#They have one braincell between the two of them
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Buddy Daddies + Text Posts [Part 13/ ??]
#Buddy Daddies#Kazuki Kurusu#Rei Suwa#KazuRei#Kazuki x Rei#Kurusu Kazuki#Suwa Rei#buddydaddiesedit#BDedit#Text Post Meme#Another shorter one but this is just them ok#They have one braincell between the two of them#And Miri has it most of the time...
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The only logical option left.
#svsss#svsss fanart#mxtx svsss#scum villian self saving system#shen yuan#shen jiu#shen twins#i am normal for this au#something dumb to pass the time while im wasting away sick#i imagine they only have one braincell between the two of them#and its with neither of them tbh#my art
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I had the dumbest idea while working on some other TW art involving my choice in background noise while I draw...
It's Always Sunny In Beacon Hills
Alternate Title - Teen Wolf but with Brain Damage
(original iasip screencap below the cut...)

#I was just looking at moments from this show and kept going: omg this is so [insert tw character here] coded#my past hyperfixation really inspiring my current one#stiles and scott being absolute lunatics together my beloved#they truly sometimes have to ration stile's braincells between the two of them and it's honestly so real#i was lazy with the shading and colouring bc this was NOT supposed to be a full render lol#i'm insane#teen wolf#stiles stilinski#scott mccall#teen wolf fanart#my art
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Never forget the moment Peeta blustered onto the whipping block and tried to defend Katniss too and Haymitch just went “nope! You absolute fucking nutter I cannot have another child put themselves in harms way omfg you guys crave the bullets don't you.” and just yanked him back behind him
#haymitch you ABSOLUTE FATHER#haymitch abernathy#peeta mellark#katniss everdeen#theyre found family your honor#theyre also idiots your honor#their trio is that one dude who's holding the leash of two crazy vibrating dudes#in this scenario haymitch is the middle tired dude#in others its katniss#in others its peeta#theyre all tired of each other at some point#they share 1 singular braincell#it bounces between them like a round of fuckin russian roulette#“effie said its MY turn to have the brain cell!”#fuckin dorks#i love them so much#the hunger games
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Hazel has her moments holding the Idiot Ball as well.
#ffxiv#ffxiv gpose#ffxiv screenshots#ffxiv oc#au ra#xaela#hazel kha#Reg!Hazel#elezen#emmanellain de fortemps#emmazel#Hazel might be decently smart#But she still has her moments of being dumb#She and Emm have one braincell between the two of them#And while she has possession most of the time#It gets passed back and forth randomly
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Prompt 202
How about a 3 way crossover, ay? DC, DP, & LOZ
Danny has gotten into a habit, of well, not exactly mapping out the Realms, but also sort of mapping out the Realms. There’s a pattern to how things move around, like planets’ revolution around the sun. At least as long as no one moves their lair purposely. But he’s figured out the pattern, which means he can explore a lot more if he times things right!
Which is how he ended up finding this crazy world full of so much fun stuff, and he just had to bring his friends, y’know? And his new friends (one of which might not talk but is expressive and easily gets their point across) is so fun too!
They even all have matching ears, though it seems to be natural for Link while theirs is well, ecto-contamination related. But still, go Team Elves! And Link shows them all the really cool stuff and they introduce them to their friends- several of which are ghosts themselves, which is sweet!
And of course, they need to show him (and his ghosts) around the Realms too! Maybe they can even get his ghost friends to be visible to others so they can say hi to their still living friends too! (Link, Link no, don’t challenge Fright Knight to a spar-)
Everything is going great, they’re having fun! Zelda is going a little feral in learning all this stuff about other worlds and the Realms and everything. Link is enjoying eating everything and sparring and just generally exploring. It’s fun!
And then the stupid natural portal had to ruin it! Look, if one person falls through, they’re all going. Team Elves for the win after all! And hey, more minds mean more chances to get back. They all have their lives to deal with, they can’t stay forever… probably. Clockwork is probably helping with pausing time if the sticky note is anything to go by.
But they were having fun- oh wait, this is a vacation? Vacation from prophecies and ghost attacks and everything? Well why didn’t you say so! Alright guys, continue. Let’s explore even more!
#Dcxdp#Dpxdc#DPxLOZ#DPxDCxLOZ#DCxLOZ#Legend of Zelda Crossover#DC Crossover#Danny Phantom Crossover#Breath of the Wild Crossover#Why yes Tucker mixes sheikah tech with his PDA (he is now borderline unstoppable oh no)#Sam had an army of Korok following her & has so many gifts from them#Zelda and Sam become Best Friends#Link and Danny are Feral Besties#Tucker swaps between both depending on if he has the group braincell or not#The heroes & villains are running around searching for these five feral elf children#Children who don’t speak the same language as them & have wrecked so much shit#They’re all smart but the moment they’re together their braincell mushes into One#That rolls between them or disappears#On rare cases they have Two whole braincells#Usually belonging to Zelda#Billy is instantly clocked as Fellow Feral Child even as Marvel#Jason is also instantly clocked as Death-Touched (alongside several other heroes)
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my morons
#blacksmith's son {henry}#grey warden {alistair}#no matter what these two will always be in charge of the braincell#and probably have like one and a half braincells between them {affectionately}#alistair has the whole cell. henry has the half.
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Idc what canon is, you look at any AU I’ve got in my pocket you can bet that Marco, Connie, Sasha, and Jean are besties.

#I bet you can tell how much I love this photo#bite me#(im crying)#why couldn’t we just have this#Connie and Sasha unfortunately only share one braincell between the two of them#the braincell folks#Jean is yelling at them 80% of the time but he loves their stupid little brains#and they tease Marco and Jean a lot because they’re in love#attack on titan#shingeki no kyojin#marco bodt#jean kirschtein#connie springer#sasha braus#or if you wanna be funky:#marco bott#jean kirstein#conny springer#sasha blouse
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Hey so guess who did some Kiran expression work a while back and entirely forgot to post it
Welp better late than never. I would not consider this my gospel expression guide for them, but it was an important experiment in further understanding their face.
The format is wholehearted ripped from kitsuneisi's cuteguy and hotguy expression sheets. I will not directly tag out of the fear of being perceived, but please check out all of their lovely work. It's downright gorgeous.
Also here is a pupiled Kiran. As a treat.
#fire emblem heroes#feh#fe kiran#fe summoner#kiran#Gotta say; personal favorite is the tired one. That was where i started hitting my stride with these.#I drew all these in a funky order (think I started with pleased?) and with some solid gaps of time between#Which is funny because I think you can tell happy was the last one I drew lmao#Like yep. That's them officer. That's the little guy who stole my braincell.#Anyway I started 3 projects at once and I am fighting for life with all of them lmao#I may or may not have started making a 14 page feh comic. No I don't know how I got here either.#Look forward to that hopefully. Not any time soon tho that one has took cook for a while.#But the other two are definitely coming down the pipe sooner or later#art tag
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I just thought of a ship and I wanted to share it:
Spadesgorudy (spade x Asgore x Rudy)
Basically spade and Rudy tolerate each other for asgore’s sake, because he loves the both of them and they love him.
Also this man (asgore) deserves all of the love and praise and everything
Just wanted to share
Extremely valid and I support this ship wholeheartedly. If I was less deathly neutral on Rudy I'd def ship it myself. Have some doodles of them
#spadesgorudy#i guess thats the official name now#ask#asks#spadesgore#rudy holiday#asgore#spade#king of spades#spade king#asgore dreemurr#asgore holiday more like lmaooooooo#drawings#deltarune#god you can tell i fucking never draw rudy he looks so bad help meeeeee#me and meow actually have a very similar setup to shipping spade asgore and gaster#like. two dudes in love with asgore and they just have to learn to live with each other lest asgore just breaks apart like a jigsaw puzzle#whats interesting abt the dynamic between spade and rudy in this scenerio specifically#is that they both kind of. act as equalizers to one another#spade is pure evil and rudy forces him to take it down a notch#while rudy has like half a braincell he refuses to use that spade kidnaps and kicks into high gear#asgore is just an enabler to both of them he just goes with the flow#sometimes makes them take a day off and actually enjoy life for once#fun stuff!!!
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ok im going to the gym then tonight i got a few drafts i want to do then maybe ?? tomorrow ??? i'll take on the challenge of spending a few hours deleting a bunch of shit out of my ask box oml.
#see u in precisely 3 decades#LKAJSDLKASJD#ooc.#i am really missing writing gep but im wavering between having him here but keeping his blog for one im ready to write only him#when caelus lets me have the braincell back#OR#having two blogs open at once ?? idk it's just#i don't want to rb a bunch of memes there and then not want to write them LKSAJDASD#gepard muse is like MHGMMHMNHM sees sampo: ah !!!!!!!!!!!!!!! yeah#that's it#anyway
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1 Nico + 1 Patty = 1 whole Discord
#Based off of my NeroKiri proposal idea#These two have tons of braincells and only one between the two of them at the exact same time#Devil May Cry#DMC#Nico DMC#Patty DMC
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Would anybody be interested in a playlist we made for our Druid PC (Whim) and Izmark as they go about trying to figure their silly little relationship?
Well, whether you care or not, here it is. Enjoy their stupidity.
#curse of strahd#dungeons and dragons#cos ismark#ismark kolyanovich#ismark the lesser#curse of strahd ismark#PC x ismark#dnd character#dnd playlist#romance#playlist#whim x izmark#gay#pining#the running bit is that whim recently realized he's gay but isn't letting himself feel his feelings towards izmark#and izmark is starting to feel feelings towards whim but still doesn't realize that he's gay#they have one braincell between the two of them and i love them#Spotify
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Cannot sleep :/
#just pav things#lying awake here with Inigo meta thoughts#specifically the nuances of why he never intervened when Archie and Dism were fighting#He is torn between these two ideas of reality— whether Archie is dead or alive. That is true.#But eventually the latter idea takes more of a foothold; which is just a recipe for mental disarray#It’s a break from the comfortable cycle of self-hatred and destruction. So this new thought has to be counteracted to maintain inertia#So as I understand it he’s now caught on those lingering feelings of abandonment that Archie has left him with. and he is Not Happy.#Because just as he interpreted himself as being a replacement for Dism#He’s interpreting Archie and his little motley crew as a further refusal to move on from the past#And because Inigo acts on impulse (as seen best with the 💥 arm getting blown off) he’s using that momentary anger#to distract himself from the core issue as he lashes out ✨#He’s kind of a hypocrite that one. Stresses the importance of embracing unpleasant memories as a fundamental part of your character#(To the point of berating Idyllia for going the total memory wipe route instead)#but he is ALSO an escapist at heart. Neither of them want their definition of pain so they both have terrible routines to try avoiding it ✌#I’m sorry if this made no sense Dolphin I will probably do a retake with more braincells in the next few days#You know I’ve been analysing the design of this kindergarten in sydney for VCD#It’s called Nubo. Now I’ve always had a fondness for Scandinavian aesthetics but this is PEAK#So I went down a research rabbit hole and I came out of it with a clear concept for what Amonea Montessori School should feel like!#It’s this sort of cross-concept between stereotypical Australian architecture and hygge#Those oak panels and muted colours and glass everywhere#And I can carry through to an overall unique visual identity for Amonea#After all Byrgir should feel similarly detached from Earth in it’s own subtle ways#Tapping more into solarpunk and that overall comforting feeling for Amonea in particular~#I’m so happy :D
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Technically three deeply broken men

this got eaten somewhere and needs to not have done that
#also carter is the smartest idiot in this or any other galaxy#they're all idiots#they've got two braincells between them and teal'c always has one of them#and daniel pretends to have the other when carter has literally just had it the whole time#jack is just stupid hope this helps 💚
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N O S A I N T I N K
Tattoo Artist!Han Jisung x Reader | He tattoos like an artist and eats like a god. You're ruined. Congratulations.
🔞synopsis: Tattoo Artist AU. You just wanted a tattoo. What you got was a cocky artist with a praise kink, a filthy mouth, and the ability to make you cum so hard you forget your name. What starts as innocent skin-on-skin becomes texts at 3AM, breathless calls, panties on the floor, and getting ruined over a tattoo chair by a man who calls his dick “emotionally supportive.”
💌a/n: HELLO DEMONS. welcome back to my sin bin. and YES. i spun the wheel of filth™ again because i have too many prompts, too many requests, too many ideas and i am ONE feral braincell away from combusting. this week’s winner of the roulette: jisung x reader, tattoo shop edition. hence why this was posted late — i had no idea what to write and then accidentally birthed a full plotline, two orgasms, a man with separation anxiety, and the best dick of your fictional life. oops 😇 p.s. reblog this or i will haunt your mirrors at 3AM whispering “dumb little slut” in han’s voice. p.p.s. if you message me your fave skz member, i might drop you a mini filthy tattoo artist!AU ficlet just for them. no promises. only threats. p.p.p.s. light a candle. hydrate. send this to a friend
⚠️ warnings: 18+ | MINORS DNI | EXTREMELY NSFW | Oral (f. receiving) — graphic, intense, life-altering | Pussy eating obsession (Han is a munch) | Filthy, unrelenting dirty talk — degradation + praise mix (chaos edition) | “Good girl,” “slut,” “mine,” “cum for me” energy | Clit stimulation + g-spot pressure = brain cell deletion | Multiple orgasms (yes. multiple.) | Fingering, choking, possessive hand-gripping
📌 Please read responsibly. Hydrate. Stretch.
📍credits: dividers by @cafekitsune
🎧 » MOVE — Taemin « 0:58 ─〇───── 3:32 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻
Late afternoon, Seoul.
The sky is bruising purple with evening haze. You’re standing outside a tattoo parlour in a tucked-away alley—NO SAINT INK—recommended by a friend who said, “Go there. Ask for Han.”
You’re nervous. Not just because it’s your first tattoo—but because your stomach won’t stop twisting with that type of anticipation. The kind you feel when you know something irreversible is about to happen.
The parlour looks nothing like the industrial, hyper-masculine shops you've passed before. It’s dark, yes—but with soft underlighting. Neon signs buzz low in the windows, one glowing "SINNER'S HANDS" in deep red. Another in cursive:
“we only leave beautiful scars.”
You push the door open, bell jingling. It smells like antiseptic and incense. Lo-fi hip hop pulses from hidden speakers. The walls are matte black, scattered with flash art—some delicate, some obscene. A few erotic, one absolutely feral. You step toward the desk—
And then you see him.
Han Jisung.
Slouched in a leather chair behind the counter, legs spread wide, one hand holding a sketchpad, the other spinning a tattoo gun idly between his fingers like a toy.
Dark, slightly wavy hair. A few strands falling into his eyes. Rings on nearly every finger. One silver bar in his eyebrow. Another glinting on his lip.
He's wearing a sleeveless hoodie, arms covered in ink—some intricate, some scrawled like afterthoughts. His forearms flex as he shifts, glancing up at you lazily, and then—
Freeze.
He smirks. Not the kind of smirk you’re used to. This one slides slow across his face like silk on skin—cocky, amused, interested. He sets the sketchbook down and stands, sauntering over.
“You lost, angel?”
His voice is warm gravel. A little teasing. He’s already clocked you as a first-timer.
You swallow. “No. Um… I think I have an appointment? For 5PM?”
He leans against the counter, gloved hand flipping through the schedule.
“Name?”
You give it. He taps the page. “First ink?” he asks, gaze flicking over you.
You nod.
His eyes drag down your form and back up again—like he’s marking you before the needle ever touches you. “Cute.”
A pause.
“Alright. You’re with me.”
The moment he leads you past the curtain, everything quiets. Not literally—there’s still the low thrum of lo-fi beats playing through overhead speakers, and you can hear the soft buzz of a machine in the next booth—but something in the air shifts. You’ve stepped into his space now.
The room is dim, intentionally so. Not cold or sterile, but intimate. The walls are painted a charcoal grey, with scattered framed sketches and flash art displayed like gallery pieces. A small desk against the back wall is cluttered with ink bottles, gloves, stencils, and scribbled notes on napkins. There’s a chair in the center—sleek black leather, mechanical levers gleaming faintly under the spotlight aimed above it. It's positioned deliberately beneath a halo of warm light, like a stage for sin.
Han gestures for you to sit.
You do, heart already hammering harder than you'd like to admit. Your hands grip the armrests automatically, more out of nerves than necessity.
He sanitizes his hands in silence, then slips on a pair of black nitrile gloves with practiced ease. The snap of the first one makes you flinch. He notices.
A flick of his mouth—half amusement, half something darker.
“So. You still sure about it?” he asks, voice calm but low, like smoke over velvet.
You nod, holding out the reference image you brought—a small, simple design. Meaningful. Something you’ve thought about for months. A delicate poppy, petals slightly unfurled…But at the base of the flower, instead of a regular stem, it grows from the open mouth of a tiny anatomical heart.
Han doesn’t look at the paper right away. His eyes stay on you for just a moment longer than they should. Then he takes it gently, fingers brushing yours through the gloves.
“Pretty,” he murmurs, gaze flicking from the paper to your face. “Subtle. Clean lines… this’ll look good on you.”
You try to smile, but your throat feels tight. “Thanks.”
“Where do you want it?”
You hesitate. Then, softly: “Ribcage.”
That earns you an arched brow and the barest flicker of a smirk.
“Shy spot. I like that,” he says, turning to prep his materials. You watch the muscles shift as he reaches for a stencil pad. “Okay, shirt off. Just what you need, nothing more. I won’t bite.”
You freeze.
He pauses for a beat. Then tilts his head, eyes crinkling slightly. “Unless you beg,” he adds with a wink.
Your cheeks go hot. You laugh—nervously. It feels like your skin is already burning.
You carefully lift your shirt just high enough to expose the side of your torso, tugging the fabric over your bra, folding it under your arm to keep it out of the way. You're acutely aware of how much skin you're showing—even more so under that bright, direct light.
He kneels beside you with the stencil, gaze focused. You expect him to avoid eye contact, to be clinical—but Han is anything but.
His fingers brush your waist, and they stay there, warm through the gloves. His hand spreads slightly, holding your skin steady as he gently presses the cool stencil to your ribs.
“Breathe for me, yeah?” he murmurs, glancing up at you with a crooked smile. “I’m gonna press it right here…”
You suck in a breath, chest rising.
He places the stencil deliberately. Slowly. His face is close—close enough that you can see the curve of his lashes, the faint sheen of gloss on his lip ring. You smell cedar and musk on his hoodie. His fingers flex slightly against your side.
He looks up.
“You’re already twitchy,” he says softly, voice dropping just enough to make you forget how to breathe. “Gonna be a fun ride.”
You don’t know if he means the tattoo. And neither does he.
He stands and moves to the table beside him, switching out tools like it’s second nature. The machine buzzes to life with a sharp mechanical hum.
You tense.
He catches it immediately.
“First pinch might sting,” he says, voice suddenly gentle, almost coaxing. “I’ll talk you through it. You’re good.”
You nod again, trying not to clench your fists.
Then his hand is back on your body.
He anchors you with one palm spread wide over your side, right above your hip. It’s not forceful, but there’s weight to it. A possessive steadiness. The leather chair creaks faintly under the shift of your body.
And then the needle touches. A sharp, sudden sting. You wince.
“Breathe. Just like that. You’re doing so well, pretty,” he says, voice a constant hum in your ear. “Your skin takes ink like a dream. Fuck, this is gonna look good.”
You exhale through your nose, trying to focus on the sound of his voice instead of the burn.
It helps. But not in the way it should. Because Han doesn’t shut up. Not once.
“Don’t squirm too much… unless you want me to slip.” “You’re soft here. So fucking soft.” “Bet you’re the type who likes being teased, huh?”
You let out a choked laugh, more from panic than humor. He grins, eyes glinting.
The buzz of the machine, the heat of his palm on your skin, the constant commentary—it all blends into a haze. You’re dripping adrenaline and something else entirely. You feel like you’ve been stripped down far deeper than your shirt allows.
After what feels like both a lifetime and a blink, the needle slows. He lifts it. “Almost done. You’ve been such a good girl for me.”
The words land like a slap and a stroke at once.
He sets the machine aside, reaching for a fresh cloth. He wipes your skin slowly. Not rough. Not rushed. Every pass of his hand is careful, gentle.
You’re trembling now. Just a little.
He leans back finally and exhales. The air feels different. Like it’s shifted again—thicker.
“There,” he says. “Wanna see?”
You nod, throat dry.
He helps you up—guides you to a mirror near the corner. His hand stays on your back.
You look. And for a second, you forget how to breathe again. The tattoo is perfect. Clean, delicate, exactly how you pictured it. But it’s not just the ink that makes your chest ache—it’s the fact that it’s his. His hands made this. His touch. His art. On your skin.
“My work’s on you now,” he murmurs behind you, voice low and close. “You’re not gonna forget me, are you?”
You shake your head. You couldn’t if you tried.
The moment you slide your shirt back down, your skin feels… different. Not just because it's slightly tender from the ink, but because his touch still lingers. Like heat soaked into your bones. Like a fingerprint on your soul. You shouldn’t be this affected—he’s just your tattoo artist. Right?
You sit there for a moment longer than necessary, blinking as he finishes cleaning his station. His gloves come off with a snap, and he tosses them into the bin. You glance up, and—yep—he’s watching you.
Leaning casually against the counter, arms crossed, hair a little mussed, rings catching the light. Smug as hell.
“You survived,” he says, voice bright with that chaos-riddled lilt again. “Didn’t cry. Didn’t puke. I’m impressed.”
You roll your eyes. “High praise.”
“I’ve had grown men pass out from rib pieces,” he shrugs. “One guy farted. Loud. Mid-linework. I almost dropped the machine.”
You snort despite yourself. “Well, thanks for not comparing me to the Fart Guy until the end.”
He grins, wide and gleaming. “No, no, you’re top-tier,” he says, stepping closer to grab your care sheet. “Didn’t even whimper. Except for that one part where your breath hitched and I thought—y’know, for a second—you might come on the chair.”
You nearly choke. “Excuse me?!”
“Kidding,” he sing-songs. “Unless…?”
Your glare is ruined by the flush racing up your neck. You stand and grab your bag in a hurry, trying to save face. “You’re awful.”
“I’m delightful.”
He leads you back toward the front desk, swaying just slightly with each step, like he’s got too much energy stored in those shoulders. You swear he’s bouncing on the balls of his feet. It’s giving feral golden retriever with a tattoo gun and a praise kink.
You hand over your card while avoiding eye contact.
He hums dramatically as he takes it, flipping it over like he’s studying an ancient rune.
“You sure you don’t wanna tip in other ways?” he says, deadpan.
Your jaw drops.
He grins, swipes your card, and taps it dramatically against the reader before handing it back. “Joking, obviously. Unless that wasn't a ‘no,’ in which case, I’m free next week—Tuesday, after 7?”
You grab the receipt from the printer and scowl at him. “You flirt with all your clients like this?”
“Only the pretty ones who shake when I touch their ribs.”
You stare.
He smiles wider.
“Okay, okay—last line, I swear,” he chuckles. Then, softer: “Hey. Can I get your number?”
The way he asks it—it’s not sleazy. It’s bold, sure. But there’s this undercurrent of actual interest, like he’s asking for something more than just your digits.
You blink. “Why?”
“‘Cause I want it?” he says, grinning. “Also, in case your tattoo needs a touch-up. Or emotional support. Or if you just feel like sending me hot selfies. It’s a multi-purpose thing.”
You hesitate. Your pulse says yes before your mouth does. He notices. He always notices. You hand him your phone, and he immediately types his own number in, labelling it:
HAN “WILL NOT SHUT UP” JISUNG 🖤
He sends himself a text from your phone, winks, then gives it back. “Now we’re connected,” he says “Digitally. Spiritually. Carnally—well, not yet.”
You open your mouth to sass him. “You were so close to being cool,” you say.
“Close is my middle name.”
You snort and shake your head as you step toward the door. “Bye, Han.”
“See you soon, angel.”
You’re out the door.
The texting started immediately. Like, within minutes of you leaving the shop.
What began as tattoo care check-ins (“don’t scratch it or I’ll spank you—unless?”) turned into daily chaos. Then nightly chaos. Then a full-blown flirtationship spiralling out of control.
Han texts like he lives inside your brain—firing off filthy one-liners between jokes that make you wheeze-laugh at 1AM, switching between “you’re my filthy little secret” and “pls tell me I’m cute or I’ll cry.”
You finally cave after he begs you to get ramen at 9PM “as friends who have sexual tension.”
You show up. He’s already sitting cross-legged in the booth, hoodie sleeves rolled up, lip ring glinting, chopsticks twirling in one hand like he’s about to duel someone.
He greets you with: “You look edible. I meant that in a respectful way. Mostly.”
You try to play it cool. He doesn’t let you.
The whole night is full of dumb jokes, spicy noodles, and under-the-table foot nudging that turns into ankle grazing that turns into—
“You keep that up, baby,” he murmurs across the table, “and I’m gonna drag you to the bathroom and remind you what these fingers can do.”
You nearly choke on your drink. He laughs, head tilted back, so proud of himself.
You leave flustered. He kisses your cheek in the parking lot. Just your cheek. But his hand lingers at your waist. His mouth is right next to your ear.
“Call me when you can’t sleep,” he says, low. “I’ll make sure you get tired again.”
You almost trip on the curb.
The calls eventually started and slowly became routine. Especially those 1AM phone calls, they were like clockwork. You, in bed, breath heavy as his voice would melt through the speaker.
“You touching yourself yet?” “You want me to talk you through it?” “Want me to tell you what I’d do if I had you on my lap right now?”
He moans in your ear when you do what he says.
Filthy. Unfiltered. And when it’s over—when you’re breathless and ruined—he says the softest things:
“Wish I was there to hold you.” “You’re so fucking hot, but you’re also cute and funny and it’s unfair.” “You still like me, right?”
It’s not just lust anymore. It's want. Sticky, addictive, confusing want.
It started with a text.
Just one. Sent on a whim while lying in bed late at night, staring at the first tattoo he gave you—delicate black lines peeking from beneath your shirt, still soft to the touch even weeks later.
[You, 11:23PM] thinking about getting another one
You didn’t expect a fast reply. But Jisung’s name lit up your phone in under two minutes.
[HAN “WILL NOT SHUT UP” 🖤, 11:24PM] oh?? 👀 where when how much skin we talking is it just an excuse to see me again (pls say yes)
You rolled your eyes. Typed back:
[You] hipbone small script and maybe what if it was both
His reply came in a blink:
[HAN “WILL NOT SHUT UP” 🖤] come by the shop this friday after hours no distractions just me. you. ink. doors locked. lights low. …for professionalism, obviously 🙃
You stared at the screen for a long time before replying.
And then:
[You] see you friday.
Friday. 9:04PM.
Seoul’s city pulse is just starting to dim when you push open the door to NO SAINT INK for the second time.
The bell doesn’t ring. He told you it wouldn’t.
The neon signs are still lit—SINNER’S HANDS flickering a slow blood-red glow in the window—but the rest of the shop feels different. Empty. Still. Like something waiting to be touched.
The lights are dimmed. Only one small lamp buzzes near the back, casting long shadows across the matte-black walls.
Your steps echo a little as you walk inside. Then—
“Back here, pretty.”
His voice, low and smooth, floats from behind a curtain in the far booth.
You follow it. Pull the curtain aside. And there he is.
He’s already set up.
Tattoo machine prepped, gloves laid out neatly beside his sketch pad. He’s wearing an oversized black tee tucked loosely into ripped jeans, sleeves rolled just enough to show off the ink that curls around his biceps like living things.
He doesn’t look at you at first.
He’s focused on the script you’d sent him earlier—your design. A small phrase, handwritten in your own messy scrawl: “still hungry.”
When he finally glances up, it hits you like the first time all over again.
The way his lip curls. The way his eyes bite first and ask questions later. “Look at you,” he murmurs, voice dipped in something dark and fond. “Back for more.”
You lean against the booth’s edge, heartbeat already in your throat. “You said professionalism, remember?”
He stands slowly. Walks toward you. You can feel the heat radiating off him in waves.
“I lied.”
A beat. Then—
“Where’s it going again?”
You lift the hem of your hoodie just a little. Hook your thumb beneath your waistband and tug it down, just far enough to expose the sharp curve of your hipbone.
His gaze drops.
Stays.
He doesn’t speak for a moment too long. Just stares—like he’s trying to memorize you before he ruins you. “That’s dangerous, you know,” he says softly. “Letting me touch you there.”
You try to swallow. Fail. “You’re the one who said no distractions.”
He smiles. “You’re the fucking distraction.”
He gloves up without another word.
You lie back on the chair, heart slamming in your chest, every inch of skin suddenly too hot.
You’re not sure what you expected. Something casual? Familiar? But the moment his gloved hand touches your bare hip—steadying you, fingers spread firm and warm—the entire world narrows to him.
“Breathe for me,” he murmurs, positioning the stencil. “Just like last time. You remember how good you were for me?”
You exhale shakily.
“You gonna behave again tonight, pretty thing?”
You whisper: “Maybe.”
He leans in. His mouth is close to your skin. His voice—barely a breath. “God, I hope not.” He’s still positioning the stencil.
And you? You're laid back on the chair, hoodie bunched beneath your ribs, waistband tugged low, every nerve ending on alert. The soft lamplight paints shadows across his jaw as he kneels between your legs, eyes focused.
And then—
“You know,” he says lightly, pressing the stencil into place, “I’ve seen a lot of hipbones. But this one might be my favourite.”
You snort. “Wow. So original.”
He grins without looking up. “What, you don’t believe me?”
“I’m sure you say that to all your clients.”
“Only the ones who sext me about popsicles and then block me for ten minutes.”
You go still. He finally glances up. Smirks. “Yeah. Thought I forgot about that?”
You mutter, “I hate you.”
“You love me,” he says immediately, like it’s a fact. “You want me to ruin your life. Slowly. Lovingly. With tattoos and aftercare.”
You cover your face. “Shut up.”
He laughs—a low, breathy sound. Then, softly: “I’m starting the line now. Hold still, baby.”
The machine whirs to life.
It’s quieter than you remember. Or maybe you’re just more aware—of everything. The way his gloved hand steadies your hip, thumb dragging along the edge of your waistband. The needle’s sharp kiss. The buzz settling into your bones.
And Han’s voice. God, he never stops talking.
“This spot’s sensitive,” he says, totally casual. “Most people squirm. But I like that.”
You tense. He notices. Of course he does.
“Relax,” he murmurs, dragging the line smooth. “You’re doing perfect.”
Another pause. Then—
“Don’t suppose you’re into pain, are you?”
You don’t answer. You don’t have to. He chuckles under his breath. “God, you so are.”
But then, just like that—his tone shifts. He quiets. Focuses. And the teasing melts into something heavier. “Almost done,” he says, more softly this time. “You’ve been so good for me again. Always are.”
You blink. Your heart skips.
He wipes your skin again, slow and reverent, then leans back to look. He’s still crouched between your thighs, eyes focused, lips parted slightly as he takes it in.
“Fuck.”
You blink. “What?”
He looks up at you. No grin now. Just quiet, open admiration. “It’s gorgeous,” he says. “Like… stupid good.” He presses a kiss to his gloved fingertips and taps them against your skin.
“Still hungry,” he reads aloud. “God, I could write essays on that.”
“Don’t,” you whisper.
“Too late. MLA format. Double spaced. Thesis: you’re gonna kill me.”
You roll your eyes, but you’re flushed. Breath shallow. Because now that the needle’s done…
He’s not moving. His hand stays on your waist. His eyes flick to your lips. Then back down. Then—
“You want me to touch you?”
The question lands like a live wire in the room. But he doesn’t push. Doesn’t smirk. He just waits. Like he’s offering something sacred. Like he’d back off the second you said no. But you don’t. You can’t.
You nod. Barely.
His fingers tighten on your skin. “Nah,” he murmurs. “Say it. I want to hear it.”
You swallow.
“…Yes.”
“Yes what, baby?”
Your brain short-circuits.
“Jisung—”
“Use your words, pretty thing. Or I’ll stop before I start.”
You suck in a breath, eyes locking with his. “I want you to touch me.”
He moves instantly.
The gloves are still on when he presses his palm flat against your hipbone, fingers spreading possessively. His hand feels huge there—like it was made for this exact spot.
“Fuck. Been thinking about this since the first time you came in,” he mutters, voice dropping into something rough, reverent. “You looked so fucking good in that chair. All nervous and squirmy.”
He bends down.
Kisses the edge of your new tattoo, so soft it almost hurts. “My name’s not even on you,” he whispers, “and I’m still acting like you’re mine.”
Your stomach flips. You whimper.
And he grins, but it’s different now—hungry, not cocky. “Take your pants off.”
You blink.
He meets your eyes. “Let me take care of you.”
You obey—slow, breathless, trembling under his gaze. You slide them down and toss them aside. He leans in again, eyes tracing over the new ink and everything below it, slow and starving.
You’re not wearing much underneath, lacy pink panties, with a very obvious wet spot on your center.
He groans softly. “You’re already wet.”
You gasp when his fingers brush over you, lazy, like he has all the time in the world. “All this from a little needle?” he teases. “Or is it the artist?”
“Fuck you,” you breathe.
He laughs. One low, wicked exhale. “Oh, you will. But not yet.”
He leans back, peels his gloves off slowly—dragging each finger loose one by one, like he’s unwrapping a gift. Tosses them into the bin without taking his eyes off you once.
Then he lowers himself between your legs.
Spreads your thighs just a little further apart with both hands. You hear him exhale.
“Fuck. This is gonna kill me.”
He doesn’t touch you yet. Just leans in.
And presses a kiss right above your knee. Then the inside of your thigh. Then a little higher. And a little higher.
Your breath hitches when his lips ghost just beside the fabric.
“Soaked through lace,” he murmurs. “That’s so fucking pretty, baby.”
You’re shaking now.
He mouths over the wet spot—not even pulling them down yet. Just letting the heat of his breath and the drag of his lips torture you. You feel the scrape of his lip ring as he kisses you again, open-mouthed, right there.
“Bet you’d cum just from this,” he whispers. “My mouth through your panties. Barely even trying.”
You whimper. One hand fisting the edge of the chair.
His fingers slide over the wet spot next, slow and teasing. Two fingers rub a lazy circle, barely pressing—just enough to make your hips twitch. “I should leave these on,” he says, almost to himself. “Just push them to the side. Make you beg for it.”
You breathe, “Jisung—please—”
That does it.
He hooks his fingers under the waistband and drags them down—slow, deliberate, watching every inch of you get exposed.
He groans loudly the second you’re bare. “Holy fuck.”
Then he’s leaning in again, this time nothing between you. He kisses your inner thigh first. Then lower.
Then—
His tongue drags one long, obscene stripe up your center. You cry out, hips bucking—he presses a hand to your stomach, holding you still with an effortless command:
“Stay fucking still.”
Then he goes back in. He licks you like he means it—messy, slow, then fast and deep. His tongue circles your clit with practiced chaos. He moans against you, loud, like you taste like something sacred.
“You taste like fucking heaven,” he groans, voice muffled.
His hands spread you wider, his tongue dipping into your heat, nose pressed right up against your skin.
Then he sucks. Hard.
Your head falls back—gone.
“That’s it,” he purrs. “My perfect little slut. Look at you.”
Your hands tangle in his hair. You tug. He groans again and ruts into the fucking air, desperate for friction while he eats you out like he’s starving.
“You gonna cum on my mouth?” he growls, voice wrecked. “You want me to keep going or make you beg for it?”
You try to answer—can’t.
He pulls back for just a moment, lips and chin shining. “Use your words, baby. You know the rules.”
“Please—fuck—don’t stop, please—Jisung—”
“God,” he groans. “Keep saying my name like that and I’m gonna cum in my fucking jeans.”
Then he dives back in, faster now, tongue fucking into you, hand moving to circle your clit with soaked fingers while he sucks and moans like you’re his last goddamn meal. He’s everywhere—his mouth, his hand, the filthy hum of his moans vibrating straight through your core. He doesn’t pause to tease, doesn’t stop to talk this time. He’s all action now. Starved. Feral.
“Fuck,” he growls between licks, the words hot and wet against your folds. “You taste so fucking good. Gonna make me lose my mind.”
His tongue pushes in again. He flicks it fast, then slow, then sucks at your clit with a deep, wet moan that makes you cry out, back arching clean off the chair.
“There you go,” he pants, not even breaking rhythm. “Just like that. Give it to me, baby. Come on.” His voice is breathless, desperate—like he’s the one about to cum.
You’re shaking. Legs trembling. It’s too much. It’s not enough.
Your hands are clutching his hair, holding him right where you need him, and he just groans louder, grinding his face deeper like he wants to live between your legs. His lip ring catches against your clit—again, and again—and your thighs clamp around his head instinctively.
He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even flinch.
He just moans into you, hands gripping your hips tighter, holding you down as your whole body starts to unravel. You feel it in your spine. In your toes. In the fucking air.
“You close, pretty thing?” he slurs against your clit. “Yeah, you are. You’re fucking dripping—making a mess for me. So fucking perfect. All mine.”
That breaks you.
You cum harder than you ever have in your life—with a sob, a gasp, a full-body spasm that crashes over you like a goddamn tsunami.
You hear yourself. You scream his name.
Jisung. Jisung. Jisung.
And he takes it.
He drinks it down like a man possessed, moaning into you like you’re water in the desert, like he’s been waiting his whole life to taste you fall apart. He doesn’t even stop when you cum—he licks you through it, tongue softening only slightly as your body twitches and bucks and pleads for mercy.
It’s too much. It’s so good it hurts.
“J-Jisung—fuck—wait—too much—”
Only then does he pull back, chest heaving, face absolutely wrecked. His mouth, his chin, even the tip of his nose glistens with you. He looks dazed.
Blessed.
He runs a hand down his face and just stares at you—spread out, soaked, shaking, glowing.
Then: “Holy fuck.”
You blink up at him, still gasping, brain static.
He grins—wide, flushed, proud as hell. “I knew it. I fucking knew it. Best pussy of my life.” You try to sass him. You really do. But all that comes out is a whimper.
“Aw,” he coos, leaning down to kiss your cheek. “Dumbed you out already?”
He brushes your hair back, kisses your forehead. “You okay?”
You nod. Barely.
“You want more?”
You nod. Desperately.
He chuckles, voice thick with affection and wrecked restraint. “Yeah, baby. Me too.” Then he stands up, undoing his belt with shaking hands, and murmurs: “Get comfy. ’Cause I’m gonna fuck you so good, you forget your own name.”
You’re still gasping. Still trembling. But your eyes follow the movement of his hands—shaking slightly as he undoes his belt, then the button, then the zipper.
He pushes his jeans down—
And your breath catches. You knew he’d be pretty. But not like this. Not this.
Thick. Flushed. Slight curve to the left.
And not just the look of it—the feel of it, even before he’s inside. You know instinctively it’s going to destroy you. That kind of snug fit that presses into all the right places and leaves no room for secrets.
He strokes himself once, slow and slick, precum already leaking from the tip. “Gonna be good for me, baby?” he asks, voice shaking as he fists his cock. “Let me feel that perfect pussy now?”
You nod. Dumb. Ready. So wet you feel it drip onto the chair beneath you.
He lines up—rubs the head of his cock over your folds, up and down, teasing your clit before circling your entrance. You’re still sensitive. Still twitching. And he feels it. “Still throbbing for me,” he murmurs. “God, you’re unreal.”
He pushes in. Slow. Deep. Too much. Too good.
You cry out—your body arching, your hands gripping the armrest and his forearm and anything you can reach.
Because he fits. Perfectly. Thick enough to make you stretch wide, gasp, feel it in your lungs. But not enough to hurt. No—just enough to ruin you.
“F-fuck,” he groans, head falling forward. “You’re squeezing me so tight—Jesus—don’t move yet, I’ll cum too fast—” He bottoms out, hips flush to yours. He stays there for a second. Still trembling. His cock twitches inside you.
“I’m gonna die,” he whispers. “I’m gonna die in this pussy.”
You laugh—a breathless, broken thing—and he grins like he’s proud.
Then? He pulls out halfway. And slams back in. Hard. And again. And again. Fast. Unhinged. Like he’s been waiting to do this for weeks. “Oh fuck, that’s it. That’s it, baby—keep takin’ it—so fucking perfect—”
He’s rambling now. Whimpering.
Each thrust hits so deep you swear you see stars. It’s a rhythm that shouldn’t exist, shouldn’t be real. Every stroke dragging against your g-spot, every snap of his hips making your thighs quake.
And he’s talking. So much.
“You feel that? Huh? You feel how good you make me?” “You’re all mine. This pussy? Fucking mine. Say it.” “Say it, baby, c’mon—tell me who it belongs to—”
You choke out, “You—it’s yours, Jisung—fuck, you’re so deep—”
He moans—wrecked. “God, I’m not gonna last—fuck—you’re too good—you’re too fucking good—” Then he bends down—mouth at your ear, hips still pounding into you like he’s trying to brand your soul.
“One more,” he whispers. “Just one more, yeah? Be my good girl and cum for me again—come on—cum on my cock—let me feel you—”
You barely get the chance to nod. Because then—he changes rhythm.
Not slower. Not gentler. Worse. He fucks you harder. Deeper. Like his body knows exactly how to hit every nerve inside you. Like he’s memorized your walls. And maybe he has. Maybe from the moment he first touched you in that chair, his entire brain rewired for this—for you.
“So fucking tight,” he pants, voice cracked open, almost panicked. “Shit—look at how you take me—look at that, fuck—”
He’s holding your waist again, but carefully—just above the fresh tattoo. His fingers dig into your ribs, grip locked in, not letting you squirm away as he slams into you, pace frantic, unrelenting.
“Can’t touch your hips,” he growls, “so I’m gonna hold you right here—just like this—until you fall apart again.”
Then his hand slides down. Finds your clit. And rubs. Fast. Tight.
You moan loud.
“Tell me what it feels like,” he pants, eyes locked on your face, wild. “Come on, baby—talk to me. You know the rules.”
You try. You try so hard.
“It’s—fuck—Jisung—it’s too much—I-I can’t—”
His hand doesn’t stop. His cock drives up into you like it’s chasing your orgasm, like he can feel it coming and he wants to drag it out of you with his bare hands. “Yes, you can. You’re my good girl, right? My perfect fucking baby—tell me what you feel.”
You sob. “It’s everywhere—it’s so deep—I feel you in my stomach, Jisung—”
That makes him moan—full, wrecked, helpless. “Yeah? That’s it, baby. You feel me stretching you out? You feel how hard you’re clenching around me?”
He’s unhinged. Fucking you like he needs to feel you cum on his cock. Like it’s his only goddamn mission in life.
“Don’t hold back. Let me have it. Show me how good I make you feel.” His fingers tighten, rub faster. His cock keeps slamming up into that perfect, perfect spot.
And you break.
You fall apart on him with a cry that splits the air—your orgasm ripping through you like a detonation, a white-hot snap that makes your whole body lock up and tremble.
You cum hard. Harder than before. Harder than ever.
And he feels it. Feels you clench around him like a vice, walls pulsing, soaked, squeezing every last bit of him until he’s gasping into your throat. “Fuck—fuck—I’m gonna—baby—I’m—”
He slams in once, twice more—then stills. Buried deep. Groaning so loud it echoes. And cums. Hot. Fast. Deep. He fills you up with a desperate, whimpering exhale—head falling into the crook of your neck, fingers flexing tight on your waist as he rides it out, hips twitching helplessly inside you.
“Jesus—holy fuck—how are you real—”
You don’t know what you say. You don’t know if you’re breathing. All you know is he doesn’t let go. Not even after. His arms wrap around you, one hand sliding up to your ribs, the other cupping your jaw gently as he leans in and kisses your forehead.
Sweet. Messy. Possessive.
“I’m so fucking in love with your pussy.” he mumbles against your skin.
You laugh—wrecked and breathless. “You just came in me.”
“I did. I’ll take responsibility.”
“You didn’t even mean to.”
“That’s what makes it romantic.”
But then he goes quiet. Both of you do. Still joined. Still pulsing. The only sound in the room is your breathing—shaky, shallow, shared.
Han’s body is draped over yours, his skin hot and sticky, his face buried in your neck like he might actually die if he moves. He’s not even thrusting anymore—just lying there, full-on koala mode, arms around your waist, cock still twitching inside you like it doesn’t know it's over.
“I think I saw God,” he whispers.
You blink, still boneless and floating.
“Pretty sure she winked at me and said ‘Good job, Jisung.’”
You snort into the crumpled pillow beneath you. “Was she hot?”
He lifts his head just enough to deadpan: “She looked like you.”
A pause.
“Except taller. And clothed. And not full of cum.”
You let out a noise that’s half wheeze, half scream, face flushing as you try to twist away—but he tightens his grip, groaning as his still half-hard cock shifts inside you.
“Nooo, don’t move,” he whines. “You’ll make me hard again and I’ll die. You’re too powerful.”
You roll your eyes. “You just came in me, and now you’re being dramatic?”
He lifts his face, eyes wide. “I’m always dramatic. But now I’m dramatic and post-nut mushy.”
You smack his arm—lightly. He grins and kisses your shoulder like he’s never been happier in his life.
Then, suddenly gentle: “You okay? Need anything?”
You hum. “Water. A towel. A new pelvis.”
“I can offer you one of those things.”
He pulls out slowly, careful. You both wince a little, and he immediately fumbles for the nearest clean towel, muttering, “Shit, sorry, sorry—damn, we really did that, huh?”
He cleans you up softly, thoroughly. Tongue poking out in concentration, hands warm and reverent. You watch him in the dim light—his flushed cheeks, mussed-up curls, that stupid satisfied look on his face like he just won the lottery and the trophy was you.
He helps you sit up, eyes wide looking you over as if wanting to make sure you are okay and not just saying you're okay.
You smile at him, dazed. “That was insane.”
“You’re welcome.”
Then, quieter: “I really like you, by the way.”
You glance at him. He’s suddenly shy—voice small, fingers playing with the hem of the towel. “I mean—I know this was hot and wild and unholy, but like. You’re not just hot and wild and unholy. You’re…” He scratches the back of his head. “Cool. Funny. Gorgeous. Smart. And you have great pain tolerance and taste in art and—I dunno—your moans live in my soul now.”
You blink at him. He shrugs. “I just think you’re neat.”
You laugh. You can’t help it. You lean in, kiss him soft. He melts instantly.
Twenty minutes later, you’re both curled on the couch in the back lounge. Your legs are over his lap. You’re sipping water. He’s holding your hand and doodling hearts on your thigh with a sharpie.
“So,” he says, yawning. “When do you want your third tattoo?”
You give him a look. “Planning ahead?”
He smirks, smug. “Just making sure I get to fuck you again.”
You flick his forehead.
“Ow—okay, okay. For art. Not for horny.”
But you both know the truth. You’re absolutely getting another tattoo. And this man is going to absolutely ruin you again. With love. And dick. And filthy words. And then cuddle you like a little spoon with separation anxiety.
So the answer? Yeah. Yeah you will be seeing more of him. More dates. More dick. More tattoos. Guess it's fate.
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