Johnwick - Blog Posts

“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. 

“He comes in shadows, moves in silence. The Baba Yaga they call him. Prince of the Underworld. He got out once. He completed an impossible task that served to pave the foundations for a generation. That built on blood and bodies the glory that we know today. We have wronged him. It was more than just the car. More than just the puppy. He came back for vengeance. He came back for love. He told me to tell the world no matter who comes, he’s going to kill them all. I believe him.” - Winston. The Continental. New York City. 

“And [director of photography] Dan Laustsen, with his… He loves that little key light in the eyes. [Keanu] you were always getting the half-face lighting, the one eye, and the other guy in most of the scenes was always getting the two eyes. That was another plan. One eye versus the two eyes.” —Chad Stahelski, taken from the John Wick: Chapter 2 director’s commentary.

There's something pure, in their final moments. When you watch Death. The light leaves their eyes.... It's intimate, primal. It grounds you. Reminds you we are not permanent on this world. Just passing shadows, moving through time and space. I weigh their sins against my hands as their soul departs. I take them in against my blade, like a lover's confession. Cradle the body with infinite respect. I am Death. Their final destination. I pray for their safe passage to the Underworld. Eventually, one day, I will take my place beside them.

“This is, uhm… You’re gonna see Keanu really turn on this sort of reptilian John Wick. It’s just, you know, the audience has been chuckling and laughing and then… John stabs a guy in throat and everyone’s like, “What?! Wha… What?” There’s a little intimacy there. It’s just…the boogeyman’s out of the bag.“ —Chad Stahelski and David Leitch, taken from the John Wick director’s commentary.

Queen of Hearts

Of Snakes

Of Stones

I'll take my penence out on your bones

You'll learn to love me

Give it time

Sink the dagger

You'll be mine

|{ @lalienna-dementriento }|

John Wick: Blood & Gold || I am John Wick

I am John Wick.

Excommunicato survivor.

Assassin.

Son of the Ruska Roma. Orphan of the World.

Servant of The High Table.

~ I TRADE gold for blood. For refuge. For peace.

~ I BLEED wrath. My sanity leaves me. I have you in focus.

~ I BIND souls in markers. In wedding rings. In faithful dogs.

~ I SERVE my vows. Determined purpose in high fidelity.

~ I BATTLE my conscience, your courage, the house that holds me.

~ I SURVIVE my penance. One piece at a time. Live for me. So I may take you down.

 I am John Wick. My history is written in Blood & Gold. I am the first to save you. I am the last to stand at your side.

 I believe in Black Angels.

I believe in Judeth Clayton. "

|| Fortis Fortuna Adiuvat ||

Judeth Clayton: Blood & Gold

Thirteen Beside the Queen.

And now she’s a broken mask in the Halls of Hell.

The Gods themselves will hold you down.

One last shot, two souls to sell.

Betrayed the cause for Love.

Rose to take the Throne.

Burned them all in revolution.

Fallen back to stone.

{[ @f0rtis-fortuna-adiuvat - @lalienna-dementriento - Proudly Introducing Judeth Clayton of John Wick || Blood & Gold ]}

John Wick: Rebellion

When you left me, I left I this world.

Buried under cement and stone.

They dragged me back into this moment.

And forced my hand to be disowned.

Now I am again risen.

Vengeance is once more my name.

I am the Bird of Hermes.

Eating my wings to make me tame.

|{ @f0rtis-fortuna-adiuvat - @lalienna-dementriento A Gift to you my Faithful Friends. I give to you, Excommunicato - John Wick. }|

Medusa Risen || Vivere Camorra

“I watched her through glass. A slender white snake. Her eyes so green. Her scales so pure. And I thought to myself, ‘I want to pull her out of that world, hold her in my hands.’ She sank in her fangs... I should have cut her throat.”

The Continental London

“For every shadow Her Grace did cast,

We saluted Her in the streets and in our homes.

Right from the beginning, we scattered flowers

Said our prayers, wrote our tomes.

There were Thirteen in her Court

She gathered thousands to spare.

And in the face of revolution

She was always there.

We are London

So she said

Her Grace is proud and true

We are London

And on this hour

We are here for you.”

Sir Jeremy: A proper gentleman, esquire’s esquire, a dozen titles or more. Managed by the Queen but not the one in Buckingham Palace. Owns the finest Hotel in the city, if not in England. Countless thousands stay in his rooms. He cares for them all. But they don’t know the truth. What’s hidden beneath the stairs, behind the doors, in the bowels of the Underground where he is King. And he says to the world, “My dear people - We are London.”

Sir Sable: Clever man. They say he moves like a shark in blooded water. The fog still clings to him. They speak his name in Absinthe Bars and Gambling Houses over cards and coffee cups. He can tell you everything about anything in London. He has friends who would amaze you. He knows a bloke, that knows a bloke that sold that car for that coin that likely saved your sister’s life. You should make him your friend too, is everyone’s advice. There’s something sharp about his eyes.

And he says to the world, “My dear people - We are London.”

Yes, I gave over.

I regret nothing. Not even in the morning.

Once the dust has settled.

Mr. Wick receives unwanted information about the events that took place in The Continental London:

Miss. Lalienna DeMentriento now works for for the D’Antonio family. (See video above.)

Fast forward ten years into the future. This is also Mr. Wick’s reaction to the news that Judeth Clayton must now unwillingly take her place as Regent to The High Table. (Also see video above.)

Maybe it was easier just being excommunicato, no?

@lalienna-dementriento @f0rtis-fortuna-adiuvat

"I close my eyes just to look at you. Black Angel. You blind me with your divinity.

Hold me under. Holy Water.

Love me. Hold me.

Fly."

@f0rtis-fortuna-adiuvat

Medusa.... Pull me down.

Inamorata

Drag me down.

@lalienna-dementriento

"Bled myself just love you. Deep.

Coil your skin just around me. Sleep.

Drag me down.

And I'd give anything just to pull you down.

Just to drag me down.

And it didn't turn out the way you wanted it to.

None of this turned out.... out the way you wanted it."

@lalienna-dementriento

'Why didn't you come with me?'

The Girl in Room ‘509′

@lalienna-dementriento

John Wick: Blood & Gold  || I am Judeth Clayton

“I am Judeth Clayton. Thirteenth Hand Maid of Iron Fortuna. I am to ascend the English throne. The twelfth seat of The High Table.

~ I BLEED love, hemorrhaging as a warrior, a lover, a wife, a mother.

~ I HONOUR my superiors, the Table, the Crown, my vows, your words.

~ I CHERISH the air I breathe, the time you spend, the bullets I shed.

~ I SERVE because I was born enslaved. These chains will not stop me.

~ I BREED resentment, hatred, glorious violence.

~ I YIELD because you saved me when I could not save myself. Now it’s you I serve when I should have drowned.

I am Judeth Clayton. My history is written in Blood & Gold. I am the first to save you. I am the last to stand at your side.

I believe in Black Angels.

I believe in John Wick.”

 || Fortis Forunta Adiuvat ||

Here’s My Card

A Gentleman’s Business Card.... For a bespoke gentleman. Mr. John Wick.

John Wick: Altum VI

He'd expected her hourly.

Even under the deluge of New York City's torrential rain. It had been like this for four days now. Constant, pounding. Flooding the streets and overrunning the gutters. The people scattered under black umbrellas determined to attend their duties and return to their homes, hot drink in hand. To rest before fireplaces or heaters so that they may somehow delude themselves into believing that the chill that swept through the city was purely due to this horrific weather. By God, they were wrong. He was the storm. Rolling thunder that reached out to explode across the very sky. He seared, flexing his back beneath black Italian silk, scotch glass in hand. His reflection diffused in the rain splattered windowpane by the dim light of the chandelier that glittered overhead. Winston had once more provided the finest Penthouse for his most illustrious, (or was it infamous?) guest. When the silver Rolls Royce pulled up to the Continental curb, he pushed himself away from the window frame, setting down the lead crystal glass he's nursed for an hour and absently sought to adjust his gold cuff links. Counting the heart beats, imagining the sound of her stiletto heels as they mounted the stairs and strolled the lobby, trailing footprints of rain water against Winston's expensive marble tile.

 When the black phone rang upon the sideboard, he expected it too and answered before the first ring had completed. Charon's richly silken voice proffered the information he had preordained.

"Sir, Ms. Canfeza Patrone requests an audience."

Silence... he was studying the cut upon his lower lip on the mantelpiece mirror. Only recently healed, he'd bitten at it unconsciously. Now it bled.

"Send her up."

He replaced the phone to its antique receiver and strode like a great, black panther across the Persian rug at his feet, settling himself upon the burgundy leather lounge the elegant room afforded; and slowly rolled his head from side to side. Feeling the tension in his neck and spine.

An Adonis upon his throne. He'd left the door unlocked on purpose.

A minute passed. Then another... and another after it.

There! The ring of the elevator bell in the distance, doors opening and closing with mechanical precision of purpose and footfalls across rich carpet. Yes... a woman's footfalls. Deliberate though hesitating. She didn't want to be here anymore than she had to. He knew too well what it was to know you were walking into the mouth of the dragon's den.

A knock at the door. He sighed hotly.

"Monsieur?"

"Penétrér." His choice of reply was as deliberate as the half lidded glare he fixed upon the door.

 Again, hesitation... a heartbeat passed. But she yielded. The way she always did for him.

Canfeza crossed the threshold dressed in a magnificent gown of red and black silk and damask that trailed to the very floor in a train that flared like the mouth of a lily. The olive flesh of her cleavage, throat and arms exposed. Black pearls adorned her earlobes, wrists and neck. Her russet hair, pulled back in a Grecian style, braided high away from her face. Those lips, full and sensuous, painted in deep ruby. Her eyes darted about the room as she shut and locked the door behind her.

'Good girl.' He thought. He'd only ever had to tell her once. They locked eyes across the room and he heard it. Quiet but audible as she sighed and shivered, stuck by his elegance, in awe of his grace. She averted her gaze to the floor and stood like a stone statue.

'That's right. You should be ashamed.' Whispered his thoughts.

 "Canfeza."The name slipped from his tongue like silk, he watched as her breasts heaved against the bodice of her gown. The woman looked up, taking in the lines of his face, the light as it played upon the fabric of his obsidian coat.

"Sir,"

"Is unimpressed." He finished, cutting her off before she could finish the sentence.

Again she dropped her eyes.

 "Come here." Quiet command, steel in his voice. Ice in his glare. Languished in elegance against the warm leather he reclined, separating his thighs as he sat, just a fraction further. The lady did not move. So he did, raising his brow slightly in question. That was all she needed.

She crossed the floor in swift steps; the room filled with the swish of her gown and the scent of her perfume until she came to a standstill at his very feet. Two paces away. Clever.

 "Please...." She breathed at last. Like a prayer by way of initiating her submission.

"That's twice you've kept me waiting." Her throat moved, he watched her swallow and continued.

"Well?"

"That blow was never meant for you, Sire." She began by way of apology. Her voice lilting. Honest. Faithful. He appreciated the tone. She continued, meeting his gaze fully.

"Believe me when I tell you I lost track of your shadow, I would.... I would have taken those bullets for you a thousand times over if it meant your lips were never marred by blood."

"I get it." He cut her off, again. "Too much noise, you get distracted and pull a strike that splits my lower lip. As if I've not got enough battle scaring, you feel the need to add to the canvas."

"No, Sir never!"

"Shut up." He snapped. The command like a whip crack of leather. She fell silent at once, her hand flying to her mouth to suppress a whimper.

"Rules and consequences." He voiced the phrase like a mantra. She replied the same like a hymen in a church pew, looking upon him as though he were Christ.

Never a messiah. But a fallen angel, his dark wings bloody and torn. He reached up then, his right hand warm though the room was cool, and took hold of her throat beneath his palm. Holding her a moment... feeling the pulse of her heart accelerate, her lips drop open, the shine of her hidden tongue. Her eyes screamed for mercy as he pulled her to him with such force, she had no choice but to fall to her knees. Her dress though elegant restricted her movements like the kiss of black rope.

His lips mere millimeters from hers.

 "Please..." She breathed, bridling beneath his fingers, "If I begged forgiveness...would you.."

"Forgive you?" His lips grazed her cheek. He held her steady resting his forearm against the tops of her heaving breasts. He could, if he wanted to. Break that beautiful white neck. She knew it. But his desires were elsewhere.

"Maybe." He whispered, his warm lips trailing to the lobe of her ear. His fingers loosening so that the blood began to flow again. The imprint of his dominance marred her skin a moment before returning to its ivory beauty.

"If you set the mood." He pressed, "I might change my mind."

He pulled away then, sitting back against the leather. His elbows seeking the back of the lounge, his body language open, the threat passed like a wave. He had her. Checkmate. She knew her place.

'Your move Black Queen'

She stayed on her knees, crimson nailed fingers weighed the plush carpet. She fought the desire to touch the black leather of his French shoes.

"I cannot... must not." She breathed feeling his eyes on her exposed spine, trailing the lines of the corset lacing of her designer gown.

"This is business." He pressed her, "Always has been, always will be."

"Then Sir, let me pay you in coin." She retorted, breaking the barrier, seduced by his flame, a great moth. She burned when her hands touched his knees over tapered black gabardine.

"I want flesh." He shot back. The admission stole the air from her lungs. Canfeza grasped him to steady herself now. The frantic whites of her eyes darting about the floor. Her panic rearing. How would she save herself from this man? This Master?

"Mine?" She whispered, tears threatening.

"Yes." A bullet.

"Now?"

"Next week." Two bullets. Loaded with sarcasm.

 In that very moment he was a blur of movement. He rose to his feet, a dancer across the carpet, reversing their positions. She was powerless against him. The way he touched her, before she could think he'd thrust her face forward upon the lounge so as she had no choice but to put out her hands to save her delicate nose from colliding with the leather.

"Stay." He hissed behind her. She froze a moment. Lowering her head just slightly. There on the leather she could breathe in the scent of his musky cologne. She steadied herself, though the rapidity in her breaths betrayed her excitement. My God. The shame of it...

'Please,' She prayed in her darkest thoughts. 'I want this.... I need it.' Her thighs squeezed together tighter beneath the confines of the silk and taffeta layers of her gown.

 And then she heard it.... That sound.... That glorious, incredible sound. The clink of metal as the buckle was slipped free. The hiss of leather as it was slid from the loops of his trousers' waistline.

Behind her, John worked the belt buckle into a loop around his palm, then brought the leather band back along his left hand, preparing the strike. Calculating.

He didn't ask for permission. He didn't need it.

The belt cut through the air like a knife. The crack impacted upon the peerless flesh of her exposed shoulder blades, kissing the skin in an instant then rebounding back to his waiting palm.

The cry that came after tore from her throat in a shudder of hot, wet pleasure. He waited, rearing as her fingers dug into the leather and she gave over to a shimmering sigh. Submission. To him.

This was foreplay. And he loved it.

 Again. Like lightening he struck her, watching her body resist the kiss of the belt. So satisfying. No crop or whip ever seemed to afford this kind of decadent pleasure.

SNAP.

 SNAP.

 SNAP.

 She moaned hotly, her body shuddering. Fingers set to claws as the tears that had threatened finally spilled over.

 SNAP.

 She collapsed with a galvanic peel of agony that left her raw throat like a tortured song.

Enough. He lowered his belt and surveyed the damage. So fragile, this flower. Fuck. He'd broken the skin.

An eye for an eye. She'd given him one blow.... He repaid her with six. Deep. No mercy. No regret.

This was just business.

 He turned away, sighing deeply. The coil of tension that had troubled him in the base of his spine released at last. Deft fingers replaced the leather to his hips. Vindicated, satisfied deeply, reveling in the sheer pleasure of release as he straddled the floor of his room and unlocked the door, holding it open.

"Thanks for your time, Ms. Patrone." Always the gentleman.

"Now get out."

---------------

‘John Wick: Altum VI’ was lovingly written in answer to a heavily desired ‘Ask’ request from fans posted on the famous John Wick blog: ‘John Wick Thirst Club’

Did this fictional piece satisfy your dark desires for deadly assassins and elegant, consensual BDSM? Then we request you support our work by liking and re-blogging the work without alteration. Feel free to follow our blog for more smoldering adult fiction.

Leave your love in words by commenting and recommending this piece to your friends.

Hungry for more? Send an Ask with details. If we can, we just might.

Misdirected Priorities

Ladies of the John Wick Fandom:

I would not usually seek to address you en-masse unless I was positive I had something very important to tell you. Well, it’s important. Look at this man please, tell me what you see:

Mr. John  Wick, no? The Baba Yaga. Bringer of Death. Oh alright, he’s a handsome Devil. Leave it alone a minute. . Now look here for me:

Straight From The Continental NYC. Mr Charon, the Concierge. And Mr. Winston, the Owner/Manager.

From the calling card above I wish to point out something to you girls with “daddy kinks” and other associated fetishes:

Mr. Charon will not tolerate slovenly ladies and will likely beat you with your own heel for leaving it about the floor. A place for everything and everything in its place. In this way, Order is achieved.

Mr. Winston is generally disappointed that he asked for a Martini and you served it with Vodka when it should have been Gin. When you beg forgiveness for the oversight he may consider letting you back into your room....some time next week.

Mr Wick: Is deeply in love with his angel, Helen whom threw him out of the house when she heard he was up to his bullshit again. He slinked away like a wounded dog and spent the night in the garage. He’s okay with that considering that he has a thing for power play, and she bought the car. 

Take this information and do with it what you will. Just show me when you’re done. Yes?