⁺｡˚⋆˙‧₊☽ ◯ ☾₊‧˙⋆˚｡⁺⋆ ⁺｡˚⋆˙‧₊☽ ◯ ☾₊‧˙⋆˚｡⁺⋆ ⁺｡˚⋆˙‧₊☽ ◯ ☾
𝒮𝒽𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓈 𝑜𝒻 𝒸𝑜𝑜𝓁
john wick x fem!reader
⊱⋆⊰ resume: He shouldn’t be listening. He shouldn’t be watching. And yet, He cannot take his eyes off you. ⊱⋆⊰
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╔═══*.·:·.☽✧ ✦ ✧☾.·:·.*═══╗
2.7 k, violence, canon-typical murder,
obsessive john, dark, possessive john.
╚═══*.·:·.☽✧ ✦ ✧☾.·:·.*═══╝
⋆⁺｡˚⋆˙‧₊☾ ◯ ☽₊‧˙⋆˚｡⁺⋆ ⋆⁺｡˚⋆˙‧₊☾ ◯ ☽₊‧˙⋆˚｡⁺⋆ ⋆⁺｡˚⋆˙‧₊☾
The restaurant is wrong.
John knows this the moment he steps inside, long before he maps the exits or counts the guards. The wrongness is subtle, stitched into the air rather than the layout. Too much polish. Too much money trying to pretend it isn't dangerous. Crystal glasses on white linen. A pianist in the corner who looks like he's never missed a meal. Men in tailored suits whose hands are never far from their jackets.
A front. A clean one.
John moves with the room, not against it, letting the low murmur of conversation wash around him. He keeps his shoulders relaxed, posture unremarkable. Jake walks half a step ahead, playing the role better than most—confident, careless, like this is nothing more than a late dinner with an expense account.
John scans anyway.
Two exits on the ground floor, one through the kitchen. Balcony above, decorative but usable. The stage at the front of the room draws attention by design—low platform, soft lights, velvet curtain pulled back just enough to suggest anticipation. A distraction waiting to happen. The kind of place where people look forward, not behind them.
The target sits where Jake said he would. Front table, angled toward the stage, flanked by men who don't touch their drinks. The boss is older than John expected. Expensive watch. Soft hands. False confidence born from believing himself untouchable.
John slides into his seat, back to the wall. Habit. The chair creaks softly under his weight. He registers it, then lets it go.
This is supposed to be routine.
Jake signals for wine they won't drink. The server smiles too widely. John catches the faint bulge at her ankle. She's armed. Not trained, but armed enough to be dangerous if startled. He files it away.
They wait.
John's thoughts are flat, orderly. There is no room for anything else—not grief, not memory, not want. Those things belong to another life. This one runs on precision and restraint. Violence is a tool. Silence is a shield.
Jake leans back slightly, voice low. "Change of plan."
John doesn't look at him. "Explain."
"I called for help."
That gets his attention. John turns his head just enough to catch Jake's reflection in the polished surface of the table. Jake is smiling, but it's tight. Anticipatory.
"You didn't mention that," John says.
"Didn't think it'd matter."
John's jaw sets. He dislikes variables. Dislikes surprises more. "Who did you call?"
Jake pauses, just long enough to be deliberate. "You don't know her."
That is... unexpected.
John studies him now, fully. "Then why involve her?"
"Because she's good," Jake says simply. "And because she won't draw any suspicion."
John doesn't respond. His mind turns over the information, slow and methodical. A civilian, then. Or adjacent. Someone with a skill set that fits this environment. Not muscle. Not a shooter.
The lights dim slightly.
Conversation hushes in soft waves as attention shifts forward. The pianist closes the lid over the keys and stands, bowing once before slipping away. A low ripple of applause follows, polite and curious.
John's gaze moves to the stage.
She steps out from behind the curtain without announcement.
She is smaller than he expects—not fragile, but compact. Grounded. There is a stillness to her that pulls focus without demanding it. Black hair falls down her back in loose waves, catching the light. The dress she wears is elegant without excess, fabric moving easily when she walks. Not designed to provoke, but it does anyway.
The room changes.
He feels it immediately, the subtle shift in posture, the way men lean forward without realizing it. Eyes track her as if drawn by gravity. Even the guards at the front table glance up, momentarily distracted.
His eyes didn't leave her. Not because he intended to stare. Not because he needed to. He simply could not look away. It was a compulsion, the kind that pricked the skin at the nape of his neck, that tugged at the edges of his carefully reconstructed world. He cataloged her as he always did — posture, stance, rhythm, presence — and yet, for the first time in a long time, the cataloging didn't soothe him.
There was a pull he didn't recognize.
Her hand rested lightly on the microphone, her fingers curling around it like a natural extension of herself. A singer. That much was obvious. But she was more than that. The curve of her neck caught the light in a way that suggested intention. The line of her jaw, sharp but softened by shadow, seemed to challenge the very notion of gravity, of time. She breathed once, twice, and the motion of it — small, human — contrasted violently with the controlled, almost mechanical awareness John carried with him everywhere.
She reaches the microphone again and adjusts it with practiced ease. No nerves. No hesitation. Her hands are steady.
Then she starts to sing.
“ My baby lives in..shades of cool.”
Her voice doesn't fill the room all at once. It unfurls. Smooth, controlled, textured with something deeper underneath. Not sorrow exactly. Not joy. Something lived-in. Something that suggests she knows more than she says.
John doesn't blink.
He tells himself it's situational awareness. Acknowledging a new element. Assessing threat potential. He notes the way her breathing is measured, the way she keeps her shoulders relaxed, how her gaze moves deliberately across the audience.
She knows what she's doing.
For forty, fifty, sixty seconds — expanded in his perception like a small eternity — he observed her. He observed the tension in her shoulders and the sway of her hips, the way her voice rose and fell, the quiet insistence of her presence. And in those moments, every kill he had ever executed, every wound he had endured, every loss he had carried, felt irrelevant.
Yet he remained functional. His hands twitched near his holster, eyes sweeping the perimeter, cataloging exits, threats, positions. The hunger in him, the strange longing, coexisted with the cool calculation of John Wick. He was two men at once: the hunter and the observer, the numb and the stirred, the man who had lost everything and the man who now confronted a presence that threatened to undo him.
His attention narrows despite himself. He watches the way her mouth shapes the words, the way the sound carries without effort. It slides under his skin, bypassing the walls he's built out of habit and necessity.
This is not appropriate.
This is not the time.
He shifts slightly in his chair, grounding himself. The weight of the gun at his side is familiar, reassuring. The mission matters. Nothing else.
And then she looks toward the back of the room.
Not randomly. Intentionally.
Her eyes sweep, catch, and hold.
She was the distraction.
John feels it like a strike to the sternum.
Blue. Clear. Assessing.
She sees him.
For a fraction of a second, the noise of the restaurant dulls. Her gaze lingers just long enough to register recognition—not familiarity, but awareness. She knows who he is. Not personally. By reputation.
Everyone does.
Something flickers across her expression. Not fear. Not interest. Calculation.
Then she looks away.
Just like that, her attention returns to the front table, to the man she's meant to occupy. Her voice never falters. The performance continues seamlessly, as if that moment never happened.
But John is no longer untouched.
He exhales slowly through his nose, irritation curling low in his chest. He does not like being seen. He does not like when something slips past his control this easily.
Jake leans closer, murmuring, "Told you."
John doesn't answer. His eyes are back on her despite his better judgment. He watches the way she holds the room without demanding it, the way her presence keeps the boss engaged, complacent.
She is doing exactly what Jake promised.
And John, against every instinct he has honed over years of survival, cannot look away.
The song continues, stretching time without effort. It feels longer than it is. Heavy. Intimate. As if it's being sung for no one and everyone all at once.
John reminds himself why he is here.
He forces his focus outward, marking guard rotations, timing the distraction. Jake's hand brushes his sleeve—two short taps. Go.
John stands smoothly, blending into the movement of patrons shifting in their seats. He takes one last look at the stage, at the woman whose voice still threads through the air like something alive.
She doesn't look back.
Good, he tells himself. It's better that way.
He turns toward the shadows leading deeper into the restaurant, already pushing the moment aside, already compartmentalizing.
He has no idea how badly it will refuse to stay there.
The corridor behind the dining room is narrow and dim, designed to disappear behind the elegance. Sound bleeds through the walls—cutlery, low laughter, her voice threaded through hidden speakers. It follows him as he moves, steady and unbroken, like it knows where he's going.
John does not turn back.
He keeps his pace even, shoulders loose, footsteps soft against the carpet that quickly gives way to tile. The kitchen door swings inward at his touch. Heat rushes him, steam and oil and metal, the sharp smell of food cut with something chemical. A cook looks up, startled, and John lifts one finger to his lips. The man freezes. Smart.
John slips past stainless steel counters and exits through a service door on the far side. The music—her voice—grows fainter, but it doesn't disappear. The building carries it. The bass hums through the bones of the place.
Jake is supposed to be ten seconds ahead.
John reaches the stairwell and pauses. He listens. Footsteps above. Two sets. Too fast to be staff.
He draws his pistol.
The first man rounds the corner without looking. John fires once, controlled. The second man hesitates just long enough to die confused. John steps over them, catching the door before it slams, easing it shut.
He moves up.
The stairwell is concrete, unfinished. The sound system pipes the performance everywhere now, the volume lower but present, her voice stripped of reverb and polish. It's closer like this. More intimate. Less distance to hide behind.
Focus, he tells himself.
At the second floor landing, a guard lunges from the shadow. John blocks, disarms, breaks the man's wrist and uses his momentum to send him into the wall. Bone cracks. He doesn't wait for the body to hit the ground.
The hallway beyond is lined with doors. Offices. Storage. One of them leads to the room they need.
Gunfire erupts at the far end.
Jake.
John pivots, moves fast. Another guard steps out of a doorway mid-hall, rifle coming up. John fires twice. The man goes down hard, sliding across polished wood.
The music stutters for half a beat—feedback squeal, then her voice again, unfazed. Professional. Controlled. She does not stop.
John reaches the corner where the hall bends toward the private suite. Jake is there, pressed against the wall, blood darkening his sleeve.
"You good?" John asks.
"Been better," Jake mutters. "They rerouted security. Boss got nervous."
"Where?"
Jake nods down the hall. "Two rooms down. Heavy."
John doesn't comment. He reloads without looking, hands steady. "Stay here."
Jake grabs his arm. "She's still out there."
John stills. Not because of concern for her safety—at least, that's what he tells himself—but because of the information. "Is that a problem?"
"No," Jake says. "It's working. He hasn't moved."
Good.
John pulls free and advances alone.
The next door bursts open as he passes. A man lunges with a knife. John redirects the strike, breaks the arm, uses the knife. Blood splatters the wall. Another man follows, gun raised. John fires from the hip. The hallway echoes with the sharp report.
Through it all, her voice continues.
It seeps into the cracks between seconds, into the space between breath and action. It does something to the rhythm of him—slows it, deepens it. His movements become deliberate, heavy with intention. He is aware of his body in a way he usually avoids: the tension in his shoulders, the flex of muscle as he pivots, the heat in his chest.
He doesn't like it.
He keeps moving.
The private suite door is reinforced. Electronic lock. John produces the device from his jacket and sets it to work. While it hums, he turns, gun raised, scanning.
Another guard rushes him from behind. John fires once, center mass. The man drops. Another comes from the side. John sidesteps, grabs, uses the momentum to slam the man's head into the door. Once. Twice. The lock clicks open.
John kicks the body aside and enters.
The room is larger than expected. A safe built into the wall behind a painting. Two guards inside, weapons already up.
He moves.
The first shot takes the nearer man in the throat. The second guard fires wildly. A round grazes John's shoulder, heat and sting. He ignores it. Closes the distance. Breaks the man's nose with the butt of the gun and fires point-blank.
Silence rushes in.
For a moment, all John can hear is his breathing—and her voice, faint but insistent, filtering through the ceiling speakers. The song is nearing its end. He doesn't know how he knows that. He just does. There's a shift in cadence, a tightening. Something winding down.
He goes to the safe.
As he works, his mind betrays him.
He sees her again—under the lights, dress catching the glow, eyes sharp and knowing. He hears the way her voice carried, the way it wrapped around the room without effort. He thinks of how she looked at him and then looked away, disciplined, controlled.
Like him.
The safe opens with a soft mechanical sigh. John removes the contents and stows them quickly. Job done.
He turns to leave—and freezes.
A guard he missed pushes himself up from behind the couch, gun shaking in his hands. He fires.
John feels the impact low in his side, a blunt force that knocks the air from his lungs. He reacts on instinct, firing back. The guard drops.
John stands there for a moment longer than necessary, one hand braced against the wall. Blood seeps warm through his shirt. He inhales slowly, forcing the pain down.
Get out, he tells himself.
In the hallway, more footsteps. He moves, faster now, ignoring the protest from his body. Two men appear at the far end. John fires, advances, fires again. One goes down. The other retreats, shouting.
Her voice swells suddenly, louder, closer.
“ Your love~..”
Her crescendo whimpers sending chills down his spine. He started wondering how she would look underneath him.
How she would sound like.
He could feel himself getting harder just by the thought of it.
No.
You’re not that man anymore.
You cannot.
The final stretch.
John fights through two more guards in the stairwell, efficient and ruthless. His movements are sharper now, edged with something dangerous and unnameable. He can feel the end approaching—not just of the fight, but of the sound that has followed him like a ghost.
He emerges onto a balcony overlooking the city. Cold air hits his face. He moves to the railing, scanning below. The drop is manageable.
Inside, the music crests.
Her voice lifts, stretches, breaks into something raw and aching. It cuts through him more cleanly than any blade. For a split second, he is not in his body. He is somewhere else entirely—somewhere warmer, closer, more dangerous.
I want—
He stops the thought before it finishes.
This is not who he is. This is not what he does.
Behind him, the restaurant erupts into chaos—shouts, alarms, the sudden scrape of chairs. The song ends abruptly, applause crashing in delayed and confused waves.
Silence where her voice was.
John vaults the railing and drops, hitting the alley hard and rolling through the impact. Pain flares. He pushes up anyway, already moving, already disappearing into the night.
But even as he runs, even as the mission resolves itself into memory and muscle ache, one thing remains uncomfortably clear.
He has never wanted something this badly without touching it.
And he knows—deep in his bones—that this is not the end of her.
