#they tried to recruit him since hes a talented black canvas

[musubiki]

thinking about if lime joined the m34th regiment 🥰

[sgt-morgan]

The Parlor

Description: But what if we knew about the tattoos? The one who gave them? What if she was John’s lost love?

Background: I did a deep ass dive on the John Wick tattoos. I realized the ballerinas all had the same setup/ back piece structure, but they all had unique phrases and symbols. So here we go I guess, let me know if you want another.

Warnings: none, needles I guess, tattoos, this is just angsts fluff.

Russian: Moya Llyubov, Moy Svet = my love, my light

The tattoo parlor was a genius move. One or two blocks away from the Continental Hotel and consecrated by the high table it was a haven and an incredible employment opportunity for the assassin that wanted to be an artist, or for an apprentice who needed an income, or for those who wanted the benefits of the hotel without the pressure to stack bodies. The clientele always tipped, Gold Coins were the charge, and contracts were never to hard to attain. The Parlor was always hopping, and their best costumer was always willing to send them more clients. After all, the owner was one of there own.

Eva was by no means a small woman, she loved her curves, and every inch of them was covered in ink. Some done by friends, others by artists so talented that to buy a piece would be a bank breaker for any normal person, and some of them were done by her own hand. All of them, were beautiful. She always had her thick red hair pin straight and pulled back off of her face, she wore little or no sleeves at all times so she was always displaying her favorite pieces. Her blue eyes were piercing, filled with an intelligence that startled most, she had seen things, but her eyes also shown with a a joy that made men week in the knees. She was foulmouthed, crude ,and boisterous, always ready to laugh and fill a stupid request. Eva, was also deadly. Known also as the ‘Painted Lady’ Eva was a legend. She was know for killing small armies of men with ease and taking out big targets in record time. Eva was no force to be reckoned with and she enjoyed making sure everyone knew it, she enjoyed the attention. She loved to smile, always quick with a joke and easily entertained, she was a lover of the small things. The thing Eva loved best though, was her art. She lived for it, the feeling of the gun piercing the skin, the ink slowly filling up its canvas, the soft groans of pain, the permanency, the idea that every tattoo was a living piece of one of a kind art. Every new canvas an opportunity to make a statement in flesh. She was always searching for the perfect canvas. She knew who it was, but she never believed she’d get the chance to work on him again.

She did all of his work. And as far as she knew, he hadn’t gotten any another pieces since hers. The first time she was given the pleasure of inking his skin was the night he was officially ranked within the programming of the Ruska Roma, she was an apprentice in training to their tattoo artists at only sixteen , she did his praying hands. the first in the ranking system and arguably the hardest tattoo you had to get. The hands were the religious symbol choice of their class at the Roma, the center piece of his back work, and she detested them. Her worst work. He however, thought that it was a gift that she did them, because others, as he had heard, had turned out much worse and much more painful. She had been gentle and thorough, making sure the hands were detailed without causing too much damage to the skin so as to leave him in fighting condition. They didn’t speak, John was drinking, heavily, Eva still remembers the smell of the bourbon, the tense muscles under her finger tips. The light cursing when a line or some shading took to long. She finished and they went their separate ways. The next time she tattooed him was when he got his second ranking. The cross on his arm. It was a fairly standard procedure and just the same as last time she tried to give him the best work she could muster. This time when she worked on him, she noticed the supple pliancy of his skin, the way it took the ink with minimal protest, the way her hands were able to feel the bumps of scarred flesh in his new piece without it causing him to flinch in a way that would mess up her other lines as she continued to finish his piece. She admired every freckle, every scar, and even every bruise. The markings told a story and she couldn’t believe her work was adding to it. She wanted to know the stories. But it was over too soon.

She saw him around more after that, saw him in trainings, she was normally leaving when he was coming in, but he always seemed to be on guard. Always ready for a fight. She had seen him shoot, and she’d most notably seen him dance. He was good, very good. Strong, steady, graceful. He always seemed to float on air. In their line of work, that proved to be deadly. Then he disappeared. The Marines. Why he decided to join up? Eva would never know, or so she thought. The next time she tattooed him she did his flaming dog, the hell hound, a symbol of his patron animal as he moved farther in his Roma training. This time they spoke.

“Ah so I heard you’re a Marine?” She spoke softly, soothingly, as if speaking to a cornered animal. She felt if she spoke any louder she would spook him and would never get an answer.

“Yeah, specialty training and recruiting, I joined up.” He spoke quick, calculated. Never traveling farther than the point.

“Ah, I see, good on them for sending you, I’m sure you received some valuable training.” Eva sighed washing the excess ink from his skin.

“Indeed.” He nodded, pulling his shirt back on over his newly placed bandages, and buttoning it. Eva packed away her equipment and he spoke again. He couldn’t let her go this time without hearing that sweet voice talking solely to him. “You know, I request you specifically, I love your work.” Eva blushed at that, not knowing how to respond. “Be seeing you Eva.” He turned to leave.

“Wait! I never caught your name!” Eva exclaimed in a desperate attempt to make him stay. “ I’ve tattooed you three times and I never got your name.” She chuckled sheepishly rubbing the back of her neck.

“It’s Jardani... Or John, it’s up to you.” he said turning his head in her general direction so she could hear him clearly. She’d heard the name, and she knew that he was the same Jardani she heard called Baba Yaga. It clicked into place, and she shivered with the thought of his hardened body under her hands as she marked his deadly flesh. He went to leave when she didn’t speak. She frowned, displeased with his parting from her company. Then, she smiled, making a decision.

“Be seeing you... Dani.”

They spoke more often after that, He would go out of his way to talk to her, snagging her arm in passing, sitting with her while she sketched, Walking her to trainings. He would sneak into her room late at night just so they could talk, falling into a peaceful sleep when they could no longer hold their eyes open. They were as close to inseparable as possible at the Roma. She even let him watch her sketch his next piece.

“A lone wolf huh?” She mused as her pencil endeavored to shape the picture. “Can you howl then, Dani?” She smirked mischievously. She was always pushing him to lighten up, John didn’t ever seem to catch on to it though. He was always so serious.

“Would it make you happy if I did?” He said looking at her with his black hole eyes.

“Honestly? Yes.” She giggled looking up at him with sparkling eyes the mirth clear on her face. John couldn’t help it he chuckled a breathy through-the-nose chuckle and tilted his head towards the sky letting out the most believable howl he could.

“My word Dani!”The laugh that erupted from the redhead was gift enough for him. Then, a thought.

“Why Dani?” He questioned. He loved the nickname, made him feel less intimidating, and the last thing he wanted was for her to be intimidated by him. The redhead contemplated the question, the look of concentration deepening her eyes and creasing her brow as she continued to sketch out her task.

“Well, The Marines called you John, The Table called you Baba Yaga, and I decided that I called you Dani, you need a nickname that people don’t flinch at the sound of.” She nodded while still focusing on the pencil in her hand, “Needed one from a friend.”

That sentence melted him. One word from her, and he would have moved a mountain. A friend indeed. She finished her sketch and then etched it into his skin and he was gone again. They didn’t see each other for three years, but her smile haunted John’s memories. And the art that littered his body made him shiver whenever he caught a glimpse of it, and any time anyone would ask who did his pieces, he’d just smile and say “My girl did them.”

He didnt recall when he first started thinking of her as his, but he didn’t think she’d protest. That thought made him smile. He came home and he ranked out. He was to be contracted to the Tarasov family. He had good prospects little did he know, so did she. She was betrothed, rather against her will, to a member of the high table. She was terrified. She missed him, she didn’t think she had the right to, but she missed him, missed his face, missed his smiles, missed his eyes, missed his flesh. She missed her Dani. He came home and as the saying goes, absence makes the heart grow fonder and hers ached for him, and his for her. He walked in to the room where she was to do his final piece and she wept. John held open his arms and she collapsed into them, drinking in his scent like a man in the desert drinks the water of an oasis. Was he her oasis? Was he a mirage? She didn’t know, she didn’t care. He was here, he was safe, and most importantly he was hers.

“John, they’re making me marry him.” She wept. “ I can’t John, I can’t.” His heart broke, her tears hammered at his sanity. He wanted to kill this man, this man that would be marrying his heart.

“Shh, Moya Llyubov, Moy Svet , you can.” He hated the words that he was forced to speak. He hated them with a passion. “I will hate it, I will miss you, but you can do this.” Her weeping slowed, her body running out of tears.

“John?” Her voice another jab at his heart, “what will we do?” She looked up at him with those big blue eyes he hadn’t realized he’d fallen in love with and he crumbled as he answered the response ripping his heart from his chest.

“What we must.” She nodded, her face hardening, her tears drying. He told her to pick the words he would have carved into his flesh and she complied. Fortis Fortuna Adiuvat. Fortune only saves the strong. He hoped she was right. They said their goodbyes. She looked into his sad eyes and hoped to find the meaning of life. Then they moved, lips finding soft lips, his hands on her face, hers fisted into the soft material of his shirt. Their first kiss and their final goodbye. They resigned to their fate of never speaking again, losing their love, their sanctuary that they had found in one another.

They parted, fully expecting to never see each other again. Then one day a stranger walked into the parlor, one man in a bloodied black suit. One with rage in his eyes. Eyes that cut to Eva’s core. The framiliar chocolate pools that she loved from long ago. Finally.