Oh my god I busted on that stark fic like it was the last piece of porn I'd ever consume. Thank you seriously you got the request done so fast 😭😭
pssst... if youre up for it... maybe something with john wick...? him getting a nightmare about us getting kidnapped and we fuck him through it?.... (or yk you could turn it into fluff idgaf I love him either way)
omg glad you enjoyed it!!!
$ log - you're comforting john wick after a rough nightmare; you can't see shit in the dark so you're running on pure sleepy confidence.
$ warn --sfw --gn!reader --fluff
$ cd masterlist / keanu-reeves
the nightmare wakes him before you do.
he's sitting up in the dark, breathing controlled, with one hand finding the nightstand by muscle memory. The gun isn't there — hasn't been for a while — and his hand settles back against the mattress.
"john."
he doesn't answer. you've learned his silences by now. the nightmares about work are very different from the ones about you, and this one sits somewhere in the middle of both.
you'd heard your name in it. the way he says is when something's gone drastically wrong in the version of events playing behind his eyes. you'd been lying there for a few minutes, trying to figure out how to tell him you'd heard.
"i'm here," you say, simple and very true.
he exhales, something structural releasing in his shoulders, "go back to sleep."
"mhm," you say, which isn't exactly a yes. a beat passes.
"you can stop watching me," he says.
"it's dark, i can't see anything."
"you're watching me."
"i'm looking in your general direction with love."
something shifts in him — not quite a laugh, almost something similar moving through his frame.
you sit up. the room is completely dark — the kind that john is apparently comfortable navigating on instinct, while you're operating on memory and a rough sense of direction. you reach out and find his back, good, progress.
somewhere on his back is the tattoo — the ruska roma ink. you're going to trace it, which will be grounding, comforting, and exactly the right thing to do. you've decided.
you start tracing, and you're very confident about this.
john goes still.
you keep going. what you're drawing — with absolute conviction — is something between a figure eight and a question mark, located somewhere around his left shoulder blade. you course-correct. it becomes a spiral, or maybe a nautilus.
you've lost the thread a little but you're committed now, and that has to count for something, so you keep going, moving with the focused energy of someone who's helping.
the silence from him stretches longer than usual. it's different.
"what are you doing?" he asks, deadpan.
there's a rustle indicating he's turned, or turned enough to look at you - which is apparently he can do in total darkness. of course he can, it's fucking john wick.
"comforting you," you say, with complete dignity, "i'm tracing the ruska roma tattoo."
a pause.
"you were drawing rhombuses on my left shoulder."
"... oh."
"for about two minutes."
"i was — " you stop. "it's dark."
"i know."
"i couldn't see anything."
"i'm aware."
you sit with that — your confidence has fully evaporated. your hand's still hovering somewhere in the vicinity of his back.
you begin to lower your wrist, but john catches it quickly, but not rough. he finds it in the dark with ease. the absence of light is simply not a variable to him. gently and with total finality, he pulls and you go with it into the solid wall of him.
his arms come around you and he just holds, exhaling deeply. then, he presses his face briefly against the top of your head — a confirming kiss that melts his tension away instantly.
you're very still as you say, "um, what should i do?"
he breaths in once, slow. "nothing. just stay here." a pause, a quieter voice, "just stay with me."
so you do. you figure out where your arms go — around him, yes, there — and settle. the room stays quiet with his heartbeat under your ear is real and even — yours to count if you want to.
you're asleep in fifteen minutes. out cold, breathing soft against his chest, utterly unbothered — the way only people with a clear conscience and no tactical threat assessment running manage to deep sleep.
john stays awake a little longer. that's fine, that's what he does. but you're warm and you're here in his arms. your breathing evens out like a tide going slack, and somewhere in the counting of it he follows you down.
$ tag @twentytomidnight @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger
The question caught (Y/N) off guard. John asked her out of the blue one day. The peace near the pond was unmatched. At least to John, who seldom could taste peace and happiness.
But sitting there with her was something more. Meant something more.
“I what?” She smiled, confused.
“Daisies. You like’em?”
“Yes, they are sweet, and they mean…”
He produced a bouquet of daisies and freesia from his back before she could reach a conclusion.
“For me?” She looked up to meet his twinkling gaze, a ghost of a smile bloomed on his otherwise stoic face.
He shifted in his seat and straightened up a bit.
“Yeah. You like them?”
John Wick was a man of few words but what he lacked in words, he showed in action. She smiled and took the bouquet into her arms, letting the flowers tickle her chin and neck.
“I think so.”
No, she did not like daisies.
She loved them, she decided as she leaned to kiss him.
ok ok ok your sub! john drabbles actually gave me the best idea. tattoo artist x john wick
tattoo artist reader is there to comfort him and make sure he’s okay and doesn’t pass out esp if it’s his first tattoo.
also writing this made me remember a fic i read that’s not finished but breaks my heart
https://archiveofourown.org/works/21060659/chapters/50100092 if you want to read 🖤
Thank you so much for this ask!! I've been thinking about this idea for a while actually. There was another ask about this a long time ago, maybe on my JohnWickCaretaker blog? I can't find that one, but if that was also you, then thanks a second time. Also, yaaaaay, fic recommendation! 🖤
John Wick x Tattoo Artist Reader (Gender Neutral)
Author's Note: John is a little younger in this one (I’m picturing him being 18-19), so he’s not as mature. He’s even more shy and gets defensive more easily. Also, I'm not a tattoo artist, and haven't gotten any tattoos, so this is just based on what I've read about it!
CW: forced to get a tattoo, tattoo needle, crying, reader swears frequently, bittersweet ending
Image sources: 1 2 3
“You have time for a walk-in?”
You didn’t even hear this guy open the door. Once you’re done being startled, you notice…him. You’re not supposed to let yourself think this way about clients, but shit, he’s cute. He looks soft. Mostly clean shaven, with a thin, elegant face (maybe it’s the high cheekbones), topped off with a mop of dark hair. And probably inexperienced, based on how nervous he looks. A little part of you wonders how this is going to go for him. “You’re in luck. What’s your name?”
No answer.
“Can I see an ID?”
He hesitates awkwardly. “I’m coming from Mrs. Petrov.”
Oh. So he’s one of these. You doubt that’s her real name, but Mrs. Petrov sailed into your shop one day offering to double the usual price if you’d keep quiet and ask no questions, and you sure need the money. Your skin is crawling a bit but you take a deep breath and get into it.
“Okay, good enough for me. What design are we looking at?”
He hands you a paper. It’s the same one you’ve seen half a dozen times: hands touching in prayer over an image of the cross. Guys come to you for this tat again and again, “from Mrs. Petrov.” One told you it was a mark of his acting troupe, another said it was a family crest, another a symbol of his church. They’re probably all lying, but you know better than to call them on it – or to turn any of them away. You’re pretty sure it’s a mob thing. It breaks your heart a little bit to think he’s caught up in all that. He doesn’t look the part. But then, you also know better than to judge by looks alone.
You gesture to the chair. “Settle in, face down. It’s better if we have your shirt off.” He’s way too delicious underneath it. The perfect canvas...shhhhh stop it. You’re a professional and he’s…god knows what. “This will take about four or five hours. Is that okay?”
He nods.
“Silent type I guess?”
That gets a faint smile before he lays across the bench, chin resting on folded arms. You flip the Open sign to Closed, pull on your gloves, and start prepping tools. You turn on the radio to 80s rock, filling the silence between you - though it doesn’t feel like a stressful silence, surprisingly. Both of you know how odd this situation is and you’re both just trying to get through it. There’s a camaraderie to that.
You glance down at the design in your hand and whistle. It’s pretty big, taking up most of the center of his back, between the scapulas. “Is this your first tattoo?”
“Yeah.”
“Alright, well I’ll be real with you: this is going right over the spine, so you can expect some pain. Nothing that’ll kill you, just…not super pleasant. So I’ll check in from time to time, see how you’re doing. If you need a break, we can take one.”
“I won’t.” He sounds pretty sure of that. Standing behind him, you shake your head. It’s always the ones that are so sure…
“Well, after a while, I’ll need one.” You run disinfecting wipes over the center of his back and set to work. When the needle touches down for the first time, he winces once, but he doesn’t wince again for the next ten minutes of linework. It takes you that long to realize that he’s barely breathing. “Your muscles are tense, buddy. I need you to relax for me or this will hurt more.”
“…I just…don’t want to move.” There’s something so sweet about the way he says it.
“You won’t move. You’re actually less likely to shake if you can let yourself go totally limp, like you would if you were about to fall asleep. Here, sit up for a second, take a deep breath, and stretch out.” He listens, but he’s not looking at you. You’re pretty sure he’s blushing.
“Okay. I’m relaxed.” Liar. You can still feel the knots in his muscles when you touch him again. But at least it’s a little better than before, and he’s getting impatient. “Keep going.”
Well, the customer is always right. “Alright, let’s do it.” You grab your pen and get back into place. The best you can do is try to distract him. “How did you choose this tattoo anyway?” Might as well see what story this one will make up.
“I didn’t.” That’s probably the truest answer you’ve heard so far.
“Do you…like it?” God, you hope so.
“Not really.”
“…You’re telling me I’m putting something on your body right now that you don’t want there?”
“No,” he says, a little too quickly. “Forget it.”
That’s probably for the best anyway. You’ll get too pissed off if you keep going down this line of questioning. You take a deep breath and try for something lighter. “So what do you, uh…do for fun?”
“Reading, mostly.”
“Oh, sweet. You read anything good lately?”
“Kind of. I’m reading Anna Kerenina.” He slips into a faint accent when he says it, and you have a suspicion.
“What translation?”
“Just the Russian.” He sounds a little annoyed, like you caught him out on something. You suppose you did, and it was kind of fun.
“Bilingual. That’s badass.”
“Thanks.” There’s silence again for a minute, but it feels friendlier.
“So what do you think of it?”
“It’s...fine.”
You wrinkle your nose. “Yeah, it’s kind of dry.”
“I guess, but I don’t mind that. I just don’t like Anna and Vronsky. Which is Tolstoy’s whole point, but…”
“They’re both little shits to everyone. Makes it hard to get invested.”
“Right, exactly.” He shifts his chin. “If I was married, I can’t imagine cheating.” From some people, a line like that would sound like a transparent attempt to come across as a “nice guy.” But he says it so wistfully, you know he means it.
Don’t say what you’re about to say. Don’t say it. Be professional.
…Fuck it, you’re doing this under the table anyway. “Are you dating anybody?”
“No.” It sounds so bitter that, for a second, you think you really are dealing with a nice-guy-impersonator. But then he clarifies. “My…lifestyle doesn’t allow for that.”
“Oh.” You can’t think of any way to reply that doesn’t involve the burning questions in your mind about what exactly this “lifestyle” entails. So you lapse into silence again, for much longer this time, just thinking, wondering what it’s like to be one of these young men with the cross tattoos. Are they all friends with each other? What exactly do they do? Is it difficult? How does it pay? How did they get into it?
You stop when you’re done with the linework. “Okay, that went great! We’re totally done with the outlines, which is half the battle. I’m going to take a break before we start on the shading.” You circle around in front of him to grab your water bottle, and catch a glimpse of his face as he’s straightening up.
He’s wiping off silent tears.
Your heart almost drops out of your chest. “Oh shit. Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” he says, but it sounds hoarse and shaky. “Just hurt more than I expected.” He huffs a laugh, trying to play the whole thing off as unimportant.
“Dude, I told you we can take breaks if you need. If you’re crying from pain, you’re too tensed up. Tell me next time, alright?” Before you realize what you’re doing, you’re rubbing his shoulder. He freezes for a second, and you pull back. “Sorry, I – I didn’t mean to – “
“No, it’s okay. I’m just not used to that.”
“Damn, how do they treat you at Mrs. Petrov’s place?” You’re half joking, but you want to know more and more by the second. And when he just looks grave and doesn’t answer, your heart does that weird dropping thing again.
“…Let me get you a water, okay? I’ll be right back.” You’re grateful for the short walk to the mini fridge you keep in the back of the parlor. It feels so heavy in that room. You’re starting to wish you hadn’t taken the deal, because whatever this is, you don’t want to be involved.
When you come back, he’s perfectly composed again, but looking at you more carefully this time, like he’s finally really seeing you. After he takes a drink of water, he hesitates for a second. “My name is Jardani.”
Warmly, “Nice to meet you.” You take the bottle back and set it on the table, within reach. “You’ll tell me if you get overwhelmed next time?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. I’m trusting you.”
You watch him settle in and get back to work. It’s okay at first but there’s a dark shadow under those praying hands that needs to go right over his spine. It’s basically pure black. A couple minutes into it, he exhales sharply, like he’d been holding his breath for a while. “Stop.”
You set your pen down right away. “You got it.” You pull up a chair next to him and he turns to look at you, without sitting up. He’s really pale. “How are you feeling?”
“Lightheaded.”
“Yeah, you can pass out if you get tense like that for too long. But you’re okay. We can take as long as you need.” You put your hand on his shoulder again, massaging it, and this time, he lets you. You can feel some of the tension finally seep away and the color returns to his cheeks. The dark pools of his eyes are fixed on yours, and if you aren’t careful, you feel like you could fall into them and drown. There’s something trapped in cold waters down there, pleading for rescue.
Yeah, sure. If you were being unprofessional before, now you’re being a downright sentimental fool. This guy has probably shot people.
Despite being deep and rumbling, his voice sounds so quiet that it’s almost shy. “You don’t know what this means to me, to have a…nice moment... Thank you.”
“Oh – you’re welcome. It’s nothing, really.” You’re absolutely done for. “Um, do you want to stand up and stretch before we get back at it?”
“Mm-hm.”
Your brain is fried but you manage to hold it together while the both of you get back into position. The rest of the session goes pretty smoothly, and you talk a little more here and there. At first it’s just about how he should take care of this thing when it’s finished – staying out of the sun and all that. But then he starts to ask you about yourself - what you read, how you got into tattooing, your favorite designs. Everything you say seems to interest him. You can’t quite believe it but he’s obviously developing a crush on you. Or at least getting attached in some way. You can’t blame him, if the smallest friendly touch is such a foreign concept.
It's too soon when you place the finishing touches. “Okay! You want to take a look?” You help him up, his hand resting in yours for an instant as he slides off the bench, stiff and probably aching. It sends a jolt straight to your heart, to support some fraction of his weight and to feel the way his fingers squeeze down on yours before letting go. You mourn the contact instantly, and distract yourself by adjusting the two mirrors that reflect into each other, allowing him to see his back. “What do you think?”
“It does look cool actually.” He cracks a little heart-melting smile, and you’re really relieved. He may not have wanted it, but at least he’s not devastated.
“’Course it does, it was done by the best in the business,” you joke. Though to be honest, you really are impressed with your handiwork. Doing the same tattoo so many times pays off – each one has looked more polished than the last. It’s almost a shame to see him put his shirt back on…for multiple reasons.
“Oh, uh…” He fishes something out of his pocket. A wad of hard cash – a LOT of it, as usual. “Here’s the payment.” And then he’s leaving, before you can do anything, say anything, even catch the breath you’d lost trying to comprehend everything that just happened.
“Hey, wait!” You don’t really know what you’re going to say, but then he’s facing you again and you have to say something, and it just comes out. “…Do you need help? I don’t know what’s going on, but look, I’m not an idiot. I know something’s wrong here. I don’t know who Mrs. Petrov really is and I don’t care, but if you need me to do something, like…I don’t know, call a social worker or something or help you get transport out of the city...” Your voice falters. You have no idea what he’d need and even less idea how to provide it without getting both of you killed. And what if you’ve misread the whole situation? What if you’re completely out of line?
It certainly looks that way. It’s like a switch flips in him. “No. Whatever you do, don’t fucking try anything. It’s none of your business.” It’s the coldest he’s sounded. “You won’t see me again.” The door slams behind him.
You brace a hand against the counter behind you, shaking. How could you be so stupid, honestly. This emotional roller coaster isn’t worth it. You wish you’d never seen Mrs. Petrov, let alone this Jardani with his damn pain-soaked eyes and cornered-dog behavior. There’s something awful going on, and you can’t do anything about it, you’re just making it worse. If you can get out of this deal, you have to, even if it means getting out of the city. Maybe out west - San Francisco sounds nice this time of year.
You’re just putting yourself back together and trying to decide what the hell you’re gonna do when the door flings open again and he storms back though it, stopping short right in front of you. For a second, you just stare at each other, breathing hard. Then he catches the flash of foolish happiness in your eyes at seeing him again and musters his nerves.
And he. Fucking. Kisses. You. Forcefully, with his strong hands gripping your arms and his teeth colliding with yours, pulling, desperate, rebellious, like he’s trying to tell you something he’s not allowed to say. You’re pretty sure it’s, “Thank you. For being one of the few people who cared.”
And then he’s gone again, and this time, you can feel it: he’s never coming back.
How many days at a time do you think Helen kept John lovingly edged and locked up in the cage?
I wasn't sure if you meant a chastity cage or a regular cage, so I put him in both. And the answer is, "more than she ever expected." Here's what I think happened! (Also, divider source)
Not long into their marriage, during the first year, Helen noticed her husband getting restless. He loved the peace of being with her and not worrying about contracts anymore...at least on a conscious level. But memories haunted him. He was having more nightmares, and getting distracted more often, just staring off into space in a way that told her he was far away. He didn't want to say anything, but with enough coaxing, she got him to admit that it wasn't natural for him, having so much peace. He kept waiting for the interruption of an adrenaline-filled week or two spent being pushed to his limits. He didn't really know how to function without it.
"Do you want me to push you?"
"...Yeah."
The next day, she came home with a cage. Well, two cages, to be precise. One was a chastity cage. The other was a huge iron dog kennel that had to be carried through the door in pieces. The delivery driver didn't say anything, but he did keep glancing around like he was looking for a dog. At the time, they didn't have one.
The first thing she said after assembling the kennel was, "Alright, John. The next few days are going to be hell, just like old times. You have only one contract and it's this: obey. Can you do that?"
"Yes, Ma'am." He looked calmer than she'd seen him in months. He was in the zone already, and that old fiery, devoted determination flared in his eyes. So she locked him into both cages.
They'd done little things before. Flogging, whipping, spreader bars...but this was something else. This was 24/7. When he was in the big cage, he was laying on a futon, with no blanket and no clothes and nothing to do but sleep and read (she was kind enough to let him earn a book at least). When he was let out, he was serving her. She pampered him at every moment, holding his hand, cradling his head in her lap on the couch while they watched movies...but it was almost worse. "Do you want to earn a book to read, John? You can do a little something for me." And then he’d find himself pressed between her thighs, putting every ounce of his pent up frustration into lapping at her clit through orgasm after orgasm while cold metal bit into his cock. But the harder he worked to satisfy her, the more she writhed and moaned and clutched at the back of his hair and he just ended up edged even further.
John was not a man who gave up easily. By the end of the first week, he was whimpering every time she touched him, but he refused to give in. Dressed in nothing but his T-shirt on the way to bed, Helen knelt down and kissed his forehead through the bars. “Poor John. You remember your safeword, right?”
He nodded. “But I’m not giving up.”
Helen straightened up, pressing her bare pelvis up to the metal right in front of him. “So obedient… you can lay on the bed with me for a while if you make me cum without even leaving the cage.” He breathed a wordless groan and started finger-fucking her between the bars until she collapsed over the top of the cage with pleasure.
It was heaven to see him looking so openly pitiful, but by day 10, Helen was starting to worry. She decided that she really should have set a goal or a time limit. Letting John decide when they were done was never the right move, because he simply wouldn’t stop. She’d learned that the hard way by asking him to do heavy yard work or try marathon sex. He’d exhaust himself.
So she started thinking. How could she end this with a bang?
On the evening of day 15, it was raining. The house was chilly, and Helen walked past the cage to see him quietly shivering on the futon, hugging his own shoulders for warmth. He opened his eyes to look up at her, and there was no hint of protest, only reverence. But she couldn’t take it anymore. She needed him inside of her, sheltered and held and treated gently.
“John,” she said, with the voice of a hypnotist. “Your wife needs you. Are you sticking to the mission, or are you coming home?”
She didn’t wait for an answer. She just walked up to the bedroom, put on her lingerie, and fantasized about the way he’d look when he burst into the room.
He was there in five minutes. When they went downstairs the next morning, she’d find the kennel in pieces, snapped apart at the corners and bent at the bars. The fragments of a disassembled pen were scattered over the kitchen counter to get to a little metal rod and pick the lock of the chastity cage, which lay on the ground in the middle of it all.
But for the time being, the only mess Helen could think about was the mess of her broken-down, exhausted, edged, submissive, perfect husband, who had pounced on her and driven his cock straight into her, completely bare. He was cold to the touch and inarticulate with arousal and shaking in every muscle. But he still held himself back long enough to give tender, steady thrusts while trailing kisses all over her. He was such a damn gentleman that he was trying to let her cum first even now, she realized. She bucked her hips upward to get his attention. “Hey. Stop holding back and fuck me. You earned it.” And he lost all control. The famous Baba Yaga, of infinite stamina and resilience, came in under a minute like an untouched virgin.
He buried his face against Helen’s neck. “I’m sorry…”
“Don’t you dare, sweetheart. You came for me like such a good boy. I love you, John.” She pulled the blanket over both of them and he fell asleep inside the shelter of her body, freed by Helen once again.
