#doing it himself with a sterilised needle

[rewrittenwrongs]

Suddenly struck with a vision of Roy helping Tim get his ear pierced… vigilantes with piercings my beloved…

Something something Tim witnesses Roy’s attempted suicide via killer croc something something emotional adoption Tim with a bow

[lolitastrn]

chris x self piercer!gf

𐙚 c. sturniolo x fem reader

synopsis : you give yourself an eyebrow piercing and chris is obsessed

warnings : mentions of needles / blood, fluff, no use of y/n, very rushed

a/n : was listening to this song whilst i wrote this

‘ if only i could pay the bills with my love for you we’d be the richest is the fuckin room ’

Chris watches in awe as you focus deeply on the positioning of the marker as it gently dots your skin, setting a blue speck just above your eyebrow. You lean away from the mirror, closing your mouth as you analyse the spot, before deciding it’s good and going in to make the second mark just below your eyebrow.

You invited the triplets to your house for a sleepover, since your parents are out of town for some business thing. They left your older sister in charge of you but tonight she’s over at her boyfriend’s house. Of course the triplets agreed to come, they always do. And although you initially just invited Chris, neither of you minded that Nick overheard the conversation and invited himself and Matt. The pair of you have gotten used to it by now; Chris’s brothers often inviting themselves to what’s supposed to be one on one time between you and Chris. It’s happened since you and the youngest triplet started dating, and it’ll probably happen until one of you says something about it, but for now you don’t mind.

You’ve been thinking about piercing your eyebrow for a while now, but were apprehensive because there’s a high rejection and migration rate that comes with eyebrow piercings. After talking it over with Chris however, he had managed to convince you to do it. So, you brought a piercing kit off amazon and after sterilising all the needles you were ready to go.

Piercing yourself isn’t new; every piercing you have has been done by yourself. You’ve never done any of them alone though, always needing someone there even if they aren’t doing anything. Which is part of the reason why you invited Chris over tonight you also just wanted to spend time with your boyfriend. Chris has been there for many of your piercings, so you’d think he’d be used to seeing you do this, right?

Wrong. Every time you tell Chris you’re thinking of getting a new piercing he can’t help but encourage you. He just loves the whole process of it; getting to watch you pierce yourself, then seeing you with it. Every time you add new silver embellishments to your body he swears you get hotter (which he didn’t think was possible).

His eyes don’t leave you as you secure the clamp around the blue dots you previously made. You then take a sterilised needle and gently but quickly poke it through the centre of the clamp and into your skin. After removing the clamp you take a curved piece of jewellery and carefully thread it through the hole you just made. Screwing the ball on, you lean back from the mirror and smile as you admire the new ornaments that adorn your face.

Turning to face your boyfriend you immediately notice the love-struck look on his face. His blown out pupils telling you everything you need to know. “Can I have an alcohol wipe please baby,” you ask him, noticing he’s sitting right next to where you put them. “Mhm,” he hums, seemingly incapable of trusting his voice, as he passes you an unopened alcohol wipe. You tear the square open using your teeth and Chris’s breath lightly hitches as a light red hue takes over his face, his mind obviously going to dirtier places. You giggle slightly at his reaction and carefully dap at the piercing, using the wipe to clean up any blood and also to disinfect it.

“You done?” Nick asks from your bed behind where you and Chris sit. He didn’t want to see you piercing yourself, claiming ‘it’s too gross’ despite having multiple piercings himself. “Yep,” you smile, turning to proudly show off your new addition to Nick and Matt. “Oh my god that’s so cool,” Nick comments as he comes closer to you, getting a better look. “How long’s it gonna take to heal?” Matt questions, also coming closer to get a better look. “‘Bout two to three months,” you tell him as the two boys back away from looking.

“You like it, C?” you turn to your boyfriend. ‘C’ being somewhat of a nickname you developed for Chris before the two of you started dating. “Mhm, looks really good on you doll,” he nods, eyes examining your proud expression. You give him a gentle peck on his cheek as a thank you, but as you pull away you notice a glint of longing in his eyes. With a playful roll of your eyes you plant another kiss on his lips, rather than his cheek. “Gross,” Nick comments, eyes diverting back to his phone. “Can we please play Mario Kart now?” Matt asks, he’s been begging for the past hour. “Yes Matt, we can play Mario Kart now,” you roll your eyes, smirking as you get up from where you sat at your vanity. The triplets follow you into the living room where the Wii is already set up.

Sitting on the couch, Nick and Matt follow you which leaves no space for Chris. “C’mon, I’ll sit on your lap,” you offer, noticing his slight shift in mood. Immediately after you suggest that, Chris brightens back up again, sitting where you once were and pulling you down onto him. “Can we be a team?” he asks from behind you and who would you be to deny such an offer. “‘Course we can bub, only if we can be King Boo,” you tell him and with a playful groan he agrees.

You all finish the three laps, you and Chris coming first, obviously, Nick coming second and Matt coming close third. “That’s why we’re the dream team,” Chris smiles, high-fiveing you which made you laugh. “Okay, who wants pizza,” you ask rhetorically, looking at the three boys behind you. “Who doesn’t want pizza,” Nick speaks sarcastically. Just as you’re about to reply you feel Chris’s soft lips against the skin of your cheek, making you turn towards him. Giving him an inquisitive look, he just shrugs in response before kissing you on the lips. “You look so hot with that ma,” he tells you, referring to your new piercing. “Thank you, Chris,” you smile before placing one last kiss on his lips.

a/n 2 : lowk don’t fw the ending but whatevs

[pumpkinsy0]

Hcs about Curly giving Pony ear piercings with just a needle, ice and probably a lemon to sterilise in secret

ik that bathroom in the curtis house echos LMAOOO

•yknow, i think theyre stupid but not SO stupid to donit w the gang over

•curlys pierced multiple ppls ears before, hell he’s even done it to himself, pony questions him and hes like “ive seen ppl do it before, no worries!!” and pony worried in that exact moment

•i remember when i got my belly button pierced i also got the second piercing in my ears too, and i dint think they were rlly supposed to do that, but yknow what??? i think pony wouldve had to talk curly out of giving him another piercing some place else

•say what u want but curlys TERRIFIC at helping to hide piercings, hes had to do it himself!!! so ponys in, alright hands

•”this wont hurt so much but bite the towel just in case” and it hurt so much actually, curlys a fucking liar, to b fair pony was a lil jittery so that probably didnt help anything

•curly seems like a lemon guy honestly, he probably ate the other half of the lemon, so god forbid that little ass lemon he DID have for pony aint work n he needed another, ponys just gonna have to sit on the bathtub in pain for a lil longer😭

•its either pony got that other ear pierced or he was NOT fucking w the pain and just left it to that one ear, MAYBE got the other one pierced later

•there is a chance that if pony let curly pierce both ears ts would lowkey b crooked

•pony was so worried it was gonna get infected he just asking curly to check up on it and curly thought pony was being dramatic, but hes a lil dickhead, sometimes he’ll act like somethings wrong w it even tho nothing is

•curly is def hitting on pony for how much better he looks w the piercing and pony wants to strangle him but hey, it is a lil flattering to hear

•listen,,,,listen,,,,what if pony had his moms earing,,,

[wolverineheight]

batman body piercing au that i wrote with @quanxisgirlfriend in the pub under the cut

Shops

Bruce’s shop

Bruce: the only APP studio in Gotham, goes to the conference every year. Set his shit up with his parents’ money so doesn’t actually need to worry about bringing in profit, apprenticed under Ra’s

Favourite piercing: Antitragus

Dick: Bruce’s first apprentice, left to open his own studiowork in Bludhaven but still guest spots

Favourite piercing: Antinavel

Jason: Has had so many fucking needle sticks that Bruce tried to get him to quit. Ends up setting up his own studio down the road and sets his prices marginally lower to snipe Bruce’s clients

Favourite piercing: Snug, microdermal

Tim: Really good but so annoying. Tells clients about bevel theory as he’s piercing. They do not care

Favourite piercing: Rhino

Damien: Refuses to do any piercing that isn’t artsy fartsy (reasonable), LOVES unique anatomy piercings, terrible bedside manner but really skilled. Bruce can’t put him on reception because he’ll turn people down if he doesn’t like them.

Favourite piercing: Septril

Steph: Fantastic piercer and really picky about clients. Really loves to perform surface piercings. Has a list of people she’s kicked out of the studio for having “bad vibes” (she’s always right about this). Gossips at the desk of the Rogue shop sometimes and loves to visit Babs. Babs’s pincushion when she’s learning.

Favourite piercing: Sternum

Cas: Ear only, does elaborate ear maps that take years to get through, has a very loyal clientele and rarely takes on new clients because she’s so booked out. Anatometal ONLY. Orders in custom jewellery

Favourite piercing: ROOK!!!

Duke: So anxious. Starts off working reception and takes a while to work up not because he’s not skilled but because he constantly second guesses himself

Favourite piercing: Forward helix

Carrie: Is good and wants to hop ship to Ivy’s studio because she’s sick of the men she interacts with daily.

Favourite piercing: Eyebrow or single side lip.

Joker shop

Joker: Does navels standing up. Drops the needle on the ground when he’s done. Saw trap ass sharps bin, only closes it when it’s full to the brim. Externally threaded steel jewellery is all he buys. He charges $50 for a pair of lobes. Doesn’t own an autoclave, thinks alcohol is fine. Tells clients to use undiluted tea tree only. Keeps the same gloves for the entire process.

Favourite piercing: Lobes bc he uses a gun

Harley: did a psychology undergrad but didn’t finish, got with the joker and agreed to apprentice under him instead, he drove her literally insane. She hated it so much she just thought the job would not be for her but then couldn’t go back to college so agreed to work with ivy.

Favourite piercing: Rims because she can get them done in 3 minutes or less.

One hundred million revolving apprentices that end up leaving due to poor work ethic.

Rogue shop

Riddler: Not APP qualified because he sees himself as better than them. Skilled but does NOT take criticism. Tells people riddles to take their minds off the piercings which works weirdly well. Does not do oral piercings bc of saliva. Doesn’t let anyone else near the autoclave.

Favourite piercing: Stacked lobe

Scarecrow: Obsessed with history and relationship with queer culture, likes the fear element (weirdo)

Favourite piercing: Nasallang

Croc: bad at it. Left Joker’s studio and lied on his CV. Floundering constantly but refuses to admit or ask for help.

Favourite piercing: Nose

Penguin: Leaves for a cig break every ten minutes. Not allowed to sterilise jewellery because he’ll smoke while he does.

Favourite piercing: Septum

Ivy’s shop

Ivy: spiritual/cultural piercings, has incense on constantly, does scarification too, studio is too new to be certified but works to APP standard. Thinks Bruce is too up himself and won’t collaborate with him on anything, doesn’t let men pierce in her studio and lets the others pierce male clients.

Favourite piercing: Septum

Harley (post-joker): learns to love the job again due to wlw tendencies and having a safe environment, great with kids and specialises in kids lobes. Gains huge clientele by having sessions where she listens to your issues and pierces you therapeutically.

Favourite piercing: Lobe

Babs: Was offered a place in Bruce’s studio but turned it down to work here. Very skilled, likes to pierce daiths and industrials.

Favourite piercing: Dahlia

Characters

Harvey: health inspector and bad at it. Sometimes very thorough and others lets things slide, somehow always lets things slide for the Joker

Ra’s: taught Bruce but refuses to be APP certified which is their main conflict

Tommy Elliot: works at a beauticians and thinks using guns makes him a piercer. Has filler. Favourite piercing: Rim but he does them with guns

Bane: works at Claires :)

Eddie: Too afraid of rejection for any surface piercings, obsessive about healing, sleeps on his back but wakes up all over the place and stresses about things shifting when he wakes up on his ear, everything in pairs. Piercings: Symmetrical, paired brows, paired nostrils, 6x rims with rings per side, fwd helixes both sides, tragus both sides, flat each side with question mark labs, venom

Jonathan: Weird about it all, experimental. Piercings: Antinavel (doesn’t have the anatomy for traditional), three lobes on one side, tongue, double conch (low and high, both 1.6), single vertical helix that he wears a plain titanium barbell in. all his jewellery is plain titanium, bcrs if rings but he prefers labs or curved bars for everything but his lobes.

Harley: Piercings: angel fangs w/ one black one red ball, tongue that’s wonky because she didn’t have the proper anatomy so it’s angled, smiley, double lobe and paired stacks, can’t heal cartilage for shit but has a conch and 3 rims anyway, isn’t allowed a rook even though she wants one, paired eyebrows with cones, septum (full hinged, maybe with a mandala design). all are titanium with ONLY acrylic balls and cones for the colours :). 18cm stretched lobes w/ either opal tunnels or hangers

Joker: Piercings: fucking snake eyes AND frog eyes. Snakebites with barbells instead of labrets, his teeth are FUCKED. Wonky as fuck navel, hand webs, wrist dermals, pierced his own tongue traditionally initially and didn’t have the anatomy so pierced straight through a vein but refused to take it out or go to hospital so nearly went septic. All slime green glow in the dark acrylic and cheap “bioflex” bars

Ivy: Piercings: none but visible patterned scarification on her arms and back

[dryadalismagicae]

Watchful, gentle, practiced and precise - Lyrian can seldom ever afford to be otherwise; cuts and slices unto skin may have appeared less dire than those actively bleeding out but they could be just as dangerous in the long run, when infections take a hold and seep into ones blood. Every wound needed to be treated properly - and such treatment was precisely what he was offering then and there, as he did with any other.

Her shifting, however, pauses his motions and removes his pure concentration - from palm to face, he changes where his gaze settles in silence, the very fixation of his emerald hues enough to query why, he hopes. Lips part to speak, but he finds himself needlessly doing so, for the question written before him 'pon the table suggests more than enough.

A curious ability, he thinks, but makes note to ask of it after the obvious is tended.

"I can promise you that it is not you making me uneasy." Lyrian utters, attempting to offer a reassuring smile as he continues his work cleaning the wound ere a slim needle and equally so thread is bought out from his bag; "I am exhausted, is all. Sleep nor rest is seldom found and the discomfort of the camp grows beneath my skin more each day. They needs move on, find elsewhere to fend for themselves - here, they are simply a target. We all are--- It does naught to help with that possibility constantly in the back of ones mind."

"My apologies... if I made you feel as if it was you." He pauses long enough to rub at his eyes ere sterilising the needle 'pon a situated candle flame nearby; "... my bedside manner is lacking when so tired."

Fingers, deft and skilled, began the tiniest of stitches throughout the laceration before him and just as quickly as he had begun, did he finish; dressing the wound with an antibacterial salve ere wrapping it in clean bandages.

"There-- now are there any more I ought know about?"

PALOMA TWISTS IN HIS GRIP LIKE A BUTTERFLY TRAPPED IN A COCOON, then stills. Her eyes are wide and watchful, and her lips are compressed into a thin line to keep the pain from seeping out. She’s lucky this refugee camp is kind, if suspicious. She doesn’t blame them. Sheep always get nervous when lambs with wolf-jaws slip into their midst. She’s also lucky their healer is good. Practiced. Paloma isn’t familiar with his craft, but she’s been watching him like a hawk. She notices things, especially in dreams. Here is what’s stood out to her so far.

First: his touch. Soft, even when it’s firm. Like it can read her mind, the way it eases when her mouth creases in pain. He’s experienced.

Second, and this one is important: he has not slipped a single poison into any of the herbs he gives her. This pleases and confuses her, because she feels his stress. It hangs in the air like the smell of soil after rain. She wonders about the cause. Her race? Status? Her profession? Crow, rich-blood, human, something else?

Her talents?

One way to find out. Slowly, purposefully, she pulls her damaged hand from his grasp, dips her fingers into the cut in her palm, and writes a red-raw question on the wood of the table between them.

WHY DO I MAKE YOU UNEASY?

Her gaze locks on his. She blinks, once, then closes her eyes, turns away, and offers him her injuries. Maybe he will feel better if she guts her senses in submission.

[tteokdoroki]

𑊡˚+₊🍼✦ — sentimental sewing + katsuki bakugou.

૮ ͈>◡< ͈ა warnings — fluff, sfw, gn!reader and another domestic katsuki thought for you, he’s good at sewing hehe <3!

being an only child meant that bakugou picked up a lot of random little habits and hobbies to fill up his time — especially when he felt alone. the kids at school weren’t really his friends, they only liked him for his quirk, that he was strong, talented. in truth, katsuki preferred his loneliness compared to faux company of others.

instead of playing out in the sunshine, katsuki would sit by his mother’s feet when she worked from home— piecing together and designing gowns or three piece suits or ambiguous tricks to be worn by famous pro heroes to galas and charity events— sometimes, just because they wanted something nice to wear. mitsuki was a highly sought after designer and seamstress, and katsuki picked up on a lot of her skills just from watching— observing, strategising.

“do you want to try, katsuki?” the elder bakugou had asked him one evening, her hand in his soft blonde hair as she’d passed him his own set of needles and a patch of spare fabric for him to work on. he was much too young to help her with a commissioned gown. “watch yer ma carefully, okay, my love? then you can try again on your own.”

no one would have ever guessed that katsuki bakugou was good at sewing or stitching.

over the years he would patch up his own hero costume after training or a gnarly run in with villains— katsuki was sentimental, he blew up a lot of his own shit but his hero costume was somewhat important to him. he didn’t want it to be replaced. he’d used those skills to stitch himself up when first aid was too hard to get to on covert missions— nothing but a leather belt between his pointed teeth and a needle sterilised with alcohol. mitsuki’s skills had saved his life a few times, he’d be forever grateful to the hag for all of that.

being able to use a needle and thread meant saving money on gifts— or at least that’s what katsuki called it. he’d spend ages embroidering little handkerchiefs or sewing patches onto items he knew his newer and better friends from UA would cherish. they all knew about the blonde’s secret talent, holding back their squeals as they squished him between them all whenever he mumbled.

“i didn’t make it, s’just a stupid customised gift. now get off’a me b’fore i blow your head off!”

but deep down inside, bakugou was pleased to know he could make something of sentimental value for the people he loved— even if it was small, it was thoughtful. he liked that.

“katsuki,” you warble, eyes brimming with tears when you come to bed one night— weakly holding up a scarf he’d gotten you to soothe the chill after one of your first and earlier dates. “‘m sorry!”

you and bakugou had been together for years, finding yourself falling fast and hard after he wound up in your care at the hospital— on the one time his handy little stitches had gotten a wound infected. “whas the matter with you, sweetheart?” he grunts, taking off his glasses and throwing his night time read aside. “you cryin’?”

“n-no…um, yeah? it’s kinda stupid? i wore the scarf you gave me today and i got caught on a stupid tree branch walking home and—?” you hiccup, seconds away from breaking down as you hold the piece of fabric out to your boyfriend. “there’s a hole in it? i swear i didn’t mean for it to happen— i just tried tugging it free and it ripped and—“ sniffling, a pathetic pout sits on your lips. “you got this for me ‘nd i’ve ruined it, i’m sorry kats.”

sentimental. you’re sentimental over a cheap and shitty scarf that bakugou had gotten you on a whim— so that he had an excuse to spend more time with you after your initial date had ended all those years ago. “give it here, I’ll fix it.” he grunts, hiding the flush on his cheeks before he takes the scarf from you and pokes a finger through the hole. “stop cryin’ and grab the sewing kit ma left in the study.”

nodding your head furiously, you do as you’re told with a watery smile and perch yourself on the edge of the bed next to your brooding boyfriend while he patches up your silly scarf with some old fabric and a few stitches. “i didn’t know you could sew, kats.” you breathe happily, clutching the material to your chest after inspecting the cute little embroidered heart katsuki had done all nicely for you. “it’s perfect, thank you.”

“all i did was patch it up sweetheart,” bakugou coos, leaning over your shoulder to brush a half hearted and sleepy kiss over your cheek. “ma taught me, s’how i fixed myself up all botched ‘n badly ‘n ended up in your emergency room, don’t you remember?” he loves the way you squeeze him closer, having sniffed your scarf and realised that it smells like your favourite thing. your favourite person. him.

you’re sentimental, not just with materialistic things, but with your partner. your lover, everything about him is cherished by you.

“i just thought you’d been an idiot, didn’t know you were this talented katsuki,” you say wistfully, allowing the blonde to pull you back into his arms.

[portalhan]

ᖭི༏ᖫྀ STING!

pairing: piercer!bang chan x gn!reader

format: one shot

warnings: obviously needles, piercings, body mods…. also very shameless flirting ^__^

word count: 1.3k

fae’s notes: no this isn’t based on my own piercings 😳 also this is reposted because tumblr fucked with it the last time and didn't put this on any of the tags despite editing it so many times skjfdj hopefully it works this time

(∗˃̶ ᵕ ˂̶∗) portalhan's masterlist

“are you sure about this?”

you were sat on a black leather bar stool in a tiny, makeshift booth, shielded from the rest of the piercing studio by black curtains. your regular piercer, bang chan, walked back and forth around his work station just in front of you, going back and forth between the steriliser machine and his gigantic tool box of needles and clamps of varying sizes. he had asked you this same question for the third time now, but impressively never once interrupting the ostensible ease with which he flitted around his station as he prepared himself for the procedure.

you gulped as you watched the way he furrowed his brows, his gloved fingers carefully grazing the rows of needles he had out. “you had a good think about this right? i mean, i only just saw you two weeks ago for your brow piercing – looking good by the way. but as much as i want to, i really shouldn’t be seeing you this often,” chan chuckled, as he finally chose and picked one particular needle up, bringing it up to eye level and analysing its width to double check.

“so you do want to see me often?” you certainly did a remarkable job at masking your nervousness with a confident, flirty quip, smirking as he spun his head around, eyes wide like a deer caught in headlights.

“you are my most regular customer,” he pointed out after gathering himself, chucking the needle into the steriliser before he shuffled to the other end of the concealed studio to fish around for suitably sized jewelry. “but at this point, i do feel an obligation to let you know that there are in fact many other ways to hang out with me aside from getting a new piercing once every two to three weeks.” chan sauntered back over to where you were seated, a sterling silver barbell tightly clutched between his thumb and index finger. he interrupted his conversation to go back to the specifics of your piercing.

“let’s go with this one? to match the others,” he suggested. you nodded and hummed back in approval. he chucked that in the steriliser too, and sat himself down on the bar stool across from you. he slid his black latex gloves off his hands and set them aside before turning his attention back to you. “i know i’ve asked you this like, a million times, but are you sure? just because i know vertical labrets tend to scar the bottom of your lip if you ever choose to take yours out,” he stared at you with a visible expression of slight concern painted across his face.

“i’m 100% sure, don’t worry,” you assured him with a crooked smile plastered on your face. “plus, i don’t know if you of all people should be warning me about the afternath of body mods.” you gestured towards his earlobes, both of which had a gaping holes punched in them from past stretching, now left empty with no accompanying jewelry. chan shrugged in defeat. “touché,” the man acknowledged. “just cautioning you from experience.”

“can’t blame you. i still don’t understand why you decided to take those out. i imagine you looked good with gauged ears.”

chan immediately pouted. “why? you don’t think i look good now?”

“no! of course you do,” you whined in protest, pouting back. but then your voice fell into a softer hush, muttering under your breath as though it was a little remark meant for just yourself. but perhaps some part of you wanted chan to hear it too. “you’d look good with anything.” he did hear it – but found himself way too flustered to respond.

chan shook his head ever so slightly, as if jolting himself back to the present. “c'mon, let’s get that lip pierced.” his palms clamped against his thighs – clad in a tight pair of leather pants you immediately took notice of the moment you walked into the studio – as he pushed himself off his seat to grab his gloves with a slight grunt.

the routine that followed was one you’ve already accustomed yourself with. chan took the clamp, needle and barbell out from the machine and walked back to you, eyeing your bottom lip (maybe even admiring) as his thumb gently sideswiped the area, squinting as he scanned the general area for where to pierce. you felt a chill run down your spine – you enjoyed that sensation more than you’d ever admit to his face.

chan turned towards his tray of tools and grabbed his spray bottle of ethanol, and softly warned you to seal your lips shut before spritzing your lip with the solution. he closed the space between you even further, face only two or three inches from yours as his other hand held your chin to tilt it up towards him. you could feel his breath against your face, and a lump formed in your throat. you gulped once more; you never took this into account when you decided to get your lip done, but you couldn’t help but feel giddy about this added bonus.

“you know the drill, but this is going to hurt,” chan’s voice fell even lower into something only slightly above a whisper. his eyes flitted back and forth between your eyes and lips as his hand pulled away from your chin to grab the clamp. he very gently pulled your bottom lip out – which he couldn’t help but notice was very soft to the touch – and clamped the flesh tight. you instinctively, quietly hissed, but it wasn’t anything you didn’t already expect. he muttered a quick apology and swiftly reached for the needle.

“take a deep breath,” he murmured against your face, as the needle inched closer and closer towards your lips. you shut your eyes tight, grimacing and already bracing yourself in anticipation of the pain.

“squeeze my arm again if you’d like,” he suggested. it’s something you’ve always done to help alleviate the sensation – chan actually suggested it when you first met him. it’s become a habit since. you immediately reach for his arm and held onto it tight, making sure not to jerk it too much in case it might mess up the piercing.

very shortly after, you felt the familiar prick of the needle piercing through your lip as chan whispered affirmations into your ear – no matter how many times you’ve gotten your piercings from him, he knew you still struggled with the momentary sting. “you’re doing so good,” he repeated gingerly. you grit your teeth from the impact of chan inserting the barbell into the fresh wound. the pain only heightened as he quickly screwed the end tight, slightly tugging at your lip in the process. “you’re doing great.”

he let go, and then you felt your bottom lip throbbing and swelling around where the new jewelry was placed as you reluctantly opened your eyes to a grinning chan, who beamed with a sense of pride as he cleaned up. “see? all done already,” he chirped. “it looks amazing. as always.”

you hopped off the stool and shuffled over to the mirror to admire the new labret piercing. he was right. “thank you chan, you always do wonders,” you proclaimed cheerily, turning your head in all angles to admire the new addition to your growing collection. chan waved the compliment off, before shyly telling you: “the canvas has as much to do with it as the art itself.”

you turned back to give him a playful shove to the shoulder. “i’m serious though, let’s put a pause on the piercings for now,” chan nagged after a brief pause. he folded his arms against his chest and playfully scowled right at you.

“how else am i gonna see you then?”

“you wanna hang out with me that much, huh?” chan smirked. it only grew when he noticed how red your cheeks got following his snide comment, meant as a jab back at your own just 10 minutes ago. “don’t worry, we’ll find a way. promise."

you emerged from behind the curtains of his private corner of the studio, piece of paper clutched between your fingers with a little message hastily scribbled on the surface.

here’s my number. i wanna see you soon. let’s go out for dinner sometime. just you and me.

[i-cant-sing]

Yo if overhaul had the sister reader- do you think reader would be the type to never admit that they're sick/avoid going to the doctor's?- like since they were on their own they avoided it because they couldnt afford it, but then it sorta developed into a phobia... but like what i'm imagining is:

Kai and hari: y/n you look like death, you're going to the doctor's right now

Y/n: *sniffling under 5 heavy winter blankets even though it's the middle of summer* ... i'm fine i just need a nap... this is nothing

And when they get fed up with this back and forth they get Nemoto to use his quirk so she actually admits she's sick

Kai is so annoyed- no, he's so mad at you. Why would you even try to hide your sickness from him? He doesn't understand why you would fear going to the doctor, thinks your little phobia is so stupid.

Until he sees how you react to getting a flu shot for the first time.

You're thrashing about, hitting anyone that would try to pull you towards the doctor, even knocking the needle out of the doctor's hand. Kai told you to calm down, using that grave tone that he only used with you when you were in trouble, but you were inconsolable. Hell, you didn't even listen to Hari's calming voice this time either. Kai felt so embarrased because of you- you had created a ruckus inside the clinic, made a scene.

But when his men finally got ahold of your arms and you began hyperventilating, begging Kai to not let them inject you, crying so hard that you couldn't breathe, that's when Kai realised that something was really wrong with you. He stood still as he watched you pass out in Hari's arms, who was busy yelling at the doctor.

It was a panic attack. You... had a panic attack... because of a needle?

No, there was something deeper than that.

Kai investigated. He had to, and when he found out about what you'd experienced in the past, about how you'd been trafficked across the country, watched the traffickers and a doctor remove the organs of another kid that was taken with you, almost had your organs removed and only managed to escape because there was a shootout between the traffickers and a rival gang.

Kai is sympathetic- he really is, understands how the mere sight of a needle brought back the traumatising memories. So, he doesn't force you to be pricked and injected with sedatives when he thinks you're being rebellious. However, since you refuse to get your flu shots, you're more susceptible to the viral infections and that means big brother Kai has to now take care of you himself, even if his skin crawls at the thought of catching one of the germs, he'll risk it. For you.

This means that Kai is now wrestling you into the bed, covering you with blankets, replacing the heating and cooling pads, shoving the pills down your throat and the food, only resting when you're falling asleep as he reads to you.

But sometimes, you do need the needles. Its your own fault really. If you'd just stayed in your room and behaved like he had told you to instead of trying to escape, scraping your knee against the asphalt. You needed a tetanus shot, and while Kai empathises with you, you're his younger sister who doesn't know whats good for her. He'll have no regrets as he makes Hari use his quirk on you, freezing you in your place, paying no mind to the tears, the pleading look, the pitiful whimpers begging for mercy as he injects you with the vaccine.

Kai will carry you to the sterilised clinic room he had in the base, rocking you in his arms when you make sounds of distress because of how much you hate the room. He'll lay you down on the examination table, lecturing you very softly as he cleans up your wounds and bandages them.

And when you're finally asleep, Kai will look at you with a heavy heart, knowing that you wouldn't be like this if only he hadn't abandoned you that day.

He'll never let go of you again. Ever.

[iztarshi]

Febuwhump - Immortality

Fandom: Rise of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles/Girl Genius

Note: Turtles as Jägers

You sit on the pavement outside the Castle. There’s an awful lot of Jägers doing the exact same thing, bodies loose and exaggeratedly casual, games of cards being played on the pavement with the usual cheerful arguing reduced to a mutter. No one becomes a Jäger without riding with them first, which means everyone here has someone they know inside. Someone who might become a brother. Or they might not. You know the odds as well as any of them and the fact that the odds can be just as bad in battle doesn’t help at all. In battle you could do something, throw your body between Mikey and the enemy even if he yelled at you afterwards.

”Raph, you can’t fight my battles for me! Just because I’m human doesn’t mean I’m useless.”

“Hy know dot, little man. Big man. But Hy em bigger und hyu is hundreds ov years younger.”

“Yeah, but I’m good at this. I’ve got the skills. I’ve got the flamethrower.” Mikey, not yet five feet, glares and you, going on for seven feet and covered in scales, cower back.

Leo laughs. “He’s got de intimidation factor too.”

Leo is lying on his back, hat over his eyes. He’d look relaxed if he wasn’t chewing his claws so hard he’s broken one. He’s not even complaining about his pretty scarlet claws being ruined and demanding glue.

You pull Leo’s claws away from his mouth and he pushes his hat back to glare. For a moment you think there’s going to be a fight. You’d almost welcome a way to release the tension except it’s the wrong moment, the wrong mood. All around you are other Jägers, also not fighting. Leo rolls onto his front instead and rests his chin on your thigh.

”Dot line needs to be higher,” Leo says.

“Shot op und stop micro-managing,” Donnie growls, painting a little higher with the ink. “Hy haff done this before.”

“Hyu vouldn’t know it,” Leo says.

“I think it looks fine,” Mikey says, smiling. The outline of a Jägersymbol is on his skin, just in ordinary ink right now but it’s ready to be tattooed.

Donnie picks up the needle and you say, “Did hyu clean it proper? Mikey iz human.”

“Hy sterilised it, yez,” Donnie says, rolling his eyes.

You watch as he pokes the needle again and again into Mikey’s skin. Mikey smiles and smiles through the process.

“Now hyu will be a brother forever,” Leo says. “Effen if hyu leave, get married, buy a house…”

That and not the pain makes Mikey scowl. “I’m not leaving.”

You fold a hand over his shoulder, careful of your claws. “But hyu’d still be our brother if hyu did. Hyu don’t need to do anyting to make dot true. Hyu ken liff hyu own life.”

“This is my own life,” Mikey says, firmly.

Donnie is scribbling something in a book. A quick peek over his shoulder reveals probability calculations, done over and over again. The answer always comes out to about one-in-ten.

You put an arm around his shoulder and pull him against your side, he leans into it with a grumble but the pencil keeps going. On the other side of you, Leo peeks up at him, before looking away again to lose himself in his own thoughts.

”He asked me!” Mikey shouts. “Master Saturnus asked me! I’m gonna be a Jäger!”

You freeze, all three of you freeze, and you should congratulate him. You understand the honour that has been done to him. You remember. Even if you had died then you would have died a Jäger, you would have died for the Master. But this is Mikey, little Mikey, who loots artworks instead of gold.

“There’s a moch higher chance hyu vill simply die,” Donnie blurts out. “Nine in ten pipple dun survive the Jägerdraught.”

“Not how I vould haff said it, but Donnie’s got a point,” Leo says. “Hy mean, congratulations and everyting, but are you really sure?”

“Of course I’m sure,” Mikey says. “You know how much I’ve wanted this. I’m gonna be like you guys.”

“Mikey,” you say. “Vot if hyu die?”

“I’m going to die anyway,” Mikey says. “Way before you do. Even if I live to be old you guys will still keep going after I’m gone and you’ll forget me the way you forget everyone who rides with you.”

“Not hyu,” Leo says, finding the words for all of you. “Ve could no more forget hyu than ve could a Heterodyne.”

Mikey reaches out and squeezes Leo’s arms. “You’re not going to forget me because I’m not going to die. I’m going to live forever and set the world on fire and I’m going to do it with you.”

When one of his hands lets go of Leo and reaches for you you wrap an arm around them both and pull Donnie in with the other.

The Doom Bell rings and the square goes from quiet to utter silence. Master Saturnus enters first, hair wild and stride loose with exhaustion, but still radiating energy and satisfaction.

Behind him come the survivors. Still mostly human looking, but stumbling with rearranged muscles under their skin. Grinning with still blunt teeth but grins sharp with something new.

Mikey stands among them.

You don’t know who moves first. Whether it was Leo, rolling from lying against you to standing in one swift movement. Whether it was Donnie, forgetting his notebook as he runs. Whether it was you, running, running, as the crowd around you surges forward in the same motion.

The three of you hit Mikey together and he goes down beneath you. He’s laughing, poking you between the ribs with newly-minted claws. He smells of sweat and pain and pack, the Dyne singing in his blood.

“I told you,” he says, wild and joyful. Then he laughs and says with mischief in his eyes. “Hy told hyu. Hy told hyu all.”

[matt-erialgirl]

B 13???? I'm ready for paaaaaaaain

Hellooooo bby!! I’ve finally finished it

I’d already done B-13 so I wrote you B-14 and made it extra sad 💔

I’m sorry in advance❤️‍🩹

I cried writing it kddkkdksks and also sorry i havent proof read it because im exhausted - hopefully no typos!

B-14: “why can’t you just be honest with me?”

You knew it was never a stumble down a flight of stairs or a trip over a rug or a slam into a door. You knew his cuts and bruises were the result of intentional violence. You knew these were punches, these were the result of someone beating your very own Matty down. But his knuckles told you that he fought back. They told you that he could break bones if he wanted to.

It didn’t scare you, it just concerned you. Every time you saw these cuts and bruises, the occasional stitches, the scars on his chest, you wanted to tell him that you weren’t stupid. That he couldn’t possibly be stupid enough to believe that you bought whatever silly lie he came up with every time. 

This morning was one when you had caught him hunched over his kitchen sink, cleaning a previously stitched wound that he must have reopened accidentally on his abdomen. He heard you coming, but the pain he was in made it impossible for him to care enough to hide from you.

“Jesus, Matthew,” you exclaimed in a whisper, your eyes widening at the sight of his broken skin and his blood-covered fingers, “what is this?”

“It’s an old… old-ish cut,” he scrambled, reaching for an excuse, but he knew that no lie he said would cover this up, “It’s okay.”

“The fuck it is,” you said quickly, shaking your head and rushing over to him, pulling the cotton out of his hand and hissing at the sight of his gash, “Matt, this isn’t old. This is a few hours old at best.”

He said nothing, eyes unfocused and avoiding your general direction altogether. His heart was beating in his ears as he listened to yours. 

“You need new stitches,” you told him softly, your brows furrowed, “I—”

“On top of the fridge,” Matt mumbled, nodding his head to the side towards the location of his first aid kit.

“I- I’ve never—” you stammered, your hands sweating at the thought of piercing his skin to fix him up.

“I’ll do it,” Matt told you flippantly, your jaw dropping open at his statement, “don’t worry.”

“Do what?” You asked him incredulously, halting your movements to reach for the box, “stitch yourself?”

Matt holds his breath and waits for you to grab the box.

“What do you mean—”

“I’m bleeding, sweetheart,” Matt pressed, an uncomfortable smile flashing across his lips before the pain wiped it off swiftly. 

“Fuck, sorry! Sorry, okay,” you focused on the task at hand, saving the questioning for later as you pulled the box down and set it in front of Matt. 

You watched as he reached for it without hesitation, pulling it open and grabbing the needle and roll of nylon thread. 

“Can you just thread it for me, darling?” Matt asked, pushing the items in your hands.

You did as he asked, biting your tongue and sterilising the needle before handing it back. You held your breath as you watched Matt bring his skin together and start stitching. You knew he used to patch his father up but to do it himself? And to know exactly where he needed to stitch?

Your breath caught in your throat and he heard it, bracing himself.

“You can see,” you concluded in a whisper, your heart breaking your chest, “you’ve been lying to me.”

“What?” Matt exhaled in confusion, his brows furrowing at the false accusation. Technically, he couldn’t see, but he knew that he needed to explain it all now.

You stepped away from him, your heart beating in your throat and your hands shaking, “you have been lying to me, Matthew. You’ve been lying to everyone. Why?”

“Sweetheart, I can’t see,” Matt spoke gently, his voice soft and tentative, his fingers working faster to close the wound, “not exactly.”

“It’s either you can, or you can’t, Matt,” you told him, stepping further away and watching him struggle to free himself of the task at hand. He wasn’t even looking at what his hands were doing. It was confusing.

“It’s not that simple!” Matt exclaimed, quickly cutting the suture thread and throwing the needle in the sink before making his way to you, “it’s not a yes-no answer.”

“What the fuck does that mean?” You asked in a panic, drawing further away to avoid Matt’s touch, the look on his face breaking your heart as he realised what you were doing.

“It means I can’t see,” Matt explained slowly, “but I can feel, hear, smell and taste better than anyone else.”

“That makes no sense,” you shook your head in confusion, tears stinging your eyes as you continued to study him, “you keep lying and lying to me. I don’t know how much longer I can pretend to believe you.”

“I’m not lying,” Matt pushed, reaching out and grabbing your hand, “please.”

Matt desperately held on to your hand, his fingers wrapping tightly around your wrist as he brought your palm to the centre of his chest. You could feel the steady beating of his heart under your fingers.

“I’m not lying to you,” Matt said again, his voice sincere, “if I was, you’d feel it.”

You let his words sink in, your fingers twitching against his chest. 

He was telling the truth.

“How did you get that cut you just stitched?” You asked him, pressing your palm further against his chest, watching his tongue dart out to wet his lips nervously.

“Tell me, Matt,” you pressed, your voice faint as you realised you couldn’t make him tell you. Nothing could make him tell you if he didn’t want to, “please.”

Matt’s head was spinning. He felt cornered and trapped, his breaths becoming laboured as he weighed his options. He could tell you and risk getting you hurt, or he could not tell you and lose you, but keep you safe.

“I can’t,” Matt exhaled, shaking his head and pulling your hand down and away from his chest, “I’m sorry. I can’t.”

If he wasn’t so focused on the way your hand trembled in his grasp, he would have heard the shatter of your heart breaking in your chest.

He chose to keep his secret over trusting you and it tore you up from the inside out. You felt broken and cold. Lonely, all of a sudden. You felt betrayed. The one person you could trust with your life couldn’t trust you enough to share a secret. He chose his secrecy over your love. 

You could feel your skin crawl, almost like you were physically shrinking before him. You pulled your hand out of his gently, bringing both of your arms around yourself protectively. You felt exposed and seen in the worst way possible; embarrassed. Tears started falling from your eyes as it hit you - you can’t be with him anymore. 

“Why can’t you just be honest with me?” You whispered, a question you didn’t expect him to answer. And he didn’t.

He was hurting you, he was intentionally breaking your heart and he thought it was worth it. Keeping you safe was worth the pain. Keeping you safe was worth hearing your breath stutter with your quiet sobbing. Keeping you safe was worth breaking your trust and your heart. Keeping you safe was worth not having you.

“I’m sorry.”

[run-me-through-but-not-like-that]

Two of Spades

Shout out to anyone who read the Ace of Spades series, here's another instalment. This one is short but sweet, the next one will be a little longer and a little smutty!

Summary: Izzy and Spades finally get around to giving each other those tattoos they talked about.

The Revenge was anchored in safe waters, at least as safe as waters came. Buttons was on watch, somebody with a good eye, and the rest of the crew was sleeping. It was a quiet night, the crew dozing away in dream, and the waters steady.

It was the perfect time for the two men in the first mate’s cabin to set up Izzy’s old tattooing kit. It wasn’t anything special but it was reliable, varying sizes of needles and ink that was still good. 

The two men sat on the floor of their cabin, legs folded beneath themselves, and facing each other with the tattooing equipment laid out beside them. An oil lamp placed close enough to provide proper lighting. 

“You can do mine first,” Izzy offered as he sterilised the needle. 

“Sure,” Spades nodded. “Last chance to back out,” he warned. 

“Getting second thoughts?” Izzy glanced at him, raising an eyebrow. 

“Not in the slightest,” Spades responded with no trace of uncertainty. 

Once he was content with the job he had done, Izzy handed over the needle and held his hand out to be tattooed. Spades smiled as he shuffled closer, taking hold of Izzy’s hand before inking up the needle.

Izzy couldn’t help but stare at their enjoined hands for a moment, marvelling in how Spades cradled his hand in his lap, gently and with care. He thought he may have gotten used to the treatment he received from the younger man, but perhaps he never would. 

“You have given somebody a tattoo before, right?” Izzy asked as the needle was brought to his hand. 

“Yeah, don’t worry. Given two before, and we didn’t even have a nice kit. Surprised the ink didn’t kill them,” Spades assured him. At least, that’s what Izzy thinks he was trying to do. 

“You let them go near your face with bad ink?” there was a clear judgemental edge to Izzy’s question, as if he hadn’t done stupid things in his youth. 

“I was young and dumb, what can I say?” Spades shrugged before beginning the tattoo, making the first poke of the needle. Izzy nodded slightly, more to himself than anything. Spades knew what he was doing, at least a little. The stab was deep enough, the ink would stay, he shouldn’t have to offer him any guidance.

“You’re lucky it healed so well,” the first mate tutted.

“Yeah, but now it’s real pretty, right?” Spades grinned, shooting him a wink. 

“Right,” Izzy muttered, purposely glancing away. Spades was pretty, too fucking gorgeous for his own good, in Izzy’s opinion. 

Spades smirked to himself, knowing exactly what Izzy’s avoidance meant, as he completed the outline. 

“Good size and everything?” Spades asked.

Izzy turned his attention back to the fresh ink between his thumb and index finger, inspecting it. He could complain about how it was a little too late to be asking that, that if he wanted it smaller it was too late, but he didn’t. “Yeah, it’s good.”

Spades smiled before tugging his hand back into his lap, filling in the shape he made. Izzy didn’t even flinch as he worked, finding the repetitive sting somewhat comforting, he knew what to expect, knew not to tense when the needle pricked his skin. Spades had a steady hand and worked consistently, didn’t fuss over him after every poke, Izzy was grateful for that.

“Done!” Spades announced proudly after laying the final prick. 

Izzy lifted his hand, examining the tattoo. The Ace of Spades, inky black against his skin. It matched the tattoo on Spades’ face perfectly, though his was obviously healed. 

“My turn,” Spades grinned, an enthusiasm Izzy had become fond of. A breath of fresh air, a light in the darkness. Izzy shook his head fondly, taking the needle from him. He turned back to the alcohol and flame, sanitising it again. “Very thorough, First Mate Hands,” he teased. 

“Don’t much fancy risking an infection,” Izzy retorted. 

Once he was done cleaning the needle, he gestured for Spades’ hand. Without hesitation, Spades placed his hand in Izzy’s. He held it with a surprising tenderness, just like Spades had held his. 

The first mate got to work quickly, etching the cross into the skin between Spades’ thumb and index finger, ensuring the lines were straight and clean. Spades would flinch every now and again but took it well, it wasn’t a large piece by any means but it was in a fairly sensitive place. 

He was done soon enough, Izzy was efficient like that.

“There. If you don’t like it, too late now,” Izzy declared, releasing his hand.

Spades smiled down at the cross on his hand. “It’s perfect, Iz,” he insisted, “thank you.” Spades wondered if he would get to see it fade, until it looked the exact way Izzy’s did.

“Alright, it’s nothing special,” Izzy rolled his eyes, wiping down the needle of excess ink. 

“Uh-huh, sure,” Spades chuckled, watching Izzy clean the needle before tucking it away in his kit. “You’re a real artist,” he teased, knowing exactly how Izzy would respond. 

“Fuck off.” There it was, the tried and true scoff. 

“I mean it,” Spades smirked, crawling forward into his lap. Izzy huffed, pushing his kit further to the side, but certainly made no move to actually stop him. “Maybe I should have you do some more tattoos for me, make me look like a real pirate,” he hummed, snaking his arms around Izzy’s neck.

“Yeah, like what?” Izzy asked, playing along as his hands settled on Spades’ hips. 

“Hmmm…maybe a ship or an anchor, something nautical. Might even earn myself a Swallow just like yours one day,” Spades considered, looking up the ceiling as he pondered his options. Then his face lit up in mock enlightenment, meeting Izzy’s gaze again. “How about…I.H right on my hip,” he suggested, a twinkle in his eyes.

“Fuck off,” Izzy laughed, an honest to god laugh. “You’ve practically already got my brand now,” he reminded him. 

“Yeah? And you’ve got mine,” Spades wiggled his eyebrows before dipping in and kissing him. 

“Have to tidy up,” Izzy protested weakly, as if wasn’t melting into the affection, as if he wasn’t chasing his mouth even as he spoke. 

“You capped the ink. It won’t spill,” Spades assured him, lips brushing against his, just close enough to tease. 

“Spades,” Izzy groaned, whether it was to tidy up or to kiss him again, neither were sure. 

“Izzy,” Spades groaned back teasingly. “It won’t go anywhere,” he promised, offering a peck to his lips. 

“...you know tattoo care, right?” Izzy asked. A clear after thought. 

“My face didn’t get infected, did it?” Spades asked, only receiving an unimpressed look from Izzy. “I know, I know. Keep it clean, wrapped if possible. Don’t scratch at it. Hey, I think Roach even has some coconut oil, that will help with the healing process.” 

“Alright, I’m convinced,” Izzy nodded, nose knocking against his. 

“Thank fuck,” Spades breathed out before diving right back in for another kiss.

This time, Izzy’s arms looped around his waist, tugging him closer as he returned the kiss fervently. Izzy knew he was getting too old for this, to be sitting on the floor, making out on the ground of his cabin when there was a perfectly good cot right next to them both. But he couldn’t find it within himself to care, not with Spades holding and touching him like this.

[steelycunt]

18 please, things you said when you were scared! ❤️

hiiii! thank you! i took liberties with this one a bit but im having lots of fun using this game as an excuse to write all the scenes ive thought about before but never had a reason/place to write <33 cw for a little blood in relation to ear piercing/general piercing squeamishness!

[also kids please do not follow sirius black's home piercing methods he's fourteen and dumb and i advise you to look it up online to do it safely and sterilise your equipment instead of trusting a word he says!!]

18. things you said when you were scared.

“You look scared,” Sirius tells him, drying the safety pin on his shirttail. “Don’t be. It doesn’t hurt that badly—I did my own ear fine, didn’t I?”

Remus scoffs, a rough, biting sound that ricochets against the toilets' stone walls and slices Sirius across the abdomen in the process. “I’m not scared. I’ve managed to build up a fairly high pain tolerance over the years, you know,” he replies, dryly. “Can’t imagine why.”

“Well, tell your face to act accordingly, then. Stop wincing. I haven’t even touched you yet.”

“I’m not wincing. I just don’t want it to look stupid,” Remus says.

Sirius frowns at that, touches a finger absently to the silver hoop cutting through the meat of his own lobe. He sits back on his heels. “Mine—mine doesn’t look stupid, does it?”

“No,” Remus mutters, glancing away. “Yours looks cool. But I don’t—you know. I don’t very well look like you, Sirius, do I?”

“…What d’you mean?”

The tap Sirius used to clean their equipment drips, miserably. Moaning Myrtle is sniffling to herself in the furthest stall from where they’re sat (they both declined a date in a U-bend with her). Sirius leans, ducks to try and meet Remus’ gaze, stumbles face-first into the green of his eyes.

He’s got rather nice eyes.

“Nothing,” Remus says, finally, giving an awkward little shrug and a jerk of his head. “Never mind. Come on, then. Let’s get on with it. I think I want it in my left ear, alright?”

“Al—alright.” Sirius straightens; as he tosses dark, feathered strands of hair from his face, the room tips back onto some prior, balanced axis. He plucks up his safety pin and the rubber they took from Remus’ pencil case, sword and shield. “Okay. Okay, so—tilt your head to the side a little? Bit more. Yeah, like that. Alright, uh—”

Choosing decisively not to dwell on the stretched, upturned junction of Remus’ jaw and neck, Sirius shuffles closer on his knees. Remus closes his eyes, gold-brown lashes dusting the tops of his cheeks. There’s a hard, porcelain something clattering furiously against the backs of Sirius’ teeth as he holds the rubber behind Remus’ earlobe.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, the word trembling between its syllables. He presses his thumb gently to the shell of Remus’ ear, steadying, and watches him shiver softly. “My hands are a bit cold, I think.”

Remus’ Adam’ Apple jumps beneath the pale skin of his throat. “It’s fine. Just, er, try and get the piercing sort of central,” he mumbles. He sounds a bit hoarse.

“Yeah. You…you don’t have to hold your breath, Moons.” Sirius edges forward, knee knocking against Remus’ crossed shins. He wets his lips, tries to still his hand as he positions the needle of the safety pin. Either Myrtle’s done weeping, or the sound just isn’t reaching him anymore; everything bar the two of them suddenly feels very far away.

“You’ll barely feel it. Promise.”

“I know. I’m—I’m not. Just do it,” Remus replies, “just do it, now,”, and so Sirius does: counts, silently, one-two-three-fuck, drives the point through the flesh of Remus’ ear and into the rubber behind it. Remus exhales as the metal moves, slowly and calmly through his nose.

“Done,” Sirius announces, tossing the rubber down and pushing the safety pin closed. “I think that’s pretty good, but I need to—s’bleeding a little, wait…”

He reaches blindly across the floor behind himself until his fingers close around the damp rag he’s looking for, brings it up to Remus’ ear and dabs, light as possible, against the welling beads of red. A pearl of pink water rolls down the side of Remus’ neck, slips beneath the collar of his shirt, and Sirius says, “Sorry.”

“S’fine.”

“It’s better than mine was. I bled all over the sink, had to ask Reg to help.” Sirius balls the rag up, worries his tongue between his teeth as he finishes mopping around the safety pin. “Uh, sorry, I need to…” he trails off, resting tentative fingers against the nape of Remus’ neck. Sirius guides his head forward to reach what’s left of the blood at the back of his ear, and realizes only then—not for lack of attention, but for lack of a single sense loud enough over the horrible throbbing of his own heart against his ribs—that Remus has gone very, very still.

“There,” he says, lowering the rag. “You’ll have to—leave that in, for, uh, twenty minutes or so, and then I’ll swap it…swap it out for an earring.”

Remus says nothing. Hovering over him like this, Sirius can feel his breath, hot, as it flutters the fabric of his shirt. He urges Remus’ head upright again, palm sweat-slippery and lingering against his skin even afterwards, burning along its creases.

“Well?” Remus blinks at him, rapidly, once, twice. “How does it look?”

Sirius drags his eyes away from Remus’, flicking over to the safety pin in his ear. He drops his hand into his lap, curls it into a fist. “Looks cool,” he answers, stiffly, truthfully.

“Yeah?” A smile collects in the dimple of Remus’ cheek, fine like silt.

“Yeah.” Here, Sirius is near enough to see the split skin of Remus’ chapped bottom lip, little white cut curling down his chin; he coughs, looks upwards. “Yeah, it suits you. You look, uh—I mean, yeah, Moons. You know, you always...I always think you’re—”

But Remus gets there first, finishes his sentence for him by leaning forward to press his own mouth to Sirius’ gaping one, just for a moment, chaste and quiet and palm cupping Sirius’ cheek; a few bone-brittle seconds that are over before Sirius can catch up.

They pull away; Remus’ eyebrows lift. Sirius parts his lips to say something, comes up empty.

“Sorry,” Remus cuts in. “You just—you looked a little scared.”

[modern-vellichor]

Space in The Sheets

A/N: anon requested this

Summary: Local Mob Boss finds himself enraptured by the soft beauty of his PA

Warnings: angst, blood, guns, MobBoss!Bucky, needles, fluff, relationship breakdown,

Pairing: MobBoss!Bucky x Reader

The entire state of New York trembled in the presence of the Bucky Barnes. He was the most heavily feared individual in the Tri-State Area. And yet you waltzed into his life like you owned it.

You were nothing but an assistant. But you had standards, you held your chin high and kept your dignity. One too many times Mr. Barnes had snapped at you, only to be swiftly put back in his place. Although he held the authority, you held a significant amount of respect. Even Bucky's work friends respected you. The relationship was symbiotic.

It was a warm evening. Raining lightly. You had stayed late to do some last minute filing when Barnes came stumbling into the offices. Blood running down his face, spurting from a decent sized gash in his forehead. You gasped softly, leading the near blinded man to his office. You placed him in his deckchair and moved to find the first aid kit. You had insisted on buying one for the office when you started working.

Bucky said nothing as you began to disinfect and clean the gaping wound. Nothing but grunts of pain and little hisses of annoyance - which you abruptly hushed. He was cleaned up before you spoke.

"God, Mr. Barnes", you chuckled gravely. The gaping wound was still slowly oozing thick red blood. "What happened to you?"

"nothin'". His response was short and aggressive.

"Jesus, okay", you sighed.

You turned your back to dig through the box for paper stitches. And when you found none, you fished around in your purse for your sewing kit. When you turned around with a needle in hand, Bucky was quick to shut you down. That was until blood was trickling into his eye. He gave you his lighter and you quietly sterilised the needle.

You kicked his knees apart with one of your own so you could stand in front of him. He held completely still while you stitched him up. Until you were tying a knot in the thread. He flinched and let out a pained hiss. His metal arm flew up to grab your thigh, hard enough that you stumbled back and Bucky had to catch you. It was far from graceful, and even farther from romantic. You were both covered in blood, and you had nearly stabbed yourself in the eye with the needle.

Bucky found the humour in it nonetheless. It was that night he decided to ask you out. He still had thread in his forehead on your first date. Although he had a professional redo it.

Years had passed. You and Bucky were still together. You preferred to call him James. He didnt mind. James sounded prettier on your tongue than Bucky.

It didnt take long for you to move in to his lavish home. After a few months you had moved out of your own cramped apartment. And although your private relationship was rapidly developing, your professional relationship never wavered. You still held that same respect for each other, and whatever happened at home didnt affect what happened in the office.

One day, something changed. Nothing happened. No life changing argument, no near death experience. All of a sudden, things between you and Bucky just weren't the same. It wasnt heart breaking, nor life changing. It was just a little quieter, a little colder. Your hands no longer molded together perfectly like they used to. You no longer fit perfectly in his arms. Conversations didnt flow as naturally anymore. Nights were a little colder, and you were both a little lonlier. The relationship had run its course - you both knew it. But you were both too scared to say it. Tensions grew high. And no one knew about it, except the two of you. The two of you went from sleeping wrapped in each other's arms, to having a cold and heartless gap between you.

Bucky finally knew something was wrong when your work grew sloppy. One afternoon in a critically important meeting, you zoned out. Tears were brimming in your eyes when Steve snapped you back to reality. He made a joke about putting you in your place. You smiled and chuckled politely but there was an empty bitterness behind it. That evening when the two of you returned home, you went straight to bed. Bucky didnt question it. You were asleep when he came up to bed. And when Bucky woke up the next morning.

He left you be. He had done this on a few occasions. And every time he would kiss you on the forehead before he left. He bent down instinctively. His nose brushed your brow and he stopped. Reluctantly he pulled away, and left without a goodbye. That evening, he stayed late at the office. He didnt come home until the night after. And when he returned, nothing had been touched. The entire house was exactly the way he had left it two days before. When he found you in bed, the only thing they had changed was that you know had one of his jackets wrapped around you. He crawled into bed and tonight, the gap was too obvious.

"I'm sleeping on the couch", he grunted.

Your arm shot out from beneath the covers. You grabbed him by the wrist. You didnt say anything. Bucky lay back down. Silently and hesitantly, you rolled over and curled into his side.

You woke up early afternoon again. But this time, to your surprise, Buckybwas sitting up in bed next to you. You were still curled next to him. You groaned as you stretched to see the clock.

"Why aren't you at work?"

"figured I'd take the day off. Spend some time with you," he grumbled.

You smiled to yourself. You rolled over and shut your eyes again. Just as you were falling asleep you felt the cool metal of Bucky's arm around your waist.

"James", you mumbled happily.

He didnt respond, just pressed soft kisses down your spine. And for the first time in a long while, things felt better again.

[taendrils]

industrial (m.)

― ❝there are lines you shouldn’t cross, things you shouldn’t touch and skin you shouldn’t mark when your hands are missing your gloves.❞ 

• genre: fluff, smut • tags: piercer!reader, client!jungkook, smitten!jungkook, mentions of needles, inappropriate things you shouldn’t do with your piercer LMAO, koko is subby AND needy AND a sweetheart, also a bit of a brat, teasing, sexual tension, praise kink, dirty talk, messy handjob, grinding, aftercare • pairing: jungkook/female reader • wordcount: 8.1k words

PIERCER AU.

It’s human nature. Not having a care in the world for picture sceneries in favour of the mundane you’ve grown to adore—fixating on a sight, a scent, a story so much that is unnatural to go a day without it. Missing a sensation to the point it buries so deep behind your chest you can’t reach through your ribs anymore to prod at it. No, no, no. You have to be indulgent. Bad human nature. You have to relieve it.

Guilt about indulgence doesn’t pack the same punch when it comes to you. It’s easy to sink when you get to relieve it every day—ripping the seal to get your hands on the metal, taking your time presenting the needles, inhaling more of the isopropyl that lingers in the air when you pop open the disinfectant. Even from down low, the vapors float in tendril motions, enter deep only to sting right after. They are consistent—they move the same when you’re close to someone and you get to inhale again before piercing.

It’s pleasant, it makes you focus. It also should say something about you—whatever it might, you don’t blame yourself too much. Rubber feels good on your hand. It’s human nature.

People like things they shouldn’t. People like things that hurt.

The act itself reaches in a place that’s personal, and so does the background. It’s perfect, and it’s silent, and yet it keeps going. There’s music you don’t mind when the place fills out too much—you get restless when there’s a heavy break between people, like it is now. You love calming them down since the act mirrors the effect on you. It has been so long you assume it would create a crack in your persona if you voiced the restlessness out, if your tone reached any frequency other than that of relaxed. The tattoo place, along with your platinum piercer on the other side would eat you dare you break your composure—Yoongi would give the process the same attention he gives to his skin in ink. His tattoos speak for him more than the metal on his tongue dares, touching up to his neck and disappearing under his sleeves, and so does the dove under his ear.

You’re less marked, so people find fascination in other parts of you. Jungkook thinks he doesn’t have to dig deep, he sees their surface as soon as he walks into the parlour. He notices how each element of the hall is in harmony with another, the designs on the walls modern enough to light up innovation, the wood they’re framed by sculpted so they pay tribute to old school. The details hit him all at once, and a beat too late he realises he would have got lost in them, delayed his appointment in favour of marvelling, weren’t it for you waiting at the reception.

You’re leaning against the wall fit between two pictures in asymmetry, watching Yoongi who sits near the said desk with a girl. The piercer gestures towards the jewelry displayed, and Jungkook can make out a few bits of their conversation before his eyes drift towards you again. Soft classics play on the speakers, supported by the tap of your fingers on your thigh. A passive action, and then another.

The bell tingling doesn’t steal your attention from the focal point, instead walking up to join the pair at the desk, but Jungkook catches the black-haired man behind the counter turning in his direction and offering a warm smile.

“This yours?” you tilt your head towards the tattooed man.

Yoongi doesn’t take his eyes off the jewelry, just makes a noncommittal noise from the back of his throat.

“What’s she getting?”

“Two flats, opals.”

“Mm. Pretty stones for pretty girls,” you acknowledge with a smile the girl mirrors. “He has a lot of opinions, but don’t listen to him. If he’s one hair away from the place you suggest, tell me after and I’ll file a complaint, ok?”

The tension in her body eases, and you don’t miss the hints of the grin Yoongi suppresses as he shakes his head. “You need to stop before all my clients leave.”

“Rich from the guy who keeps telling them he’s a master of stabbing with pointy objects,” the same guy who noticed Jungkook tuts as he fixes Yoongi with an eyebrow.

“Jimin has a point. No one else at this hour for him to scare?”

“None for him. None for you either until one hour before closing–you have three then.” He fidgets a bit before the calm smile he’s been sporting turns devious. “Well, none except for him.”

Your eyes settle on him at last, and funny fact it is, how the brain gives so many commands to the muscles faster than the hundredth part of a millisecond, yet Jungkook’s body cannot form a single reaction.

“So you’re mine then, aren’t you?” You nod in appraisal before Jungkook can even stutter, bottom lip jutting out. He’s rendered speechless at the exchange since words weigh heavier on Jungkook’s tongue, and the process takes longer to finish. With strangers he’s careful, he pauses and drags out the sound long enough to avoid mistakes, similar to what you’re doing now when you are analysing him. He’s confident enough to guess how for you they seem easier–you speak as each sound floats on water, weightless before it drifts away.

The heaviness lies buried in how you watch, the same way an audience would as a play begins, attentive and searching for meaning in the deeper crevices of him. He regains access to his breath the moment you step away, hands working behind your back and words neutering some of the acid burning his loins.

“Unless you’re here for a tattoo. None of our artists can talk to you at the moment, they’re all caught up with appointments.”

You’re the only one to come closer to him, and that triggers Jungkook’s sense of self to search for an answer. He fights with it at the tip of his tongue, and he sees the way you’re waiting, staring. He pictures you hanging onto the silence, waiting for his words to continue the thread.

“Uh, no, I–I’m here for you. For the piercing.”

And his words, supposed to be picked with care, crumble under power that’s passive, getting Jungkook tangled in their meaning. 

You’re dressed casually, the clothes loose enough for the fit not to disturb you. He focuses on the smooth curve of your shoulder that has yet to be marked, the smallest trace of a collarbone hidden in the depths of your dark turtleneck. He’s gliding up without meaning to, so lost in details he doesn’t know where to look anymore.

“Alright. And you know what you want?” You don’t react until he nods and satisfaction seeps through the corners of the smile you’ve been fighting, his gaze the same level as the lifted corners that lead his gaze to your ears.

Maybe to the three hoops decorating your lobes, complemented by the little heart on the inside of your ear, or higher, where he sees the object of his desire in your right ear, a long silver bar that sits high on your ear, length pressed diagonally and ends adorned with metal spikes.

“Industrial,” he breathes out.

It’s hard to say what defines the pause taken. 

“Great. Please take your time and complete the form, okay?” Your hair is pulled up, revealing more hoops stacked on top of the other ear he gets to look better at as you turn around. “I’ll wait for you inside.”

Jungkook finds said form on Jimin’s desk. Less flustered, he listens to Jimin filling in the blanks. “We have a machine for sterilising jewelry. Takes around fifteen minutes, long enough for you to read through this and ask questions.”

Now that he has nothing to dote on, despite the sight Jimin is, Jungkook feels weirdly self-conscious as he waits, the reminder that you would have started by now if he made a move when he should have a constant in his mind. He fidgets, thighs squeezing together to distract his mind before the thought spills out, “Did I keep you guys for too long?”

“The appointment’s yours.” Jimin shrugs as he passes the papers. “First time at a studio?”

Jungkook thinks in retrospect at the lobes he did by himself when he was younger and still wearing his emo bangs–half rebellion, half need to appear cooler to his peers. He nods with his lips pursed tightly enough so they contain his embarrassment.

“There are lots to come by nowadays. You shouldn’t be worried, she’s very lithe and quick. Patient too.”

His heartbeat finds its steady rhythm and doesn’t suffocate him like it did before. It calms before it takes the leap into his stomach, when Jimin, whose gestures lack the innocence his face suggests, forgets to add:

“Talks like that to cute little things.”

“Oh.”

Oh.

Good, he swallows. You’re patient. He’ll keep that in mind.

A boy true to his word, a boy that keeps to his promises, Jungkook’s mind wraps up on the idea after signing the ink into the paper and as soon as he is near you.

“All done?” you ask with no hurry, and Jungkook hums as he sits on the piercing table, careful so he does not move the sheets of paper. “Good. Let me look at you?”

The coil in his stomach tightens so easily, he’s so easy to rile up and you’re not even doing anything. You’re not trying to. And that drives him a little crazy. Fantasies Jungkook has never dared to imagine with anyone he kept a professional relationship with stretch his mind open, and he’s open to them when more enter through the cracks he created.

“I need to see your ear, see if the fold’s right.”

He swallows as you come close, hands already gloved. Without missing a beat, he tilts his head to give you better access and doesn’t quite realise how long his hair got until you brush it away from his ear, fingers holding the strands in place. His lungs are still from the proximity, inhaling as much as they can take after you voice your approval. And the more he tries to detach from the situation, the more he dives headfirst into the fantasy. Jungkook feels you twist the ends and pin his hair aside.

The mind is a strange place.

“Don’t want you to get scared, alright?” you coo and this careful treading around him makes him dizzy, stirs in his loins, and the feeling presses deeper there, deeper and hotter than it should from the heat brought by Jimin’s words. “I’ll explain everything to you as we work, hmm?”

“Yeah, sure,” he speaks and is reminded this is his first attempt at conversation in a while. “I’d like that.”

It dawns upon him how to you he sounds willing, much too willing, and he blames it on eagerness. Besides willing, he’s much too aware of everything surrounding him, of every little sound in the quiet room. The tick of the clock is a nice diffused background noise as you check the form to the last detail. “Who did those then, Jungkook?”

Your prying is gentle, a puzzle piece taken from a waiting game that coaxes him out until his answer rises naturally. Of course you’d feel better if he talked. That much is obvious, and he is a fool, but that obvious matters less to him when he sees how pleased you are with your question. A look which he aspires to cause, which pulls his want deeper–a look he needs to see again.

“Uh, another studio. But I didn’t like it.” The explanation that follows comes out of his mouth at once.

“I had a friend, Namjoon,” he begins and takes note how your eyebrows raise and your gaze turns playful at his word choice. “I mean, have. He had his tongue pierced here, and I bugged him about it until he told me.”

The first truth.

“Was it recent?” you ask as you change the pair of gloves, tossing the used pair away.

“He got it done after his girlfriend, but he refused to tell me. I asked for a while.” His shame drifts away in tone with his ramble and he is bold enough to let his gaze fall down the curve of your waist.

“Namjoon, you said? Doesn’t ring a bell. Wish it did by your reaction though.” You turn back to him and his gaze snaps back up.

“Ah, he’s kinda hard to miss though.” His lips remain sealed, but the corners of his mouth rise as high as they can go. Jungkook doesn’t know how or why he’s still talking, but he can distinguish a tender amusement. “Tall, huge dimples and smiles like this.” He keeps the same smile until you acknowledge it, cheeks puffed up and lash lines surrounded by endearing creases.

You shake your head in endearment. “Stubborn, are you?”

“Texted him about it for weeks. Pestered him to tell me. Threatened to do them myself.” Half a truth. Sure, he did that too, but for the most part he whined about it, rattled him to Seokjin and sent messages with questionable emojis. Seeing his friends take the leap for an interest Jungkook spent days looking up, it flickered light back into Jungkook–a passion for something he thought he buried long ago. “I even unmuted the groupchat.”

He sees the effect of those texts in real time. All those ‘joonie hyungg 😊😊~’s were worth it because he earns a laugh from you.

“Glad you let me do my job. I will mark you now, okay?” There’s so much comfort in your conversation he almost forgets what he came here for. As the realisation comes, a sigh threatens to leave his lips. He’s not as worried about the pain as he is worried he’ll embarrass himself somehow. Jungkook is strong now, can handle pain better than the bunch of his hyungs combined, but it doesn’t make him any less self-conscious.

“You have to lie down for it.” You guide him through it, Jungkook lowering his body slowly after the lead of your palm. Maybe he did it wrong?

One dot, two dots. The time to obsess over it passes. On his left, the paper crumples under his fist and he hates the way it sounds, yet he grips the sheet like it is a lever holding him to reality.

“Everything okay?”

“Mhm,” he says, breathing out his bravery and focus. You mention something about titanium and how good it is for piercings in passing, or maybe you linger on it more. He retains nothing, just breathes in the alcohol. Your hands are delicate, and no matter how light your grip is, it seems assured.

Rubber feels good, so does your touch.

“Breathe in for me.” Eyes glossy and mind hazy, he tries his best to listen– “One, two, three, and out. You’re doing well.”

The sting is a lot more than he expected, and he feels the blood rushing to his ear, warm and muted. Everything is more. Its pain lingers, but so does the ghost of your touch, balancing the pleasure. Your voice is breathier, and it sounds closer than comfortable, so close that the warmth of your breath spreads across his skin and a tremor follows it along his spine. When his ear reddens, he hopes you assume it’s because of the piercing.

“There we go,” you whisper. “Halfway done. How’s that?”

“It’s good.” The lump in his throat doesn’t budge. If you notice how his voice trembles, you don’t mention it, and neither do you give him space to think. Your thumb and index massage circles over hard tissue, and he braces for what’s coming next. The fact that your movements do not change pushes against his wish to stay composed, and Jungkook barely suppresses the soft sighs tickling the roof of his mouth.

“Tell me when you’re ready.”

Jungkook sinks into it and nods in rhythm complimentary to your touch. “Read–oh.”

The sound he lets out you take in with a sharp inhale. Despite it, your next steps are smooth, bar settling in cozy in the tight space, but there’s a pause that extends past a few heartbeats where he grows more aware, more sensitive to the tips of your fingers. He feels them tremble as they screw in the ball–feels it tingle on his skin and past his gut.

“Don’t get up so fast,” Jungkook tries to listen, but he’s also impatient. It never dawns on him how close you might be until he’s half-up, propped on his elbows and overwhelmed by the clarity of your features. He is hung on the line that defines your cupid’s bow, and how foul his cravings are. He could run his finger across it–has a feeling you wouldn’t stop him. Driven by his boldness, he’s thinking of dropping his gaze lower. When he does, his heart pummels and a surge of anxiety has his eyes dart back to yours. The effect is cathartic, bits of his rationality falling down in chains.

His mouth drops open at what he finds, the pair of pupils dark and blown out. Less professional. More like you want to cross a line.

The reaction for when you break away is much slower, and your intention misses the mark as Jungkook teeth lightly scrape his lip. “Have you thought about more places?” you blurt out.

Jungkook’s mind goes to the place you’re staring. “My mouth.”

And he swears by anything he has you leave a shard of your composure right there and cut him open with it, reach into his flesh and tug. It’s bad, he shouldn’t let you, but he is good at observing. He has the experience, sees his own behaviours as patterns he’s picked from others. He is right about this. He is sure.

Yet he never expects you to confirm it, reaching out to drag your thumb across his bottom lip, moving in circles to trace the top as well before you come down again and press.

“It’s soft. Gentle.” you breathe out. “I like it.”

It’s gentle and it’s pliant cause his mouth opens more under the weight, and you’re reaching a tint deeper, nail getting dangerously close to his tongue.

“Makes–makes a good fit.”

Rubber feels good there too. He doesn’t mind the taste either.

“But your piercing–” you stutter and his eyebrows shoot up at how you get up all of a sudden only to return with a mirror, grip tight around its rim. Less relaxed. “Here. You should see it.”

You end up passing him the mirror and he gasps at the image, at the bar that’s sitting on his ear. Even with your previous position, excitement is impossible to contain. “I love it.” 

“Please tell your groupchat too,” you tease, part of the tension eased from your shoulders, obvious in the delight that surges through you at his words. He’s still peeking in the mirror, yet the reflection that steals his attention is the one of satisfaction in your smile. His satisfaction.

“I will. It’s amazing, really. I like it a lot,” he adds as if he hasn’t said enough.

“I’m glad. Can’t wait till Yoongi hears about this.” You’re busy with a Q-Tip he braces for a second too late, yet does nothing but obey when you ask him to stay still, then clean the piercing for the last time. The story continues. “He missed the angle last time. He’s gonna be so threatened.”

“Why did he miss?” Jungkook says, curiosity making him lean closer. His height was not something you cared for when he walked in, you note, but he’s hard to ignore now that he’s standing up. You give up trying to organise the items scattered on your table and wipe a hand across your forehead.

“Ah, well. He’s a bit... unorthodox, but gets the job done.”

“And what about you?”

You purse your lips as you muster the answer, unsure of the letters pouring out. “I... I like to play it safe.”

And safe you played, a bitter part of Jungkook would retort. But now that he’s opened the can, the curiosity about you reigns beyond his pettiness. His mind, an ocean on the road to regaining tranquility, has its waters disrupted when he poses questions about parts of you that interested him.

“Is it like that with the tattoos?”

“I do keep them safe.” By the speed of your reply, this is a frequent topic of conversation. Your words, however, match two puzzle pieces that share the same colour, but they don’t fit near the other. They’re jumbled together, corners forced and unnatural. His stomach burns regardless. So they’re hidden from display, bordering on personal.

Like him, you’re responding to questions reserved for people you have some sort of a relation with. The one with Jungkook is supposed to be inexistent. He’s a client, you’re a piercer, he remembers, as he fears to call you his piercer yet. Places where you might have ink pop up in his mind and replace the guidance of his conscience: neck, chest, stomach, thighs.

“Didn’t do the same for this one.” You point to the ear with the bar matching his. “Toughest to heal. Got it when I barely knew anything.”

The angle is not perfect like his, he can now see after the first glance.

“You like it a lot though.” He pouts, and it’s a statement he tests under his confusion.

“It’s one of my weaknesses. A fun memory.”

“So you didn’t do that always?”

Jungkook is a boy true to himself, but much too proud to admit things often. He has a goal, has found more means to the end he chases. Out of the possibilities, there are fairer choices, but all of those lead towards a path with chances and time he doesn’t have. Guilt eats at him about pressing, but his heart speaks over his brain.

“Didn’t do what?”

Jeon Jungkook doesn’t do things in halves–does his best and sweats hard for his aspiration. Thus, he’ll find time later to appeal to his conscience. The distance between you clears the fog out of his mind, his need clear. He cannot leave it like that, not with knowing you never attempted to shut him out.

“Play it safe?”

“No. But you… you shouldn’t.” You’re frowning, deep in thought, every second spent waiting pressing layers into both his hope and uncertainty–fighting a battle that your hesitation wins over whatever desire he thought you may have.“Here’s my number. Call me if you’re experiencing any troubles during the healing process and we’ll see what we can do.”

Distracted, you pass him a card he puts in his pocket. You continue on about the cleaning process and offer him options for where to buy them from as the part of him full of hope deflates, hates the reversion to nothing, hates it more than is considered normal. Whatever this was, he doesn’t want to lose it, but he respects you, sits and accepts. “Of course. Will I have to answer as many questions?”

“Ah–no, not really. I wanted you to be comfortable. I just saw...” There’s breath caught in your throat, lodged between the cracks in your calamity and assurance. You pant to let it out. “You’ve been looking at me.”

Hope is fragile yet devious. A parasitic entity that leads and bites off however much it likes from whoever it pleases. Even as he meant to give up, its last particle was left to grow.

“Yeah?” Jungkook is scared yet bold, the step he takes placing his boot on the line you’ve never dared to cross before. His eyes are big and there’s a glint that’s pleading to be noticed. “And if I call… you’ll take care of it?” He fears your answer, he fears how rushed he is, how much it means.

“I will. We’ll look at it once you come back to downsize the bar.” You try to soothe him, reaching to squeeze his shoulder. His shirt gets pulled a tint, and what you meant to do renders forgotten. The tips of your fingers are lured towards warm skin. Weak and indulgent, they dip under the cotton.

A brief contact and the intent changes. Your touch borders everywhere–a slow drag up the nape of his neck and down his front, fingers splaying out to cover more surface.

“Anything else?” he gulps, lost in the sight of your mouth.

“Don’t touch it. Don’t sleep on it.” Your hand rests over his throat, thumb brushing up and down his pulse point. “Promise you’ll listen?”

“Yeah, I’ll listen.” The admission is quiet, not risking to tear apart at the tension. With close he is to you, the words are breathy with his whisper. “I’ll listen to you.”

The mind is a very strange place. Curls around the impossible and tortures until you do something about it. It’s human nature.

Jungkook’s voice breaks with the last bit of bravery he has.

“I’ll do how you ask.”

“Fuck, Jungkook–” You leave your sentence unfinished because you’re way too busy with your lips on his, you’re kissing him, tongue licking into his mouth before you turn aggressive. There’s no second to wait, no moment to take for breath, his senses are overwhelmed from you gripping his jaw to bring him to your level. Jungkook can’t think, he just touches, makes it clear how much he likes it, nails digging into your sides. He brings you closer, tattooed hand fitting how you like it over your waist, needy and hurting your ribs from how tight you’re pressed against him, while the other slots over the nape of your neck, big enough to cover it whole.  

He clutches you as if you’re a silver lining in an open space, and there’s so much Jungkook all at once and everywhere around you. There’s electricity buzzing under your skin at the way he moans into the kiss when you bite his lip, pulling you back with him as leans against the drawer, thighs spreading for you to fit until you’re pressed flush against him. Your skin is so hot and you’re so drunk on need you’d peel the layers off and fit yourself into a piece of him, feel his moan reverberate through your being. You would, and you do.

When you break away, you don’t care, that’s what Jungkook registers. You’re nosing his neck, lips closing around a sweet spot under his ear. He winces from the sting, though it is short-lived. Another wave of arousal hits you exhale over the raw skin like the breath has been fucked out of you. He’s so sensitive there, and you don’t care to be gentle, don’t care to soothe the ache—you’re taking for yourself. It’s you being selfish.

His head spins so hard around the idea he has to hold onto you to stay on his feet.

Jungkook wants that, wants you to take. To ask. It thrills him how dangerous that notion is, what he would do.

There’s a soft sound you make right after you bite, a sigh that drips into his blood and travels straight to his dick. Faint cries of his name echo in an empty head, shake him to a blurry reality, paired with kisses under his jaw, on the mole that’s so close to his lip. “Jungkook, we can’t.”

With his inner voice gone, his head is empty and a beat too late he registers you’re speaking to him. He nods into your hair, chest rising and falling shallowly, again and again until he’s able to speak. He swears. Swears he understands but no part of him can do so, if you tell him to stop and yet coax him into giving in.

His neck is wet with traces of your lip balm. “Okay, okay, just—give me a second,”

“No, no—” Frantic, you cup his cheek and without thinking he leans into it, expression softening. Your thumb rubs circles onto the bone, caress it until you pry his eyes open, until he can look at you. “Not here.”

Before he can act, you lace his fingers with yours and lead him towards your bathroom, pull hard on the handle, and in your rush, you use the same force to press him into the door as it closes. Jungkook whines, shameless, hips bucking into you. In his high pitch you can capture the exact moment his last thread of sanity bids its goodbye, leaving him with putrid needs that shudder out of him like they do whenever he is close.

“God, look at you,” you whisper in wonder, latching to his mouth.

Cold runs up his arm and to his sides when you pin his wrist away, knuckles brushing against the tiles. The room’s dense, its width a fraction of the main hall. Its monochrome walls are closing in on the both of you, two specks of colour squeezed together in the tight space.

All at once, he’s hit with how good you smell, tinges of his cologne having rubbed off on you. A different aroma, one that’s sweet and masculine, pierces his senses with the same strength of an alcohol, but instead of focusing, it makes him hazy—hazy and restless. Even in his current state, he can more or less see the same effect on you.

Jungkook looks at you through strands of hair and dropped eyelids, head thrown against the door. “You like it?”

You grin, fingers hooking in the belt loops on his sides and use them to move his hips so his cock drags right into the space between your thighs. “Should I show you or let you guess?”

His hips work with more vigour, coil in his belly pulled too tight while you take your time reciprocating. The softest friction you give back is enough to have him gasping, dick hardening against you.

“You’re the one who seems to like this quite a lot,” You reach under his shirt to stress your point, molding your palms in the deep lines that define his abdomen. They explore, trailing higher until they brush against a nipple, the image of how a bar would fit there a dangerous addition in your head.

“Yeah,” He bites his lip, no point in not being honest now that you have him like this. “I do.”

Once you hear him, you grow more determined, hand closing high around his side and on his ribs. Next thing he knows you're back to his nipple, rolling your thumb over it, the stimulation too much too soon. Jungkook seeks to take your focus from it, but you don't relent.

“Are you sure this is okay?” he pouts before biting back a moan, “I wouldn't want to keep you.”

The moment you hear him, you laugh, fond and delirious—and press harder when you touch. “Yes, Jungkook, I do.”

If he had any walls left, he's sure you would have them crumble when you ask with your other hand hovering on the elastic of his boxers, “Do you?”

He nods, speaks from under his breath, “You have no idea.”

Mischief and anticipation dance in your irises, and when you smile, you do it with full teeth, every bit the bad wolf who's waiting to eat him up. You've chosen to prolong the said wait because instead of gripping, your finger branches out to trace the underside of his dick.

“You can’t do that to me,” he whines, soft voice murmuring pleas.

Jungkook’s torso, yet to be marked, is a pleasant path, one you’d cross again and again, warm and smooth and addicting—it takes most of your willpower to stop, staring him right in the eye with an eyebrow raised. “Can’t do what?”

“You shouldn’t touch me,” Meek and sincere, he lifts your chin and you freeze with your chest pressed against his. “Not if you want to tease.”

It’s a silent beg, because even if he missed being teased, he needs you. He’s so wound up he doesn’t think he can stand it, but he's still proud. Somewhat.

Your expression remains unreadable, but your actions speak loudest when you touch him skin on skin, hand sneaking under his boxers, and—oh.

He restrained himself the best he could when he had close to nothing, but now, with his head fallen back, he moans for you like he’s singing. The more you tighten your grip, the more his octave jumps over the classics you’d been so fond of.

“Careful, baby,” you tut as you spread the precum over his tip and use your body weight to still his shaking thighs. “You could hurt yourself.”

“S-sorry, ah—” he stutters, hand caught between the both of you, squeezing yours over the cotton of his sweatpants. “Feels good.”

He's not used to it, being the centre of attention, people putting lights too bright on him. Can't decide if he likes it or not, though it has him weak. His mind is on you, your time, your pleasure. On how he craves for you to feel him, needs you to feel good. On how he is going to make use of the semblance of control he hasn't given up yet to show you what you're doing to him.

So he does. He walks you back until your hips knock against the sink, pins you the side that is closest to him. Eagerness overcomes him at the impact, pulling at the hem of your shirt, and you cater to his wishes, letting him remove your top. With the layer peeled off, the scene is rougher and more intimate, secrets shared by the two of you tangled in this background, he sees them, lets them drive him crazy.

“How about this?”

It's such a delicate thing, how your bare shoulder connects with its reflection in the mirror. His gaze explores your body, landing on the upper parts covered in ink. Beginning at your sternum, a young lotus connects to a larger piece spread on the top of your torso, adorned with leaves and petals that bloom from its center. The thread between the flower and the full piece is so thin, his tongue would cover it whole.

It's the swell of your breasts that has him distracted and split between choices. But there’s something so primal about the object of his desire in front of him, and his made-up mind can't wait for encouragement, cupping them in wonder under your bra. Your gasp when he brushes against a nipple is so delicious he's the one who can't help himself, dipping his head to get a taste. He sucks like he's expecting praise, grinds more into you and he can't decide if the action is for you or himself.

“Jungkook, ah—” you groan, and the reaction stirs him up further. That mind of his which has been empty is quick to fill out with more than he can handle.

He'd drop down to his knees and crawl as long as you moaned and waited for him like that. He'd kiss and lick up the thigh that's pushing against his dick, hold it as he spread you open with his tongue. By nature, he's a pleaser, and thoughts like these are natural—as natural as those that keep coming, those about himself. They retell how easy it was for him to lose himself, far to the point of no return. A sweetheart in the face of sin.

It's almost laughable how gone he is and what it might say about him, about how down below he really belongs. Well, it's comfortable. He likes it down there.

Lower places are for those who lose, and Jungkook wouldn't mind losing to you, as long as he has a place down and a fighting chance.

He drops to his knees slowly, tongue dragging through the middle of your tattoo and down, kissing his way to the button of your jeans. In a snap, he pops them open, considers letting go, all doe eyes and messy waves that cover folded cartilage and stop right before a lobe marked by matching silver hoops, and now an industrial. Without thought, he catches the flimsy zipper in his mouth then drags it down where he said he belonged, holding onto the metal until the end. His arms flex under your thighs, gripping you tighter as he drops the zipper but not the eye contact. He has to be sure your eyes are on him when that playful glint takes over and his tongue flattens against the front of your jeans.

He's not bad for wanting it, is he?

Your fingers in his hair yank his head back, and oh, this one's different from the sting before—it spreads tingles across his scalp. “But I liked you this way…” He sulks, soft hair putty in your hand.

And he did, still does. Thighs on either side of his head, your face, breathless and grinning above, there's nothing wrong with this angle. “And here I was trying to take it slow.”

On his knees for you, it seems that now he finds the time to be a brat. “Your hands down my pants is slow now?”

You arch an eyebrow. “Lots of things you want to do, hm?”

Equal parts eager and shy, Jungkook nods, moving to lean on your thigh. You're fast to react, hand in his hair coming in between to protect his piercing. He nods with his head in your palm, noses along the inseam of your jeans.

“You just need to...let me.” His hand slithers under the soft flesh and splay on your ass to make his point. For the final dot, he feels for your back pockets, uses them as support to drag down the material until he can see your underwear.

“What about what I want?” you scoff when he's midway through pulling your pants down. “Aren't you being a little selfish?”

He's taken aback by your pout, your always-tender touch. “Uh—”

“You didn't sit to think about it, did you baby?” Wide eyes look up at you, a pang of strange guilt overcoming him. “Whether I want you like this?”

Jungkook wonders about the game you're playing. “I'm sorry—”

Habits force him to be polite, guide you to be patient.

“Poor little heart.” You caress his jaw, his mouth, and this time, his lips close around your finger. “Get up.”

He obeys but not without a fight inside him. Body to body, you soothe the frown off his face with kisses up his neck, paying attention to the noises he makes when you tug at his hair again.

“You looked so good before. Right here,” you whisper when he drops into the touch.

Praise relaxes him, opens up his every pore, pours heat straight to his gut. He knows. Yet part of him has yet to get over how you denied him, occurrence too rare for him to get used to it.

“It's less fun like that.” Jungkook's aware of how he sounds: like a little brat, petulant. As good as he is, it thrills him when he gets to act this way.

“Is it? Baby got a taste and now he can't get enough?” You're mocking but gentle, how he likes to be teased.

He did miss it: missed being teased, missed tearing up a bit.

“I didn't even have to ask to bring you to your knees.” You grip his hair tighter and he moves to the direction your reins are pulling. Ah, missed having his senses tortured. “So willing. So easy.”

“Yes—” he babbles, doesn't care for much when you handle him like that. Neither can he speak much, yet he is aware of everything, is sensitive to everything—shivers as your heel nudges his calf.

“I think it's more fun when you work for it, don't you agree,” You motion at his pants, and he scrambles to drop them to his knees for you stroke his cock, “there's thrill in the chase.”

How true that is. Jungkook aches for a chance to show to you how he is when there's chase involved.

“For you,” he says, tone flat and tired.

“Then it's not the case?”

He shakes his head, now bordering on a dangerous edge. Competition never hurt him. Neither did playing it safe, but he doesn't care to play it safe now that it's about you.

“For you, all for you—” he grabs your wrists and brings them down until you cup him with both hands, rocks his hips into the loose space. “Please let me do something.”

Or make me, is the sentence he leaves buried. More important for him is to hang tight onto your permission, yet hatred over not feeling needed threatens to swallow down his arousal and purge back anger. It's a twisted game he often plays, how long he can deny himself, how much he can hold before he snaps.

He's been close to snapping from the beginning, so out of his mind, he'd do anything you asked. Why weren't you asking? Jungkook would love for you to tell him how to make you a mess, say the word and he would be on his feet, down on his knees. He’s aware it paints a pretty picture when he does it.

Taking pity on him, you bring his hands down to your underwear and remove it together. It flies right past his ego—the immediate reaction is to reach for his own, but you stop him by shaking your head.

You peek down, shudder when you see how hard he is. “Leave them on. It's not safe.”

“Like this then?” Jungkook holds you spread for him as he drags his clothed cock over your clit. He's moving so slow he's shaking. There's so much desire which had to be buried down for him to keep to his word, to respect the promise that he'd listen. “Good?”

“Mm, good.” His chest swells with pride, and he gasps when he feels how wet you are, staining the material. Tentatively, he slides a finger in, then another, scissoring them inside. He goes deeper until he's sure they're coated, gathers the strings of arousal and brings them back to your clit. “That's it—”

The pressure is built with his thumb over your clit, careful and decisive the more you pick the volume. He'd muffle those noises with his mouth or make them louder with his tongue, yet he doesn't have the courage, thus he settles for your neck. It's a welcome distraction, a purpose that's holding him to earth when you're rocking back against him, the sight of you so desperate doing things to him.

“Fuck, you're leaving marks,” you whisper to yourself. It sounds holier, more like a revelation you have bare for him, with your hair messy and neck bit.

“I just. Need something to do, with—with my mouth.” He hurts through the seconds he takes to explain. Exists through his need. “Don't like it empty.”

A call of his name breaks the hold he had.

“If you want to be rough, you can.”

“What?” His head shoots up, confusion written across unfocused eyes. “W-Why?”

“I see you.” You swipe at hair matted over his forehead, mold your print in the drops of sweat laid over the veins in his neck. “And I want you to have it.”

Best case, Jungkook would need a few moments to process this, but you don't give him the pleasure. Every word is a shot fired on his self-control.

“I need you to feel good.” your voice is saccharine, its echo dripping in pleas through his bones. “That's what will make it better.”

“But then...” You're wrapping your thighs around his waist, letting him in. He has no idea what he's protesting.

That urge to suppress, that need, their noise is not yet muted—he hates how he's not done enough. Almost feels useless. But you need him for something else. Proof to his statement is the conviction attached to your request.

“You said you'll listen.” Although you don't mention his behaviour until now, implications hang heavy. “Why aren't you doing that when I tell you to do as you please?”

He's still lost, but now a new desire creeps up, whispering to him how nice it would be to obey. To stomp on his previous effort.

Too many sounds ring in his head, like radio static that shuts off when you press your forehead against his. “Be good, baby. Let go on me.”

Nice and sweet.

Jungkook listens and unravels before you. With rough drags of his cock against your pussy, you can't differentiate whether the mess on his boxers comes from you or him. He's messy yet mindful, angling up his thrusts, making the hit land right onto your clit, deep like he wants to fuck into you.

“Yes, yes—ngh—” This time it comes from him, but you're not far, with how you dig your nails into his muscles. Memories he'll feel for days, along with the strain it takes to keep the both of you upright. He speeds up as soon as you urge him to go faster, a toy on arches, flared up because of your request. Drifting away with the sensation, he almost loses footing when you whisper you're close.

Instead of hazy, the words are electric—he's more awake than he's ever been. Puts in so much work his bones rattle and lids screw shut when you cum, sounds so pretty and long they stretch out to rip his orgasm out of him.

Solemnly, his world quiets.

“You good, baby?” Serene, you massage the nape of his neck and let him cling to you until he can breathe again, “Gave me plenty to clean.”

Jungkook stares at the mess between your bodies before he's puffing out a laugh, “I could be better.”

You sit with him until he parts from you, then put your clothes back on. “Wait here, there's stuff in the cabinet that can help.”

“Hey...” you turn to him in question and he kisses you again. “Thank you.”

You return with the necessary supplies, handing him some wipes as you bend down to disinfect the sink. “It's not much, but it's not like I expected guys throwing themselves at me in my own shop.”

“I did not!” he puffs as he cleans himself up, winces from the sensitivity. “You just... well. Did that!”

“My job?” His eyes are wide and accusing, full of indignation. When you look back, he stares back as if challenged, ready to debate you. “I won't repeat the offense.”

Jungkook steps in front of you, confident and looming. “I'm not leaving until you admit.”

“I'll admit.” You nod, face brightening up as you tease him. “I was too good at my job and made you starstruck.”

He raises an eyebrow. “I'll be here all day.”

“There's security.”

“I'm strong.” His arms wrap around your waist for emphasis. You relax in his hold.

“I saw, big boy.” He's about to say something else but you're quick to cup his face and steal the words off his lips, tap at his pocket. “Hold onto this, okay? And call me if there's any trouble.”

Minutes after exiting, he has the gall to unmute his phone and sees the notifications pop; the top being a text from Namjoon in the groupchat sent over 20 minutes ago. 

that guy [4:16 p.m]: jsyk i respect your opinion but i'm putting this shit on mute if you mention anything about the PC version being better again

joonie hyung [4:50 p.m]: Jungkook?  joonie hyung [4:50 p.m]: Well? How did it go? 

Jungkook chuckles to himself, sitting on a nearby bench, mindful to the saline solution he bought from the front desk that’s now in his lap. Further contemplates the message as his fingers brush over the bobby pin still in his hair as a distraction from the piercing.

There is a bunch of nonsense that follows in the chat from Taehyung and Hoseok, but that's always easy to ignore–he blames it on the force of habit. The parlour's sign is a clear view diagonal from his position, background he sees fit for him at the moment. Jungkook angles his body so he's facing the opposite direction and snaps a picture of his reddened ear, careless to the rosy marks blooming right under. Your contact details are secure in his pocket, printed over the card you gave him, and despite how light they are, they bear the force to keep him grounded.  

Tapping the screen to quote Namjoon's reply, Jungkook keeps to his fashion: he's not the one for many words when it isn't needed.

He breaks into giggles. Thumbs up and peace sign emojis suffice.  

a/n: namjoon getting his tongue pierced is actually a reference to emma @.personawife’s fic piercings and piercer!yoongi is available over at @.yuengi in bad boys bring it to you which you should totally check out if u want more pierceverse! major thanks to lo for listening to me ramble about this cutie and helping me with the last bits of his character! • remember don’t get pierced with a gun OR a hoop and if you enjoyed please consider leaving a comment i’m starving and koko is not showing sleeve 

[celestialvoid-fanfiction]

Fangs and Claws

Stiles is a vampire that never really cared about the people he bit or killed—until he met Derek, that is.

  For @evanesdust​

(You can read it on AO3, here)

  The night air was cold, but it’d been so long since he’d felt it against his skin. The abysmally dark sky was lit with stars, the pale face of the moon staring down at them.

The two stood in the dark alleyway, shrouded from the outside world.

Warm blood dribbled down his chin, the man’s body growing heavier as they weakened in his arms. He felt the heat of the man’s blood fill him, warming him for just a moment and filling him with a brief nostalgia of what it had felt like to be alive.

He heard the man’s breathing grow fainter, the look of ecstasy on his face weakening as the colour began to drain from his face. The flow of blood began to slow as his pulse faded.

The man let out one last weak breath before falling completely still.

Stiles dew back, running his tongue across his lips as he savoured the thick, metallic taste of blood that lingered in his mouth. He stepped back, letting the man’s body crumble to the ground, hitting the uneven tiles of the alleyway with a sickening thud.

He looked down at the man in disgust, a twisted smile lifting the corners of his lips as he ran his tongue across his fangs.

He heard footsteps nearby and turned to see a large figure standing at the end of the alley way, his silhouette backlit but the glow of the streetlight. He stood still, his hands buried in the pockets of his black leather jacket.

Stiles let out an exasperated sigh.

“What do you want?” he said, irritation and disgust adding a sharp edge to his voice.

The silhouette took a step forward, their eyes ignited with a threatening crimson glow.

Stiles’ eyes lit up in response, his usually dark brown irises glowing with a burgundy hue as he levelled the ‘wolf with an unimpressed look.

“You can’t keep killing people,” the alpha said, his deep husky voice carried through the shadows.

Stiles rolled his eyes. He used the sleeve of his hooded jacket to wipe the blood off his chin before turning to face the newcomer.

“I’m three hundred years old,” Stiles said. “I stopped caring about morality somewhere along the line.”

The man didn’t flinch.

“If you’re here to fight me—”

“I’m here to get you to stop,” the alpha said with finality. “One way or another.”

“What? You’re hoping we can come to a compromise?” Stiles scoffed.

He took another step towards the wolf, the light shifting to reveal the man’s face.

His raven-black hair was tousled by the night breeze, his strong jaw shadowed by the thin scruff of a beard, and his pale aventurine eyes were focused on Stiles.

“I’m hoping we could be civil about this,” he said.

Stiles screwed up his face.

“You have hunters on your trail,” the ‘wolf warned him. “And the more bodies you leave behind, the closer they get to you.”

“I’ve evaded hunters for centuries,” Stiles said dismissively.

“I wouldn’t underestimate the Argents if I were you,” he warned.

“Oh? Is that so?” Stiles asked.

He took another step closer, jolting as something tore through his body.

Stiles blinked in surprise.

He looked down at himself, taking in the sight of the crossbow bolt that jutted out of his side. The rush of pain followed, the searing agony flooding through him as he doubled over.

Blood seeped from the wound, droplets of crimson splattering across the pavement.

“Shit,” Stiles hissed under his breath.

His eyes fluttered as he tried to steady himself. He blinked against the haze that swept over the world. He could only hear his breath as it rolled through his lungs, his blood thumping against his ears.

The ‘wolf spun around, searching the shadows.

“Come with me,” he said, grabbing Stiles’ arm and pulling him down the street.

Stiles’ legs pedalled beneath him, making him stumble and stagger behind the man as he let the stranger drag him down the street and over to a car.

The man hauled open the door and ushered Stiles inside, quickly skirting around the hood before jumping into the driver’s seat. He turned the key, the car’s engine roaring to life.

Stiles was thrown back as the car tore away from the curb and down the street.

He let out a measured breath, trying to ignore the worried looks the man sent his way.

Stiles straightened up in his seat, leaning back against it as he tightened his jaw and curled his hand around the shaft of the bolt.

He drew in a deep breath, bracing himself, and pulled the arrow from his side.

“Holy shit,” he hissed through gritted teeth, the rush of pain making him shudder and his eyes flash with colour.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” the wolf scolded.

“Well, it’s not going to heal if the bolt is still in me,” Stiles retorted.

They drove through the empty streets and towards the isolated part of the town where manufacturing plants and old workhouses had been abandoned for years.

The glass of the streetlamps were clouded and muddy, the old bulbs strobing and flickering as they struggled to hold onto life. The surrounding buildings were decrepit: old workshops and industrial buildings, some in ruins – with buckling walls, crumpled bricks and streams of water coursing through the rubble like ravines - and others were just abandoned and tagged with crude sprawls of spray-paint.

The building they were looking for stood tall among the rest, old but not the least bit damaged.

It was a huge, intimidating industrial brown-brick building that stood at least ten storeys high; high enough to look over the entirety of Beacon Hills.

The wolf parked the car out the front of the building, turning off the engine and letting the roar die off into the quiet of the night.

“Come on,” he said as he climbed out of the car.

Stiles drew in a measured breath and reluctantly followed.

The ‘wolf made his way over to the large double doors that marked the entrance, disabling the alarm and stepping inside.

Stiles limped after him, holding his wounded side. He stopped before the threshold, looking at the man.

“What?” the man asked.

“Seriously?” Stiles said, narrowing his eyes at him as he tried to work out if he was messing with him or if he genuinely didn’t know.

The man’s brow furrowed, his eyebrows knitting together in confusion.

“You’re enjoying this aren’t you?” Stiles asked.

“Enjoying what?”

He genuinely doesn’t know, Stiles realised.

“You have to invite me in,” Stiles told him.

“What?”

Stiles’ jaw tensed, his frustration and anger made worse by the blood loss.

“I cannot enter a building unless I’m invited it,” he clarified.

“Oh,” the wolf said. “Uh, please come in?”

Stiles rolled his eyes and let out an exaggerated sigh. “Good enough.”

He stepped over the threshold and into the large lobby of the partially renovated building.

“Follow me,” the wolf said, heading for the winding staircase that led up to the higher floors.

Stiles did as he was told, holding onto the rail as he pulled himself up the stairs. He could feel his body weakening, his stomach growling and his mouth salivating as his hunger grew.

“I’m Derek, by the way,” he said as they climbed.

“Stiles,” he replied.

Derek led him up to the loft, pulling open the heavy iron sliding door.

Stiles stepped into the open space.

“Take a seat,” Derek said as he shut the door. “Let’s get you patched up.”

Stiles reluctantly sat down on the couch, feeling his energy drain as he let his head fall back against the cushion, lolling to one side as he looked out the large windows at the starry sky.

Derek came out of the bathroom a moment later, carrying a small first aid kit. He set it down on the small coffee table, pulling out sterilising wipes and gauze before lifting the hem of Stiles’ blood-soaked shirt.

His pale flesh had been torn by the bolt, streams of blood coursing across his side.

Derek carefully cleaned the wound, flinching whenever Stiles hissed or jolted from the pain. He turned back to the first aid kit, pulling out a needle and thread and making quick work of stitching up Stiles’ wound before taping the gauze in place.

Once he was done, he stepped back and cleared everything away.

Stiles felt his stomach tense. He doubled over, wincing in pain as he clutched his stomach.

“What’s wrong?” Derek asked, his voice full of worry.

“I shouldn’t be here,” Stiles said.

“Why not?”

“When a vampire is wounded, they need blood to heal,” Stiles explained, drawing in breaths through gritted teeth. “I’ve lost enough blood that I’m on the verge of bloodlust.”

“I can’t let you go, not if you’re going to kill more people,” Derek said.

“I don’t think you’ll have a choice,” Stiles told him, his eyes burning burgundy as he glared up at him.

“What if we make a deal?” Derek proposed. “I can heal faster than a human can. You can drink my blood on the condition you don’t go after any more humans. Deal?”

Stiles looked up at him. He let out a sigh. “Deal.”

Derek sat down on the couch beside him, shrugging off his jacket and tossing it over the back of the couch.

The bloodlust was setting in; Stiles could hear the man’s pulse, he could smell the blood in his veins.”

“You have to stop before you kill me,” Derek reminded him.

“I know,” Stiles replied, his voice tense.

Derek unbuttoned the top of his Henley and pulled the fabric away from his neck. He tilted his head slightly, exposing his throat.

Stiles hesitated, realising how much trust the ‘wolf had in him. There was nothing stopping him from killing Derek and going on a bloody rampage through Beacon Hills, and yet Derek trusted him to keep his word.

Stiles let out a small sigh, leaning forward and sinking his teeth into Derek’s throat.

The man drew in a sharp gasp as Stiles’ fangs tore into his skin, but it turned to a sigh of ecstasy as the endorphins flooded his veins. His pale aventurine eyes were blown black, his eyes fluttering slightly and his lips trembling with weak breaths.

Stiles felt the warmth of Derek’s blood flow into his mouth, relief filling him. He let out a sigh, feeling the tension and cravings subside.

Derek let out a euphoric moan as his hands fell against Stiles’ back, gently grasping at the fabric of his jacket.

Stiles expected him to push him away, but instead Derek arched towards him, inviting him closer.

It took every ounce of strength Stiles had to stay in control.

He drew back slowly, savouring the taste of the blood in his mouth. He swallowed hard, feeling the cravings subside and his wound began to heal.

Derek swayed slightly as he slumped on his side, resting against the back of the couch. His tan skin had paled, his cheeks flushed slightly as he tried to steady his breathing. His pupils were dilated but he struggled to keep his eyes open, his mind turning to cotton as the endorphins clouded his thoughts.

“You should rest,” Stiles said, his voice quiet and soft.

Derek hummed, still weary and unable to find his voice.

Stiles let out a sigh. He rose to his feet, pulling Derek’s arm over his shoulder and lifting the man to his feet. He ignored the burning pain in his side as he half-carried, half-dragged Derek over to the bed in the corner of the loft.

He laid the man down, pulling the blankets up over his shoulders.

Derek let out a sigh as he sank into his bed, his heavy eyes fluttering shut as exhaustion took its toll.

Stiles stayed by his side for a moment, watching as the puncture wounds on his throat healed over, leaving no trace.

After a while, he made his way back over to the couch, grabbing the blanket off the back of the sofa and draping it over himself as he lay down on the cushions. He lay on his back, staring out the large windows at the stars that filled the night sky.

 -----------------------------

 Derek woke with a start as the sound of a gut-wrenching scream tore through the loft. He threw back the blankets and leapt to his feet just in time to see Stiles run from the lounge room into the small kitchenette.

Derek ran after him, sliding to a halt as he looked down at the hunched figure in the corner of the kitchen, trying to stifle his broken sobs.

Beneath the shadows that covered Stiles’ face, Derek could see the weeping, blistering burn across the side of Stiles’ face.

The sunlight, Derek realised, looking back out towards the lounge room that was lit in the golden glow of the morning light.

“Are you alright?” Derek asked, crouching in front of Stiles.

“No,” Stiles hissed through gritted teeth.

Derek reached out to him. “Let me see.”

Stiles swatted away his hand.

“Let me see,” Derek insisted, sliding a finger beneath Stiles’ chin and gently turning his face.

Stiles let him, slowly lowering his arms to reveal the weeping welts that covered his face and the back of his shaking hands.

He hated the look of pain and pity that passed over Derek’s face.

“I’ve got burn cream and aloe vera,” Derek said, studying the burns on Stiles’ face. “It won’t help it heal any faster but it’ll take the sting off of it.”

“I’m fine,” Stiles said quietly.

Derek’s eyes lingered on his face. Despite his heightened vision, he hadn’t gotten a good look at Stiles last night, and now that he was this close to him, he couldn’t help but look at him.

His dark hair was a tousled mess, his chocolate brown eyes sparkling as they caught the light. His skin was as pale as moonlight, but he did well to dress in obnoxiously clashing clothes to distract from it. Moles charted constellations across his skin like stars across the night sky. When he turned his head, Derek could see the faded pink scars of where he had first been bitten.

Even with the large burn on the side of his face, he looked fierce.

Stiles shifted under his gaze.

Derek forced himself to look away. He rose to his feet, picking up the first aid kit from where he’d set it aside on the island bench in the middle of the small kitchen. He fished out the burn cream and gauze before turning to get the aloe vera from the fridge, setting them down on the edge of the island counter.

“Help yourself,” he said before turning and leaving.

Stiles waited until his footsteps faded further away before dragging himself across the polished concrete floor. He grabbed the edge of the island and used it to pull himself up, feeling himself tremble as he struggled to stay upright.

He grabbed the aloe gel and began to treat the blistering raw wounds.

He could hear the swish of fabric from where Derek was out in the open lounge room, but he ignored it, at least until he noticed the space began to darken.

He finished bandaging up his hands and crept closer to the doorway.

The loft was in complete darkness aside from the small stream of light that came from the corner where Derek’s bed was.

He stepped into the space, looking to see Derek on a small ladder, pinning heavy blankets and makeshift curtains in place.

“What are you doing?” Stiles asked.

Derek looked over his shoulder at him, then back to the thick duvet he was pinning in place with clips. There was a hint of confusion in his voice – as if what he was doing wasn’t obvious – as well as a lighter note of pride as he said, “Making curtains.”

“Why?”

“Because sunlight hurts you,” Derek answered, his brow furrowed in confusion.

“Why do you care?” Stiles asked, his voice edged with frustration.

“Because, believe it or not, I don’t care if you’re a vampire, a werewolf, a human, or whatever—I don’t like it when people get hurt.”

Stiles rolled his eyes.

“My bleeding heart,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

“A ‘thank you’ would be nice,” Derek huffed, turning back to the duvet and fixing it in place.

Stiles let out a measured breath, swallowing his pride. His voice was quiet as he said, “Thank you.”

“There’s a bathroom over there,” Derek said, pointing at the far wall. “You can clean yourself up if you want. I’ll bring you a change of clothes.”

Stiles nodded and made his way over to the bathroom, shutting the door behind himself. He turned the shower on and waited for the water to rattle through the pipes. He stripped off his blood-soaked shirt and jacket, looking down at where the bolt had impaled him.

The wound had healed over, but it was still raw; the skin over the wound was pink and his side was still tender.

He looked up at the mirror, hoping for a second, he’d catch a glimpse of his reflection in order to see just how bad the burn was, but although they were also made with nickel and chromium, the silver backing to the mirror dispersed his image, leaving only the reflection of the bathroom as the steam began to fog up the bottom of the mirror.

Stiles stepped into the shower, letting out a sigh of relief as the hot water caressed his skin. He looked down at the bottom of the shower, watching as swirls of water stained red disappeared down the drain.

He made sure to keep his bandaged hand out of the streaming water.

A short while later there was a knock at the door.

Derek cracked it open, just enough to reach in and set a pile of clothes down on the counter before shutting the door again.

Stiles finished showering, drying himself off and getting dressed.

Derek had left him a pair of jeans, a dusty blue Henley and a dark grey bomber jacket. They were a few sizes too big, but Stiles found that strangely comforting.

He stepped back out into the loft, breathing out a sigh of relief as he looked at the blocked out wall of windows.

There was a clatter of dishes in the kitchen.

Stiles crossed over, stepping into the small kitchen.

“How do you feel?” Derek asked, not looking over his shoulder.

“Better,” Stiles answered.

He crossed over to the kitchen island, lifting himself up and sitting on the countertop.

Derek turned to Stiles. “Can I ask you a question?”

“If you must,” Stiles replied, somewhat resigned.

“How were you bitten?”

Stiles’ hand instinctively reached for is neck, his fingertips brushing across the faint pink scars.

“I was attacked,” Stiles answered, his voice quiet and his mind elsewhere. “The vampire who bit me was trying to raise an army. The next day, a hunter cut his head off. I ran away the first chance I got.”

“And when exactly did you lose your morality?” Derek asked, the sudden question startling Stiles.

“What?”

“You said last night that you lost your morality,” Derek reminded him. “I’m just curious about when, and why.”

Stiles let out a measured breath. He leant forward, bracing his arms against his knees as he stared down at the floor.

“Not at first. When I was first bitten, I knew someone who worked at a hospital,” Stiles told him. “He would sneak me out pints of blood that were close to their expiration date. But, one day, an earthquake struck the town; buildings caved in and the hospital was flooded with so many injured people that they couldn’t help them all. I told my friend that he should save the blood for them.”

“That was very… considerate of you,” Derek said.

“I suppose,” Stiles muttered. “But a second wave hit and he was trapped in a building as it came down on top of him. When rescuers pulled him from the rubble, he was dead.”

Derek was silent.

“I managed to make it a few weeks, hoping that if I went long enough that I could just starve myself to death—and this time I’d stay dead.”

“But it didn’t happen like that?” Derek guessed.

Stiles gestured at himself. “Clearly.”

“So what happened?”

“I was hiding in an alley when I saw this group of men picking on a boy because he was gay. They threw him to the ground and called him some rather cruel names as they beat him up. I tried to stay out of it, but the smell of his blood on the concrete sent me into a blood rage.”

Stiles sat back.

“I snapped their necks, tore open their throats, gutted them, and left them screaming and crying in fear. Hearing them beg me to let them live made me feel powerful, made me realise that I am what I am, and I can deny it all I want, but at the end of the day, I’m a monster. So I embraced that. I left my morality in that alley way and I never looked back.”

“What happened to the boy they were beating up?” Derek asked.

Stiles shrugged. “I let him go.”

“That doesn’t sound like something a monster would do,” Derek pointed out, levelling Stiles with a look.

“Save your ‘You’re a vampire, not a monster’ speech for some who cares,” Stiles snarked.

Derek let out a sigh.

Stiles could see in his face that he wanted to push further, to tell Stiles he wasn’t beyond redemption or absolution, but Stiles had lived too long—killed too many people—he knew what he was; a monster.

But he’d be lying if he said that there wasn’t some part of him, deep down, that wanted to hear Derek say it.

“Is it true that different bloods taste different?” Derek asked, trying to change the subject.

“Yeah,” Stiles confirmed. “A blood tends to have a stronger taste that can be quite unpalatable, B blood tends to be bitter, and O blood groups are sweet. You have O blood, by the way. But supernatural blood tastes… different. It’s hard to explain.”

He ran his hand down his face.

“I need sleep,” he muttered, sliding off the bench and dragging his feet across the floor.

“You’re welcome to take the bed,” Derek offered.

“Pass,” Stiles replied, sluggishly walking over to the couch and curling up on the cushions.

When he woke hours later, here was a blanket draped over him and a throw cushion nestled under his head like a pillow.

He looked over to where Derek sat on his bed, leaning into a thin strip of sunlight as he read an old hardcover book.

Stiles nestled into the warmth of the blanket, a small smile turning up the corners of his lips slightly.

  -----------------------------

 Before Stiles knew it, he’d spent weeks at Derek’s. Derek had installed proper blackout curtains across the wall of windows that he pulled open once the sun had set so that they could look up at the stars.

Derek kept his word; he willingly offered himself to Stiles and let the vampire drink. And when the endorphins clouded his mind, Stiles took care of him.

As the days went by, Stiles began to stretch out the time between feedings, waiting until he was on the verge of bloodlust but still able to control himself enough that he wouldn’t hurt Derek or take it too far.

Derek noticed, but he pretended not to.

The longer they spent together, the more they got to know each other.

Bit by bit, Stiles felt the walls he’d spent centuries building up slowly crumble, until one day they toppled down completely.

Derek was getting ready for bed, foregoing the nightly argument over who should get the bed or the offers to share. Instead, he was lecturing Stiles about his attitude and what it would make others think about him.

“I don’t care what other people think about me,” Stiles argued. “I care what…”

“What?” Derek prompted.

“I care what you think of me,” he admitted.

Derek was taken back. “Why?”

“I don’t know why,” Stiles said, turning away from him. “I just… do.”

Derek turned to walk away, but stopped and turned to Stiles, his pale aventurine eyes studying him.

“I have a question for you,” he started.

Stiles looked up at him. “What?”

“If things had been different and you had a choice, would you have chosen not to kill anyone?”

Stiles opened his mouth to reply, but the words fell short of his lips. He shut his mouth, pursing his lips together as he dropped his gaze.

Yes, he thought.

Derek didn’t wait for an answer, he turned back to his sectioned off room, leaving Stiles sitting alone in the silence.

He felt the tears roll down his cheek before he realised he was crying, the tears falling from his chin and shattering cross the polished concrete floors like glass.

“I never wanted this,” he said breathlessly, his voice barely audible, but Derek heard him.

The man turned back to Stiles, looking back at the figure that lay hunched over on the couch. He crossed back over to Stiles’ side.

Stiles looked up at him, his tear-filled eyes gleaming in the moonlight. His pale cheeks were dampened as his tears fell.

“I never wanted…” Stiles’ voice broke off as he drew in a broken breath, dropping his gaze o the floor again. “I never wanted to be a monster.”

Derek knelt in front of him, sliding a finger under his chin and gently coaxing him to look up. Derek’s heartbreak was reflected in his eyes.

“You’re not a monster,” he said softly.

“You don’t know,” Stiles said. “You don’t know the things I’ve done… How many people I’ve killed.”

Derek’s heart broke; Stiles was so broken.

Tears streamed down Stiles’ face.

“Tell me,” Derek started, his voice quiet and soft. “Why did you kill those men who were attacking the boy?”

“I told you, the smell of the kid’s blood sent me into a blood rage,” Stiles answered.

“But why did you kill them, and not the kid?”

Stiles paused, thinking.

“I don’t know,” he replied. “I felt sorry for him. He’d done nothing wrong.”

“And what about the guy the other night?” Derek asked. “Why did you go after him?”

Stiles thought back to the man in the alley.

“He’d been beating his son,” Stiles answered.

“Can you name a single person you killed who didn’t –in some way – deserve to be punished?” Derek asked.

Stiles thought for a moment. He shook his head.

“It doesn’t sound like you’re a monster,” Derek said. “A vigilante, maybe, but not a monster.”

Stiles met his gaze, the light from the nearby lamp turning his dark brown irises into pools of gold as he looked at Derek.

Derek looked back at him, his stern features soft and his eyes sincere.

He reached out and took Stiles’ hands in his.

Stiles flinched at the warmth of the man’s touch, a shiver dragging itself down his spine, but he didn’t look away from Derek’s eyes.

Derek gently brushed the ball of his thumb across the back of Stiles’ hand, carefully caressing the tender pink mark from where the sunlight had burnt him days ago.

He leant in close, his face hovering centimetres from Stiles’. He waited for Stiles to push him away, but he didn’t.

He rested his forehead against Stiles’, his heart hammering against his ribs.

Stiles tilted his face, closing the distance between them and bringing their lips together in a tender, sweet kiss.

Derek lifted his hand to Stiles’ face, gently cupping his pale cheek. He tilted his head, deepening the kiss.

Stiles let his breath fall from his lungs as his shoulders dropped. His eyes fluttered shut as he looped his arms around Derek’s neck, balling the fabric of his Henley into his fists and desperately clinging to him.

Derek dropped his hands to Stiles’ waist and pulled him close, enveloping him in his warmth. He ran his tongue across Stiles’ bottom lip and moaned as he obediently opened his mouth to welcome Derek’s tongue.

Stiles sighed in return, lifting a hand to the nape of Derek’s neck. He wove his fingers into Derek’s hair, pulling soft tufts into his fist as the other hand running down the man’s shoulder, bicep and back, wanting to feel every inch of him.

His lungs burnt so much he wanted to cry but he desperately didn’t want to let go. He fell weak in Derek’s arms.

Derek drew back, licking his lips and grinning at Stiles’ euphoric expression.

Stiles tilted his chin, chasing his Derek’s lips. He felt Derek chuckle against his mouth as he brought them back together again. He kissed him lightly, drawing away quickly as he craned his neck and placed a trail of kisses across the boy’s cheek, jaw, chin, and neck. He stayed there, gently sucking and nipping at Stiles’ pale skin and moles; brushing his teeth against them just hard enough to make the young man moan but not hard enough to leave a mark. He pressed soft kisses against the pale marks of the scars from when he’d been bitten before slowly trailing back up the curve of his neck and brining his lips to Stiles’ again.

Stiles grabbed the front of his shirt, pulling Derek on top of him as he fell back against the couch cushions.

Derek shifted, straddling Stiles’ waist and pinning him against the sofa as they lost themselves the kiss.

Finally, Derek drew back slowly, resting his forehead against Stiles’ as the two of them fought to catch their breath.

Stiles slowly opened his eyes, his dark irises glowing with a burgundy hue.

Derek’s eyes lit up in return.

A fanged smirk slowly turned up the corners of Stiles’ lips.

Derek let out a breathless chuckle, leaning forward and bringing their lips together again.

They stayed that way the rest of the night.

  -----------------------------

 Words could not describe how beautiful Stiles was as he lay stretched out across the bed, the silvery moonlight illuminating his pale skin.

Derek couldn’t take his eyes off of him.

They’d been together for months, but it felt like longer—it felt like they were meant to be together.

Derek rested his head on the pillow, staring lovingly into Stiles’ eyes as he ran his fingers down Stiles’  bare chest, down to where the rippling blanket covered his waist.

His soft fingertips brushed across the fading scar from where the bolt had impaled him. His hand lingered there for a moment, his soft expression turning to one of pain as he looked down at Stiles’ side.

“I never said thank you for that night,” Stiles said, his voice quiet.

“You didn’t have to,” Derek replied, looking back up at Stiles.

Stiles met his gaze. A soft smile played across his lips as he pushed himself up onto his elbows. He gently cupped Derek’s cheek and leant forward, bringing his lips to Derek’s in a tender, loving kiss.

He drew back slowly, resting his forehead against Derek’s as he whispered, “Thank you.”

Derek smiled back at him, craning his neck and bringing their lips together again.

[butterflies-in-dust]

So I found this... while scouting for Au's to write . And I don't know who this was as the person messaged anonymously.

But I'm still gonna do it.

Nico was tired. He knew that a tattoo was a important and symbolic one ; especially, when the tattoo was of a younger sibling who just passed . The boy he had just inked it on had started to sob mid-way.

Such things also needed a lot of detail work like getting the proportions right , the shading and the expression right. It had drained Nico and the fact that he was ADHD made it worse. He liked being a tattoo artist but when he picked up on big projects like this, he would fixate himself too much into it.

Numbing himself to everything else and his concentration fixtured directly at what he was doing.

The worst part was, he knew what it was like to lose a sibling. His older sister Bianca had died to an accident when he was just ten . He had pictured himself bringing her back to life but then he had realised that death was final and was not to be played with.

That might also be the reason why he never got a tattoo of Bianca's face on his body.

Now you'd except him to be completely covered in ink and colour, but he wasn't. He found it aesthetically pleasing to see his olive skin clash with the beautiful etched designs. Why to mess up the beautiful colours that nature had created in her time .

His tattoos were like doodles you would make on a maths homework. Some on the left, some on the right. Not quite covering the whole thing. He had made them in those places where he had self harmed.

His birth date tattooed on his left wrist in roman numerals , a skull on his right one, a raven on his right thigh and a obsidian sword on his shoulder ; spreading across his shoulder bone to his bicep . And lastly a dragon on his left shouder. All the places where self harms cuts had earlier been was tattooed now.

The only one out of place was a sun tattoo. It looked like mavi's tattoo from moana that hazel had pointed out ( why would Nico ever sit to watch a Disney movie???) . The tattoo was on his left pectoral and it did not match his aesthetic. But what could he do? It had appeared when he was fifteen . The day his soulmate had gotten his first tattoo. Nico had never gotten a tattoo earlier and he was still self harming then. He guessed his soulmate was older than him of about a few years. Definitely a fifteen year old or younger wouldn't get that big of a tattoo.

When he first met Percy, Nico had thought he was probably a person who would get a sun tattoo on his chest. Swimming in the ocean all day , sunbathing and teching kids surfing . Yep ,Definitely has a sun tattoo. That also got his hopes up higher.

The shop bell chimed on his left and a blonde boy walked in wearing a shirt and blue jeans. Nico hadn't seen him earlier in town and now he was down to get laid . He noticed the blonde's blue eyes and slightly visible biceps.

Perfect body. Just nico's type.

"Hey"

"Hi" Nico replied

"Umm... i came for a new tattoo on my waist. You're the main tattoo guy?" The blonde boy spoke while scanning the room.

"Yes I am , you look nervous , if this your first tattoo?" Nico questioned.

"Oh no" he explained. He had gotten tattoos earlier. It's just he was studying to become a doctor and he was really concerned about getting infected and stuff. The tattoo parlors in his town aren't that clean for his liking so while he is visting his friend in this town get thought he might just get a new tattoo.

Nico nodded at his explanation and told him that all his equipment was strelized and wiped. He definitely didn't wannna infect that hot boy.

"So ? When's it gonna be?"

" The store is free at twelve pm tommorow, come after taking a bath without any sweat or dirt on you," Nico answerd " -And please write your name and phone number in the booklet on the desk. I'll calk you if you're late " he stammered the last lines.

As soon a the blonde left , Nico stopped doing whatever he was doing to get his name.

William solace.

- The next day-

Nico was hurriedly wiping the benches and sterilising his needles . He had given him an appointment at 12 pm because he knew no one would come disturb the conversation between them and he would have the free time to hit on William.

The door chimed again,

" Hi William "

"You can call me Will"

" okay so , wanna start?"

"Yes sure"

"Take your shirt off " Nico said and turned his back towards will . As much as he wanted to check him out , he knew he shouldn't be a creep . Anyway he would get a chance to touch his body when he was tattooing him.

Will walked forward and sat on the bench. Nico looked at his face and noticed the very prominent and well noticed Sun tattoo on Will's left pectoral.

Nico was trying to hide his stammering when he asked how many tattoos William has.

Will looked up and opened his watch, underneath were Roman numerals printed ,as it a copy of what nico had.

XXVIIII

28 and 1

28th of January

Will looked at Nico's wrist and gleamed at his face.

"Yea it's my birthday today" nico explained.