I decided I was finally trying to write this little story that's been in my mind for years. So yeah that's my first try at writing a John Wick x reader ✨️ (and my first try at fanfic ever, actually).
It will probably be sweet and short (just like me). Also English is not my first language so I apologize for any spelling mistake or any choice of words that may look weird to a native speaker, etc etc you know the drill. This chapter is a mix of fully written text and bullet points.
Set after the events of the last Wick movie, my man is alive and thriving in Paris, please leave him alone okkk he deserves some peace and quiet 😤
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You can listen to Mr Tout Le Monde - My Lover
The first time you see him, you are surrounded by a crowd of oblivious tourists massed at the feet of the Sacré Coeur. Of course you notice him: how could you not ? You are in the middle of your favourite past-time - people-watching, sitting on the stairs that lead to the basilisk, a book in your hand but your eyes on the multiple scenes unfolding in front you: a group of Japanese tour-goers and their guide, taking pictures before rapidly moving on, on a strictly timed sight-seeing schedule; the very much in-love couple taking selfies (sometimes you envy them, sometimes you hate them, and you are very much aware that you are getting bitter, thank you very much), and who is about to become the perfect target for the hawkers trying to sell lockers; the loud group of young people chatting in a language you don’t recognize but sounds musical to your ears; the musicians trying to make a bit of money singing famous tones and ballads (when they don’t go for the obvious choice of La Vie En Rose, they like to go for Wonderwall).
So yes, of course, you notice him. He’s alone, just like you. But that’s not what catches your eye. There is no need to try and deny it, you are shallow like that. You only see his back and his profile, as he is gazing at the basilisk above him, seemingly lost in his thoughts, but what you see is enough to experience an immediate brain freeze. That is one fine specimen of a man, and you kind of consider yourself an expert on that kind of things. As if sensing you gaze on him, he turns his head slightly and you meet his eyes.
Blushing at having been caught gawking, you quickly put your head down, pretending to read the book in your hand. Something about a guy living in a cabin in the woods in Montana for a whole winter. When you gather your inner strength and raise your head again to look at where the man was, the spot is empty, and strangely you feel disappointed. You wait for a few minutes, trying to get back to your reading, but you are no longer in the mood for being engulfed by the multitude of people swarming around you, and when one noisy group rudely stand up centimeters from where you are sit, blocking the meagre ray of sunshine from reaching your face, and blocking your view, you decide you have had enough contact with the world for today. On your way back home, you stop at the dog park and watch happy energetic dogs run around and play together, as their owners small-talk. This is like Disneyland for the tourists who always take pictures as if they were at an amusement park, and you wonder if the dog owners are aware that they probably end up on Instagram every single day, in some stranger’s post. But then, maybe that’s why they are all nicely dressed, in this very effortlessly looking and yet meticulously chosen style only found in Paris.
You usually take a walk to Montmartre once a week; it’s a nice walk from your place, slightly going uphill, and it helps you clear your mind. But you have to confess that since seeing that man, you end up walking there a bit more than usual, sitting on the same spot on the stairs, even if you don’t really know what you’re hoping for. It’s not as if you were the type to go to a stranger and chat him up. No, you are the quiet daydreaming type.
Of course, you don’t see him there in the weeks leading up to November – why would you? There are literally millions of people living in the city, without mentioning the insane amount of tourists, and the chance of ever seeing him again are close to zero. You live in the same street as your best friend and yet you never randomly cross each other. And after that, it’s too rainy and damp for you to even consider walking outside for longer than ten minutes. You prefer retreating to a new coffee place that just opened, one with a warm atmosphere and filled with growing plants and that sells the best chocolate-chips cookies you have ever had. So, when one snowy December day, the door opens and you see him walking to the counter, you think Christmas has probably come early this year.
You watch him as he talks quietly to the barista, in a voice too low for you to hear. The barista gestures in your general direction, and the man turns to look at you, his eyes catching yours. He walks up to you, and you feel like everyone can hear your heart beating up in your chest at two hundred beats per minute. He sits at the table next to yours, and you try very hard to remember how to breathe and act naturally.
You would like to start a conversation with him, but you are unable to think of anything smart to say. And it’s not as if Parisians love to start small talk – it’s just not something you do. But to your surprise, he’s the one who starts a conversation with you, and he asks you about your drink.
You are having your favourite, a latte with a vanilla homemade syrop, something that always warms you up and make you feel good. You mumble an answer, feeling sweaty and too awkward to be speaking to this man, wondering how on earth he is even ackowledging your existence.
"I actually never had a latte", he goes on, seemingly oblivious to your state of panic "I’m more of an espresso type of guy, and I usually don’t like changing my routines. But I’m feeling adventurous today, so maybe I’ll have one later. I’m John, by the way.”
You can feel him looking at you, and you know that you have to be brave and normal, and that him giving you his name is a cue for you to now give yours, so after taking one last big breath, you gather the strength and meet his eyes. They are a beautiful shade of dark brown, and it’s almost enough to make you lose all your newly fond bravery. But you manage to give him your name.
He gestures to the papers piled in front of you and asks what you’re working on.
“Oh. Hm. Nothing much. I was trying to read and understand a paper about meaning and form. It’s by a linguist, a guy called Bolinger. He wrote it in the 1970s and well, it’s not always super clear you know. I’m having a hard time grasping my mind around it.”
You are rambling. You are rambling way too much and you’re sure that you are making the poor guy uncomfortable and that he is already regretting his decision by now. But he doesn’t seem to mind, and he even looks interested in what you have to say, because he asks a bunch of follow-up questions. You go on for a little while, sharing with him all your qualms about old authors from the previous century who wrote articles only for the sake of feeling smart. When you finally run out of breath, he pitches in:
‘Are you ... a student, then ?’. He seems a bit uncomfortable suddenly.
“Well, no. I’m doing a PhD. Third year. I don’t have classes anymore. Actually, I’m the one teaching now. I still don’t know how I managed to get the job. So hm. Yeah. I sometimes come and read in this café. I like the atmosphere, I feel like it helps me get in the right mood to read all these papers, and the cookies are exceptional.” You stop yourself before you get on another rant, and fix your eyes on the small pothos on the table. Much safer to just stare at it until he leaves.
The waiter sets up on his table a steaming coffee cup and a cookie straight out of the oven. John wraps his right hand around the cup, and you cannot help but notice how freaking long and beautiful his fingers are, and you have a fleeting thought about how you wish they were wrapped around something else. Girl. Get a grip, really.
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Author's note : in France, PhD students are ... not students ! They are part-time teachers or have side jobs, but they are no longer students. You can imagine whatever age you're confortable with, but I did not want reader to be considered too young. Age-gap is fun, grooming is not lol.
gamechangershow
amandla
turnnoffyourmind
titsay
