a/n — the way I spent like an hour trying to edit that one painting to be a W instead of an H. Notice how I didn’t use ai? Yeah ITS NOT HARD ITS JUST TEDIOUS. I also remember writing something similar for Zemo like years ago. Anyways enjoy.
Since losing his wife, John had long since stopped caring about his love life. The part of him that once made room for romance seemed to have died alongside her. He didn’t date, he didn’t entertain passing attractions, he didn’t look at beautiful strangers or spend sleepless nights wishing for companionship. Sex felt distant and insignificant compared to the grief that had hollowed him out. If there was anything that still made him feel alive, it wasn’t another person, it was the hunt, the purpose, the chase. Though, different context, because those he hunted, he killed once he had them in his grasp. He found far more satisfaction in murder.
Then he met you. What began as a passing interest became curiosity, then curiosity became concern, and concern became attachment. That attachment became, very quickly, extremely unhealthy.
At first, his precautions were subtle, a car that seemed to appear nearby whenever you were out, security measures you never noticed because they were designed that way. It was reasonable, necessary. The world was dangerous, and he was just protecting you from all dangers you couldn’t see, but not long after that, protecting you was no longer enough, knowing where you were wasn’t enough, having guards nearby wasn’t enough. Every moment you spent beyond his reach became another opportunity for something terrible to happen. Another chance for the universe to steal from him again.
Eventually, John stopped trusting the world with your safety altogether. So he took you. Makes sense, doesn’t it?
It wasn’t a kidnapping, John refused to call it that because there was no dramatic chase through dark streets or ransom note left behind. One day your life belonged to you, and the next it didn’t. That’s it. Done deal. To John, none of this was cruelty, in his mind you were protected, fed, clothed, comfortable, and loved. No one could hurt you, no one could threaten you, no one could take you away from him. It was perfect, you were going to be happy.
But that was John’s perspective. From yours, there was no difference between protection and imprisonment. The house was a cage no matter how luxurious it was, the guards were jailers no matter how polite they behaved and every attempt to leave was met with firm refusal and every conversation eventually circled back to the same unavoidable truth. You were not free.
John Wick had kidnapped you. Whether he intended it or not, he had become both your protector and your captor, the warden of a prison built from obsession, grief, and the refusal to lose another person he loved. Your relationship with him had hardly been what most people would call a relationship.
For weeks, perhaps even months, John had existed at the edges of your life like a shadow. He came and went as he pleased, often disappearing for hours or days at a time before returning without explanation. When he was present, he rarely spoke, conversations with him were brief things, usually consisting of a few clipped sentences before silence reclaimed the room, but despite how little he talked, he touched you often. A hand settling against the small of your back as he guided you through a doorway, fingers brushing loose strands of hair from your face, a thumb grazing your cheek, a reassuring squeeze to your thigh whenever you became agitated during one of your many arguments.
John was not a particularly affectionate man by nature, that much you had learned quickly but in his own deeply flawed way, you knew John loved you. It had taken time to realize it, not that you had accepted it, but eventually you did come to understand that his actions were not born from malice. He genuinely believed he was caring for you. He worried when you were sick, remembered things you mentioned in passing, brought you books he thought you might enjoy, made sure you ate, made sure you slept but understanding that didn't make your situation any less frightening. You have fought from the very beginning, you tried to escape more times than you could count, you tested locks, memorized guard rotations, slipped notes where you thought someone might find them, you argued until your throat hurt and refused every explanation he offered. You were, in every sense of the word, a nuisance. A stubborn, relentless thorn lodged firmly beneath the skin of the great Baba Yaga himself.
John Wick could hunt men across continents, he could track targets who spent fortunes trying to disappear. Entire organizations feared him, yet somehow, he couldn't make one infuriating person cooperate.
You simply refused, refused to listen, refused to obey. You just wouldn’t listen. Even when he told you, this is better, you’re safe, I’m protecting you.
His last straw when your latest escape attempt. You had gotten surprisingly far, and someone, a man whose name you couldn’t recall anymore, even stopped to help you. You very quickly regretted accepting his help, because he didn’t live long once John set his eyes on him.
And this sparked, in Johns eyes, a brand new issue. This man, who was now a smear on the wall, hadn’t known who you belonged to. If he had, he never would have stopped to help you!
this was about preventing another tragedy, about ensuring that nobody would ever mistake you for someone unclaimed, someone alone, someone they could simply take away, but regardless of what he called it, the impulse came from the same place. Ideas had a way of burrowing into people, and John Wick, for all his discipline, had become dangerously attached to one specifically.
He needed to, not that you were cattle for slaughter in any way, tag you.
You were far too insubordinate to actually wear whatever necklace he bought you, and while he had tattoos of his own, he didn’t particularly want you to get one, but that could have very well have been an excuse he told himself, because, not as deep down as you’d think, the idea of taking a knife to your skin did thrill him. John didn’t think he was a sadist, but he’s been wrong before so he didn’t dwell on it.
He didn’t really dwell on anything really, certainly not the way you whimpered, whined and cried as he slowly dragged the tip of his blade into you soft, pliable flesh.
John watched your face, saw the way your eyes fluttered closed, the way your bottom lip trembled and he pushed it aside, focusing instead on the task at hand.
He had chosen the spot carefully, the space beneath your collarbone, where the bone jutted out slightly, a delicate valley of skin. He wanted it to be visible, a constant reminder of who you belonged to. He wanted it to hurt, not just because he took pleasure in your pain, he did, he derived far too much pleasure than he should, but also because he wanted you to remember, to never forget that the more you run away, the more harsher precautions he’ll take. For your safety. Why won’t you understand that?
John could feel your heart racing, your body tensing as he pressed the tip deeper into your flesh. A small bead of blood welled up and he began to slowly move the blade, oh so carefully carving his initials into your skin.
Yes, it was a brutal, primitive act, a far cry from the elegant, deadly ballet he was known for, but couldn’t you see that you made him do this? He didn’t want to, not really. This is your fault, not his. In a way, he was the victim.
You cried out, a sound that shouldnt have been music to his ears but was, and your body bucked, trying to dislodge him, but John was unmovable. He held you down with ease, his gaze never wavering from the task. John worked quickly, efficiently, his movements precise, calculated, just like they always were, he knew exactly what he was doing, exactly how much pressure to apply, exactly how deep to go to ensure it scarred and remained with you long after it healed.
This was just another job, really. But he wasn’t going to kill you. Oh, he’d never.
After he finished the last stroke, he stepped back to admire his handiwork.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry—“ you cried, still reeling from the fear and the pain, “I—I just—“
“I know,” he replied calmly, finally having something to say after all this time, “you just wanted to go home,” he finished your sentence, “but you are home.”
“John—“
“Come,” he stood back and held his hand out, “let’s get you cleaned up, hmm? Our dinner is going cold.”
