhale trailing behind his words.

john chooses to approach, taking in the offer she extended with a hint of mirth — she knew how to negotiate. how to play the game. begrudgingly and with a quick nod, he shuffles over before taking the pointe shoes into his grasp, fingers moving deftly to tighten the ribbons upon her ankles. once finished, his gaze maneuvers up to her face as he steps backward. “ tight enough for you? ” tight enough to talk?

[solesoldier-a]

SHE COULD COUNT THE TIMES, albeit in attempts at good conscious, that she'd received a hushed, over the shoulder warning about the assassin. Something about it never sat right with her; not that anyone else had the benefit from her point of view. Perhaps she was projecting, possibly pure conjecture, but she didn't see the man as all that too dissimilar from herself — for better or worse.

She knows what it's like to be a mouthpiece, to be the right hand squeezing the trigger. And now she knows what it's like to owe a debt to someone like Cerberus.

The air around them is tense, as was their natures respectively, as was the way they carried themselves. It wasn't uncommon for the crew to give either of them a wide berth, or even to avoid the area all together while in each other's proximity. ( who knew when that bomb was going to go off? ) A single russet brow arches inquisitively against her pale features, the semi-fresh scar above her brow doing the same. If anything, his understanding is even more cause for alarm. Who is she now to see herself so perfectly reflected in him . . . had she always been this way and just refused to see it? ❛  I'm painfully aware.  ❜ A hand rubs the back of her neck, ghosting the traces of a control implant that Miranda swears isn't there, fingers dancing along the trail of scar tissue that has since vanished — more of Miranda's handiwork. No, the reminders of Akuze had thus been removed from her flesh, but they still made their home elsewhere. Shepard's expression steels, decidedly choosing to address only part of his statement.

❛  No . . . but I'm not in the habit of losing.  ❜

[deathwick]

he stands quietly, observing the woman before him with a trained eye.  commander jane shepard in all her glory.  he remembers seeing her face on the news two years ago, the first human spectre, her mantle built off the accomplishments they had brandished on the news  —  he remembers his wife’s excitement.  [a spectre who’s both capable and a woman?  she was thrilled.]  john then remembers hearing about her death.  a death that wounded the galaxy, especially those back on earth who finally bore the feeling of hope blooming in their hearts and veins.  [it wasn’t long after that he received his phone call from cerberus, his hail back to service, cutting the roots of his hope down to the core.] 

he could sense the tension in the air between them, the weight of their shared and individual experiences bearing down on them both.  a hero vs. a killer, both honed to a razor’s edge by years of violence and death.  listening as she speaks, her voice laced with a quiet intensity, his stare falls onto the scar above her brow; the traces of her past etched into her skin.  he knew that feeling all too well.  the memories of his own past were never far from his mind, a constant reminder of the life he had left behind.  [both marred into his heart and the ink on his flesh.]  there had always been something different about her, though; something that set her apart from the crew. 

she was like him, in a way that few others could understand.  he could see it in the way she carried herself  —  in the set of her jaw and the fire burning in her eyes.

nodding at her words, a small smile quirks at the corner of his lips.  john respects the strength, admiring her resilience from afar in the face of adversity.  they were kindred spirits, two souls forged in the fires of war and violence. “ neither am i, ”      his voice barely hovers above a whisper, a foot stepping forward, breaking the distance between them.  he swallows, jaw clenching and eyes narrowing, “ we make sure they lose then. beat them at their own game. ”      we have to beat them before they beat us all.

[deathwick]

do you think john and caine have explored each other's bodies

..... maybe .

[deathwick]

for sunday, my contribution to this blog is john is a switch. depending on his partner/mood, he's very flexible when it comes to sex and being a top or bottom. i don't think john, by any nature even prior to meeting helen, was much of a participant in one-night stands or anything without meaning. john, after all, is a very emotional guy and sex is a big part of that too. i also think he's old-fashioned in the sense of sex vs making love. he much rather make love than just have sex. that being said, i think he can top or bottom without much complaining.

[johnswick]

I appreciate the service. My pleasure. You will find safe passage below.

[dunlapse-deactivated20240213]

TO LOOK UPON ME IS TO SEE THE END OF LIFE —— and yet ... she doesn't wait for pleasantries, taking his words [no matter their substance] as invitation enough to rest at his opposition. something they're familiar with; polarity.

/ / head lulls back ever so slightly, allowing a gentle scoff to fill the air between them. " come now, jonathan. don't tell me you're starting to let business get personal. " gaze is followed; the blade she dons in view isn't the only one she's carrying. never leaves home without them. but they aren't for him —— not this time. " you can relax. i'm simply passing through the city —— " manicured digits rise to hover over pursed lips, feigning promise. " scout's honor. " a pause, sly grin in tow.

" i still like tequila. "

[deathwick]

“ business became personal.  we both know why. ”      they weren’t different  —  two sides of the same coin, both bound by a code that dictated their actions.  he knows this better than anyone.  when his name is mentioned, a small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth  —  a rarity and conceivably, a beat of susceptibility.  it’s a reminder of a time before he became the baba yaga, yet not delving deep enough to rip the rot and decay of jardani from within his bones.  a happy medium; a testament to both time and skill.  tequila added to the equation releases a small chuckle from john; a brief moment of levity in an otherwise taut situation.  he motions for addy, ordering a refill of his bourbon and tequila for elektra, two gold coins placed across the counter as compensation.  it’s accepted, drinks being brought in front of them quickly  —  another icebreaker.

“ passing through? ”      it’s hard to believe; she’s a woman of layers after all.  remove one layer, there are still twenty left to peel.  he knows better, but doesn't question it — he'll take the scout's honor. a sip is taken of his drink, eyes relocating onto the assassin.      “ planning on staying long? ”      

[bloodset]

the man that they had called the baba yaga was desperately underwhelming to illya, and the thought is treacherously stamped upon the unmerited sneer that crawled its way across his expression. it's not very often that illya meets someone he'd term as an equal, and the territory feels somewhat rocky and unfamiliar. before meeting the renowned john wick he had viewed other men as mere sacks of blood and meat, an obstruction to simply be removed from the track of his course, by any means necessary. and thus, illya feels rather displaced by their introduction, as though he is at that moment learning that john wick is just another man, and not belonging to the fable nature of children's stories; he is someone comprised of blood, teeth, bone. (just as real as them, as real as him.) illya dabs at the perspiration that gathered upon his forehead with the back of his clothed wrist, seizing the evidence of his frangible mortality with it.

" the baba yaga... " the assassin coos, summoning ample geniality to his tone as though he is fondly musing over a memory they had once shared together. illya takes a moment to catch his shortened breath, sucking down oxygen to quell the burning inside his lungs. " при свете ты не такой страшный. "

[deathwick]

an eyebrow cocked at the underwhelming response to his presence, but yet, it wasn’t entirely unwelcomed.  the assassin’s sneer and dismissive attitude were hardly surprising, given the stories he had undoubtedly heard about the legendary baba yaga.  [the reality was always more complex than the myth.]  despite their reputations, both men were complied of flesh and blood, vulnerable to the same physical limitations as any other human.  baba yaga may have been a god, but he was a man  —  all the flaws and frailties that came with that.  legends failed to share that part of the story.      “ может быть, не при свете. ”      voice low and measured, his arms align akimbo at his waist, right hand nearing the holster resting on his hips. the language is foreign on his tongue, a reminder of a previous life. [jardani jovonovich once resided in a grave, only now bubbling up to the surface — another myth he can't escape.]      “ но мы с тобой оба знаем, что у темноты есть способ выявить в людях самое худшее. ”      and when the lights go out, he is still the baba yaga.  [or so they say.]  no level of particular malice rests in his bones, but there’s an edge to his words  —  one that suggests not to be taken lightly.  he’s not a man of boasting or posture, but he was confident.  that’s all a man needs.  

“ я здесь из-за работы.  не вы. ”      he clarifies, the tone of his voice softening ever slightly.  impatience brewing, he takes a deep breath as his jaw clenches, shoulders squaring. “ ты собираешься ответить на мой ответ? ”

[deathwick]

vinny vc: conzeequences

[hightabled]

delete this

[deathwick]

we are zee high table

[deathwick]

vinny vc: conzeequences

[deathwick]

made one for anakin so john gets one too.

[deathwick]

@degramont: none of us can escape who we are.

i’m not that guy anymore / you’re always that guy, john. it’s a conversation that lives inside his mind, burrowing itself into his brain synonymous with a parasite. [you can always run but you’ll never be free, not from the noose hung around your neck.] he thinks about it as the two men mimic each other’s actions: eyes aimed down the barrel of their pistols, heads a clear shot for either of them to make. uncertainty roams within the ambiance — who will leave this room alive? who will survive to see the sun rise another day and return to their home? [no wife, no home, no life; what is there to return to?] john breaks his silence, begrudgingly, the tone of voice settling on stolid. “ yeah. guess not. ” he’s here for one reason: grab a shovel, dig a deep hole, and bury the high table once and for all. sermons aren’t a necessity.

eyes narrowing down the rear sight, he walks in sync with vincent, a circle being formed from their footsteps. a knife searing through the tension and serendipity, there’s one thing john is more than certain of: this only ends one way. “ so. ” code for: time for business?

[deathwick]

@solesoldier: we can keep this up as long as you'd like, but it only ends one way.

it’s a sentiment he’s heard far too many times: it only ends one way. this story had already ended once, years ago — an impossible task handed to him in order for the settlement of life. [a pawn for cerberus, acting in their good graces with a leash around his neck.] he’d managed to slip it off his head once and yet, he finds himself back in the hot seat, another collar wrapped around his throat — this time, an ally is granted but at what cost? it’s suffocating but for a man painted in the stories of other people’s blood, there is only one way this ends. awareness is a blessing mixed with a hex. arms crossing themselves over his chest, he simply nods his head, brown eyes glancing around the normandy’s eating quarters. “ yeah… ” it’s a picture of rapport, a support amongst those who should be residing in a grave. death is a heavy topic, but to them, it’s an everyday affair — wrapped up in a gift box with a shiny bow.

back against the wall, he leans and exhales a deep breath, one he’d been withholding and hadn’t even recognized. another sign of a tired man. “ cerberus will come out on top, you know. they always do. alliance or not, you’ll always be cerberus property now. ” cerberus versus the ruska roma back home, what’s the difference? [why do you think i’m here in the first place?]

[deathwick]

i think this blog might contain the most writing i've done in months.