Collection of One-Shots

》nostalgia

The hotel room was lit by the city lights and the occasional flash of lightning across a dark sky. Rain pattered against the window. Rough fingers trailed up her thigh, hiking up the slinky red dress. The thin material was soaked and clung to every curve and dimple.

John fingered the empty holster hidden by the high split of the dress. It was empty now. A set of throwing knives buried in the chest and throat of some poor fool who thought they could collect a bounty on her ward.

"Do you always wear this thing?" He asked, voice low and husky. John already knew the answer to his question, though. People like them didn't lead normal lives, and every evening dress wasn't complete without either a small pistol or set of throwing knives.

The velcro of the holster gave with a single pull, landing next to a pair of black stilettoes with blood-red soles. His lips connected with her neck. Dylan leaned her head back against the wall, fingers tangling into John's dark wet hair. "Jonathan," she breathed, heart racing. A thin red strap slipped off her shoulder, followed by the other. John reached around to the bow of her back, finding dress's zipper.

Her hands slipped from his hair and the dress slid down her body. A red puddle of satin. John Wick's eyes were naturally dark, but in the low light of the room upon seeing her standing before him in nothing but a black garter and stocking, they looked like two black pits.

Dylan pushed the damp suit jacket off broad shoulders. The black silk of his tie slid through her fingers like a curtain of cool water. She wound the tie around her hand and pulled him farther into the room.

John gripped onto her hips, closing the distance between them and turned. The back of his knees hit the foot of the bed. He sat, pulling her down with him. A hand slid up her bare back, another up her side, fingers grazing the underside of her breast. The coarse hair of his beard scraped against her cheek and neck as she worked the black-tie free.

Nimble fingers made quick work of the first three buttons of his shirt. Her progress was stunted when his lips met hers, harsh and needy. John swallowed the soft gasp she made. He groaned when she bit down on his bottom lip, one of her hands moving down his chest.

Dylan pulled her hand back when she touched something warm and slick. She knew by feel alone that it was blood. With a heavy sigh, she glanced down and found that front of his white dress shirt was stained red. Just above the belt of his trousers was where the blood came from. He'd been shot but hadn't said a word about it. "John!" She scolded, clambering off his lap to switch on the bedside lamp. "You could've told me you'd taken a fucking hit!"

He fell back onto the mattress, dark eyes focusing on the white ceiling as he finished undoing the last four buttons of the ruined shirt. "Because-" he glanced over to her and felt his blood grow hot again. Seeing her in that red dress all night had driven him crazy with lust "-there are other things on my mind at the moment."

"You're unbelievable," Dylan told him with an exaggerated roll the eye as she picked up the phone to call down to the front desk. There were two rings before someone picked up the other line. "Is the doctor in?" She asked.

"The doctor is always in, miss," Charon answered. "Shall I send him up?"

She glanced at John. "Yes, please."

"Is that all you require this evening?" The concierge asked.

"It is," Dylan answered before placing the phone back on its base. She wandered to the bathroom and returned with a hand-towel, which she tossed onto the bed next to him. "I don't want you bleeding all over the sheets."

He mumbled something under his breath low enough that she wouldn't be able to hear it. But in the meantime, he folded the towel and held it against his side. "I've had worse than this," John commented. So had she, but Dylan Petrov knew better than to refuse proper attention when it was readily available.