#the tattoo detailing is so good on this piece!!! | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

2kmps · 1 month

Text

PERSIMMON & INK ; PT ONE OF TWO

yakuza!getō suguru x tattoo artist!reader| 1/2 | wc; 12.9k

story summary; you're a tattoo artist hidden amidst the bustle of shinjuku city and renown with tourists. due to a misstep of your shady employee, you're visited one night at closing by an eerily beautiful man in a disheveled suit and no tie requesting an intricate back piece done traditionally. the undertaking slowly begins to unthread your life piece-by-piece the closer you get to him until there is no way out.

story warnings; dark content, yakuza au!, details about tattooing, traditional tattooing (tebori), money laundering, injuries to mc, implied death of oc, manipulation, power imbalance, a bunch of cultish shit, mc doesn't fuck around and is a hardass + sort of a bully to their employee, sex w/ injury, getō smokes, mc dogging on foreigners, implied stalking, prose + detail heavy, explicit sexual content, heavily implied homicide, graphic details of violence + wounds.

read the warnings! + mdni! events within this story are not indicative of my personal viewpoints.

thank you @ceruleansol for your earlier proofreading efforts! appreciative, as always!

a/n: this is part one of two. i strongly implore that you reblog & interact with this post! it helps out authors tremendously when you do!

A silvery peal called out to the little shop stifled in past-midnight silence. During regular business hours, it was a good sound to hear; it meant that your next client had parked their feet through the threshold behind a closed door and jittered a bell hanging by a red string. In this case, you hadn't been fast enough to flick off the neon signage anchored into the building outside, nor set the deadbolt to signal the shop had retired for the night.

You were still hard at work wiping down your workspace, the last appointment of the night having taken several hours longer than intended with a squeamish foreigner who couldn't bite his knuckles long enough for you to finish linework on his ankle.

"It's past midnight. Come back some other time," you said, inflectionless, unwilling to be deterred in your task. It didn't occur to you to even give this newcomer the time of day by looking at them. "I have all my information online. Email for appointment bookings."

"Oh, really? That's too bad," replied the stranger, voice traceless of the frustration you were accustomed to when turning people away at odd hours. "I was told this would be a better time to come by for a consultation."

That made you jolt upright, swiveling toward the man standing inside your shop. Strangely, you hadn't anticipated the way he sounded when he spoke—affable, syrupy, and an elegant, fluid stroke on glazed canvas—to be so different from how he looked—tall, lean, refined with a sort of edge to him that'd intrigue anyone in a room he walked into.

Apart from his appearance, something you couldn't be sure was real with him bathed in the faint neon-red glow from flickering bulbs filtering in through the windows, you were drawn to the somewhat disheveled suit he wore. It looked like something a salaryman uniformed himself in while sitting on his ass for twelve hours in one of Tokyo's skyscrapers.

He doesn't have a tie. That stood out to you at this late hour.

"I didn't tell you that." You suspected who did and let your voice rise above the pitch of the checkered wall clock and drone of an oscillating ceiling fan directly above you. "Kōji! Get out here!"

From the depths of your little shop, tucked away in the furthest corner behind a door painted the same morose gray as the walls flanking it, there was a great ruckus—a chair tipping over, a body smashing to the floor, and feet fumbling over and over again until a weaselly fellow skittered out into the parlor.

"Ye-yeah? What's up? Time to—"

"Get this guy scheduled for a consultation for next month." Nothing prepared you for the way Kōji's color sank out of his cheeks and neck when you turned toward him. You pushed onward boldly, "I'm booked out for the next few weeks. Since you told him he could come by whenever, take responsibility and get him out."

Kōji's eyes were so much bigger, the whites of them showing, knuckles turning stark when his hand grasped your forearm, and he hinged forward at his waist, bowing so low you thought he'd fall forward.

"Thank you so much for your patience." Kōji sprung back up, feet popping into the air as he whisked you away into the back office, still repeatedly dipping his head to this man. "Please, give us a couple of minutes, and we'll be right with you."

"No worries." The suit guy smiled at you, catching your gaze before the gray door was pulled shut in your face. "Take your time."

Inside the dinky space, surrounded by unsteady towers of boxes brimming with all the things your second-floor apartment couldn't handle without making the walls burst at the seams, Kōji still had a hold on you. This time, however, both his hands gripped your arms, hot and clammy on your bare skin.

"You can't tell him to leave." Kōji hesitated to take any stance against you, any tone that could be implicated as threatening or domineering. Even through his quivering breaths, he tried to sound firm.

You looked at him incredulously, neck craning back in hopes it got the message across. It was easy enough to sweep away his hands. "The fuck, I can. It's my shop. Tell him to get out."

Kōji let his posture sag, whittling deep into himself as his fingers came together to pick at minuscule slithers of skin that left raw spots around his nails. He shook his head. "Not someone like him."

"Kōji—"

He was trying hard not to stick the underside of a fingernail between his teeth. A couple months ago, he had told you he wanted to kick the habit because he couldn't stand looking at his hands. This job and his natural disposition worked against him—long hours pouring over finances and bookkeeping, tucked away in a tiny room with a humming desk fan and no windows, would be enough to drive anyone's anxiety through the roof.

It wasn't ideal for him, you knew that, and suggested that he move his workstation around the shop or to the front-end counter as long as he didn't disturb the flow you kept going with clients. Worse than the isolation was his aversion to handling any potential customer interaction.

That's what made this so odd to you, so strange that he simply reiterated time and time again, "We can't kick him out," anytime you'd try to get anything else in word wise.

You had to back up, put some pressure against the new pulse in your temples. Kōji let his gaze flutter around the room, never steadying on your face for long enough for you to get a better read on him. His hair and neck were soaked with sweat. Beads of it dripped from his brow onto his shoes, leaving glistening, branching paths behind that never quite dried before more took their place.

It came to you then, just as a guess but one with enough certainty that dread wound itself against your spine and made you fidget.

"Is that—is he part of a gang?"

Kōji did a lot of work to keep his eyes off of you, still, lips thin and wet with sweat that he lapped away.

No confirmation was a confirmation—you launched yourself at him, wringing fistfuls of his stiff button-up until it was tight against him. You felt the heat of his body through the fabric wrapped around your hands.

He was shorter than the man in the parlor, but still taller than you. His feet stayed planted on the floor as you brought his face down to your height. "Did you fucking tell the yakuza about my shop, Kōji?! Is he here because of you?!"

"No, no! Not me! Not me!" Kōji wailed, crumbling beneath your bulbous stare. "Not on purpose! I swear! I swear! It was an accident. I was at lunch with… some friends, and I mentioned that I was working here. I guess word got around!"

"So, you're having lunch with criminals now?!" You wanted to wring his neck. It was physically impossible to bring yourself any closer to him without tasting the salty drops on his skin. "Are you insane?!"

Since the start of Kōji's employment years ago, you knew that he was a leery character, and having him on board to handle the more mundane, unsavory parts of running a business wasn't your best call to judgment. Still, he was efficiently organized in a way that made sense. He was fast and dedicated enough in doing things right that you stopped asking yourself questions about what antics he did on the side.

Up until now, he had never brought anything from the outside in to disrupt your status quo, the fine-tuned, well-oiled gears that kept your business running and clientele coming around like revolving doors. This was an entirely different ordeal, though, and you didn't know how to handle it.

You let Kōji whimper around your fists for a while longer, releasing him only once you were ready for a deep breath.

"I don't care." you said, taking a wide step away from him as your fingers scouted through all of the pockets on your person. There was one stick of gum left in your hoodie that went straight into your mouth. "I don't care. Stop being a fucking wuss and fix your mistake. Get him out of my shop."

Kōji gasped, scuttling closer to you just as his skinny, knobby knees bent inward and trembled. The weight of his body nearly toppled you when he went down to the floor, hands on your clothes. "No, no. Please. If you—if you turn him away, he'll tell the others, and who knows what'll happen to… us."

The selfish little imp actually meant himself.

It killed you to acknowledge that he wasn't wrong. You knew as much about the movements and customs of crime syndicates in Japan as anyone else, probably even less than the regular citizen, but they were still criminals with tight fists on the economy and underground.

All it would take is one bad remark and everything you had worked for would be razed to the ground.

"Who is he?" You pushed him off by the shoulders. "Who is that guy?"

You didn't like his silence, how his face warped, and his eyes fell to the white tips of your shoes. "Kōji."

Slowly, he answered, "He's the kingpin of the Uzumaki-kai."

"Goddamnit."

He stayed sniveling on the floor while you scrambled around the back office, turning over boxes and water-stained folders for particular papers you needed to go forward. Once you had them, you blotted the tip of an ink pen on your tongue, ripping a piece of white printer paper out from the tray and beginning a frantic scrawl that you weren't even sure was discernible.

You weren't in that room with Kōji for more than twenty minutes, reemerging into the parlor to find him—Getō Suguru, boss of the Uzumaki-kai—still waiting for you exactly where you'd left him. Only now, the smile he greeted you with was smug, shoulders lax against the door with one foot hiked up on it.

He had heard the entire thing, all of your shouts and Kōji's perilous pleas. The walls weren't as thick as you wished they were.

"You should find a different artist who specializes in the kind of work you want." you said, spreading your array of papers out on the front counter. The pen dotted your tongue once more before touching them, a messy signature left behind on black condemning lines.

"I've looked at your portfolio online." He had come closer, eyes set on the motions of your pen flying across paper. "It's the best I've seen in Tokyo."

There was something in his words that rang sweet and untrue. With Tokyo being one of the foremost tourist magnets in the world, attracting domestic business and foreign intrigue, competition amongst tattoo shops during peak seasons was staggering. You were part of the cluster of shops preferring to bring in international clientele because they were lured with anything quick and easy and cheap.

Simply put, they were your revolving door. Kōji monitored your shop's social media presence well, eyeballing analytics, trends, and patterns in the algorithm, so you stayed a persistent pest on the front page most days. Whatever moves he pulled worked, filled the books until you were writing in last second, twenty-minute appointments against the seams in your spiral bound to keep tabs.

You'd see anywhere from eight to twelve clients on the worst of days, most of them coming from overseas to tour the city or countryside. Every one of them chose premade designs from a catalog you kept nearby, all work you had committed to muscle memory and knew so well you could do the line work without a stencil and let your mind float somewhere else.

These foreigners wanted memorability, everlasting art imbued with stories from their exotic balmy summertime getaway where they stayed in air-conditioned hotels and shops and harassed the locals because it gave them a swell of adrenaline, a sense of adventure from the belief that they were in possession of more culture now than they had been before.

They tried to talk to you about those things because when they'd first see you, stepping under the chiming little bell, there was a brightness in their eyes of knowing you weren't someone who belonged—just like them. After so many years in the business, you were conversationally fluent in several languages but pretended not to be for all of two or three.

"I'll do it, but—" You pulled yourself from that reverie, pen flipping through your fingers for him to take. "You have to sign a bunch of waivers and there are conditions."

Getō had waited for you in well-tempered silence for several minutes and maintained that even now with a neutral expression. "Can you explain them to me?"

"The waivers are pretty standard," you said, shifting your weight against the counter. "The first three are making sure you understand the risk of scarring, infection, colors bleeding together. Fourth one is a liability waiver."

When you reached the final piece of paper buried beneath all the rest, the one you had handwritten and hastily signed, his eyes were gleaming with intrigue.

"What's this?"

There wasn't much to it, really, just a single paragraph on a bleach-white background, one blank line below your signature with enough room for a timestamp after it.

You made sure it was in his hand before you spoke again. "This is a rigid waiver agreeing that if I do your tattoo, you can't tell anyone you're associated with about this shop.

Getō wore an aloof smile. "What are you implying? I never said—"

"Stop trying to make me sound fucking stupid." You winced after the fact, not intending for it to have come out so aggressive. "Either sign it or leave, please. If anyone finds out you came here, it could ruin my business."

All but the ticking wall clock, a jarring neon against a backdrop of dark walls, and the ceiling fan with its monotonous beat from spinning blades had kept your shop from catapulting into silence.

You hadn't realized it until now, not until Getō had taken many long moments to examine the papers you'd given him and wordlessly signed them, that your chest was starting to ache from how hard your heart rammed your ribs.

You couldn't believe this was happening.

A snare formed in your throat once he finished printing the date and time on your special waiver, pen aside, papers stacked together as he tapped them on the countertop so they were neat.

He held them out to you, still with a beguiling smile that betrayed everything he represented. "Could I get copies? I'd like them for myself too."

You smeared sweaty palms down the back of your sweatpants, flexing out your fingers over and over until you felt sure enough that you could handle those papers without trembling. This must've been how Kōji felt when he had walked in earlier.

"I'll be back." Your bow was stiff and slight, probably an affront, but he let you go, turning to find a home on one of your low couches in the corner and started perusing the pages of your catalog displayed crookedly on an acrylic table in front of him.

It was all you could do to not slam the office door behind you, to intentionally scare the soul straight out of Koji's ass for putting you in this hard spot. If he weren't such an integral part of keeping this place afloat, you'd have fired him ages—years ago.

"I need copies," was everything you needed to say to make Kōji rifle through his arsenal of ridiculous expressions. He shrank under your stare, sliding deeper into his seat behind his desk. "You still need to be back here at eleven."

"Yes, I know." he mumbled, handing you fresh copies after stapling them together. You let the warmth sit on your hands for a while. "Do you want me to leave?"

Truthfully, you didn't want to be alone with Getō. You wanted to yell at Kōji a little more.

"Yeah. Get out of here."

And he ran.

A part of you hoped that Getō would've gotten bored with how long this entire process had been just to sign some flimsy agreements and listen to you pitch a fit at your employee. You prayed that the fleeting glance Kōji had made to the corner of the room was to check, not to confirm.

You stepped out into your workspace, boldly expecting to see it bathed in nothingness and shadows—but he was still there.

Getō let the tip of his shoe, a pointy closed-toe, jerk with the sounds of your wall clock. His leg was crossed, your catalog still splayed across his thigh as he looked at your preset designs, work made to appease the masses and feed into their fiction of Japan. You had half the hope that he'd be turned off by them and change his mind.

"What you're offering here and what's on your website are completely different."

This guy was observant.

You didn't like that.

"I get a lot of travelers." It crossed your mind to rip the book out of his hands. "They're the ones who make up the bulk of my business. My website hosts my professional work. It's what I prefer to do."

He didn't look up, continuing to leaf through the pages with long, lithe fingers. "So, you cater to foreigners, then?"

"My shop is small. It's just me and Kōji here. This place has to stay running somehow." You weren't sure why you were explaining yourself to him. "If that's something that bothers you, I can shred these papers, and you can find another artist."

Getō let his smile return, closing the catalog to drop it back onto the table. As though to challenge your stubbornness, he took the copies from you and skimmed them one more time.

"Thank you." He moved those aside too, now wholly focused on you. "Do you have time tonight to hear out my ideas?"

You were facing the wall clock now; it was almost two in the morning. If he wanted something more complex, it would take hours to work up a sketch for him. And that was being so bold to believe he'd like it on the first try.

"Got a deposit?" you asked. "Nonrefundable, of course."

He paid you what you wanted right then and there, to your complete astonishment. The price you had given him was astronomical, an act of spontaneity that you decided you'd pose to him as a joke if he got mad or guarded with severity.

No questions.

No doubt.

Just the warm clip of folded yen from his pocket that he didn't even look over. The yakuza were historically a stingy bunch, but he didn't even do a second sweep, didn't try to double back on you, and didn't seem to care.

"Let me get my stuff." You left the cash off to the side on the acrylic table. It was your equivalent of a cat showing its belly good-naturedly.

The money was still there when you returned with a tablet stuck under the sweat of your armpit and two mugs of tea, an act of hospitality you didn't often invoke mostly because you didn't care. These were dire circumstances, though, and you couldn't put it out of your mind (or nerves) that you were walking on thin ice laden with eggshells.

"It isn't anything fancy." You put your things down before handing him his mug. "It's from some random box I grabbed at the store."

Getō gave his thanks and took it from you, first sips coming as soon as he could bring his lips to it. He made no mention about the flavor or quality, didn't look at it with any amount of suspicion. It simply rested there against his palms while he waited patiently.

He was defeating every stereotype of yakuza that you had adopted from the movies and media. If it weren't for Kōji being a scummy little rat who liked hanging around trash in his off time and believing all of his reactions from a while ago, you'd be convinced that Getō wasn't affiliated at all.

A businessman with questionable practices, maybe, but not a greater part of the underbelly of society.

"It's a sort of complicated idea." He rearranged his legs so they were spread wide, back sinking into the worn green leather. Another sip. "Tell me if I should slow down."

True to his word, the tattoo he wanted was ambitious, terrifyingly ambitious, and something better left to a specialized skill set, not someone who bounced around between commercialized brand characters and bastardized interpretations of The Great Wave by Hokusai.

"I'd like the dragon to be white." Getō was partway through his explanation, now sitting forward on the edge of the couch, an elbow pointed down on a thigh to cradle his cheek. He was invested. "The eyes, hm, yellow or gold. You can choose what'd go best for the inside of its mouth. I want the head of it in the top left—"

"Hold on." You sighed, managing a lukewarm drink from your tea. "So, to go about the white, there are a couple of options: we leave that space empty, so it'll be your skin tone. Most people get dragons that are red or green or black. It'd be better to try that if you—"

"It has to be white." He looked at you the same, but his words were razored in a way so slight yet unmistakable. "What else can be done?"

"Well"—the leather creaked against your back the deeper you dug into it—"I could do white ink. I could get it opaque, but the problem with it is that it fades drastically; you'd need it retouched every couple of years."

"I see." His smile was wider. "I like that idea. Let's go with that."

You frowned. "You do know that white ink is expensive, right? So the price is going to jack up, and there's more pain involved since I'll have to apply more pressure."

"That's fine with me."

More specifics for the work he wanted flooded in: He wanted to start with his back, covering every bit of surface from his neck down to his tailbone. Afterward, he would branch out to both arms and finish the design over his breasts. It certainly aligned with artistry you've seen done by yakuza tattooists; the entire point of them was to be seen by those who mattered, easily concealed to those who didn't.

Most of the real estate was going to the white dragon with gold eyes first, the rest of it going to freestyle characters from fiction such as kuchisake-onna and religious iconography that he pursued with quite a bit of insistence.

You sketched until four in the morning, arranging characters and wispy, dreamy clouds. Long whiskers floated away from the dragon's snout, while the teeth you gave it were more comically blunt and human-like rather than jagged and threatening, a detail he seemed particularly delighted to see.

"What's with the Buddhist symbols?" You had to bring out your laptop to research those, settling on a few he gave a nod to. "Are you some kind of priest? This is a pretty specific scene you're giving me."

"It came to me in a dream." he said.

What a weirdo. Your fingers ached and cramped by the time you finished the draft, stylus leaving deep impressions in your skin that you were sure had knocked bone a few times.

From up close, you weren't too partial to how it looked like an amalgam of things surrounding all of the labor you put into specifics of the dragon, but when you moved it away, it came together like some hazy dreamscape.

"I should tell you why I chose you in the first place," was what he said when you spun the tablet around for him.

You had the device facing you again, pen notched through your fingers to apply some simple colors to the design. "I thought it was because you were enamored with me and my online portfolio."

Getō stared at you, humoring your joke with a smile even though you didn't see it. He stayed slouched over his thighs, fist moving to the side of his head to keep him upright.

"I'm looking for this to be done traditionally."

The tablet flattened on your lap, stylus rolling off of it onto the floor. You couldn't believe you didn't think of this. If he really was part of a crime syndicate, of course he would want all of the work done traditionally.

"That's going to bring in a whole host of problems." You let your thumb hover dangerously close to the trash bin button in the top right of the screen. "First of all, the overall cost of this is going up by twice what I've already quoted you."

"No worries." Getō shrugged his shoulders. "I've done my research."

But you weren't done. "Healing time will be reduced, but some of my clients have told me it's more painful than a machine."

"I'm not 'some' of those clients." he rejoined.

You were suddenly wishing your tea wasn't cold so you could disappear into it for a while. The tablet ran hot on your thighs, dragging your eyes back down to the drawing, thoughts flitting through what it'd mean for business, expenses in versus expenses out, and how committing to this would solidify you as a yakuza artist.

It would be inescapable and follow your reputation into the ground if Getō ever spread word about it.

"This back piece is going to take me a really long time to do for you. A machine cuts that time in half." Maybe you could beg him to change his mind.

He wouldn't budge. "Yes, I'm well aware."

"So"—fine then, you'd give him something to reconsider—"you know for the sake of longevity that traditional isn't going to be the best? Machines are able to apply more force into the skin and move faster. Because you'll be relying on me instead of a machine, your line work will start to bleed within a few years and your color is going to fade pretty significantly, too."

If he was dissuaded, Getō never let on because he grinned. "You were the right choice, after all."

That ended the discussion and your night. Your eyes felt dry in their sockets, rolling them towards the wall where you read a big black number “5” on its clear plastic face. Getō didn't share that same urgency. He hadn't even checked a watch or a phone the entire time he was with you.

"Remember," you said, your tone daring, "you signed an agreement to not tell anyone about this place. I expect you to keep your word."

"Of course. I wouldn't consider breaking it in my wildest dreams." Effortless and gentle, he said this to you with fondness that felt oddly misplaced. "After all, we prefer choosing our artists. And, now, you're mine. I'll see you soon."

You locked the door after him without saying anything, losing track of his body through the window as he went somewhere under the shadows cast by taller buildings close by.

This time, you made sure to flip off the neon signage that had been glowing outside all night long.

━◦○◦━◦○◦━━◦○◦━◦○◦━━◦○◦━◦○◦━

The Uzumaki-kai had started out under a different name in the forties, one seemingly redacted from all publications shortly after the change. It had a tumultuous history with frequent power shifts and internal disputes that had left it nearly eradicated by the seventies until Yorimitsu Asahi climbed to the peak of the hierarchy. Within ten years, membership tripled, revenue increased into the billions, and nearly all records of their exploits had dropped off the edge.

Kōji had hit a dead end in his research for you, an attempt to give you some peace of mind in what you were dealing with. The idea was to hit the ground running, so when Getō came back around, you'd have some vague notion of what to expect. But all you were able to do was skim the surface of an, allegedly, power-hungry and morally depraved bunch of men and women.

The most recent details of their movements dated back two years ago, whereas the more credible sources haven't reported anything for nearly seven. In the earlier articles by a journalist gone undercover, they had a significant hand in the economy, mainly through casinos, prostitution, and ties to religious institutions.

You had to let out a groan because Kōji hit a wall—again. All of the latest news you could find were just sensationalist reprints about how they were actively scouting people, or giving charity to orphans, and where the yakuza ranked in the world amongst other crime syndicates.

"Hey." Getō was standing in front of you, just on the other side of your counter. "Ready to get this started?"

Snapping shut your laptop had been an instinctual response. A flush of adrenaline in your veins was chased away by the cold creep of fear reaching up your spine. This wasn't the same as mom catching you watching porn or a teacher hovering close enough to see you cheat.

This was the chill of knowing you were digging into things you shouldn't be.

"Wel—welcome back." You didn't mean it but bowed your head low anyway. "I never got a chance to schedule you in. It'll take me a while to set up, if you'd want to come back another day."

Getō had his hands in his pockets, posture relaxed just like the last time, and looked around the small square footage of your shop. It was big enough to arrange a few compact pieces of furniture in the corner, give breathing space for a couple of bodies in the middle while you worked on them, and the front-end counter where you sat.

You made use of decorative shelving to display all the things that customers wanted to see: bottles of ink, strange art, little trinkets to give the place some interest so you wouldn't have to be. Everything else was shoved into the back office to clog up Kōji's space or upstairs in your apartment where you could fit it.

"No." Getō took a walk over to one of the shelves, a collection of inks you had arranged by color family. "I'd like to start today. I can wait for you to set up."

"Okay." You licked your lips. "Yup. That's fine. Kōji!"

With Kōji's help, what would've taken you close to an hour to prepare for Getō was whittled down to about thirty minutes. Just one look and the smarmy guy took on a more diminutive attitude, convincing you that if you were to walk away and come back, he'd probably be spit-shining the tops of Getō's shoes.

At least he wasn't sweating all over the floor again. You could watch the fragile flattery without completely twisting in disgust.

"One thing you didn't do last time was confirm that you were happy with the sketch." You had Kōji fetch your tablet and bring it up to show him. "Also, I refuse to start unless you have payment upfront. That was something else we didn't discuss."

"Th–that's a joke." Kōji sputtered.

You looked straight at Getō. "You're yakuza asking me for an extremely elaborate piece done traditionally with a lot of white ink. I have a right to want to protect my time and resources."

"I agree. The sketch is perfect." Getō said, fluid strides bringing him less than a couple of feet away. "Do you prefer cash or card?"

You were seeing him in the daylight, not awash in flickering neon or shrinking away into shadows, and he was absolutely breathtaking. It made you think how easy it'd be to lure someone into the Uzumaki-kai by his looks alone.

Payment had been seamless enough, a quick transaction that Kōji verified before scuttling out of the shop for the evening. You were left with this man, this dangerous, handsome man, to undress in front of you, casually peeling layers of his suit away until the first slithers of pale skin sent your gaze to the instrument in your fingers.

Getō only removed his jacket and button-up since his back piece alone would take months to complete, a damning thing to realize once you thought about it.

This just felt too real.

This was really happening, and all you wanted to do was blame Kōji for putting you in this position.

"So, what you're going to do is lie down." You slipped on a pair of disposable gloves and gestured to the massage table behind him. A white sheet had been placed over the black leather underneath. "If you need extra padding, let me know. Since we're building this entire piece around the white dragon, that's what I'm focusing on for now."

He leaned his weight against the table, hands back in his pockets. You tried keeping your eyes off his chest, off of his defined pectorals and abdomen, away from the thickness of his arms. The knowing smile inching onto his lips proved that you had failed.

"I'm going to be using a projector to position the image on your back, draw it out with a marker, and start with the needles." You could finally show him the thing in your hand. It was a long glazed stick with a metal ferrule attaching a row of sterile needles at the tip. "You'll feel me stretch your skin and start poking. It makes a weird sound because of how it needs to be angled, how it goes into the skin."

You took a breath, and he actually laughed.

"That was a mouthful." He hinged forward, bringing his face closer to the rod. "Not quite as 'traditional' as I thought it would be."

"There are modern adaptations to everything. It used to be bamboo, this is made from persimmon." you said, lowering the instrument onto a silver tray next to all the others of varying sizes. "What makes it traditional is the technique applied. I guarantee your buddies aren't going to back-alley places in Japan and having someone stab their backs with unsterilized needles tied to a piece of wood."

His dark eyes followed your path to the projector, watching you flip the switch and cast an image of the dragon on the table. "You never know. Some of them just don't know any better. They don't always have the best show of judgment. They need guidance."

You had something to say to that but thought better of all your organs and didn't. "Cool. Get on the table so we can start."

The landscape of his back was as defined and lovely as the front of him. You waited until the white dragon was scaled down to the appropriate size and positioned over him to touch his skin, letting your fingertips soak up all his warmth.

"We'll see how far I get today," you were saying, dragging a narrow marker tip across the broad sprawl of him. "It's going to take me longer than it usually does, and I don't really go longer than eight-hour appointments."

"There's plenty of time." This guy had infinite patience, it seemed.

And when the time came for the first prods with your needles, you paused to ask, "Need a break? Want some background noise?"

"I'm talking to you," he said, pulling a few straggling pieces of ebony hair over his shoulder. "That’s enough for me." It sounded ridiculous when he said it and worse when it replayed in your head. "What made you want to practice traditionally?"

You were already in several jabs, wiping down between them to keep a visual of what you were doing. "My mentor is one of the best traditional artists in Japan. I learned everything from him. He used to work in Osaka, I'm not sure about now. I lost contact with him years ago."

"That's too bad." he said. "Have you thought about looking for him?"

The last thing you were interested in was talking about finding people with yakuza, so after a few more pokes along the middle of his back, dipping into that pretty region that made his waist look so waspy, you decided to flip the script.

"What about you? Did you just dream about joining a gang, or…?"

He shifted his cheek to his arms, looking along his nose at your hunched shoulders. "Would you believe me if I gave you an answer?"

You dabbed his skin. "Probably not."

There wasn't much of a lull in conversation before he was onto the next topic, steering away from the niceties onto the real things he wanted to ask. You had been around the block a time or two; you knew the look people got when they had certain questions stewing inside their heads.

The only thing that ever stopped them was the devastatingly desperate aversion to kicking up dust and drama in public, and probably because they weren't yakuza.

Getō was the opposite in this scenario, so you lost.

"Where are you from?" There it was.

You sucked in a breath. "Gifu prefecture."

"That's not what I meant." He was still observing you with all the self-possession of a saint, but also unflinching obstinance that you couldn't get out of by hijacking the conversation again. "You weren't born in Japan, were you? Isn't it pretty bold of you to play off foreigners' lack of awareness for profit?"

As you swiped at the traces of ink and blood that coalesced into a single ugly bead, you noticed he hadn't winced once the entire time you pushed ink.

Would he if you stabbed him a little harder?

"That's a long story." Stab. Stab. Stab. His expression remained beautiful and pristine. "I don't feel like answering it."

He smiled. "Hm."

━◦○◦━◦○◦━━◦○◦━◦○◦━━◦○◦━◦○◦━

The game of twenty questions spilled over from one session into the next, weeks apart, yet Getō always remembered where you both left off like he was troubling himself to commit all the contents of a crumpled-up list to memory. Sometimes, between a peaceful interlude that rendered conversation bare, the flawless terrain of his back stretched between your fingers as your needles sunk deep, you'd think to yourself that had he been any other man—you'd be impressed by the effort.

Unlike other scenarios that leaned in your favor, boorish foreign men left unanswered when they'd talk about your body—where were you hiding tattoos? Under your clothes? Can we see? They'd laugh with one another because they almost always traveled in groups. Questions morphed into ugliness when they translated silence to incompetence; quips turned lewd and derogatory, but you no longer existed to them because you couldn't talk back.

That luxury of feigning ignorance wasn't packaged with Getō, having had lured that nugget of trivia out of you by the end of his first session. He never said those things about you, never let his inquisitiveness or eyes roam like you already had him. It was disgusting how being beneath his stare made you feel so vulnerable, stripped down to nothing but your underwear without that ever happening, without him ever having touched you.

You told yourself you'd be relieved the second this piece was finally finished, and he'd be gone from your shop for good.

"How long have you been a tattoo artist?"

But, still, for now, this little game with him continued, and he led the way.

"About ten years." No one had asked you that before, so it took you a few seconds for you to respond. Even then, you weren't entirely certain that was right. "Yeah, probably about ten years."

"Hm." Getō was in the habit of making that sound to quite a few of your answers. "You don't look it."

You jolted upright in your chair, fingers lifting away from his back just as you gave your tongue a reproachful click. All it would take would be one hard open-palm slap right against the sorest spot on his back to put him in a world of hurt and permanently fuck up the ink under his skin. You'd absolutely have your throat slit or neck snapped at the gallows, but it would be well worth the risk at this moment.

"What the hell is that—"

Getō's mellifluous laughter made your anger whittle to heat behind the ears before any words even made it out of his mouth. He tried keeping his back still. "Haha, sorry, that came out wrong. I meant: you look too young to have been doing this for ten years."

Good recovery. Smooth man.

You weren't nearly as amicable. "Aren't you too old to be playing pretend with a bunch of other guys?"

He let air out hard through his nostrils, lips pulling his smile wide enough for you to see the wet glisten on his white teeth.

"Fair enough."

Time crept along like that for the pair of you, multiple sessions coming and going with inconsequential banter that was always more upsetting to you than it ever was to him. Somewhere along the way, you had been convinced that Getō was unflappable—impossible to rouse to anger, regardless of the times your clap-backs had taken a personal edge, aiming to bury deeper than any of your needles could reach.

It was enough when he'd frown, his pretty mouth pressed firm and drawn down. Oddly, when he'd look at you like that, it was reminiscent of something wholly unsettling, pulled from some deep recess in your memory that you couldn't quite put a finger on until it happened again one evening.

You had taken things a bit too far, reminding yourself that it was better to keep your distance from him. All it would take was one wrong comment on one bad day for this rapport to come crashing down on you with every bit of the same force as a tsunami, ruining everything you had built.

Getō had decided he needed a break, something uncharacteristic in the months you had spent with him as your client, and got up from the table. He couldn't go far without covering his back, so he stayed wedged between the inside and outside, trapped in the door and setting off the delicate, jangling bell overhead more times than you were comfortable with.

He had looked at you before walking away, though, that frown marring his visage, weighing down his beauty with cavernous shadows around his mouth. You acted like Kōji in that moment, feeble and pathetic, withering into a smaller version of yourself so maybe he'd show mercy.

Between those tense minutes, until he returned to the massage table, you figured out what made his disapproval so familiar.

It was like burdening the weight of a disappointed parent, like knowing you had failed another test in school, and your teacher was delivering results with that same sort of dissatisfaction while peeking over their glasses at you.

You felt like you were being reprimanded in the way only someone with influence on your life could have.

It really rubbed you the wrong way.

"Sorry." It was a hard word for you to say. Getō was on his stomach again, cheek pressed atop his arms so he could look at you. "Sometimes, I get carried away. Guess that's what I get for spending all my time with Kōji."

Cue a loud sneeze from the back office.

His placid smile was a relief to see. "You should get out more often and see other guys."

There was no disputing that fact. Besides your mainly male clientele, Kōji was the only man you were in any regular contact with. Life had a way of keeping people apart, widening the gaps of time from months into years, wearing away at those delicate threads of friendship until they were all but frayed and irreplaceable.

It was simply the natural progression of adulthood, and it was boring and terribly lonely. Tattooing made your life easier, numbed you to becoming just another downtrodden drunk hunched over a glass full of glowing gold, lusting after the bare minimum of affection from anyone.

This job kept your head above water, just enough so you could forget all of that and spend your time exactly how you wanted to—

"Do you have a boyfriend?"

His question hit you full throttle, stealing the breath from your lungs as though he had landed a fist into your gut. It was just a few nonchalant words, an easy way to keep the conversation flowing, yet it had set your heart aflutter. You heard the rhythm of it ricocheting in your skull. It was suddenly so much harder to hold his skin taut, fingertips slipping inside the nitrile gloves you wore.

"A boyfriend?" A word that sat heavy on your tongue, unfamiliar, flustering you. "I don't have the time for that."

Getō shifted on the bed, something he usually didn't do without warning you beforehand. You let him get situated, taking that moment to also change your gloves beneath the table after patting them dry on your thighs. The skin around your fingertips had swelled and indented from moisture, further augmenting agitation.

He was gazing ahead now, narrow chin cradled in a slot made by his fingers. You couldn't tell what he was looking at since you kept so much stuff mounted on the walls to detract attention from you. It could've been anything.

You did think his vision aligned with your catalog of preset designs, though, leaving you just a little more self-conscious than his question had already made you.

When he did say something, his smile didn't quite reach how despondent he sounded, "It seems like no one has the time anymore. We've all lost our way."

━◦○◦━◦○◦━━◦○◦━◦○◦━━◦○◦━◦○◦━

Getō came by astonishingly early one day with the earthiness of a good brew wafting all around him. The shop had been open less than an hour, giving you just enough time to unlock the entrance and flip on all the signage before he walked in.

The little bell signaled him, both your eyes and nose lured by the cheery sound of it as well as the scent. You had expected to see Kōji at first; it wasn't unlike him to show up before his scheduled shift. Years of cubicle servitude had a way of battering people into automated drones. Workers like him might as well have been walking on conveyor belts their entire lives—going somewhere without actually getting anywhere.

Kōji also only survived off of his thirty-two-ounce thermos sloshing with coffee. Sometimes he'd share with you so you wouldn't need to deplete the shop's supply or climb two flights of stairs to your apartment to make some, but more often than not, he was halfway through that gigantic flask by midafternoon.

So to see that it was Getō taking languid strides up to your counter with two coffee cups, palms wrapped around slithers of cardboard to keep his skin from blistering, you had to correct a grimace.

"Getō." You used his name tentatively, always sparingly. It tasted unwelcome on your tongue, like the smoky bitterness of charred meat or the tang of vomit that burned through your nostrils and made your mouth salivate. "I didn't have you down for today. I have other clients coming in later."

"I'm sure they don't mind rescheduling." He smiled as usual, but the finality behind his words sent quakes down your spine. "I don't know how you take your coffee, so I just asked for cream and sugar. I'm more partial to tea, but sometimes it just doesn't give the kick I'm looking for."

You meticulously avoided his fingers as he handed over one of the cups. The lid was marked with your initials, an act of thoughtfulness you would've been moved by had he—once again—been anyone else.

For Getō, he simply watched you with a tired, satiated smile as though the very notion of buying you coffee was worthy of some ovation. For you, seeing those black lines smear and spear outward across the white lid as dainty wisps of steam escaped wherever they could felt damning.

"How is it?" he asked, lips caressing the lifted rim of his own beverage. "You can be honest."

He sipped at the same time as you, pacing himself so your cups tilted simultaneously, eyes locked on tight, evaluating your slightest flinch. A hot trickle reached your tongue and crawled down your throat, feeling as though it were blooming out into your lungs and veins. It was known by him as well, like sharing the same experience, tipping the same cup and tasting those faint traces of one another, emulating warmth against your lips and in your mouth, lessening whatever uneasy longing he had started to spur inside of you.

You didn't know if the shudder that rattled down along your back came from the penetrating depths of his dark eyes or the bitter drink sinking into your cheeks, making you pucker.

Time forwarded for you again after that. The wall clock continued its eternal rotation, bustling bodies passed your shop, and you had lost those few seconds as though trapped in a dream.

"Did I add too much sugar?" Getō acted the same, perfectly pleasant smile seeming more like a fastened feature to you these days. "You sort of winced."

You set the cup down, ducking away from the front counter to collect your things out of the back office.

"It was actually too bitter for me."

Kōji came through the threshold about an hour later with some semblance of urgency, nearly knocking the door wide enough for it to slam into the wall. All of the color bled out of his cheeks, leaving his face a ghostly hue once he realized he was on the receiving end of Getō's stare. You were hunkered over his back, hands at work with the long stick and needles.

"If you break something, it's coming out of your paycheck." you drawled, so thoroughly enveloped by the black tracks left behind from your ink that you didn't notice Kōji's uneasiness turn into dewy skin and a beading forehead.

"I—can I talk to you in the back for a second?" Kōji hung onto every word, testing the sound of them while gauging Getō's quiet expressions. "There's—you need to see something."

"Kōji, seriously?" You didn't think you needed to point out Getō, or the fact that you were pulling ink from a glob on your glove. "Just tell me later, dude."

His face stretched as though wounded. "It's important. I swear. I wouldn't be asking if—"

"Is there a reason why you can't say it in front of me?" Getō had his nose pointed at Kōji, arm turned red beneath his cheek as he simpered. "Nothing's stopping you from telling us both right here, right now."

The scrawny man melted into himself, fingers fiddling together in a brave attempt to keep his teeth off of his nails and open sores on his cuticles. Whatever thing he had wanted to say was abandoned in that moment, stifled in his throat by a few words from the man on your massage table.

Your fingers halted, hovering over Getō's back as you took in the tone of his remarks to your employee, contemplating with a frown to threaten to throw him out.

"Don't talk to him like that." The leather underneath you groaned as you sat up straight on your stool. "This is my shop. You're not going to disrespect my employ—Kōji!"

He had already rushed away behind the somber gray door into the back office.

"Kōji!" You swiveled away from Getō, instrument an afterthought on the silver tray at your side. Seconds later, you swung back around. "You need to leave."

Getō, who had watched the entire thing from his arms, suddenly lifted his head and shoulders up, face weighed by surprise.

"What?" His eyes were wide. "Come again?"

You didn't falter. "Get the hell out of my shop. We're done for today."

His confusion mellowed into something undefinable, an expression you couldn't read with eyes that tracked across your face as though trying to catch a bluff. Nothing familiar remained in his gaze, the cold snare he held you in for several seconds, the depths of him black as coal and empty. For those few beats, until he looked away, you had held your breath without realizing it and heard blood gushing in your ears.

"You live in the apartment above here, right? On the second floor?" Getō still had his back to you, fingers fussing with the buttons on the front of his white shirt. "You should be careful."

Every ounce of courage you had gathered just moments before was suddenly sucked dry, stolen from your bones and spine, making your posture crumble on the stool. Dread wrapped around you like freezing, creeping tendrils that made the fine hairs on your neck stick out, put a knot in your throat that might as well have been his fist.

"How—how do you know that, Getō?" You were halfway out of your seat, fingers resting against cool metal and close to your arsenal of needles mounted to persimmon dowels. "Are you watching me?"

"Mm, not quite." He turned around while finishing the last buttons, expression void of that easygoing smile and mirthful glint in his eye that you had come to rely on from him. Without it, it was like you were freefalling into the unknown without a net to catch your back. "You should fire that assistant of yours soon."

"Kōji?" You had thought that same thing many times, but hearing it from someone else was an insult. "He's been here for years. He does his job. Who do you think you are to come in here, harass my employee, and tell me to fire him? This is my shop. Before you're anyone, you're a client who I have every right to refund and turn the fuck away."

"I suppose that's true." Getō said, rounding the table, coming into such close proximity to you that you could smell faint remnants of coffee on his clothes and breath, saw the late morning glow filtering in through the windows give his eyes a golden glint. "It's only a suggestion, but you should take it. I don't want to see you take the fall for things he meddles in."

You frowned. "What does that mean?"

He showed you one of his good-tempered smiles instead of answering, an easy way to stop the conversation before it could snowball into something else, dragging you deeper into his world more than what you already are.

There was a part of you convinced that he wanted to submerge you into that gross underbelly with him all the way, steal you below the surface, take you away from everything you'd ever known. But when the light would return to his eyes, just like now, and he looked upon you with such fondness, trying to smother your inquiries with lips pressed thin and tight so as to seal all his secrets behind them, you weren't so sure what his intentions were.

Some of his weight was suddenly on your shoulder, collected in the palm of his hand cradling the roundness of it. His fingertips pushed into the fabric, pressed divots into your skin and burned where he squeezed.

"Take care of yourself." Getō said, surprising you one last time by using that same hand, the very peaks of his knuckles to skim your cheek on his way past. "I'll see you soon."

━◦○◦━◦○◦━━◦○◦━◦○◦━━◦○◦━◦○◦━

Firing Kōji was never an option, no matter what he involved himself with after work. There would be no business for you to spin signage for in the mornings, a studio to keep tidy, leather chairs to polish and preserve, and no stuttering neon light to bask under in the late hours of silence before returning upstairs to your bed.

Long ago, you had decided it made more sense to simply not see what didn't involve you directly, what didn't benefit you, because it was easier than acknowledging that the person you'd chosen to run everything in the background probably wasn't ideal. You'd known for years that his dealings outside your shop erred on the wrong side of the law, most likely, but it didn't matter as long as you didn't have to know exactly what it was.

As long as no one found him out, traced his employment to your tattoo shop, and turned your revolving door of clientele into thin, dwindling trickles, you'd force yourself to forgive him for whatever misdeeds he committed. He came into work on time every single day with his coffee flask and messenger bag, made no complaints about his workload and worn-in swivel chair that sometimes squealed when it turned, and didn't try to usurp the business from you.

He was the perfect employee and still was, even weeks following the incident with Getō. Every attempt you had made since then to get information out of him about that day was thwarted, distracted by numbers, stock invoices, client bookings, and asking if you wanted yakisoba from the little old lady down the road for lunch.

Kōji had decided you were untrustworthy now, a fact you were well aware of and unsure of how to handle. Less because he was your only employee—and, regrettably, the closest confidant you had in your life at all—but more that the entire ordeal left you uneasy and bothered.

He was doing something he shouldn't be, and Getō already knew about it and where you lived. Things weren't adding up, and you were the only one left in the dark.

One Sunday afternoon off left you with plenty of time to mull it over while packing around armfuls of groceries. A mid-autumn breeze was fabricated by cars passing through the city, throwing your hair in disarray, catching crisp bursts of air under your collar to leave you colder than you had been seconds ago. Your body was lulled into a relaxed state from the wind rocking your body left and right, pulled by the invisible force of it.

Your eyes stuck to the crosswalk sign, waiting for it to turn green, for the cluster of scuttering bodies to trot their way across and clear the area so they weren't stranded there until the next rotation. Their idle chatter hardly registered to you while you stood there next to them—colors of clothing, small domes of umbrellas, the drone of passing car engines felt so far away and surreal to you.

Everything seemed to vanish except your heartbeat when the light finally changed, eyes drifting down toward something that had an inexplicable pull on you, first as a slither of all black that grew tall and eventually into the shape of a body. You felt like you were searching through a sea of pines for that one glimpse at something that had caught your attention.

It was then that you realized what had you so engrossed was the unfaltering stare of another. You nearly collided with a man in a beige coat two feet ahead of you when you saw that it was Getō standing at the other end of the crosswalk.

Why is he here? Is he following me? You didn't give yourself the time to ruminate before ducking low behind a group of teenagers eagerly discussing their new idol obsession. A couple of the girls were in gyaru fashion, something you'd expect on a day trip to Harajuku, not on the west side of Tokyo near Shinjuku.

They paid little mind to you lingering entirely too close to them, using the shelf of a boy's shoulder to hazard a peek out at the scene until you had reached the end of the crosswalk with them. They dispersed in all different directions, sharing casual partings before you could think of where to go next, legs suddenly snared to the concrete when Getō called out from nearby.

"Hey, what a coincidence to see you here."

"Is it, really?" You tried remembering where you were in Shinjuku.

The red-light district, Kabukichō, the typical yakuza stomping grounds, wasn't far from here. It was one of those things that was easy to forget once the novelty of living in the area wore away, but it always meant something to someone else. That group of kids flashed in your mind briefly. It might've been their first time exploring a place like Shinjuku by themselves.

Getō came closer with his hands buried deep in his pants, the other half of a black sweatsuit that was too large for his frame. You tried to keep your eyes moving around a thinning crowd, steeped in uncertainty of how different interacting with him on the streets would be to piercing his back with needles.

"Are you heading home?" He saw your discomfort before the bags on your arms, his tone softening in the same way you expected it would for a frightened animal. "Do you need help carrying—"

"Hey, Suguru!" Another man showed himself through the intermix of bountiful bodies, his shape hidden beneath similarly slouchy, loose folds of clothing. His voice carried a similar pitch as the other, albeit inelegant and insouciant, with a head that was fully white and eyes so terrifyingly blue you guessed he had to be mixed with something.

For those few seconds you spared him a glance, you were set awash in a sensation of familiarity—a distant type of it. The same sort you'd expect to have while watching a movie with the appearance of an actor that startled you because you knew you had seen him from somewhere, but you couldn't place just exactly where.

If it hadn't been for his petulant seeming disposition on arrival and slothful bearings that ruined his posture and any semblance of class based on his bizarre, exotic beauty—you would have thought he was a model or someone of status, at the very least. His voice was annoying, however, and somewhat nasally as he complained about being left behind when Getō had noticed you skulking from afar.

Getō handled him benignly, almost disinterestedly, despite all of the speaking that coalesced into something even you stopped caring about. You made up your mind to use the distraction as a way to get out of this brush in public, spun on rubber soles, and almost began away until Getō broke apart from him and took the straps on one of your bags.

"Hold on"—he didn't let go despite how your features purposefully deformed from his nearness, a brazen attempt to look ugly to him—"you're a long way from home. Let me carry a few bags to help you out. Gojō, I'll see you around."

"Whaaaaat?! Seriously?" complained the other, making a whale of a noise that didn't match his relaxed stance. His bones seemed to collapse into the heaps of fabric he had stuck his arms through that day.

You tried putting opposite pressure on your bag to reclaim it from Getō, though he got what he wanted in the end. "I don't want to trouble you. I can carry these myself."

"It's no trouble." Getō insisted, still with obscene patience that overwhelmed your dogged determination to avoid causing an awkward shift between the two men.

As it was natural in Japan, jumpers and coats and pretty umbrellas wove through your motley bunch without being too distracted by the scene. They all had somewhere to go, somewhere to be, however truly inconsequential their destination was. It would've demanded too much of their concentration and willpower to look at everyone who made a ruckus in the streets of Shinjuku, but maybe they paid a little more attention because Getō and Gojō were beautiful, and you were like the hapless protagonist in a drama.

In that moment, however, you felt equal parts unfortunate that Getō bunched his long fluid strides to shorter ones to mime the pace of yours as he walked away from Gojō alongside you, all but two of your bags on his arms, and equal parts secretly enthralled by the experience and that you had been chosen over whatever former objective the two men shared.

"What was the point of us coming to Shinjuku if you're just leaving me here?! You suck!" Gojō's voice was carried by the false autumnal breeze whirled up by cars and gas exhausts, loud and strange because the urgency behind it had dropped off long ago. Now, it just sounded like he was calling after you both in casual parting like someone would from their doorstep down the road.

On that same fake wind, somewhere farther away but still close enough to see the uneven tips of Gojō’s white hair fluttering out away from his scalp, you could've sworn you heard the shape of your name—the pronunciation of it unmistakable—with all the same inflection Getō uttered when using it with you, weaponizing it so your ears would perk and be forced to hear him.

"I'm not doing any more of your tattoo until next week. I hope you know that." You had walked most of the way with him back to the studio. Seas of somber, dark concrete crosswalks with white lines and faceless beings in sometimes nice clothes had shrunk from a hearty basin of converging intersections to a gentle downstream trickle of interweaving streets that housed residences and hidden businesses. "Sunday is my only day off. I don't make exceptions for anyone."

Getō stayed with you the entire time, his movements a little more sluggish than you were used to seeing since you didn't have the same leg reach as him. He could probably open up his arms and touch buildings on either side of the street with the blunt nails on his long fingers.

You wondered, briefly, to your shame, if he could wrap himself around you twice if you were to do it first.

"I know," he said, an affable smile in his eyes and curved onto his lips. The look of him grew even brighter when he noticed you were staring, your face blemished by creases and lines and uneasy, fluttering eyeballs that conveyed your distrust and intrigue all at once. "What? You don't believe me? My back is still healing from the last session. I think you went deeper with the needles than previous times. It's taking longer."

You probably did bury ink deeper into the pretty flesh on his back because he upset your employee—your only employee, your safeguard to a successful business.

"Remember, you signed a waiver about infection. If there's too much redness and swelling, you should get it looked at." It wasn't often any interest to you to give unsolicited advice outside the shop, but Getō was your special exception. "I'm not going to touch your back again until that's completely ruled out. Besides, the dragon is done, so now we're just adding all your weird folklore and buddhist iconography."

"Hard to believe we've made it all these months." he said, now standing with you outside the building you rented for your studio and second-floor apartment. Despite the nylon straps on his arms digging cavernous divots into his black sleeves, he didn't act as though he were carrying around bags of lead like you felt you with yours. "I couldn't have chosen a better artist. I wasn't lying when I said your online portfolio was one of the best I'd seen in Tokyo, by the way."

What he said still sounded so sweetly untrue, but you unlocked the old door with a grimy brass key and let him inside to take his shoes off in the entryway and climb the stairs behind you to the second floor.

"I never have guests, so I don't really have anything for you. Coffee? Tea? Water? I may have some orange juice left." Every inch of tiny countertop and kitchen floor was swallowed by plastic totes and your bodies. It didn't occur to you at that moment to try putting some things away first to make more room, so you stumbled through the mess for your one-cup coffee machine that doubled as your tea kettle. "Sorry for the mess, I guess. I spend most of my time working, so I don't get the chance to clean up very often."

Getō betrayed no emotion, didn't seem afflicted in the slightest by the state of your apartment, and kept the curl of his smile fastened all the time. "Tea is fine. I'll just take whatever is easiest for you."

Minutes later, he politely sipped from the rim of your favorite mug, one hip implanted into the edge of the counter, staved off from helping you unload your groceries because you told him it'd be weird for a yakuza boss to do that. He still tried to take some boxes of stuff and stick them in your cabinets when you weren't looking, though.

“Did you tell that guy about me?” The sound of your voice, sudden and suspicious, was enough to startle Getō into a wide-eyed stare. He asked you what you meant, so you told him, “That guy back at the intersection you were with. Who was he? He knew my name. I saw him. Is he one of your gang friends?”

The alarm sank out of his expression, tension in his shoulders along with it. Despite the severity of your questions, he barely seemed to register them seriously and resumed stacking things on shelves to clear the countertops.

“Getō.” you pressed.

“No.” He closed the cabinet once he finished and came to you, undaunted by the obstacles spaced out on the floor. “I didn't tell him about you. I've kept my word. He's an annoying shit who likes snooping around my business.”

“Then, how did he…”

You receded into your thoughts, now trying harder than before to recall who that man was. His identity was tilted there on the edge of your memory, one word or phrase or image away from awestruck revelation. When it finally happened, seconds later, Getō was in front of you, heavy hands on your upper arms as though keeping you upright, and face bright with intrigue.

“Wait. Wait. Wait!” You cried out. “Gojō as in financial Gojō? As in one of the richest families in Japan, Gojō? Gold spoon baby Gojō?”

Getō gave a jubilant laugh as though delighted by you figuring it out on your own. His hands rose higher on your arms, capping your shoulders in warm weight that felt as refreshing as it did unusual. You couldn't remember the last time someone had touched you like that.

“He's my best friend—my only one. I'm not surprised he was able to figure out I was getting work done at your shop.” He said lightly, but doing nothing to assuage your doubt. “I know you don't believe it, but he's good to know if you need help. I'll give you his number so you—”

“I don't want it.” you said with feeble resolve. “It’s already a pain in the ass enough to have yakuza hanging around all the time. I don't need some trust fund baby to know where I live, too.”

Your heart wasn't in those words, finding that all you could concentrate on was the space of his palms encapsulating your shoulders, deft fingers leaving marks in your clothes as though trying to feel your skin through fabric. He didn't allow himself to roam you, but the taut muscles in his hands revealed a sort of composed restraint that was close to snapping.

He said your name once; a low, raspy sound in his throat that seemed so much like him yet unlike anything you had heard leave his mouth before. His eyes were darkened by his lashes, mesmerizing you in some dreamlike haze that only intensified when he stooped his head to kiss you.

His lips found rhythm with yours; slow, at first, to test the feeling and how much either of you actually wanted this. You responded with quiet sounds, a sigh and a moan, followed by the spread of your arms reaching around his neck to bring him closer, feel him more.

Getō backed your body against the countertop and leaned forward on his hands behind you to press down harder into the kiss. The blunt edges of your fingernails dove through black downy hairs on the back of his neck, trailing further down the ridges of his spine, molding to the ridges of his vertebrae that pushed up below the surface of his skin.

Goose flesh marked him all over, breath stuttering in your mouth like he was stifling pleasurable sounds of his own. You expected more self-control from a man of his status, yet there he was melting into you and sucking the air from your lungs while tasting your tongue with the roughness of his.

There was an ache between your legs, unabated heat which you had forgotten could be stimulated by another person. You weren't ashamed to take care of yourself when the need arose, although even those instances were far and few between and lacked this same urgency—this need to have another person wrapped up in you, touching you, devouring you.

You thought about how bad of an idea this was, how Kōji would react if he knew how weak your willpower truly was. It made sense to expect someone like Getō to exert his influence over you like this, for him to give into his every impulse without fear of consequence because there simply was none for him. He was above needing to restrain his inhibitions if that's what he wanted in the end.

“I can make you feel good.” He said apart from your lips, now pressed into the underside of your jaw after stretching out the neckline of your shirt. “Tell me what you want. I'll do it. I've wanted you since the beginning.”

What would happen if you told him to strip off your pants and get on his knees? Would the kingpin of the Uzumaki-kai obey someone lesser and bow and swallow the nectar from your body? Would he laugh at your brazen attempt, call you a wretch and drag you away for trying to make a mockery of him?

“Just… touch me.” Those words were not your own.

“Where?” Getō’s hands left the countertop to pile underneath your shirt, hands a light caress against the skin on your lower back. The heat of them made you flinch. “Here? Tell me where you want me.”

Something about this was too surreal, stirred unease in your chest and hundreds of quivering butterflies in your gut. It had come on as suddenly and dimmed the lust in your groin, lifted the fog from your eyes and cotton in your brain. It left you pliant in his arms, yet far away in mind as you searched those deeper recesses of yourself for an answer.

Getō noticed the disconnect and passionless kiss, your lips barely taking shape against his, and lifted his hands off of you.

“What's wrong?” He asked.

“I—” Something about you. “I don't know. This is just unprofessional. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done it.”

There was still darkness in his eyes, emotions shimmering through them despite an effortless smile he secured on his face. It was an eerie mask this time around, but your vulnerability and reddened, bruised neck kept you from saying anything on it.

“I should be the one apologizing.” Getō said with that unshakable calmness of his. “I didn't have the intention to push myself on you. I just thought…” He tilted his head a little left, tempting you to lean with him. “I thought we wanted the same thing.”

You couldn't answer that truthfully because then this would never end and he'd wind up in your bed. Had he been any other man, you'd have stripped him down to nothing and let him ravage you as he said he would.

But, you couldn't because he was your client.

You couldn't because of who he was.

You couldn't because he liked to keep his secrets close to his chest, and while you had your neck exposed—warm, sucking lips at your jaw and on the small swells in your throat when you'd swallow—you realized you couldn't trust him not to sink his teeth in and rip out gore and stringy sinew and let you bleed out on the floor.

He knew that distrust, had probably seen in everyone he’d ever known, yet he kept that smile which had grown stiff.

“It's not a good idea, Getō.” Because there's something off about you. You're a wolf masquerading as a shepherd. “Of all people, you should know that.”

Getō said nothing else as he was led downstairs and let out into the brisk evening air. Briefly, you worried he would feel the chill through this baggy sweatshirt and had to think better of fetching him a scarf for the trip back to wherever he belonged.

You stayed behind the door near the stairs, leaning through it far enough for him to reach out and stroke your face with the peaks of his knuckles. It was a fleeting touch, perhaps an attempt to not overstep as he had before.

And then, just before he pulled away, he said something familiar, “I'll see you soon.”

━◦○◦━◦○◦━━◦○◦━◦○◦━━◦○◦━◦○◦━

a/n: so i started this project late last year, i think. i put it aside after i started working on my original android x reader oneshot (which is posted and y'all should read it *hint**hint*) but i'm picking this back up to finish it.

originally, i was going to post this in its entirety once it was finished (est. 20k-22k), but decided just to get this out of my face and do the other half separately. if y'all wanna see the second half and conclusion to this please reblog and interact with this!! if i don't really gauge any interest in it, i don't really see the point in putting my time into finishing it.

the second half has the sex scene and all the drama and stuff.

anyway, deuces!

2K notes · View notes

daisiescomelate · 2 months

Text

Prompt: Sukuna keeps getting tattoos because you keep kissing every inch of them.

Content: Mature, drabble.

div. plutism

He already had the dark lines running along his body when you met and they got a good amount of attention. Arms, legs, chest, back and face. And then one day he got a random tattoo after so long, a small thing over his chest that won him a peck every time he got off the shower.

He got a second tattoo after that because one of his friends saw that new one he got and asked him to accompany him to get one of his own. Already in the shop, Sukuna asked for a big piece on his arm that you traced every night in bed while waiting to fall asleep.

By the third one he started to notice the patterns.

If the tattoo was small it gained him butterfly kisses, and if it was bigger you took your time to trace every line. Kissing and kissing his skin. To get the line art, the details and the specs of color.

Then the third and the fourth and walking around the house without a shirt on were kisses garantied, and t-shirts stopped being a thing for him at home.

The neck tattoo was a great investment. Every time it caught your attention it gave him a solid thirty minutes of love and nibbles. You would climb onto his lap and trace the leaves and the roses and the skull with your lips and the tip of your tongue, and he would melt over the back of the couch or the pillow, keeping his head back and exposing his most vulnerable spot to you to bite and bruise it as you pleased.

At times he used his discovery to his advantage and with devious intent, like the quote that run from the middle of his ribs to his V line and down to his tight. It was a random line that you had mentioned in passing that you liked so he just put it there, and he shivered every time you kissed it letter by letter, rewriting every character with soft and warm kisses and pressing them with your teeth. No skips, no rush.

Yes, in the beggining he was trying to be hot about it and put more thought into what the pictures were, but he soon run out of ideas and even at some point it didn't even matter to him what the tattoo was. You mentioned you thought sharks were cool? Done. There is a type of flower that he noticed had caught your attention? Awesome. Some dumb lyrics that you kept repeating? Good enough for him. It saved him time and energy that way.

What was truly important? How would the lines flow over his body, where would your lips fall. Long lines dancing up and down, spiraling over him, thought-out for you to care for. Delicate, without rough edges so you would take your time.

A wink to one of your hobbies over his shoulder blade. A single feather of a bird you liked. A random drawing in your favorite color. A shrine because you had a date on a temple once. Of course he didn't tell you what they meant, and you couldn't tell because he was smart about it, only hinting at things in the images and waiting enough time for you to forget that you mentioned something before he got it, never picking something too obvious.

The picture didn't matter. Your breath over his skin, the sweetness of your lips, the way they locked your eyes all over him, were all the tattoos real purpose.

Ink, and ink, and ink, every tinted inch of skin was your conquering. A game that you didn't even knew you were playing, and where Sukuna was willing to give it all up.

#jjk #fanfic #ryomen sukuna #x reader #sukuna x reader #sukuna #fanfiction #sukuna x tattoos

1K notes · View notes

springcatalyst · 1 year

Text

designing a relatively complicated character and then regretting it every time I draw them

#drawing a bunch of relatively detailed?? not really. but a page of each little guy #to try to really get their faces down. like a study #ive done julian he looks SO good. ive done most of reijis some of them need editing #im now on milo. GOD #hes just got. hair and horns and tattoos and jewelry #actually im not even gonna draw his jewelry. but his hair is a bunch of little pieces and his horns are a bunch of little ridges #and hes a little creature so i have to have a bunch of different references #like its fun. im having good times and he looks good so far. but god it takes so long to finish smth

0 notes

moonbaetarot · 13 days

Text

Pick a pile

what your future spouse loves about your appearance

1. 2. 3.

Pile 1

Your future spouse loves your features So much that they can’t wait to see your beautiful features on your children. your future spouse loves that you don’t care what others think of you like you wear what you want and you feel happy doing it. someone here may work with animals. they love how you look so beautiful with little to none makeup your just a natural you may like to use non toxic or like natural beauty hacks. This person loves your curly or wavy hair. You have something unique to you and they love this they have never laid eyes on someone like you. They also love your height. Your future spouse loves the details in your face your face is just beautiful to them. There is something about a flower here idk if you have a flower tattoo or a piece of jewelry that’s a flower but they think this really cute. This person thinks you just glow you may look very pretty in nature or in the sunlight. You may dress modest or not show a lot of skin out in public and they like this. They also love the way you look in white. If you wear any type of jewelry or clothing relating to your religion or culture they think this is really beautiful as well.

Thank you for reading loves! 🤍

Pile 2

Your future spouse loves how cute and innocent you look they may take pictures of you and you hold up a thumps up or a peace sign and they think this is cute. They like your small facial features and your side profile is on point. They love your hair the way you style it or just even when you’re wearing it natural. someone here may have many ear piercings Or a belly piercing. This person really loves your “chest” if you’re a woman I’m hearing “perfect for my hands” They are making it known in this reading that they love your “chest” lol. This person really thinks your whole body is beautiful. This person thinks you look very nurturing and mothering. They love your soft features. They think you smell really good as well your sent may be very floral. Someone here may love cherry blossoms. You may wear your hair half up half down. I feel like this person thinks you’re just so perfect like they look at you and just think how did they get this way like they are so beautiful. They are very in wow when they look at you. This person is really going to love the way you look as a mom they are going to find you so attractive just doing mother things.

Thank you for reading loves! 🤍

Pile 3

They love your face when you smile or laugh you may even blush or get red but they think this is cute. I feel like they find your laugh very cute as well. This person likes the way you look in bright colors especially yellow or orange they think it fits your personality very well. This person sees you as happy and bright I feel like when you are happy so are they. You may be a lot smaller then your future spouse if your insecure about being short or skinner don’t be your future spouse thinks your beautiful like that. They love your tattoos if you have any. Im seeing a tattoo or birth mark on your back. You may look really innocent but your not like your an “angle in the street freak in the sheet” this person likes that they are the only ones that gets to see this side of you. You may love reading as well but the books you read aren’t about unicorns and rainbows lol. I feel like your face and eyes are very telling as well like they can tell what you’re thinking just by your face. this person finds you very juicy you just looks so good to them they just wanna take a bite out of you lol. You may dye your hair a lot like one day your hair is brown the next your blonde.

Thank you for reading loves! 🤍

#pick a card #pick a photo #pick a picture #pick a pile #pick an image #tarot cards #tarot deck #tarot reading #tarotblr #tarotcommunity #pick a reading #pick a deck #pick a crystal #pick a number #free tarot #daily tarot #tarot

794 notes · View notes

orayart · 6 months

Text

THE GOOD OMENS REFERENCE LIBRARY

You may know that sometimes it can be a real pain to search for a specific reference from Good Omens, like a detail from Aziraphale's costume, Crowley's expression in one particular episode, a piece of furniture in the bookshop...

So for that, I decides to create a library with everything Good Omens artists may need in different folders.

That may be :

>> Their face profile, their body types, Crowley as an angel, every time period costumes, Soho street and floor map, the bookshop outside and inside, the bentley in different angles, their different hair style, hands details, alpha century nasa pics, Aziraphale's ring or Crowley's tattoo, Beelzebub from s1 or s2 ECT......

But also :

>> Face features and body studies with notes made by me

+ a free morpho and anatomy book in pdf from this Tumblr post :

So obviously this is going to be a big work and I need your help to build this library !

How ? You can join this discord server I've made.

Everything will be separated in different # channels

If you have a great screenshot of Aziraphale's hands for instance, you can send it in the appropriate channel.

I will be sorting them and put them all in the Google Drive I'm working on with different folders.

In time, when enough material will be gathered, I hope this could become a Website on which everyone can have access ! (I'm looking for someone that knows how to do that btw)

So if you have a lot of stuffs in your gallery and are willing to help, but also if you're an artist and looking for specific references right now, you may join the discord !

Please be sure to check the # informations and # rules when you arrive !

See you there 🫶🏻

#good omens #ineffable husbands #aziraphale #crowley #aziracrow #ineffable partners #good omens season 2 #good omens 2 #tips for artists #good omens reference #art references #The Good Omens Library #Aziraphale reference #crowley references

1K notes · View notes

flowerxbunnie · 2 months

Note

Tattoo artist matt 🫦 and he’s praising the reader and telling her she’s taking it really well 🫦🫦 and she gets addicted to it and keeps coming back for more tattoos 🫦🫦🫦 and he’s like ‘wow you’re single-handedly paying my bills, this one’s on the house’ 🫦🫦🫦🫦 and she’s like ‘no, i gotta pay you.’ 🫦🫦🫦🫦🫦🫦🫦🫦🫦 i think you know where i’m going with this

ps I love you 💋

Ink

Tattoo artist!Matt x Fem Reader

Warnings: needles, blood, pain, tension, no smut (yet?? 😏) but veryyyyyy suggestive at times

6.3k words

Your skin is tender and raw, a soft wince drawn from your mouth as your tattoo artist wipes the excess ink with a rough paper towel.

“So proud of this one,” Alex beams as she scoots back in her chair, the wheels rolling her towards her supply cart. She grabs a roll of plastic wrap and some tape before using her feet to roll back toward your chair. “Let’s get you all wrapped up.”

“It turned out so good, dude.” You say in awe as you hold your arm out to her.

“Did you expect any less?” She jokes, wrapping the wound snugly and taping it up before shooting you a smile. “All done. Keep the wrap on for a few hours. It’ll be a little leaky, that’s normal. Wash once a day with unscented soap… blah blah blah you know the drill. Still legally obligated to tell you.” She chuckles at the end, standing up to throw away her stained gloves. “Come up to the desk whenever you’re ready.” She says before she turns on her feet and heads to the front of the shop.

You stand up and gather your belongings feeling the adrenaline rush a new tattoo always seems to bring out of you. Your arm pulses and slightly burns, a sensation you’d become addicted to over the past couple of years. You’re not covered in ink by any means, but you’ve gotten your fair share, all done by Alex.

You love the way her shop feels more like a home than a sterile clinical office. Tapestries are hung haphazardly across the walls, strings of fairy lights sprawl across the ceilings and there’s more weird little knick-knacks strewn about than you could ever imagine counting. Your favorite is the preserved butterflies she has in shadow boxes lined down the hallway.

Once you gather your keys and bag, you take the walk to the front and admire all the sketches pinned along the walls. Alex is waiting for you with a warm smile as she tells you the total. You sit your bag down and rummage for your wallet, gathering the money along with a generous tip as always.

“You want the change back?” She asks as she counts the bills.

“Just take the fucking tip Alex.” You raise an eyebrow at her.

“You know you don’t have to do that,” she chuckles humbly, shaking her head as she sorts the cash into her vintage register.

“I know I don’t have to,” you laugh, tossing your wallet back into your bag, “I want to.”

You grab the strap of your bag and throw it across your shoulder, knocking a binder off the counter in the process. You let out a quiet curse as you bend down to pick it up, flipping it over to look at the cover.

“Oh, you should look through that!” Alex chimes in excitedly. “It’s a bunch of flash pieces that are up for grabs. They’re going quick, you should pick one out!”

“Oh nice..” you thumb through the pages, studying the intricate artwork tucked behind sheet protectors. “These are so good Alex..”

“You think?” She asks, bending down to restock her glass display cabinet with more tattoo salve.

You turn page after page, seeing traditional pieces like tigers and roses, more abstract watercolor pieces and some random goofy sketches of cartoon characters. You stop when you come across a snake separated into segments with the word ‘collarbone’ scratched underneath of it.

“This one is so detailed,” you say, running your fingers across the sheet protector. “Why’s it all broken up like that?”

Alex stands back up to her feet and looks over the page, her brows furrowing a bit as she adjusts her glasses. “Oh, it’s because it’s made to look like it’s wrapping around your collarbone. Like it’s going into your skin kinda.”

“Oh, sick,” You say excitedly, “I’ll take that one then. When can you get me in?”

“That’s not mine, girl. That’s the new guy’s design. You may have seen him here before? He transferred here like three…ish months ago?” She rambles as she sorts through a stack of paperwork.

You think back, not recalling seeing a different face in the shop. “I don’t think I’ve seen anyone new. It’s been a hot minute since I’ve been here and you usually get me in and out.” You pull the binder closer and admire the tiny detailing of the snake skin. “He looks pretty good.. but I don’t know if I can cheat on you.” You sigh jokingly.

“Honestly, he’s fucking amazing. His card is right there if you wanna make an appointment.” She points to a carousel of different artists’ cards. “Matt… the black card.. yep that’s it.”

You stick the matte black card in your bag and give Alex a humorous warning glare. “If he fucks my tattoo up Alex I swear to god.”

“Just make the appointment, Y/n. He’ll do good, promise. Why would I hire someone whose work I don’t trust?” She laughs and steps out from behind the counter, walking towards the door. “Now get out of my shop, I need to rest my eyes.” She laughs as she pulls the door open.

——————

You dig through your bag, pulling out hair ties, loose sticks of gum and countless receipts as you search for your favorite chapstick. “I swear I left it in here,” you think out loud, gasping as your finger slides across the corner of something sharp. You pull your hand back, sucking back a curse and see a tiny paper cut on your finger, laughing at the fact that something so small can hurt so bad. You reach back in and grab the culprit, a black sturdy rectangular card.

Fuck. It’s been 3 days.

You look over the card.

Matt Sturniolo

Appointments by text.

Come get somethin’ nice!

You pull out your phone and create a new contact, typing the 10 digit number slowly and double checking, making sure you got every single one right. You let out a sigh that you’ve been holding back, deciding to drop your worries, bite the bullet and make the appointment.

Alex won’t care, she doesn’t mind. She wants me to.

He thinks I’m a guy, funny, you think to yourself, locking your phone and sitting it on the counter.

—————

The week comes and goes, the same mundane routine dragging you through the creeping days. It’s finally Friday, meaning you’re risking the integrity of your skin on an artist you’ve never even met before, let alone vetted his work. Sure, he can draw a sketch but can he execute it just as well into your skin? The entire drive to the shop you shuffle through your playlist while your fingers absentmindedly tap against the steering wheel, mind racing with every possible outcome.

You sit in the parking lot, nerves at an all time high as you scroll through TikTok trying to numb your brain while the minutes pass. You quickly peek up to the clock on your dashboard, heaving a sigh.

5:32.

Fuck. I still have way too much time.

You groan quietly and put your phone down in your cupholder, leaning your head back against the headrest and close your eyes. Your left foot taps slowly against the footrest in your floorboard, creating a steady rhythm, pulsing along with your music that quietly hums in the speakers. You pick your head back up and grip the steering wheel with a huff, tracing your hands up and down around the warm leather.

Your eyes follow passersby as they stroll and pace down the sidewalk, essentially people watching. Your hand somehow makes its way to your mouth without realizing, your nails picking and pulling at the skin of your lips habitually. You only notice when you taste the bitter metallic flavor of blood on your tongue, silently scolding yourself as you pull down your vanity mirror.

You lick the wound and pull your sore bottom lip between your teeth, suddenly hyperaware of the shriveled, dehydrated state they’re in. Leaning across your car to reach for the glovebox, you pull it open and grab the lip oil you leave in your car for moments like this. You shut the glovebox and center yourself in the reflection of the mirror, opening the tube and applying a much too generous amount of the gloss to your lips. You smack and pucker your lips, appreciating the way they seem to come back to life, plump and slightly tinted.

You look to the side as you run your finger against the corner of your mouth, cleaning up your work. A small blackboard that sits outside the door of the shop catches your attention, propped up and smeared with chalked in words. It lists the information for an upcoming tattoo fair, has random small sketches littering the board, and lists a social media account near the bottom.

Why haven’t I ever thought of that?

You pick your phone up out of the cupholder after you slam your mirror shut, clicking the Instagram icon and typing the handle into the search bar. You click on the account, seeing that Alex’s individual account is linked at the top as well as a piercer, Darren, who you’ve met a couple of times. You scroll down through the feed, seeing copious photo collages of fresh versus healed ink and videos with music edited into the background, featuring Alex working her magic in the shop.

You scroll past a reel of Alex promoting a clean brand of tattoo healing balms, your finger coming to a still as you land on a video of a man hunched in his chair, his body leaning over as he works a tattoo gun into someone’s leg. You can’t make out much of him from the video, but he’s clad in a stone washed black t-shirt and jeans littered with ink stains. Tattoos sprawl across his left arm that pulls at the person’s skin, holding it steady as he moves the dripping needle back and forth. Though his face isn’t visible, you notice his wispy, umber brown hair that falls forward as he works. Light catches the strands and outlines each wave as they cascade over his brow bone. Scrolling down, you read the caption.

“Matt may be new but he is making himself well known in the shop! Text him to book, slots are filling up fast!”

You scroll further and find more pieces done by Matt but can’t seem to find a tagged account. Your shot nerves are soothed a bit as you examine each flawless piece of art, every one of them so perfect it’s almost like a printed photo taped to skin. You can’t deny that the man is talented. You scroll down until you reach the very first photo that mentions his name, dated three months ago just like Alex had said.

Maybe I do trust him.

You break yourself from the distraction of your phone and check the time again, quickly fixing yourself in the mirror as you realize you need to head in immediately. Your soft fingers brush down the wild flyaways in your hair in an attempt to look as put together as possible. Grabbing the handle of your bag and slinging it across your shoulder, you turn off the ignition and step out of your car, making sure to lock the doors behind you.

You feel the ground beneath your feet meeting your body in shockwaves with each step you take towards the familiar building. In the reflection of the glass you watch your figure grow closer. You let out one last deep exhale as you grip the iron handle, pulling it open and feeling the cool air shoot across your skin.

As you step in and the door falls closed behind you, you take notice that the front desk is unoccupied. Distinct chatter can be heard over the music playing in the studio just down the hall and past the foyer, deep rumbling tones that you can’t piece together. You’re familiar enough with the shop that you feel comfortable going back without a so-called escort, so you grip the handle on your shoulder and begin the walk down the dimly lit hallway.

The walls open up into the studio and the music is so loud it almost vibrates your skin. You step closer to the source of the voices, one of them being the piercer you’re familiar with. He stands talking expressively with his hands to another man who sits with his back facing you, arms behind his head as he leans back into his chair.

“Is Matt here?” You question, looking around the rest of the studio.

The men continue on with their conversation, completely unaware you’d even said anything over the racket of the rock music. Clearing your throat, you step forward, just about six feet away from them at this point and speak up once again.

“Is anyone working the desk right now?”

The piercer turns his head to face you and the man in the chair spins around, planting his feet to stop himself.

His blue eyes catch your attention first, so bright the gaze is almost difficult to keep. But you do, and so does he. He drops his hands down from the back of his head, one of his arms coming to lay on the armrest of his chair and the other stroking the stubble that peppers his chin. The tattoos across his left arm in contrast to the blank one on the right tell you that this is your guy, this is Matt.

What you don’t know is how he feels his blood pumping hot at the sight of you. He does his best to keep his eyes above your shoulders, but he can’t help letting them wander down your supple, shining skin, immediately thinking about how soft it must be. Matt sees so many women everyday, some in very compromising positions, but just the sight of you standing in front of him has made him feel weak. The way you look so innocent and bright, juxtaposing the way you’re standing in front of his sketches of skulls and anatomically correct organs being feasted on by animals.

You feel a wave of awkward silence even through the intense bass sounding through the speakers. You ask once again if anyone is working the front desk, but your voice struggles to overpower the volume. You see Matt’s cheeks pull up into a chuckle as he reaches back around to the table, fishing for his phone and clicking the volume down considerably.

You huff, trying to keep the annoyance out of your voice as you repeat yourself for the fourth time. “Is anyone working the front?”

“I’m sorry honey, we don’t take walk ins.” He rasps as he shoves his phone into the pocket of his jeans. “You’ll need to make an appointment.”

“I have one.” You retort, resting your weight on one of your legs.

The bearded man walks away to his piercing station, leaving the two of you in a sort of awkward staredown.

“Alex is out today, and I’m expecting a guy to be walking in any minute for my next appointment. Are you sure yours was for today?” He asks smoothly.

“You’re Matt right?”

His shoulders tense when you say his name, but he relaxes them as he nods his head. “Yeah, I’m Matt.”

“Oh, well then yeah.. I’m Y/n. Collarbone snake for 6 o’clock.” You clarify, pulling out your phone to ensure you had the date and time right.

His eyes widen and he silently scolds himself for assuming something so bold while being utterly wrong.

“Yeah, here it is.” You turn your phone to face him, stepping closer.

“I must have been tipsy when I replied or something,” he laughs and sits up in his chair, running his hands through his hair to soothe his embarrassment. “I assumed you’d be a dude for some reason.”

“No, at least not since the last time I checked.” You giggle, tossing your phone into your crowded bag.

His laugh gives you a sense of satisfaction, his hands coming up to rub his eyes as he catches his breath. “Shit, that’s my bad then.” He says while pushing himself up to stand, his arms flexing under the tight sleeves of his shirt.

“No worries.” You give him a genuine smile, not wanting him to feel any more embarrassed than you can already tell he is from his flushed cheeks.

He steps forward with a long stride, his frame much larger and taller than you expected once he passes you to head to the hallway. He tries to ignore the way his pulse quickened with the way you beamed up at him moments before, walking quickly to the front desk.

You follow behind, breathing in the lingering scent his cologne leaves in his trail. Stepping in front of the counter as he grabs a stack of haphazardly sorted papers, you grab a pen from the cup in front of you.

He slides them over to you, groaning as he flips them so they’re facing your direction. “Might not be much help reading them upside down.” He chuckles. “Alright, so I’m assuming you know the drill, yeah?” He nods his head at your arms, eyes flickering over the ink.

“Mhmm..” you hum as you concentrate on crossing off and initialing boxes stating you don’t have any medical conditions hindering you from getting tattooed.

Matt watches in silence as you skim over the pages, twisting the pen between your small fingers. He places both hands on the ledge in front of him and moves ever so slightly closer, enough to watch your lashes as they brush your cheeks with each blink. If he got any closer you’d probably feel his breath hitting your skin.

You print and sign your name on the bottom of the last page, capping the pen and tossing it back into the cup. He’s stepping back as you look up at him with the papers outstretched, deciding ogling over you isn’t a very professional first impression.

“My ID is already on file.” You say as he takes the stack and turns to the side to run them through the scanner.

“Well look at you, smart girl huh?” He jokes, pressing buttons to send the papers through the machine.

You feel warmth creeping up your neck and across your cheeks as the words fall from his lips. “I mean,” you pause with a giggle, “Alex is my only artist so I know she’s got everything she needs from me.”

“And you’re cheating on her with me?” He chuckles softly as he steps out from behind the counter, turning to head back towards the studio. “Let’s get this started, shall we?” His voice is quiet, his back to you as he walks ahead.

Matt’s shirt is stretched thin across his broad shoulders, and you absentmindedly let your eyes sink down his arms, following the veins that trail from them into his hands as they swing. His walk is confident and steady, unwavering.

Part of him wishes he had let you walk ahead of him so he could selfishly glue his eyes to your legs, drinking up the way your shorts hug them perfectly. But he has to keep this professional, you’re just a customer.

He walks to his table, gripping a handle and maneuvering the headboard so that you’ll be partially sitting, partially leaning back. “Go ahead and have a seat for me.” He gestures you to the table.

You sit your bag in your lap as you adjust in the seat, a chill running through you as the cold textured leather presses against your back. Matt stands over his supply cart, looking back and forth between you and a few sheets of paper.

“I printed a few stencils but they’re all man sized..” he laughs, crumpling them up and tossing them into his trash bin. “I’m gonna have to free hand it.”

Your eyes widen as he grabs a marker off the top of the cart and pulls the lid off with his teeth, scooting his rolling chair up to your table. “Uhh.. are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“Honey…” he laughs, his head falling forward before he looks up at you with a grin. “You know I sketched the design free handed, right?”

You silently curse yourself and do your best to laugh it off, but you definitely made yourself feel incredibly dumb. Somehow he switched the mood and made it feel like he was laughing with you instead of at you, though.

“Alright… first let me…” he trails off, looking around his table before replacing the marker with a fresh razor. “I know you don’t have chest hair, but I kinda have to clear the canvas regardless.” He gives you a humored smile.

He pulls his chair up, his left hand brushing your hair off of your shoulder and down your back. He grabs your tank top strap with a clenched jaw, slowly sliding it down your shoulder. His fingers feel like jolts of electricity on your skin, like he shouldn’t be touching you, but also like you want more.

He’s a tattoo artist. Alex touches me everytime she does one of my tattoos. There’s nothing weird about it, stop making it weird.

You gulp and hope that your cheeks haven’t given away your feelings as he gets the strap out of his way and leans closer. You look forward, desperately trying to avoid eye contact with Matt as he slowly drags the razor across your skin.

“Alright there’s that.” He spins around and tosses the razor in the trash can, grabbing the marker once more. “Gonna sketch it out roughly right quick. It won’t look as detailed right now but I’ll add ‘em in later.” He mumbles as he tilts his head, bringing the marker to your collarbone.

Matt drags the marker across your skin with furrowed brows as he perfects the curvature of the snake to look like it’s wrapping around your bone. He can smell your sweet perfume permeating from your body, so close he can almost sniff out the individual notes. “You smell like candy.” He blurts out before he can stop himself. He bites down on his lip, shutting his eyes for a moment before he gets straight back to sketching, hoping you didn’t find it odd.

“Thank you!” You beam, “Funny enough it’s actually Prada Candy. I love it.”

He hums in response and finishes up his outline, rolling back to look at it from further away. “Sit up for me right quick.” He instructs and you listen. He nods his head, approving of his placement and sketch. “Let’s make sure you like it first.” He turns to the side and grabs a handheld mirror off his cart. He holds it out to you, his fingertips brushing yours as he hands it off.

“I love it! It’s the perfect size. Even just the sketch looks so good.” You grin as you study the purple ink in the mirror. You smile as you hand the mirror back to him, taking notice of the subtle curve of his lips.

“Great then. Already got the machine all set up and the ink wells filled. You ready?” He asks with raised eyebrows.

The look on his face tells you that you might have bitten off more than you can chew. “I… think I’m ready. Should I be worried?”

He sucks his teeth as he looks down with a stifled smirk. “Well… the collarbone isn’t the most pleasant place to get a needle jammed into your skin, I’ll leave it at that.”

You look to him with wide eyes. You’d never even considered how painful it might be, all of your other tattoos being on your arms and lower legs. “Matt, you’re scaring me.” You nervously laugh.

His stomach does a flip when you say his name for the second time today. He shoved the feeling down and reaches over, grabbing the tattoo gun in his right hand and turning it on briefly. The vibration sounds throughout the room and he assures it’s in good working condition before shutting it back off and looking up at you. “I think you’re a brave girl, you can take it.” He says lowly but causally as he rolls up next to the table, resting his left arm next to your shoulder.

The way Matt’s words fall from his lips like honey makes your skin feel as if it’s being licked with flames. You look down as he flips the gun on once again and dips the needle into the pitch black ink, the fluid dripping onto the table as he slowly raises it toward you.

“You’re gonna have to turn a little.” He almost whispers as he uses his left hand to guide your jaw to the side, giving him better access to your skin. “Alright, there we go.” He leans in as he brings the needle down into your skin, a sharp scratching and stinging pain making you gasp lightly. “You good?” He asks in a caring tone as he lifts the gun back up and scans your pained expression.

“Yeah, yeah.. I’m okay.” You breathe out. “Feels a lot different than arms and legs.”

You see him nod silently and lower the needle back to the surface of your skin, slowly pressing all the way down until he’s drawing the solid outline. He adjusts his left arm and places his warm hand onto your shoulder, his fingers gripping and pulling at the skin to keep it taut. He glances up at your face every now and again as he tattoos you, his view of your side profile and jawline begging him to keep looking. “You can move your head now. Got that upper outline all done.”

You turn your head to look at him, a smile pulling at your cheeks when you see he’s already looking up at you with hooded lids. He flashes you a small crooked grin before dipping his head back down and working on the rest of the outline. You squirm in your chair as the needle moves and works across your flesh, the area growing hot and tender.

You see a thin sheen of sweat forming on his arms under the heat of his overhead light, illuminating every dip and valley through the rolling veins on his hands. His wrist moves back and forth as he maneuvers the machine, his lip bitten between his teeth. Every few minutes his body must become sore because he moves his legs, adjusting in his seat before he brings his grip back to your shoulder.

He concentrates as he finishes the last of the outlining details, sitting up against the backrest of his chair and putting the gun down on his cart. “All done with the outline.” He smiles.

“Really?” You marvel excitedly. You peer down to take a look but huff once you realize you can’t bend your neck enough to get a good view.

Matt takes notice and leans over to grab the handheld mirror off his cart, except his left hand finds a spot atop your knee, sliding gingerly down your calf as he stretches toward his cart. As soon as his touch is there it’s gone. He leans back toward you and hands you the handle, smiling when you examine it in the mirror. “What do you think?”

You won’t lie to yourself, your pulse quickened when his hand brushed down your leg. Your only hope is he doesn’t notice the trail of goosebump he left behind in the absence of his touch. You struggle to find words, your mouth hanging open before you eventually find your voice. “I.. uh… l-looks really good.”

He exhales a small chuckle as he turns to switch the outlining needle for a shading needle. “Let me know if you need a break before I start this part.” He mumbles as he dips the set of needles into the well of ink.

You quickly shake your head. “Nope, get it over with.” You say flatly, closing your eyes. Shading is hit or miss, it either feels super relieving or like you’re getting shredded with a freshly sharpened cheese grater.

“That’s a good girl. All in one go, hm?” He murmurs as he scoots closer yet again.

He did not just say that. I’m thinking too much into this.

You give him a light chuckle and suck air in through your teeth once the needles meet your skin.

“Shhh.. you’re doing good. A lot better than a lot of crybaby men that have been on my table.” He coos as he drags the ink over the raw, bleeding skin.

If it wasn’t Matt you’d be much more of a mess. You’d probably be damn near in tears. But you can’t seem weak around him, so you bite your lip and squeeze your eyes shut as he shades and details the design. Your hands clench the air until your knuckles are white and throbbing, your body needing to release energy into anything other than the pain you’re in.

“Squeeze my arm if you need to. I don’t mind.” Matt proposes, stilling his movement and brushing his brown waves out of his eyes before looking at you expectantly.

You gulp and move your shaking hands to his bicep, wrapping your dainty fingers around the expanse of it lightly.

“C’mon, give me more than that.” He chuckles, “Just don’t squeeze hard enough that I fuck up your ink.”

You grip into his arm with more pressure, feeling his muscles expand and contract under his skin as he moves his forearm.

Thank god Darren left earlier. This looks so… personal.

When a small strained whimper slips out of your mouth he clears his throat, blinking hard as he wipes the tattoo with the paper towel in his left hand. He knows it’s because of the pain, he knows he shouldn’t enjoy the sound. But he does.

He can’t help himself as he finishes up the rest of the tattoo. He finds himself pressing the needle into your skin with more pressure than necessary, enough to draw more pretty sounds out of you and make you grip onto his arm. Enough for you to throw your head back onto the leather of the table, squirming your legs as you squeeze your eyes shut. He’d never do anything to mess up the integrity of his art, but god does he want to. He knows it’s wrong that his pants grow tighter with every move you make, every curse you let out as he pushes more and more ink into your skin. He sees this everyday, why is it affecting him like this?

The angel on his shoulder tells him to get the tattoo done, work fast and get you off his table. The devil on his other tells him to keep you here writhing and squeezing at him for as long as he can. His eyes drift across your sweaty face, your wet baby hairs sticking to your forehead. Your chest rises and falls as he digs in, taking his time to let the needle drag. His mind floods with sin, his hands desperately aching to pull the neckline of your tank top even a millimeter lower.

Your harsh squeeze to his arm snaps him out of his stream of thought, realizing he’d been keeping this on for too long, causing you unnecessary pain. Lifting the needle from your skin, he examines the finished piece for a moment. “All done.” He says flatly, pulling his arm from your grasp to set the machine down on his cart.

“Fuck… that was intense.” You breathe out, turning your head toward him.

“Mmm but you did great. Sat so well.” He praises as he grabs a bottle of cleaning solution.

You have no time to react before he’s squirting the liquid onto your collarbone, a harsh pulsing sting deep in your skin. “Oh that’s… fucking horrible.” You do your best to laugh through the sting.

He laughs along with you, nodding while he lets his eyes watch the droplets that flow down your chest and into the valley of your cleavage. He tears his eyes away and looks at his cart, scoffing when his box of paper towels proves empty. “Gotta go get some more paper towels,” he holds up the box, “be right back.”

“I won’t move a muscle.” You giggle and lean back onto the table.

He offers a quick smile before standing up, quickly turning around and walking to the utility closet across the studio. Once inside and out of view, he lets his hand wander down to the waistband of his jeans, slowly trailing lower to brush over his throbbing erection. He knows this is bad. He’s never had this kind of reaction to a client, and he can’t be crazy. He knows he’s seen you looking too.

He lets his rough fingertips push his shirt up and dip beneath his jeans and boxers, grabbing ahold of his pulsing cock with a slow, shaking breath. He pulls it up and tucks it into his waistband, knowing he can’t let you see the struggling tent in his pants when he walks back into the studio.

He quickly grabs a new sterile stack of paper towels and fills the empty box, sighing deeply before he begins the walk back to his station.

“They were up on a high shelf huh? Had to find a ladder?” You joke, poking fun at the fact he took longer than expected.

“Oh yeah. Had to call the fire department actually. Like when there’s a cat stuck in a tree.” He quips back with a laugh, sitting down and letting his chair roll closer to you.

He rubs the cleaning solution away and beams at his work. He may have taken longer than he needed, but damn if you didn’t get an insanely detailed snake piece. He grabs a package of Saniderm from his cart and peels the backing off, slowly applying it to the raw skin. “Leave this on for like two or three days, you can shower in it, sleep in it, the whole nine yards. It’ll start lifting and you’ll know it’s time to take it off.”

“Hmm.. Alex always uses plastic wrap.” You say questioningly, peering down at the clear bandage.

“That’s because she’s old.” He says matter of factly, peeling his gloves off and tossing them in the trash.

“She’s 35!” You chuckle and smack his shoulder.

“Yeah… old.” He replies as he fishes into his pocket. “Gotta get a picture of this, it turned out so sick.” He pulls his phone out and opens his camera, zooming in until he has the right angle and snapping a photo.

“Don’t post that, I bet I look busted.” You whine, sitting up and stretching your back.

“Well sweetheart, your face isn’t in the picture. But for the record, I think you look pretty good for a girl who just got a metric fuck ton of ink shoved into her collarbone with a needle.” He says as he shoves his phone back into his pocket.

Your breath hitches inaudibly in your throat, heat lapping at your cheeks.

I have to play it cool. He didn’t call me pretty. He’s saying I took the tattoo well, that’s all.

“Thanks, Matt.” You smile, throwing your legs off the table and letting your feet hit the floor.

“After you.” He gestures his arm out as he stands, knowing he has to take the opportunity to walk behind you this time.

You sling your bag over your shoulder and walk down the hallway, feeling his eyes bore into the back of your head the entire way.

Except his eyes bore into everything he missed out on earlier. Your toned, smooth calves and up to your plush thighs that wiggle as you walk. The curve of your ass in your shorts. The way your hips sway with each step, taunting his still half-hard member.

You reach the front desk and peek into the mirror on the wall to the left of it, admiring the fresh ink. You can’t stop ogling at it as he prints out a receipt, walking up to the register and silently watching you. You turn your head to him and mumble an “oops”, stepping back to the center of the desk and grabbing the receipt from him. “Only $120?” You exclaim, widening your eyes as you look up to him.

He gives you a light nod and a shrug, brushing his hand through his fluffy waves. “You took it like a champ. Plus, I know you’ll be back. Gotta give that recurring customer discount, right?”

You know your cheeks are fire engine red at this point as you dig for your wallet, feeling as if you’re taking too long.

Am I being crazy or is that flirting? He’s flirting, right?

You open your wallet and dig out the cash, adding a generous tip to the stack before you hand it over. “I really appreciate it, Matt.”

“Not a problem. You have my number if you need anything else.” He returns as he sorts the cash into the register. He flicks his eyes back up and meets yours, a brief, almost-too-long moment of eye contact held between you two.

You blink hard a few times before clearing your throat and nodding, stepping back from the counter. “You got it. Thanks again.”

You turn on your feet and head for the door, pushing it open while your brain spins with thoughts of your encounter.

What the fuck was that?

—————

authors note: part two??? lmk 😈😈😈

taglist: @solarsturniolo @lustfulslxt @whotfisade @soursturniolo @recklesssturniolo @worldlxvlys @chrisolivia4l @kiarastromboli @mattnchrisworld @cupidsword @kvtie444 @xplrfear @knowingnothingnoel @karlybbx @chrisfavoritepepsi @mwah0mwah @starsturniolo @christinarowie332 @fionaheartswomen @angelic-sturniolos111 @mqttittude @sturniolowhore @luv4kozume

#sturniolo triplets #sturniolo #sturniolo fanfic #sturniolo imagine #sturniolo smut #matt sturniolo #sturniolo x reader #matthew sturniolo edit #matthew sturniolo smut #matt sturniolo fanfic #matt sturniolo edit #matt sturniolo x you #matt sturniolo imagine #matt sturniolo smut #matt sturniolo x reader #matthew sturniolo #sturniolo edit

989 notes · View notes

missukiyo · 2 months

Text

— tattoo artist! geto x reader

cw: lmao none just fluff :D, established relationship

a/n: this was really rushed so im sorry if its mid hsjsjs. ive been busy for a couple of days and i feel bad for not posting smth in a while :(( wrote this on a whim hope u enjoy <3

tattoo artist! geto, your boyfriend of 6 months who had earned a reputation as the top tattoo artist in all of tokyo, effortlessly excelling in his craft and garnering both attention and admiration from all who knew his work.

tattoo artist! geto who practically beams with excitement when you finally decide to get your first tattoo after much contemplation. he practically bounces with joy at the thought of being the one to ink your skin.

tattoo artist! geto who looks so happy the minute you walk into his shop, excited to be the one to have the honour of giving your first tattoo. he lets out a small chuckle when you mention that you wanted a small heart on your wrist. a classic! with a grin on his face, he replies with “no problem, sweetheart.”

tattoo artist! geto who can't help but smile softly as he watches you nervously fiddling with your hands while he prepares the tattoo design. he reassures you with his soothing voice, softly whispering in your ear, "don’t worry, I'll take good care of you."

tattoo artist! geto who knows just how nervous you are for your first tattoo, kisses your forehead gently before starting to work. "i promise it's going to be amazing, love. trust me," he whispers softly, earning a smile from you.

tattoo artist! geto who surprises you by playing their favorite music while they get tattooed, and even sings along softly to it as he works, a small smile forming on your face as you appreciate how much he had done just to make sure you were comfortable.

tattoo artist! geto who stops every few minutes to check in on you, making sure you're comfortable and asking if you need a break or if you want to continue.

tattoo artist! geto who takes his time with each stroke of the needle, making sure the design is perfect and that you're not in any pain. "you’re doing great, sweetheart," he whispers as he works.

tattoo artist! geto who pleasantly surprises you with his gentle touch as he carefully sketches out the design on your skin, his fingers brushing against your arm sending shivers down your spine.

as tattoo artist! geto finally finishes the last stroke of the tattoo, he steps back to admire his work with a satisfied smile. "do you like it?" he asks nervously, hoping you're happy with the result. your eyes light up as you catch the first glimpse of the small heart on your wrist, perfectly placed and beautifully detailed. you can't help but let out a gasp of delight, feeling a rush of happiness and pride wash over you.

tattoo artist! geto who lets out a sigh of relief when you nod enthusiastically, gushing about how much you love the tattoo. he can't help but feel a sense of pride knowing that he was the one to give you this special piece of art.

tattoo artist! geto who can't help but blush when you compliment his work, a rare smile gracing his usually stoic face as he thanks you for trusting him with your first tattoo experience.

tattoo artist! geto who helps you off the chair and leads you to the mirror, where you can get a better look at your new tattoo. he stands behind you, his arms wrapped around your waist as you both admire the simple yet meaningful together. “look at you, baby! you’re so pretty… so so so pretty…” his words caused you to giggle, a small blush forming on your cheeks

tattoo artist! geto who watches you with a warm gaze, his eyes twinkling with pride. "it looks perfect on you," he says softly, his voice filled with genuine admiration. "i'm glad you trusted me with your first tattoo, sweetheart."

tattoo artist! geto who can't stop thinking about how adorable you looked the rest of the day, with your eyes gleaming and a wide smile on your face as you admired your new tattoo. every time he closes his eyes, he can see the look of pure joy and excitement on your face, and it warms his heart. he can't wait to come home, just so he could see your beautiful face again.

666 notes · View notes

acourtofwhatthefuck · 3 months

Note

Hello, hope you're doing alright. I have a pretty twisted one shot request concerning our amazing Shadowsinger. I was looking at the super natural dark dialogue prompts list and I feel like the #24 and #36 would fit perfectly for my request.

So basically: I was thinking about Azriel capturing the reader. She's a spy from the Spring Court and she was on a mission wandering at the border of the Night Court. When the reader wakes up, she's tied up in Azriel torture room. She also realizes how Azriel seems to be drawn to her. As she tries to find a way to make him untie her, she remembers something about Illyrians obssesion with bargains and deals. She offers to make a deal with him that the first one to make the other cum earn a favor. If she wins he spares her life, and if not he can kill her. And like as they conclude the pack, a tattoo appears on both of them and bla bla bla... and she ends up winning this challenge maybe?

Can't wait to see if you'll be willing to write this! I think it would have a lot of potential if written by you. Anyways, keep up your good work. I love your writing.

Okay, I know I said my next release would be the POM bonus bits, and then I’d be working on my other pieces, but I got this request and had immediate inspiration for it, so here it is!

Thank you to whoever sent this in! I hope I did it justice. It was very fun to write! I hope you enjoy 🫶🏻

The prompts you requested to be included in this will be written in bold.

Note: I haven’t tagged anyone in this because I desperately need to sort out my tag lists and haven’t had the chance. I’ll add them later if I get the time. Sorry!

Warnings: Smut! 18+, minors dni. NSFW. Some details of aggressive behaviour. Azriel being a sore ass LOSER.

Lust is a Losing Game — Azriel x Reader.

You can feel the caress of Night before your eyes open.

Every single court you have trespassed and traversed has its own distinct feel. The Autumn Court feels perpetually — and unsurprisingly — like a stroll through a forest, touched by brisk air and hues of oranges, yellows, reds. Your home court — Spring — has a feeling of renewed hope; like the first rays of sun after a long, harsh winter.

The Night Court is blood-drenched, rippling darkness, and the allure of scandal, of want, of lust.

Night time is for secrets and exploration. It’s for burning the bridge between who you are in the daylight and becoming something…else. It’s exciting, and it’s coaxing, and—

Cold, sharp metal prods beneath your chin. Its point is lethal. Any wrong move, and you’re bleeding.

Perhaps even more lethal is the quiet voice that commands, “Eyes open.”

Slowly, you comply — because you are both intrigued and wise. Intrigued by where you went wrong and where you ended up. Wise, because you know that cold, granite voice.

It doesn’t surprise you in the least to open your eyes and find Azriel the shadowsinger stood in front of you, his blade at your throat.

You know of him, of course — spymaster of the Night Court, a rare species of fae, far more powerful than many realise. You’ve sat across from him during terse meetings between courts and been the target of those guarded, icy stares. You’ve never heard him utter more than a few words at a time; he is spoken for by reputation, by violence and threat and battle.

But you’d know that voice anywhere.

You peer up at him through eyes blurred by some sort of power. And when your lips tilt up into a smile, a subtle tick of his jaw tells you it incenses him.

“Hello, Azriel.” You rasp.

The blade presses into your skin as he asks, “What were you doing at the border of our court?”

“Picking wildflowers. Foraging berries. Making a daisy chain. All the things a lady loves to do.”

A quiet noise sounds in his throat. “Is that what you are? A lady?”

“I’m whatever you want me to be, shadowsinger.”

His answering smile is cruel. A harsher press, and his blade nicks your throat. A drop of warm blood blooms on your skin.

Your eyes, rapidly clearing, take quick stock of your surroundings. The room is dark and damp and cold, empty save for the chair on which you sit — to which you are constrained. You can scent the blood of a thousand previous victims of the shadowsinger, and you imagine the vacancy of the space must have been more intimidating to them, somehow, than if the room were filled to the brim with torture instruments. The lack thereof tells anyone who finds themselves here that the Night Court’s spymaster does not need such things to do his work.

You try to shift in the chair, and find yourself well and truly stuck in place. Your gaze drops to your feet, where shadows act as manacles, as firm and strong and steel. Though your hands are restrained around the back of the chair, the cool touch tells you that a shadow binds them, too.

Azriel follows your gaze. A smug smile graces his mouth as he watches you try and fail to move.

“An impressive little trick.” You offer, nodding to the shadows around your ankles. “Now be a gentleman and untie me.”

“Tell me what you were doing at our border, and maybe I will.”

“Tell me your secrets and I’ll tell you mine.”

“You’re not really in the position to barter, right now, are you?”

“And yet, here I am.” You smile. “Bartering.”

He stares down at you, shrouded in shadows, in night. His aloofness has been perfected over centuries, but you somehow know where to look in order to tell — you’re getting on his nerves.

A slight angling of his head. Shifting on his feet. He drags the tip of that blade up, not pressing quite hard enough to draw more blood, but to make a twisted heat enter your veins. The blade stops at your cheek.

“I don’t know how you do things in the Spring Court.” His breath caresses your face. “But I can’t imagine it’s part of your job description to be a smartass who can’t keep her mouth shut.”

Your eyes flick down to that blade. Back up to his gaze. “I can’t imagine it’s part of yours to lust over me so tirelessly.”

The shadowsinger actually falters.

Something tells you he would never do that in front of somebody else.

His teeth grit. He bites out, “Tell me why the fuck you were at the border—”

“I’ve seen you, you know.” A satisfied smirk curls your lips. You will not give away that your arms and legs are beginning to ache. “I’ve seen the way you’ve looked at me for years.”

A clatter bounces off the walls as he tosses his dagger to the floor. Can’t be one that means much to him, then. You almost laugh, but a scarred hand is gripping your chin to the point of pain. He tilts — yanks — your chin up. “Pray, tell, how do I look at you?”

“With hunger.”

“Hatred.”

“Lust.”

“Loathing.”

“Like you want to touch me.”

“I am going,” he snarls, “to wrap my hands around your throat and—”

“Fuck me?”

“Kill you.”

A mocking pout puckers your lips. “Less sexy.”

"You must be a fool," his fingers bite into your skin, "to laugh in the face of such danger."

"What danger would that be? You've handed me your threats. What are you waiting for, Azriel? Kill me."

He could easily retrieve his blade and gut you then and there. You know it. He knows it.

And yet he doesn't do it.

He clenches his jaw so hard that you hear his teeth clash. He squeezes your chin, calluses and scars grazing you. It feels...good.

But then a growl is ripping from deep within his chest, and he's tearing his hand away and pivoting on the spot. He's confident enough in the shadow bindings to turn his back to you, clearly.

You just smile. He can't do it. Can't kill you.

"I'll do you the courtesy of asking one last time." His voice is strained. "Why were you snooping around our border."

"Perhaps I was hoping you'd find me and tie me to a chair. I'm into that kind of stuff, you know. We could make this fun."

"You think this room is intended for fun?"

"I think you and I could have fun anywhere, shadowsinger."

He says nothing. You watch as he sucks in a deep breath, steels himself. By his command, a shadow dances out and retrieves his blade from the floor. His fist flexes at his side.

Perhaps you can irritate him enough that he'll either kill you or let you leave out of pure exasperation. Or turn on the tears and plead innocence, that you're just a foolish, foolish girl doing her High Lord's bidding.

Or perhaps you can have fun.

You scan your brain for what you know about this court. How you can use it to your advantage — use Azriel to your advantage. An idea knits itself in the twisted avenues of your mind.

"This court has a thing for bargains, does it not?" You watch Azriel's shoulders tense at the sound of your voice. "How about making a bargain with me?"

He chokes on a scoff. "Why would I want to make a bargain with you?"

"Because you want me."

Slowly, he turns. His eyes are narrowed, mouth pinched. He looks two seconds away from using that blade to wipe your head clean from your neck.

But then he smiles, cruelly and coldly. "How very sure of yourself you sound."

You mimic that smile. "I am." Damn right you are. "So here is my deal: you toy with that lust however you like. We tease each other. Coax reactions from each other."

"Where is the bargain in that?" No outright refusal.

"If I make you cum first, shadowsinger," your eyes fall to his breeches. You could swear you glimpse the outline of a bulge. "If I make you cum first, I get to walk out of here with my head still attached to my body. But if you make me cum first...well. You get to know why I was snooping around the Night Court border, and you can send my head back to my High Lord in a pretty little box."

He stares at you for what feels like so, so long. Head to toe, his eyes rake over you. His shadows whisper in his ears, things you don't need nor care to hear.

Because you might not have his shadows, but you are a spy, just as he is. And you know his mind is already made up.

Shadowsinger, spymaster, feared member of the infamous Night Court — but still, a male weakened by lust. Lust for you that has driven him mad for a long, long time.

Still, he tries to keep up a front. He sneers at you, "You'd so willingly barter away your life?"

You smile. Simply, prettily. "It turns me on."

Oh, he's lost to his need. There's a newer scent that has joined the present ones of cedar and night-chilled mist and bloodstains. This one is deeper, smokier. Spicier.

He points his blade at you, the tip glimmering. And the shadow binds fall away as he demands, "Undress."

Your hands fall back to your sides. "Are you saying you agree to my terms?"

"Yes. Now take. Your fucking. Clothes off."

"What way is that to talk to a lady?"

"You are no lady—" His words fall short as, with a snap of your fingers, your clothes disappear. Leave you in nothing but your undergarments. His eyes drink in the brassiere, the silky little fabric that hangs from your hips. He swallows. "And I am no gentleman."

A spy you may be — someone who throws themself into danger and risk and dirt and blood, time and time again. But you never see a reason not to wear pretty underwear while doing so. And gods, in this moment, you're very glad of that choice.

It's the same colour as the siphons that adorn the male before you. The coldness in Azriel's eyes is replaced by intense, raw heat. He takes a step towards you, but you kick out a leg.

"Your turn." You say.

He pauses. Chucks his dagger aside again.

And then his clothes are gone.

He doesn't seem the slightest bit fazed by the fact that he stands utterly naked before you. So much golden, sculpted skin on show. All over, white scars tell the stories of previous injuries. His body is a novel written over time.

That silky underwear of yours is already soaked as you take your fill of him. For a moment, you think you might stumble in your bravado. He's huge and hard and standing to attention. Utterly perfect.

But you sit up straight in the chair and plant your hands on the arms. Your legs part, and Azriel hungrily tracks the movement.

"There is only one rule." You tell him. "We don't want to make this too easy, after all."

His jaw flexes. Eyes don't stray from the growing damp patch between your thighs. "What's the rule."

"You can touch me. You can lick me. You can put your cock in my mouth and my hand and rub it against my skin. But you can't fuck me."

He starts, pupils blowing wide. "But—"

"Not today." Your lips curl up. "But if I win, and I walk out of here? Some other time, Azriel, you can fuck me."

"You are wicked."

"Do you accept my rule?"

"Yes."

You are wicked, indeed. You widen that gap between your legs until you're hooking them over the arms of the chair. Baring your silk-covered cunt to him. His eyes damn near roll into the back of his head at the sight.

"Do you think you can stand to touch me without fucking me?" You hum, your fingers dancing down to that, sweet, sweet spot. You run them over the dampness, biting your lip. "I don't think you can."

"You underestimate me." Azriel growls. "And you're going to cum first."

There is no opportunity for you to volley a response. Not as Azriel surges forward and yanks you out of the chair, his arms securing you. His firm, velvety cock presses against your stomach. His lips slide over yours in a harsh, bruising kiss.

A male of natural elegance and grace, he doesn't even falter in the kiss or his steps as he marches you back, back, until you're pressed up against a cold wall. You nip his bottom lip and reach between your bodies, wanting to feel the pulsing weight of his cock in your palm, but his hands are grabbing your wrists and holding them above your head.

"No hands." He snarls onto your lips. "Just my cock and your cunt. Whoever cums first is the loser."

You almost want to laugh. So, so easy this will be.

But then he's letting go of your hands and pinning you with a knee. And out of fucking nowhere, a slim bottle appears between his fingers. You watch, leaning against the cold surface of the wall, as he pulls the stopper out of the bottle and tilts it towards you.

Oil drips onto your chest. Rolls down your breasts, your stomach. Azriel watches with predatory focus as it floods to where he wants it — soaking your underwear.

The blue silk darkens, sticks to your skin. Showcases everything that Azriel so desperately wants, but everything he will not get — today.

And then so quickly, he's hoisting your leg at his hip. So quickly, his cock is pressing into your soaking undergarments.

He positions his length between your thighs and guides it through your clothed folds. Both of you let out an immediate gasp at the taunting sensation — that a mere bit of fabric separates you from what you both want.

"Is this how you're going to play it?" Your head falls back, teeth digging into your lower lip. "You think thrusting through my clothes is going to stop you from cumming?"

"No." He makes a small noise, slowly rolling his hips. Watches his glistening cock rubbing against the silk. "But I think I'm going to make you cum fast from it."

"And then you get to kill me."

"And then," the head of his cock nudges your clit, "I get to kill you."

The sensation is divine, you can’t deny it. A coiled, aching pleasure that sits tightly in your lower belly. Azriel hears your intake of breath, and he smiles like this will be easy for him. You’re having none of that.

You’re thankful for your refined stealth and balance as you clamp your leg tighter around him, pull him harder against you. His hands press flat against the wall either side of your head, and you both gasp as his cock rubs so torturously against you, up and down and up and down.

“Gods,” He grunts, dipping down to brush his lips against yours. “This is torture.”

You smile. “Does it feel good?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want me to remove my underwear? You still can’t fuck me, though.”

A suffering groan chokes out of him, and he throws his head back. Because yes, he fucking wants you to remove your underwear. Yes, he wants to feel his bare skin rubbing against your bare skin.

But gods, the temptation to slide his cock into you is going to be unbearable.

But even though he knows that, and you know that, he smiles like this is nothing. He bites out, pleasure wavering his voice, “Why not? It’ll only make you lose.”

“I think you’re giving yourself a little too much credit.” You say, and then your underwear is gone, leaving you naked and dripping with nothing to shield you.

Not expecting it so fast, Azriel’s cock slides easily through your folds — and the head nudges your entrance. Very nearly slips in. He growls and halts the roll of his hips.

“Oops.” You smirk. “Careful, shadowsinger.”

“You’re fucking insufferable.” He bites back, and then he’s kissing you.

The kiss robs you of breath and of words. All you can do is twine your arms around his neck and welcome the sensation of him fucking through your folds, your wetness his pleasure. You’re lost to the feeling of him bumping against your clit, rubbing against it. Your legs are beginning to tremble.

“I want to fuck you.” Azriel moans, dropping his head to take in the sight of his cock against your pussy, never entering, never going deeper.

“I know.” Your fingernails dig into his shoulders. “And you have wanted to for a very long time.”

“Yes.” He can’t even deny it. “Yes.”

“You think about me.”

“Yes.”

“You wonder what it’s like to be inside me.”

“Yes.”

“But not today.” Your hands stroke down his muscled arms, and you moan as he grinds his cock against your clit. “Not today.”

“Nor any other day.” His hand fists in your hair, yanking your head up. “Because I will have your head. Cum for me, lady.”

He kisses you again, and gods, you want to cum. Every single inch of you begs and trembles for it. You’re clenching around nothing, desperate to feel him inside you, fucking into you, spilling into you—

But through your pleasured haze, you remember: you will be victorious. Azriel cannot win.

And so when he’s kissing you and kissing you, moans catching in his throat and landing in your mouth, hips faltering with every thrust, you pull your lips from his and sink your teeth into his neck with a harsh bite. You’ve always imagined he’d like that.

And simultaneously, you lock him between your thighs and roll your hips torturously slow, dragging every last sensation from him.

Azriel’s cock, nestled snugly between the folds of your cunt, spasms and twitches. He slams his hands against the wall and goes still. Tries to pull back the control.

But it’s too late for that.

“Fuck!” He shouts, and then ropes of cum are spurting out of him and landing on your stomach, your breasts, your arms. Beads of it roll down his cock. He trembles hard, panting, groaning, growling.

And you suck harshly at his neck. Suck until it leaves a mark. And then pull away with a smile.

Breathing so, so heavily, Azriel’s gaze drops down to his cock like the damn thing has betrayed him. He’s wide-eyed and outraged. He’s not sure what’s just happened.

A horrid longing still aches between your legs and makes you want to continue until you’re exploding, too. But the triumph of a win is pleasure in itself.

“Well, well, well.” You glance down at the cum now coating your skin. “I do believe I was right.”

“What—” Azriel breathes, shaking out of his lust. “What kind of witchcraft was that?” He touches his neck, where you bit him. As though the answer lies there.”

You shrug. “No witchcraft, though I’m flattered you think so. You simply lost the game.”

“I. Don’t. Lose.”

“You just did.” You pat his shoulder. “There, there.”

He rips away, so fast that you almost fall. “Get the fuck away from me.”

“Gladly.” With a snap of your fingers, you’re squeaky clean and clothed once more. Azriel’s clothes return, too. “And I’ll do so with my pretty head still on my shoulders—

“Get out.”

“Because I won the game—”

“Get. Out.”

“A bargain’s a bargain, after all—”

“I will not tell you again.” His hand grabs the back of your neck, hard enough to bruise, and he marches you to the door, yanking it open. “Out.”

You’re thrown into a dim-lit hallway, your body colliding with a cold brick wall. You throw Azriel a smile over your shoulder, despite your teeth singing at the impact.

“Try not to wank over me too much!” You call, as he slams the door shut behind him. “See you around!”

It’s only once you’ve winnowed back to your own court, and you’re bathing the day from your skin, that you notice the small black band inked into your upper arm. You scrub at it until it’s red raw. It doesn’t budge.

The mark of a bargain. But you had always believed that the tattoos of bargains disappeared once the terms were fulfilled…

But if I win, and I walk out of here? Some other time, Azriel, you can fuck me…

It had all been bravado. And yet…it had unwittingly been woven into the bargain.

Some other time, Azriel, you can fuck me.

That’s the only way you’re getting that mark off your skin.

592 notes · View notes

hwaightme · 6 months

Text

Timezone

(masterlist) (perma-taglist)

🎸 pairing: rockstar!fiance!seonghwa x gn!reader 🎸 genre: fluff, long distance angst, established long-term relationship 🎸 summary: "Only thing that keeps us apart // Is a different timezone" - TIMEZONE by Måneskin; during a long tour, the only thing seonghwa wants is to come home to you, and to hold you in his arms 🎸 wordcount: 3.2k total 🎸 warnings/tags: not edited, language, songfic, enamoured simping activated, seonghwa misses you intensely, he is one step away from swimming to you, seonghwa has tattoos and lip piercings, lyricist producer musician rock singer hwa good luck to us all, words of endearment/pet names (baby, angel... etc) 🎸 taglist: at the bottom of the hcs 🎸 a/n: this is for @starrysvn the most wonderful, beautiful soul. thank you for being who you are, ilysm. and may this small manifestation of our shared delulus bring some sunshine~

There was no salvation for a heart that was on the verge of breaking. No call could replace the sensation of a lover’s whisper, no video could replace the feeling of skin against skin nor of a warm and reassuring embrace. The myriad of details that made you who you were seemed to be slipping through Seonghwa’s fingers, and he was a desperate man drowning in quicksand of responsibility and routine.

Every chord was a strike of the coldest and sharpest blade on his tired body, and the sweat trickling down his face as he yelled his emotions to thousands masked the tears that were welling in his eyes. It was unbelievable, how in the faces of millions the only features he could ever make out were those that resembled yours. In every cheer he could only hear you, how you could make his name sound like magic. The lyrics – a simple selection of syllables, words, always fell short of describing how he felt, and every song appeared trivial compared to the fire in his heart, to your existence in his life.

Too many miles separated you, and he would be damned if he were to say that he was fine with it. This was the unbelievable curse of his work. An artist, a singer, a musical innovator who had evolved from being in a group of hoodlums with a dream to being in a star-studded collective, a band that was paving the way for many others and inspiring loyal and new fans to reach the stars with them. But where was his star? Even when surrounded by the speakers, side by side with his friends on those grand global stages, this question never left Seonghwa’s mind. Losing sight of what he truly desired, he ran into an oblivion.

After the concerts, it was customary for the young man to spend some time with his fans, still on an adrenaline rush and thus were expecting interaction, further connection, and insights into the most recent performance. However, tonight, he could not even begin to find the energy to press the right button. Claiming that he was feeling a little under the weather, Seonghwa delegated the role of publicity man to another member and hobbled to his hotel room, collapsing onto the bed sheets not caring for the state of his clothes, his hair, nor for the creases that were undoubtedly going to form. This was no issue.

The electric guitar, his trusted comrade in composition and emotional turmoil, was left in a black case on the floor. Stickers marking the cities he had visited decorated a portion of the surface, while the rest was another depiction of you. Scurrying off the bed, he erratically shot to the case and brought it up with him, letting it rest by his side so he could admire the artwork more closely. Over many days, you had decided to surprise him by painting the dark leather, echoing famous renaissance pieces and intricate flora. Impeccable, incorporating nods to his and your lives through symbolism, be it in the hint of a star ship, a guitar pick, or a paintbrush hidden in foliage, it was a reminder of a life that he always wanted to live and to keep close.

He wanted to destroy the walls of his room. He wanted to break the glass, fight the agony of the sorrowful monster eating away at his soul with physically radical action, anything to take his mind away from the fact that you were thousands of miles away, and that when he was cursed to be awake, you were in dreamland. He could not even protect you from the nightmares that you sometimes had. He could not keep you close. You were unable to run your hands through his inky black, long and tousled locks as a way to calm yourself. Why was he doomed to sacrifice the heavenly touches and sweet words in favour of roaming the globe like a madman, screaming the same things into a microphone until they lost all meaning? Seonghwa missed you. Violently. Painfully. Aggressively. If it took raising hell to elevate him to your heaven before he would ultimately crumble, he would choose to do so in a heartbeat.

His hands inadvertently travelled into the pocket of his flared jeans, fishing out the device which he had been glued to for the full duration of his tour. At any spare second. Lockscreen – your smiling face, surrounded by the scenery of his hometown when you two went for a visit over the holidays. Tapping in the date of your birthday, he came face to face with a photo where you two were together – a candid picture snapped by his closest friend and fellow band member during a celebratory dinner; you two laughing at a joke shared between yourselves, so in love that every part of you and him were intertwined. Seonghwa wanted to break himself apart. Take his heart and mind out and douse them in cold water so that at least for a moment he could have some space to breathe before ultimately repeating: you, you you again. Fingers flying to tap onto the messaging app you preferred to use most often, though the two of you had conversations going on almost every piece of social media, he scrolled through your chats, relistened to the voice messages and scrutinised every photo until it was re-imprinted in his brain. As if he could ever forget in the first place.

He would likely be a laughingstock, wouldn’t he? A man with the world at his feet, wanting nothing more than to collapse at the feet of another. Sure, his fans were no strangers to the fact that there was ‘a special someone’ in his life, though since he made sure to keep his private matters truly secure, no one knew who was the reason why he woke up even when the day was promising challenge and turmoil. The only sign of his undying devotion that he dared to expose with shameless pride was the tiny red band around his pinkie, a simple line alluding to the string of fate, of soulmates. One night, not too long ago even though it seemed that you knew each other for your entire lives, when you had the chance to spend time together without worrying about work matters and could let time trickle past while stargazing, he proposed. Perhaps it was not traditional, the four words uttered only in passing after you had already blessed him with your agreement. Instead Seonghwa had suggested the permanence of a tattoo as a symbol for your love, and revealed his faith and devotion. Written in the stars, he found his guidance in you. Just like the constellations, galaxies and mythical creatures permanently etched on his skin, he wanted to live the neverending story with you.

As he shifted his grip on the phone to glance at the red band, Seonghwa could not help but imagine what you could be doing right this second. Could you be stirring from sleep? Could you be getting ready for another day at work? How was that one personal project you picked up going? He hammered out letter after letter on driven by what had to be an external power, so much mightier than him. The rockstar bit his lower lip, feeling a tug on one of the piercings, but that made him simply bite down harder.

I’m losing my mind.

Without hesitation, he sent the message into the void, hoping that you would not be too worried and simply accept it as one of his eccentricities as an artist. Finally, he tugged off the leather jacket that had been clinging onto his body, suffocating him, and collapsed back onto the bed. Exhaustion was a beast weighing down on him and pushing him into the mattress. Nothing but a lonely carcass, Seonghwa imagined himself as carrion left for the devouring by devious promoters, producers, agents and the like. Freedom was an interesting concept in his industry. Did he have it? Or was it the case that as soon as he gave into a dream, he signed his very being away to be an offering for the money-hungry world? He was definitely going mad. He needed you. Seonghwa missed you. Feverish, anxious, he grabbed a fistful of the duvet with his free hand and counted the passing seconds, too many of them, but not as much as the distance between where he was supposed and wanted to be, and where he currently was.

A loud ringing jolted him out of his paralysing ruminations – his phone. He rolled his head to the side, and upon seeing the incoming video call could not be faster in wriggling to rest on the headboard and answer. So you were awake, and in a couple of seconds… there you were, hair in a loose side braid, a familiar vintage t-shirt adorning your shoulders. You were at the desk – your home office, cradling what had to be a cup of coffee. Black, no sugar, no cream. Nothing. Just how you liked it.

“Hi baby,” you greeted him with the warmth of a thousand suns, and soon enough, his smile returned to him too, though still a little weak, beaten down by the weeks spent apart. It was still dark where you were, while for him it was already dark. It was easy to face when with you, however – nothing could be brighter than you.

“You’re wearing my old clothes?” Seonghwa could not help but ask, too curious to refrain from the inquiry. You looked down at the shirt momentarily before lifting your head and nodding.

“Yep. There’s been a change of plans so I am working from home today. And… I wanted to have a day-long hug from my fiancé.”

“You always wear them better, and I wish it were me and not the tee, angel,” he sighed, eyes trailing down what part of you he could see. He might be wrong, but you appeared to be a little tired, dark circles more prominent under your gorgeous eyes, and movements a fraction more lethargic than how they would usually be in the mornings.

“Is that what you were losing your mind over?” you attempted to lighten the mood, but Seonghwa could not play along when the joke was a reality. You caught onto this quickly enough, and paused to look at him more closely.

Seonghwa could feel the intensity of your inspection. It was as though you were reading him like one of the many books you had collected. Basking in the attention from his lover, he leaned further back onto the pillows and let himself think out loud.

“We have another flight tomorrow.”

“Yeah, next is the third to last concert, right-”

“I want to fly to you,” the young artist cut you off, staring at nowhere in particular as he voiced his one wish.

“It’s not too long now, Hwa, and then we have a whole month to ourselves. No touring. Home.”

“I miss you.”

“I miss you too, love. But also, I am proud of you. You are bringing dream to reality-“

“Fuck what I’m dreaming. What does all of this mean anyways?” he retorted, making you raise an eyebrow before leaning onto the desk.

“All of this means that you are yourself. You are an artist. A light for so many souls. And if you cannot hear this, then let me remind you that I love you, the you who is so driven, so talented and so hardworking. Park Seonghwa who has been destined to become a star and give hope to millions. You are yourself, and that is what is so precious and iconic about you.”

You had a way with words. You always did. Stepping in when he was at his lowest and managing to drag him out of what he had assumed was an abyss, you were his biggest supporter, cheerleader, muse. When he was afraid to put pen to paper or deemed a melody worthless, you were the one to encourage him to experiment, try things out regardless, and with such strength that now it was a philosophy he abided by; it never hurt to try, and perfection was impossible. What was achievable, however, was satisfaction and happiness with the self. It was more than enough to try. And now, you were the one fearlessly bearing the catastrophic mass that was his worries with the last tour dates.

“Oh how dare you…” he mumbled, lips trembling ever so slightly as he pushed out the words. Involuntarily a mist settled over his eyes, and Seonghwa’s surroundings began to blur.

“No, baby come on, don’t cry, or we’ll be crying together. Let’s stay strong for each other, yeah? Like the dragon you have? Let’s leave the tears for later, and hopefully make the source of them a happy one,” you cooed, your own heart being torn apart as you witnessed your lover’s vulnerability, raw misery expressing itself as the hard exterior of a professional rockstar fell away. The hint at one of his many tattoos made Seonghwa’s mouth twitch into a tiny smile, an adoring gesture to remind your fiancé that you could draw each of the masterpieces from memory, having spent many nights tracing them with your digits.

“I-… Y/N I… I love you so much, you know that, right?” The confession turned query was choked, feeble, fragile, an offering made of the thinnest glass. One that you would protect with your life.

“Hwa, I love you too. So much…”

“Everything makes me think of you…” fatigue was evident, coating his vocal cords thick with a somnolent huskiness.

“Soon, you won’t have to remember me. You will have me in real time. Will you look forward to that for me?”

“Always.”

One topic, another, talking about nothing and everything at once. Trivial matters transformed into beautiful tales. In what had appeared to him to be no time at all, you had to rush into your first meeting of the day, while he was left a little less lonely in the hotel room continents away from you, with only his guitar and your reassuring love to keep him company. A hope, an excitement rekindled in his chest, bubbling up and flying across the bloodstreams into a tingling sensation in the fingertips, and a pleasant, hazy buzz in his brain. Caught between what had to be sleep and delirium, Seonghwa moved exclusively on instinct. In a few movements, he produced a tattered notebook and pen that had listened to his every confession and flipped it to an empty page before setting it down on the sheets.

Carefully, he took the guitar out of its case, and upon checking that it was properly tuned let a few notes hang in the air. The longer Seonghwa stared at the wall, the more confident he became in the fact that he could see you standing there in front of him, and as the words began to pour, it was you who he was confiding in. When with you, he was not afraid. When dedicating yet another song to you, he could not care less for the lack of rest, for how he greeted the dawn. He had a week until the last show, and he sure as hell was going to make full use of it.

The arena was silent aside from a few yells, before they too, succumbed to the suspense. The spotlights were almost blinding, and Seonghwa suddenly felt grateful for the fact that his image allowed for sunglasses. Elegantly perched on the bridge of his nose, they masked his anxiety as he adjusted his microphone, setting it back onto the stand while the rest of the band was exchanging glances and making the last checks before the grand finale, what he had decided would be the last ‘official’ song of the concert, and therefore the tour. Of course, the audience would ask for an encore. Of course, he would step right back out on stage to perform it – the act had already been planned in advance. But it was this song, one that he and his closest friends had spent night and day finalising, recording, even sending off to be made commercial, that would be his final word.

“Distance is measured in miles, and in how strongly you feel them. This is ‘Timezone’,” following the brief introduction, he momentarily shut his eyes and sucked in a shaky breath. In that split second, he did not exist. He was not on stage, he was home. Seonghwa could feel your hand on his shoulder and could float in your perfume. This was no different to how he would play for you in the living room – anything you wished for, he would either perform or learn on the spot or even create. So, maybe, just maybe, you will be able to hear him now, too. And how he was calling out for you, and was counting the seconds until he could see you again.

Only thing that keeps us apart

Is seven thousand miles, running like a mad dog

Only thing that keeps us apart

Is a different timezone

So fuck what I'm dreaming, this fame has no meaning

I'm coming home

Only thing that keeps us apart

Is a different timezone

A roar overtaking expressions of gratitude. With every bow the crowd grew wilder and wilder. Chants praising the song were unfathomably strong, and Seonghwa had no doubt that the videos would go viral. Would you see them? Would you message him after? He did not need the answers to these questions. Not when he almost dropped his guitar as he saw you standing backstage, arms open wide, a staff lanyard around your neck. He was thankful for how you did not mind his sweat-covered arms, his glistening forehead as he pressed himself against you. He was enamoured with how your lips fit perfectly together, piercings and all, as he planted one kiss after another, each one bringing him back to life. He was eternally devoted to every moment with you.

“I told you, soon, didn’t you?” He could not respond, instead choosing to nod lest he break down in the midst of his overwhelming elation, “same timezone…” you altered the lyrics – sunlight after a rainstorm.

“I’m home, Y/N,” he mumbled into your hair before pulling you even closer to him, arms wound tight around your body, fingers dancing on your back as though he was still in disbelief that you were here.

“Welcome home, my love,” he leaned into your hand that reached for his face, letting you cup it. With nothing to keep you two apart, Seonghwa let himself get lost in your eyes, the string of fate winding tighter and tighter until his, and your heart were both glistening in a healing gold, the hints of cracks sealed and more beautiful than ever, standing the test of time, of space, of dreams.

🎸 taglist: @acciocriativity @justhere4kpop @byuntrash101 @shakalakaboomboo @starillusion13 @hongthoven @uwuheeseungie @cheollipop @frankenstein852 @charreddonuts @miriamxsworld @mingigoo @michel-angelhoe @innsomniacshinestar @foxinnie8 @preciouswoozi @wooyoungjpg @nebulousbookshelf @wowie-hockey @hongjoongs-patience @jaehunnyy @kitten4sannie @maddkitt @lightinyreads @ren-junwrld @pyeonghongrie-main @marsstarxhwa @pocketjoong-reads @alyszaen @archivesummer @little-angel-k @yeooclock @yeonjunnie @asjkdk @lucky-cat-cafe @northerngalxy

enjoyed? please consider reblogging and leaving a comment. thank you, much love!

629 notes · View notes

babymgs26 · 15 days

Text

Personal pictures of some of the BEAUTIFULLY preserved artwork in Pompeii

I took all of these on a study abroad trip that I had the great fortune of being able to go on at the beginning of this year :)

I haven’t been able to STOP thinking about them, so here ya go🤲🏼

i may, or may not, have gotten this one piece of wall art (the fig tree & snake) tattooed on my body…

these incredibly detailed wall pieces are a part of the Dionysus Mystery Cult walls and had our whole group stopped for a GOOD 20-30 min…

#pompeii #pompeii pictures #italian art #italy #pompeii art #myth #classical studies #classical art #ancient civilizations #ancient art #photography #art photography

230 notes · View notes

atinystaypixie · 6 months

Text

Mirror, Mirror

📜: The new mirror you bought has a man inside of it. He gives you the best fucking you've ever had. Is the cold hearted man in your mirror really that mean after all?

⚠️: 18+ MDNI!!, Monster fucking, True form Sukuna, double penetration, fem reader, fucked dumb, belly bulge, NOT PROOFREAD, sex, I might have missed some stuff but it's sex, fucking!!!

🔍:1.9k+ words

Pixie's Spooktober 🔗

You should have known something was wrong. It was too good to be true. The shady shop in the corner of an alley had a sale and you were in desperate need of a mirror for your room. It was the prettiest thing you ever laid your eyes on. A mirror with beautiful detailing, full body length, and a good weight where it wouldn’t easily fall over and break. It looked like it was made for you. Any other shop would have sold it for a much higher price, but the shop owner was insistent that you take it. She seemed so sweet and as if she had your best interest at heart.

She didn’t.

You got it to your home and eagerly set it up in your bedroom. It was so perfect. It was large but so easy for you to move by yourself. The mirror compliments your room to perfection. It was the final piece you needed. Now you could check your outfits properly before leaving.

You had the mirror for a few weeks before you noticed something was off. It had been one too many times you walked past it and thought you saw something else other than your single reflection. You really knew something was wrong when you stared deeply into the mirror and another pair of eyes were staring back at you. The shrill you released was ear shattering and you wouldn't be surprised if your neighbors heard you.

"No need to scream." A bored voice spoke as you scrambled back from the mirror. Instead of your own reflection you are met with a shirtless man covered in tattoos. He’s buff, muscles defined, toned abs, large arms. Arms that don’t belong to a human. He has four of them.

“W-w-who are you? Wh-why….what?” You were stuttering over your words trying to process the four armed figure in your mirror. His face is shaped differently as well and your eyes are bouncing over him to take it all in. You’re scared and confused.

His introduction was quick and passive. He seemed highly uninterested in you and eventually got to the part of you boring him with your daily routine. “But, the worst of it all is seeing you struggle to orgasm. It’s pathetic.” A horrid gasp leaves you. You don’t know whether to be offended or disgusted at his invasion of privacy. “Give me your hand.”

“What?!” Your head snaps at his words.

“I won’t repeat myself.” He extends his hand and your confusion continues to grow. You cautiously crawl toward the mirror looking up at him. His eyes cast down on you waiting for you to reach up. His hand is still in the mirror so it makes no sense as to how you can take it.

Taking his hand was the best choice you ever made.

“Good slut, keep them spread.” Your pussy never felt so good. The pleasure was insane. You never thought you would feel someone playing with the spot deep inside your walls that made your mind numb. It never crossed your mind that every nerve in your body would be concentrated on your pussy.

The same hand you took, the same hand that pulled you into the mirror with the four armed man now had a mouth coming out of it as one of his two dicks stretched you open. His hand was latched to your clit, the wet tongue swirling your sensitive bundle of nerves in slow firm movements. It was the complete opposite of the way his dick was slamming up into you.

Your legs were pried open over his thicker ones. Although you were inside the mirror you could still see your reflection. Your pussy was wet from clit to entrance, his dick was shining with your juices. Your tits were bouncing with each thrust. He was so deep inside of you. It stung when he first entered you, it felt like you were being entered for the first time all over again. A slight bulge could be seen near the bottom of your tummy.

"Ngghhh!! Nggh! Sukuna!" He liked hearing such a weak human fall apart on his dicks. Your pussy was so sloppy he was fucking you with ease. The squelches coming from your hole were loud and nasty. He loved it. Another one of his hands wrapped around your throat as he made you keep looking in the mirror.

"Dirty little slut. Look at you whoring yourself on me. Sloppiest cunt I've ever seen." He spoke harshly into your ear making you clench around him. No one ever treated you like this and it's exactly what you needed.

The view and the way he was fucking into you made you cum faster than you ever had. You couldn't even say you were about to until you started squirting. The mouth on his hand was quick to catch it, not letting a drop go to waste. You were whiny when you came, if you heard yourself you wouldn't think it was you.

You felt his hands grab you and pull you off his dick making you face him. You didn't want to be empty even for a second but you didn't have to wait long.

"Wait! I haven't-"

"Shut up. It won't hurt." A sharp pain was felt in your neck distracting you from the foreign stretch. His teeth sunk into you making you dizzy as he pushed into your other hole. By the time the dizziness faded any pain you could have felt was gone. His dick was heavily coated in your essence still making the slide easy.

Your hands clutch at his shoulders as he flips you over pressing your back to the sheets. He slowly drags out of you, your hole is tight around him gripping in a draining pull.

"Look at you. So fucked out." His voice is dry, mockingly void of emotion as he looks at your glazed over eyes. You're unfocused, body only responding to the hard thrusts he is giving you. "You can't even talk. Pathetic." His large hand goes to hold your face again, this time his ring and middle finger slip past your lips. It's without you even widening your mouth for him, your jaw slack enough for him to maneuver however he wanted.

Your fucked out expression annoys him, he wants to hear you screaming again. A sinister smirk forms on his lips. He wants to see you stuffed in every hole and he still hasn't cum yet.

"You won't mind will you? Of course not." He answers for you slipping his other dick into your leaking cunt. He lines himself up properly at both your holes and slams into you. It gives him exactly what he wants.

"Aaahhh!! Ooooh…oh..mmmm!" Your eyes open fully before rolling backwards, your voice is hoarse but so loud, it's the perfect scream. He loves hearing women scream.

"Do it again. Scream for me again." He keeps fucking you, his long fingers pressing down on your tongue making your mouth stay open. You don't have a choice but to let out every whimper, every moan, every wail that rises out of you. He had you so full, you were stuffed. Both of your holes are fluttering around his dicks, your legs are shaking. It's so much.

"Go ahead. Cum for me again." His voice reaches your ears in a deep rumble. It's like he has control over your body because not even a second later your back is arching off the bed as you spray him with your juices again. Before tonight you barely even came, and now he's made you squirt twice. He isn't nice about it either. The sound of his hips brutally slapping against your skin is mixed with your wails. His hands are leaving bruises on you, two holding your thighs open and two digging into your waist.

"I'm going to fuck my seed into you." If you had half an ounce of brain right now you might protest. You might tell him to stop from the oversensitivity you felt. You might tell him to stop because you don't want a non-human entity to cum in you.

But that was if you had half an ounce of brain, instead like an obedient whore you furiously nod your head in agreement. "Please, want you to cum deep in me. Need it. Please….please." You were begging for him. Your body craved his seed. You wanted it to fill you to the brim and couldn't bring yourself to feel any shame about it as your scream turned into air from tiredness catching up with your body.

If anyone asked, it was the best feeling ever. It's what you had been missing your whole life. Two dicks releasing a thick substance inside of you. Two dicks throbbing inside your holes after making you squirt.

Sukuna grunts as he releases his seed into you. He gives you dirty praises for taking him like the filthy whore you really are. He loved every scream you let out for him. His eyes are locked on your fatigued body. The way you lie limply on his bed breathing heavily with your eyes barely cracked open.

"I'll clean you up, get some rest." It was the first decent thing he ever said to you. His tone wasn't as cold before, a hint of care in it. Your eyes close as you hear him start to shuffle around. For once, he actually seemed like a kind man.

He wasn't.

You wake up, but not opening your eyes yet. It felt like a dream, a weird dream. A man pulling you into a mirror and fucking your brains out on his bed. Who even has a bed in a mirror? And why doesn't this bed feel like your bed?

Alarms go off in your head making you sit up immediately. This isn't your room, this isn't your bed. Where are you?

"Look who's awake. The little fool who had her legs spread so eagerly for me." The familiar voice echoes in the space, you couldn't locate it though.

Clink, clink, clink.

"Look here." Those eyes, those same damned eyes were looking at you again but it was different this time.

"What did you do? How am I in here? Why are you out there? Let me out!" You scream at him through the mirror. Only this time you aren't in your room screaming, you're in his.

"I love your screams, the scared ones and the ones you make while I fuck you. However, I have no interest in them anymore. I'm free now and you will spending a hell of an amount of time in there." An evil chuckle creeps into your ears sending a chill down your spine. Tears form in your eyes as he makes you scared and confused again. He's free? He's free and you're stuck in here?

"Enjoy yourself, I won't be needing you anymore, whore." Sukuna doesn't give you time to protest, the sheet from your very own bed is thrown over the mirror blocking your view into the world you once lived in. His evil chuckle starts again as you hear him walking away leaving you trapped in the mirror he used to occupy. He's free in your world and now you're trapped in his mirror without even the slightest hint of how to get out.

Taking his hand was the worst choice you ever made.

✨

Thoughts of a Slutty Virgin ~ 🧚🏽‍♀️

Ayooo school whooping my ass but im bound n determined to finish my spooktober lissttt🥰🥰🥰

Anywayyss thank you for showing the Nanami fic love and if you read this one thank you too!! Thank you for voting on still fucking true form Sukuna tehehehehe🧚🏽‍♀️

ENJOY!

Pixie's Masterlist 🔗

Taglist: @444ghosty @un-lawliet @witchbybirth @tophamhat-kyo @nobianna

I will open my taglist form back in November if you are wondering 💜🫶🏽💜🫶🏽💜

#jjk smut #jjk #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujustu kaisen #jujustsu kaisen smut #sukuna smut #sukuna ryoumen smut #sukuna ryomen smut #ryomen sukuna smut #anime smut

534 notes · View notes

jarofstyles · 6 months

Text

Indigo- Sapphire

Hello my loves, here they are! Your favorite tattoo artist and his girlie. Let me know what you think plz plz plz

Series Masterlist

Patreon

Warnings- tattooing, mention of anxiety and needles etc

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

Y/N had a lot of thoughts.

The first one was that tattoos hurt, yes, but in a different way than she had originally thought. Harry had been right in telling her it was more so uncomfortable than anything else, because while it wasn’t a sharp, blazing pain, it was dull. Throbbing. Like she was being scratched by her cat in the same spot. It was bearable, though. Way less discomfort than she had thought. It was nice to feel capable, to not worry that she was going to embarrass herself in front of Harry.

Which brought her to thought number two.

Harry was stupidly, ridiculously, infuriatingly gorgeous.

Y/N had been peeping at him as they spoke, his eyes glued to the piece as he spoke which gave her more of a sense of comfort. Like she was getting away with staring. It would be hard not to with him up so close to her, his warmth radiating through the plastic-y gloves. The first thing she had noticed was how nice his hair was. A warm chestnut hue with some natural caramel highlights- at least, she was pretty sure they were natural. It was longer and curled, little ringlets near his ears making her fingers itch to tuck it back for him. It was clipped up in the front, and that made sense considering he had a habit of running his hand through his hair, but she wanted to see it down again. The full effect.

In another way, she was happy that it was pulled out of the way because she could really get a good look at him. His jaw was sharp, but not so much that it was necessarily stone like. He looked like a statue, but one that was carved with the human likeness that made people feel uneasy. His cheeks were high and his brows were straight, not a ton of arch to them, but he kept himself well groomed. There was a tiny hint of stubble on his upper lip along with a cute little birthmark that she hadn’t noticed before. That had brought her attention to his mouth.

It was almost embarrassing, how distracted she had gotten watching his lips move while he talked. They were a raspberry pink, slightly wet from his habit of occasionally licking over the bottom one before starting a sentence. A pronounced cupid’s bow dipped in the middle of the top, making her want to trace it. They were a little bigger than she had normally noticed, but then again- she didn’t typically spend this much time observing a man in such detail.

He had a few blemishes, a few cuts that looked like he may have gotten himself while shaving, but it just made him human. Reminded her that he was just like her in that way. Just… gorgeous. His eyelashes were something she was incredibly jealous of, the irritating trait of men getting the good eyelashes striking yet again. She had to wonder how they’d look if he used her lengthening mascara? A wandering thought to think about later.

They’d been chatting about this and that, a bit of gossip about Niall and his new girlfriend who he had recently introduced to the group, some about her work, some about his. What really caught her off guard though, was how easy it was to talk to him.

Silences aren't awkward. Sometimes they fell into them and it stayed that way for a moment before moving on naturally and she didn’t feel like crawling out of her skin. Y/N had a bad habit of wanting to fill those silences so she would babble, and considering she still had a decent amount of nerves because her crush on Harry was growing in size by the minute, she really liked this detail. He was being sweet and inquisitive without prying all that much, asking the basic friend questions- and some odd ones.

What’s your favorite color? His was Yellow, he responded.

Did she have any pets? No, her old roommate did and she catsits sometimes. He didn’t, but he wanted one.

What was her favorite gift she got as a kid? A knock off barbie dreamhouse. She hadn’t cared that it wasn’t the same as the rest of her friends, her mom had been so happy to give it to her that it had become the most cherished thing. She had it in her attic to this day for her future kids, should she choose to have any. His was a high quality art set.

Did she believe in the paranormal? Yes, she did. He was undecided. A healthy skeptic, he’d said.

It was lighthearted but also not necessarily small talk, which usually made Harry itch. He’d confessed that earlier to her, making her see a bit further into him. It was obvious that he was curious about some of the things about her and considering what had happened the night before, she had to wonder what the intention was.

He had said he got nervous around her because she was so pretty it intimidated him. That he said and did stupid things when he was around a girl like her. Insinuating maybe a returned crush? Confirming it? She didn’t know. She also didn’t know what he wanted out of this. Was it going to turn into a nice friendship where they laugh about his crush on her later on down the line, or would this develop into something more?

Y/N didn’t want to get ahead of herself. They’d just started talking, but having been repressed from allowing herself to feel that attraction to him, it had just hit her like a truck. He was so sweet, so gentle with her. The opposite of what people may assume about his exterior. When they went out, despite how charming he was, he was quiet most of the time. Outside their friend group, she had seen him revert back into a cool mask, stony and giving the impression that people shouldn’t come up to him. Not quite as intense as the one he had worn with her but enough for her to see that his resting face definitely gave him the reputation he had. Sometimes she wished she had that ability, considering all sorts of people came up to her to talk when she didn’t even know them.

If this was the real him, the one who had theorized with her if ghosts were real, she wanted to know more about him.

“How are you doing?” He had stopped to wipe some excess ink, looking up at her from the stool.

Harry had felt her staring. It had become increasingly harder to keep his cool when he’d thought about it, so he had tried his best to focus on the piece. It was easier said than done. He could feel her eyes scanning him, seeing it from the corner of his eye. It intimidated him. Him out of all people! That’s how he knew this was actually deep for him. Sure, he had crushes before. It was just- Y/N made him feel a lot of new things to him, and that’s why he had fumbled so hard early on.

This was her first tattoo and she had entrusted him with it. His art was currently inked on to her skin and the linework was done, finally moving on to shading. She’d taken it like a champ, sitting better than a lot of other people did. There had been no squirming, no complaining, just a request to move her arm a bit which he had happily done. Her skin took the ink well, the lines standing out against the tone of it. Still, he wanted to check in again.

“I’m good.” Her tiny smile came up again. It flipped his stomach. “Great, actually. I expected it to hurt a lot worse. I mean, it isn’t great but I wasn’t sure how my pain tolerance was going to hold up. It was just like you said, the scratches!” There was a bit of babbling from her, making his own lip quirk up. Too fucking cute.

“Great. You’re doing fantastic. I’ve had veterans sit in my chair and bitch about it hurting, so you’ve got them beat.” He knocked her knee with his hand before moving to switch out the needles. “M’gonna switch to doing a bit of shading now. This is going to feel a tiny bit different but let me know if you need a break again.” Eyes looked towards her water bottle he had given her sitting between her legs. “And take a sip of that, please.”

Y/N gave a little salute, nodding to him and doing as asked as he switched the things out. It was little cute things like that salute that made him want to cuddle into her. She was just stupidly fucking adorable and he had now gotten to a point where he was seeing deeper parts of her personality. It drove him mad. He had to pace himself, aware that not even 24 hours ago she had been nervous around him for a completely different reason.

The new set was finished being set up, Harry turning back towards her when he heard the water bottle crinkle again. Holding it up, she shook it slightly to show that she had drank down to another divet in the bottle, making him chuckle quietly. “Good job, sweetheart.” He praised, gloving up. “Thank you for listening t’me. Now we have to get started so we can get proper food in your stomach.”

Y/N was happy he couldn’t read thoughts because hers were going wild.

Sweetheart? Good job? The fact that he was going to feed her after?

Her thighs subtly pressed together. The words had gone straight to a hot, gooey, sticky place in her stomach and jolted right down between her thighs. It was depraved on her part really, considering it had all been chaste. He had praised her for listening, for drinking water. He’d only used a nickname… and that smooth voice that had her toes curling in her shoes. Heat burned her ears as he turned back to her with the buzzing gun in hand. Yeah, he would definitely have some thoughts if he could see how much just a simple praise affected her.

Sure, she knew she had a praise kink. It wasn’t a shock to her, but the ease of Harry being able to trigger it was a real problem. It had always been something that she melted with, being called a good girl, doing a good job, taking it so well. Praise kink 101, beginner stuff. Adding in the strikingly handsome and mysterious to her man with a semi admitted crush on her, his hands on her body and his willingness to take care of her? She was a goddamn goner. Finished. All he had to do was continue to stroke her ego a little bit and she would slide down to her knees. Pathetic? Perhaps. She never claimed to be anything otherwise.

His hands were warm through the gloves, holding her arm in place as the needles stippled her skin. Eyes went back to his face, his septum piercing corrected from being out of place earlier. Only this time, she caught him licking over his lip and swore she saw a flash of… something. Did he….?

Her mouth opened before her brain could tell her not to ask because it would be a blatant admittance to staring, but it was too late.

“You- Do you have a tongue piercing?”

Y/N winced slightly at her own tone. It sounded incredulous, but it was more so shocking that it had taken her a bit to notice that had her so surprised. More than judgemental, she was curious. “Sorry, sorry. That was a weird tone. M’not judging you! I swear. I just didn’t notice it and I thought I would have.” In her head, she facepalmed severely. Probably would have physically if it wouldn't have jostled her arm that was tattooed. “God, ignore me. I just didn’t know you had one and for some reason it surprised me.”

Her flustered nature made Harry grin. It was fucking cute. He hadn’t even remembered that he had one because he’d had it for a while but he had changed it recently. “Hey- It’s cool.” He let himself laugh, squeezing over her arm as he shot her a look. “I do. I know you aren’t judgin’ me. I changed it recently. It used to be pink, so not as noticable, I don’t blame you for not noticing. I wanted to go back to silver though.” He poked his tongue out a bit so she could see as he wiped away some ink, watching in amusement as her eyes widened.

“Oh. I feel like I keep rambling at you.” She laughed, her own embarrassment evident on her face. “That’s so cool. I thought about getting my nose pierced at some point but I don’t think it would suit me.” It still did sit in the back of her mind sometimes, though. It looked good on Harry, his occasional hoop and the stud he had most of the time always having been attractive to her. “I’m going to ask the overasked question- Did it hurt?”

Her curiosity was only natural. If anything, it made him feel nice to know she actually had an interest in that sort of thing. He hadn’t been hiding his piercing on purpose, but if he had realized she would be so interested in it earlier then maybe he would have switched a while back. “Eh, not that bad. It swelled up a bit so I had to be careful for a bit but luckily mouth stuff tends to heal seemingly quicker. I stuck with a soft food diet for a bit- got one of those punch cards at the smoothie place down the block, had 2 free ones by the time I was done.” He laughed at the memory. It was still a place he frequented every week. “Couldn’t do anything with it and had to be careful so I didn’t bite my tongue. It swells a bit and it’s partially why it’s recommended not to eat hard or spicy foods.”

Harry had given plenty of piercings before and the tongue wasn’t the worst, but the healing was defintely one of the more annoying ones. You couldn’t really forget about the swelling in your mouth, and the iron taste stuck around for a few days. Luckily for him, he wasn’t a chatterbox and people barely knew he had even had it done.

“Wow. I think you have a bigger pain tolerance than me.” Y/N laughed, feeling her cheeks cool down slightly. Harry hadn’t seemed offput by the questions, rather eager to answer it. But one more remained. “So is there a reason you got it? Y’know, the aesthetics and stuff like that? I’d be worried about a tooth chipping or something.” Y/N babied her teeth so any piercing in the mouth 24/7 would worry her.

“No, no. It’s far back enough that it doesn’t rest on the teeth, the roof of my mouth. There is a piercing I refuse to do that is a bar through the tip of the tongue. If you do it incorrectly you can cause severe nerve damage, and it’s known to chip teeth. But a regular piercing on your tongue isn’t much of a risk. Not in my experience.” He hummed. Again, he felt a little flustered at this one because the reason for the piercing was for aesthetics, yes… but. “Real talk? I thought it looked cool and there are… benefits to having one.” At her raised brow he knew she wanted the proper answer, making him exhale deeply. “Uh- It’s like… It enhances oral sex. Some people think it feels better.”

Harry was a self proclaimed pussy lover. He liked dicks just fine too, he didn’t limit himself, but there was just something about licking up a pretty cunt that had gotten dripping just for him. His hookups were short but there was always a longing to give more of that. It was something that plagued his fantasies, as shameful as he felt, thinking about the girl sitting right in front of him.

Sitting between her thighs with his arm locked around her hips, keeping her nice and still despite the twitches she would give off involuntarily as his tongue swiped up her folds, nose bumping her clit as he greedily lapped her up. He could beg for the chance to have her sprawled out for him and her thighs locked around his head as he took his time tasting her. He had been very respectful and wasn’t planning on doing anything to make her uncomfortable, but she had asked. He wouldnt lie to her.

“Oh!” She squeaked. “Damn it. See… I looked up tons of stuff about tattoos and nose piercings but I’m showing my lack of knowledge here.” A nervous giggle erupted, Harry noticing as she squeezed her thighs together. It was subtle- if he hadn’t been paying attention he wouldn’t have seen it. It was caught and he felt downright smug. She was thinking about it and obviously, she didn’t hate the idea.

“S’alright, pet.” He replied, looking up to give her a smile. “You’re sweet. Not a problem to ask me things you want to know. You don’t have to know it all, m’happt yo teach you anything.”

There was a slight shift, a heavier more charged energy in the room as Y/N sat quietly. She found Harry exceedingly handsome, his sex appeal not only oozing from his pores but his heart. She was trying very hard not to get ahead of herself here, knowing she definitely could fall into it if she allowed herself to do the thing she actually wanted. Shyness was her savior, at this point.

They continued talking until he was finished, helping Y/N up and standing with her a moment to make sure she was steady. One too may clients passed out after standing up after a session and he didn’t want that to be her experience. Once she was all clear, he led her over to the mirror to look at her tattoo reflected in the glass. How it looked on her body. She looked it over with a wide smile, flexing her arm to mimic the movement he had told her about before to see the stem did indeed stay where it was supposed to be.

“Harry.. I can’t even thank you enough.” Her words were raspy, awe showing through as she let him wrap it up. He had given her the lecture, the talk about keeping it from the sun, the moisturizing it, not itching, the whole nine yards. She knew most of what he said, but she had still managed to be surprised at how much he seemed to care about the integrity of the tattoo. “It’s incredible. Everything I could have hoped for, both in the tattoo and the experience. I’m so happy with it.” Big eyes were shining up at him, giving him the most awed glint to them. Without warning, she tossed herself into his arms, wrapping them around hus shoulders to take him in for a hug.

He froze for a moment, their embrace catching him off guard. She hadn’t seemed to initiate much touch except for last night when she was tipsy and leaning into him, so he had been surprised at her willingness to do so- but he wasn’t about to waste this. Arms wrapped around her torso, a chuckle leaving his throat as she squeezed herself to him all while being mindful of her tattoo.

She smelled really fucking good. A hint of sweet but defintely something floral. Her cheek pressed against his shoulder as she whispered thanks to him again, pulling back much too soon for his liking. She was beaming, a beam he had put on her face and a picture he wanted to photograph in his mind forever. He had made her smile like that. It had altered his breathing a little bit, watching as she gave him the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

Yeah, he was effectively fucked.

“You don’t have t’thank me, Y/N. I’m really happy you chose me to do it. It makes me feel good that you trusted me enough even before we cleared things up.” He knew he would be making up for that for a long time. Not because she would hold it against him, but becaus he hated that his awkwardness had caused any sort of negative feeling for the sweet girl.

“Of course I did. If anything, I knew you’d be professional.” There was a pause before she lightly nudged his foot with her own. “I do prefer us like this, though. I had a lot of fun talking to you.” He had interesting stories, despite being quieter than her, and his voice was utterly delectable. She would eat it up anytime.

“Me as well.” He returned the shy smile to her, walking back towards his office. All her stuff was in there along with his own. Their hands bumped as they walked side by side, his heart rattling in it’s ribbed caged, the slight hook of her pinky as they entered the room making it pause before it was dropped. He had a lump in his throat, one that was begging him to ask for more from her, but it wasn’t the right time.

The right time didn’t come until after they’d grabbed some food down the street. Playing a slight game of knocking feet under the table and gentle flirations, both of them having hated cheeks and in harry’s case, heated ears as they spoke softly to one another the entire time. It was far different than being out with their friends, his attention solely focused on her and the quieter atmosphere allowing her to hear his quieter chuckles and little hums he made in the middle of her sentences as a reply. He let her talk his ear off about her hunt for a certain eyeliner brand at the shops lately and how she’d made friends with employees who text her when it came in, she was only missing the Sapphire and Indigo variations.

Harry sat and responded appropriately, even adding in some things, but he wa content to hear her sweet recalling of the baby penguins she wanted to go see at the museum desperately, her nosy next door neighbor, anything really. It was one of the best meals he’d ever had and he hated that it even had to end.

He could see himself more than happy listening to her rambling every night as they ate. It was a bit shocking considering how much Harry loved his solitude and quiet, but Y/N just tickled a part of him that had never been open for access before. There was no way he could fumble this, no way he could waste an opportunity to take a chance on this. He had to man up and simply ask.

The walk back to the shop was similar to the hallway, their hands knocking until Harry took initiative this time and let their pinkies link. Y/N continued talking, stumbling over her words once as she felt their fingers connect but her pace in words only increased. The smile wider. He took it as a good sign. The journey had been far too short for his liking, the fact he had to take his hand away from hers as she unlocked her car making him frown. Hands stuffed themselves in his pockets to keep from reaching from her again, watching her toss her bag to the passenger seat before turning to him.

“Thank you for-” “Go on a date with me.” Harry’s words tumbled from his lips without being able to stop them, interrupting her mid sentence. Working up the nerve to ask her not allowing him to wait a second more or he would lose the confidence. “Shit- sorry. I meant, would you? Want to go om a date with me?” He watched as she blinked up at him, those pretty eyes rounded and shocked as her mouth opened and closed. It was his turn to ramble. “I had a really good time with you today, and I like you. I know I probably hurt your feelings in the past but I will make it up to you. I took you out tonight but this wasn’t a date- I just…”

Oh, god. This was why he tended to stay the quiet and mysterious type.

“Harry.” Y/N’s hands braced on his forearms, squeezing as she laughed through the utter of his name. “Harry. Relax. It’s okay. I… I would really, really like that.” She watched him deflate slightly from his tense stance, head tilting to the right. “I had an amazing time with you. You don’t have to make anything up to me at all. It was an accident. I’m sensitive. But I like you too.” The admittance was quieter than the rest of her words, shyer. A grown woman feeling like a kid all over again. He liked her.

Liked liked her.

“Yeah?” He asked again, “I’m really happy t’hear that. I wanted to ask you before we went to dinner but I got nervous.” His hand returned to anxiously rub the back of his neck, shooting her his own relieved smile. “I won’t let you regret it. I promise..”

He stepped forward, holding her car door open for her while getting closer to her. It was getting dark and she had stuff to fo tomorrow which she had told him about, her whole itinerary actually. It was- you guessed it- fucking cute. “Need you to get home safe, so text me when you walk in the door, and then we can plan our date. Sound like a plan?”

Y/N nodded, not hesitating before wrapping her arms around his shoulders. This hug wasn less awkward, Harry’s hand falling to her back to rub gently a few times before she pulled back. He’d dwell on how nice she felt pressed against him later. Again, the girl decided to shock him, reaching up on her toes and pressing a kiss to his cheek before sitting down in her driver’s seat.

“Bye Harry. I can’t wait to talk to you again.”

His cheek burned with the heat of her kiss the entire time he watched her drink off. It was cool but very much there as he drove home. The lipgloss stain burned yet again as soon as he got a text once he got inside his own place, shoes kicked off and arm over his head trying to relive the feeling of her lips on his skin yet again.

Y/N: I’m home, inkmaster :-)

H: All in one piece, I hope.

He wasn’t. Surely, a tiny bit of his heart was still stuck in her palm.

Y/N: Yep, lost my sunglasses though. Think they’re in your office. Good thing I’ll be seeing you soon

Y/N: So… our date?

428 notes · View notes