#i still have the photo of the sketch she did before i inked it

[colleendoran]

How Do I Do Stuff

The question was phrased a little strangely, and I don't want to embarrass the person by posting exactly what was said, but I'll answer it and hope this clears everything up.

I do almost all of my drawing by hand. No, I don't trace in Photoshop. Not a judgment on those who do, but I come from a generation of artists who did not use Poser programs or other digital tools. We learned to draw using a technique called the Sight Size method. I know a lot of people assume everyone - including the old masters - traced everything using optical tools, but while it is true some people did, it is just as true that most didn't, and you can draw with great accuracy if you learned how to draw the old fashioned way.

Sight Size breaks everything down into its barest components of geometric shapes and you build from there. Once you learn it, you never forget, and it applies to everything you will ever draw.

I learned it using a set of Famous Artist Course books my mom had since she was a kid, and they are still the gold standard. They're often on ebay. If I were you, I'd buy them.

I actually find using figure reference really annoying because I like exaggerations and modifications from reality in my final work.

This page from Neil Gaiman's Chivalry was drawn and painted without figure reference of any kind.

I don't know why people assume I trace all the time. If you were to try to use photographs to replicate these figures, you would find they are slightly off. There is no tracing here.

This is not to say I never use reference. This page, for example, was referenced from a photo of my mother. Isn't she pretty.

But this page of Sir Galaad was drawn and painted without reference.

He's pretty, too.

If he were real, I'm sure a lot of people would be very happy about it. But he's not. And had I reference, the art would have gone a lot faster. I had a time trying to nail this face that is very alive in my head but doesn't really exist.

Back in the ancient days, all cartoonists had to learn to draw and paint extemporaneously because reference was limited and digital tools didn't exist. While some high end artists had photography studios and professional models with costume and sets on hand, small fry like me were limited to what was in the house or available at my small local library, which was no bigger than a few rooms of my current house.

Artists kept extensive "morgue files" or "swipe files" which were collected from magazine clippings and photographs so we would have as much of what we might need on hand for quick reference. These ephemera collections could get unwieldy. I have thousands of photographs I've simply never sorted. I finally dumped most of my files this past year.

Have I ever traced anything? Of course, especially if I have to re-use a shot or setting over and over. Making extra work for myself is just silly. It's my job to make pictures, not to perform magical feats, like copying one shot after another over and over without making a mistake.

However, for almost 15 years of my career, I refused to copy or trace anything, and did not even own a lightbox. On the one hand, that forced me to learn to carefully examine what I saw. On the other hand, it was a stupid hill on which many deadlines died.

Only after I realized many professional artists had lightboxes and overhead projectors did I finally break down and get one.

The one thing I use my lightbox for more than anything is for tracing my thumbnail sketches to the final drawing paper. Instead of trying to capture the liveliness of the original sketch by copying what I see - only bigger - I blow the thumbnail up to the size I want the final art to be, then I trace over the thumbnail using a lightbox onto the final drawing paper.

Here's a look at thumbnails from the graphic novel Neil Gaiman's Snow, Glass, Apples.

I enlarged these on my computer to fit onto 11"x14" paper, and traced the thumbs before finishing the art which was drawn in pen and ink and colored in Photoshop.

While I obviously made some changes, the essence of the thumbs is there in the final work. Tracing my thumbs retains some of the looseness of the original sketches, which is often lost otherwise.

So, there is a valid purpose to tracing at times, though in my opinion, too much tracing can weaken drawing ability, substitute for developing skills, and make the work kind of stiff.

If you want to, I'm not your judge. But it's weird to me that people think I must be faking my skills in some way.

Ironically, the word cartoon comes from the Italian word cartone, which is a large heavy sheet of paper - also, the origin of the word carton.

Preparatory sketches were made on this paper which was then transferred to the final work surface via either tracing or by stamping little holes in the paper through which dust was sprinkled, recreating the contours of the drawing for the artist to follow.

So the origin of the word cartoon comes from a process often used...for tracing.

[man-i-love-fanfiction]

To Share the Space with Simple Living Things-Hozier x Fem!Florist!Reader

Chapter Two: Daffodils - New Beginnings

Summary: Andrew comes back to pay you, but not before spending some much-needed time at his day job.

Word count: 2439

Author's note: thank you all so much for the positivity the first chapter!!! i cannot wait to keep working on this fic, you guys make it all worth it. i'm really fond of this chapter so hopefully you all enjoy :)

tag list: @celery-grace @gayandfairycore @deathmybride @harry-bowie-mercury @hodgepodge-musings @blue-eyed-bug @secretttytttttttttt @dinner-n-dxatribes (if you want to be added just let me know!)

fic below the cut <3

Andrew did not take two days to come back. He took one day.

He chalked it up to him feeling guilty. What you did for him was a very unnecessary act of kindness. What was he supposed to do? Take his time? Absolutely not.

Admittedly, a small part of it was also that he wanted to see your face again. Not that it mattered, but he wondered what the smile on your face would look like when he told you his mother loved the flowers, and that she immediately put them in her nicest vase and in direct sunlight, wanting to maintain them for as long as possible. He wanted to know more about flower language, something he had done a Google search for when he arrived at home, but he had faith you knew much more than what the internet could tell him. And most importantly, it seemed very one-sided that you had his number and he didn't have yours.

Again, not that it mattered.

It was also an issue of convenience. Andrew tried to plan out his day on the commute to work, and luckily you fit right into his schedule. Your shop was only a few minutes away from where he worked. He could walk over to you during his lunch break, pay you back, and still grab a bite to eat. If he was willing to skip lunch, he could even try to talk to you for a little bit.

Anyway, he was getting sidetracked. He had a lot to do today; he should have much more important things on his mind. This is what he thought about as he pulled into the parking lot. He only had three clients, but he could already tell one of them would be a tall order. Thankfully, that was his first appointment, so he could get that over with. Then, hopefully, he’d repay you, maybe chat, and get back to work.

Right. Work. Love wouldn’t exactly describe his feelings towards his job. Appreciation, definitely. He was grateful that he wasn’t stuck behind an office desk and had a job that could actually let him express his creativity. However, the amount of effort and concentration he had to put into his job on a daily basis was something he dreaded and others (especially his customers) overlooked. He couldn’t truly complain. It was worth it for the end result, and for the happiness on the customer’s face.

Enjoyment probably described his feelings best. Andrew enjoyed being a tattoo artist. A fitting thought to have right as he entered the shop.

He greeted his coworkers with a wave and a polite smile, as always (though seeing his best friend Alex at their shared workplace constituted a high-five instead). Attempting to start working as soon as he could, he scrolled through the photos on his phone and pulled up the sketch of what he'd be inking today: two deer lying down side by side, decomposing. Sure, drawing a decaying animal on someone else’s body wasn’t how most people would choose to start their day. It was an unorthodox choice, but he understood the appeal. It was poetic, in a gruesome way, the concept of never being able to be pulled away from the one you love, not even in death. Decomposing, but still being joyous because at least your partner was still by your side. A lyric without a melody came to him.

After the insects have made their claim, I’d be home with you.

Andrew let out a deep sigh. This would happen to him sometimes; the simple act of anything from sketching a design to reading his favorite book caused couplets to sprout in his head. It gave him this guilt, like he was cheating on his career and songwriting was the other woman, but people are allowed to be multifaceted. Besides, his ability to write songs never did evolve into something substantial. If anything, it was a hobby. Just another creative outlet — and Andrew was always itching to create.

His customer walked in a few minutes afterwards, and he got ready to get to work. He had met her before: a thin, freckled young woman with a wide smile and one small tattoo on her shoulder. They exchanged pleasantries, confirmed that she approved of the design, and made small talk as he printed the stencil. He cleansed his workspace and let his client get as comfortable as possible before he began.

He took his time inking the design, meticulously needling each detail he'd crafted. The shading, the fungi surrounding the deer, the exposed, rotting ribcage. What he was most proud of was the subtle looks on the animals’ faces, purposefully made to be filled with both solemnness of their passing, but overall content. Calmness, even. The lyric he had created before played over and over in his head, despite his multiple attempts to push it away.

By the time he’d finished up, his hand was cramping so hard he was concerned it might fall off, a pain familiar to him but one that he never fully got accustomed to. All that aching for something he wasn't even done with; he’d need to have another session to fully finish the job.

Gloves were removed, payments were accepted, and follow-up sessions were scheduled. He took a photo of his work in progress, with the consent of his client. Other artists did this often, but Andrew wasn't one for so much commemoration of his art. He felt too much of an attachment to this specific work, however, and felt he'd be letting himself down if he didn't get to at least have it in his phone. He waved the client (and his artwork) goodbye. Alex walked by, drinking a coffee that had undoubtedly gone cold. He raised an eyebrow, wordlessly asking Andrew what he was doing.

“I’m going on a walk. I have to go back to the florist.”

“Weren't you literally there yesterday for your mum?”

“It's to pay them back. I… technically never paid for the bouquet,” Andrew explained as he shrugged on his jacket.

“Oh, so you stole those flowers? Have fun doing tattoos in prison!”

“I didn't steal them, the woman working there said I could take them as long as I paid her back in two days.” He stuck his hands in his pockets to make sure he had his wallet this time. A perplexed look came across Alex’s face.

“What kind of shady florist are you going to?”

“She's the furthest thing from shady. It was very bright in there, actually. And welcoming.”

“I’m sure it was. Very welcoming, indeed,” Alex commented before taking a sip from his cup.

“What are you insinuating here?”

“That you already fancy this florist woman.”

“You do know it's possible for me to have a platonic conversation with the opposite gender, right?”

“You're too much of a hopeless romantic for me to believe that's what's going on here.”

As usual, Andrew’s best friend could see right through him. He ignored Alex’s theories, becoming more annoyed than impressed.

“And with that, I’m going.”

“Bye. Have fun with your yearning,” Alex joked with a wave.

He said goodbye and stepped outside. To his surprise, he was greeted by a light drizzle, which he didn't mind. It freshened him up, something he didn't know he needed until the cool droplets hit his face. He only hoped it wouldn't worsen, as with his light jacket he would be dreadfully unprepared.

It had been a relatively slow day. Unlike yesterday, no one else forgot their wallet and needed a favor. No one else actually bothered with what you had to say about the messages of the bouquets. And unlike yesterday, no customers caught your eye. For most of your day, you were zoned out, lost in your own world when you didn't have a customer. When you were more aware of your surroundings, you found yourself always checking the doorway, subconsciously waiting for a certain someone’s arrival. Still, you were living most of your day in a daze. You didn't even notice it was pouring outside until Andrew walked in, absolutely drenched. It took you a moment to fully absorb his frazzled state; not only was he soaked, he was out of breath.

“Hello. I didn't expect you to be back so soon,” you admitted. In fact, part of you didn't expect him to return at all.

“I like,” he said, panting after every other word, “to keep my promises.”

“Are you… Did you run here?”

“I started off walking, but then it began to downpour so I tried to hurry up. Weather is a fickle thing, huh?”

“I could lend you my umbrella, if you want. For the walk back.”

“You’ve done enough for me already. I couldn't take your protection from the rain as well. I’ll just constantly try to stay under awnings.”

You chuckled at his comment. He took a few deep breaths to regain his composure before walking towards you.

“You’ll be happy to know my mum adores the bouquet. She liked the look of it first, but then after I explained your flower language, her face lit up. She put it in a vase and it's now on display on her windowsill.”

“That's great to hear,” you responded as a grin spread across your face. It always brightened your day to hear positive feedback from the people who actually received the arrangements you worked so hard on. It also satisfied you that Andrew was beaming the entire time, fueled by the joy you inspired in his mother.

“She's now expecting flowers for almost every occasion, so I hope you're open on holidays.”

“Oh, we're open year-round. Except for Valentine’s Day, when we close out of fear that boyfriends that need to seem romantic will form a stampede and storm through the place,” you joked.

“Good to know that you value the safety of your employees,” he said, continuing the discussion with a similar sarcastic tone.

“Employees? God no, it's for the safety of the flowers. I can always hire someone else year-round. I only get my lily-of-the-valley shipments the last week of January. Those things are expensive. I can't have a last-minute hoard of men trying to seem thoughtful destroying them.”

“I’ve got a cousin that's a chocolatier and she has a very similar policy.”

“What can I say? I take very serious precautions to protect my art.”

You couldn't keep a serious face for too long; after a pause, you cracked a smile and a small giggle escaped you. Andrew took this as an opportunity to change the subject, because as much as he could've stood there talking to you for the rest of the day, you both had jobs to get back to.

“I’ll stop talking your ear off. I came here for an actual reason. Let me pay you back,” he said.He took out his wallet and counted out a few dollars before placing them on the counter.

“Here. That's what I owe you.” He pulled out another banknote and held it out towards you. “And here's an extra fifty. To thank you for your kindness.”

Your eyebrows raised at his gesture, which you instantly declined, giving this extra money back to him.

“Goodness, um… thank you, but I can't accept this.”

“Sure you can. It’s my attempt at repaying you. Think of it as a tip.”

“I did it out of the goodness of my heart. I don't expect anything in return, I’m just happy I could bring a smile to your face. And to your mum’s.”

“Let me do something for you too, then. You deserve to have a smile on your face as well.”

You let out a sigh, but made no effort to counter his proposal. He paused for a moment, premeditating what he was going to say. He spoke again.

“You really helped me out, and I want to be able to do something for you. Let me buy you a coffee someday. Or a tea. Or even a croissant if you’re hungry,” he offered, his tone bordering on pleading.

There was a question on the tip of your tongue, one you were too nervous to say out loud, but couldn't help but wonder.

Are you asking me out on a date?

You kept quiet. He was just trying to be nice; there was no romantic intent. At least, that's what you told yourself. Your answer was the same as it would be if that was his intention.

“Alright. When and where?”

“There's a cafe about ten minutes from here. Want to meet there on Friday at 9 in the morning?”

“Sounds perfect.”

“Great! Great. I’ll… I’ll see you then.”

“See you then.”

You both stood there, frozen for a few seconds, neither of you knowing what to do. Andrew broke away first. He took a step back and walked away, glancing over his shoulder to wave goodbye before reaching for the door handle. You waved in return, a small smile breaching your lips. The minute he left, you started to count down the hours until Friday.

There was this principle in psychology that had stuck with Andrew ever since he learned of it: the more you think about something, the more likely you are to notice it in your day-to-day life. He was especially feeling this principle today because ever since he met you, he saw flowers everywhere. It was as if the cosmos had decided that he couldn't forget about you, even if he wanted to.

There were flowers on every table of the restaurant he met his mother at. When he went back to his flat that day, he noticed his landlord placed pots of marigolds on the front step of the building. They even followed him to his place of work; his next client of the day wanted line art of a daffodil on her forearm.

She had told him her reasoning was the meaning of the flower—daffodils mean new beginnings. He wondered if you could corroborate that meaning with what you knew of flower language. If this woman knew how absolutely overrun with flora the past twenty-four hours had been for him. Was she sent by the universe to tell him that what was starting with you was just blossoming? Or was she just a twenty-something that wanted a tattoo she saw on Pinterest? Andrew was okay with either option; he was a grown man, aware that not everything in life was because of fate. He was just excited that he got to start something new with you, no matter how it ended.

[b4nka1]

inked. satosugu x fem!reader.

warnings: lots of sex, crying, nude photography, choking, needles, tattooing, mentions of reader being curvy and chubby, pussy eating, tongue fucking, oral (both receiving), hair pulling, come eating, double penetration, dick in pussy sex, fingering, dicks rubbing, lots of squirting, big dicks, unprotected sex, deepthroat, foul language, dni if uncomfortable. not proofread.

having two best friends who are tattoo artists makes it easier for you to search for a good parlor, relying on them for a tattoo. you had multiple tattoos all over your body, but you still wanted more. you pushed the doors open of their tattoo parlor, "coming in, satoru and suguru!"

you were welcomed by the sweet receptionist, ieri shoko who became a good friend overtime. "here for them again?" she grinned, winking at you. you laughed and nodded, "who would miss an opportunity to be tatted by their two very talented friends?" i replied, sitting comfortable on a chair.

after a while, a white head popped out of a room, greeting you with a big, almost mischievous smile, "ah, welcome now, (y/n). me and suguru are just finishing off, so please wait for a moment~" he sang as he went back inside to complete whatever he was working on.

"sure, satoru! i'll wait." i replied, looking around the walls. after almost a good 10 minutes, someone walked put of the room, and suguru came out, taking your hand in his, a big grin on his face, "my my, guess who decides to grace this small but cozy tattoo parlor with their presence." he guided you inside the room, motioning for you to sit down on the tattoo bench.

you sat down, "say guys, i want 2 tattoos today. one, maybe like, a bunch of flowers scattered only across my spine and two, a pair of black and white wings on my inner thighs, the one on my left being white and the one on my right one being black."

suguru took the notes down, and satoru had already begun sketching his ideas down on a sheet of paper. he had sketched a few designs, showing them to you, "here, choose the one that you think fits you right."

you tool the sketched from him and scrutinized them carefully, picking 2 of the best. suguru took them from your hands and started making a stencil, while satoru got the equipment ready for the tattoo on your back.

"that's gonna hurt a little so beware, little one." satoru whispered, placing a bottle of red ink and the tattoo gun down on the table. he took a sterile cotton ball and motioned for you to take your shirt off.

you did as you were told and laid down on your stomach, as satoru wiped the skin on your spine with it, making sure to sterilize the area. "you want some numbing cream on before we start?" he asked, taking another sterile cotton ball and sterilizing the needles.

you shook your head, which quite surprised satoru, "my my, you're the first one to deny a numbing cream for the spine." i cooed, taking his sunglasses off his face as suguru handed him the stencil. he placed it on your back and peeled it off once the temporary ink settled onto your skin.

"let's begin now, princess." satoru said, gently stroking your back, "buckle up, princess. it's gonna hurt a little." you heard the buzzing of the tattoo gun as he brought it to your skin and began tattooing your back, suguru waiting patiently for his turn to ink your thighs.

suguru could see the distress on your face from the pain. he took your hand in his, gently rubbing your knuckles. "it's just a matter of maybe an hour, princess. you'll be okay." he whispered, sitting down next to you as satoru continued inking your skin.

after what it felt like en eternity, satoru was done, switching the tattoo gun off, placing it down on the station. "there, princess. it's all done." he smirked, taking a few steps back with his hands on his hips to admire his work.

suguru took a look, "that's really good, satoru. show it to the princess for herself to see." satoru took a photo of the tattoo and showed it to you.

"wow, that's very pretty! just like i imagined it. thank you, satoru!" you beamed up at him, and satoru patted your head, "it's no big deal, cutie. anything for our bestfriend." he smirked.

satoru got up, stretching, "do you wanna take a break before we proceed to complete the tattoo on your thighs?" he asked, making sure you were okay. you nodded and replied, "just a few minutes, it hurts and burns a little."

as soon as you said that, satoru got a cooling aftercare gel and applied it to the new addition of your tattoos. you sighed in relief once it began cooling your skin down.

after a few minutes, you nodded towards geto. "i'm ready for the one on my thighs." you said, fiddling with the hem of your skirt. suguru gave you a smile, patting your head, "fine, i want you to evenly spread your legs so that i can stencil it." the smile turned into a smirk, as he gently sat you up on the seat.

you blushed and nodded, pulling your skirt up and did what you were told to. suguru hummed, sensually stroking the skin of your inner thighs a little before placing the stencil on your left thigh accurately. "perfect." he spoke to himself, getting his equipment ready.

satoru came to you, sitting down next to you and put a hand around your shoulders, "this one is gonna hurt too, sweetie. just inhale and exhale and relax, and divert your attention to somewhere else."

you nodded, inhaling a deep breath once suguru brought the gun to your skin, starting to ink your chubby thighs. you bit your lip in pain, wincing as he continued to outline the wings.

once he was done outlining, he put the gun down, deciding to give you a small break. "shading comes in now. that's gonna hurt a lot more. say, satoru. why don't you help her in diverting her attention away from the pain?" he gave a wink to satoru, and satoru rose from his seat, smirking down at you.

"princess, i know the perfect way i can help you divert your attention away." he whispered into your ear, ghosting his fingertips over your thighs, tugging at the elastic of your panties. without warning, he slid them off your body, tossing them to another corner of the room.

you squeaked like a rat, and suguru placed a soft kiss on your calf to calm you down. "relax princess, i'm helping you to not focus on the pain. be a good girl now."

they book looked at you with hungry eyes, and you couldn't help but give in to your best friends. you nodded, and suguru picked the tattoo gun up again, bringing it down to your skin.

"toru, open her legs wide apart and do your work while i do mine." he commanded, and satoru immediately obliged, placing a sweet kiss to your now exposed cunt, holding your legs wide open.

you moaned, as the needles pricked your skin, while satoru continued placing kisses all over your cunt and the other thigh. the trick definitely worked. you focused more on the pleasure than the pain itself.

satoru poked his tongue out of his mouth, teasing your clit with just the tip of his tongue which sent shockwaves throughout your body. "stop squirming." suguru growled, not looking up from the art he was creating.

satoru shook his head, continuing to lap at your clit with his tongue, as your wetness dripped onto the seat. he whistled, "suguru, the princess has made a mess all over the seat~," he sang, dipping his head back down to gently suck your clit into his mouth and a loud moan tore itself from your throat.

suguru smirked, "satoru, it seems like her focus is towards the pleasure. continue doing so, we can't let our best friend endure pain, can we?" he chuckled, going back to his work.

satoru grinned, licking and sucking your clit, while one of his fingers rubbed your entrance, pushing it in with force. another moan escaped past your lips, squirming more.

suguru was enjoying the little show, smirking every time you squirmed. it made you look so cute. so submissive under your bestfriends.

satoru being a cocky bitch, nibbled on your clit, tongue brushing against your clit. you were squirming too much at this point, which disturbed suguru so much. he grabbed your face with force, making you look into his eyes. "princess, stop squirming unless you want the needle to stab you to death." he growled, letting go of your face and going back to work.

"oopsie." satoru said, holding your juicy pussy lips apart, spitting on your clit and going back to tickle and kiss and suck on it. you were a moaning mess, thighs trembling as you came.

"my my, thank fucking god that the princess didn't make a bigger mess." satoru cooed, continuing to assault your clit, nibbling, tweaking it with his fingers, licking, sucking and kissing on it.

before you knew, suguru was done with both the thighs. satoru gave a final lick to your slit, pulling back.

"her pussy is more swollen than her thighs." suguru joked, taking his gloved off and putting a cooling gel onto the tattoo. "a-are we done...?" you asked, chest heaving up and down due to the 2 orgasms satoru gave you in one sitting.

suguru smiled sympathetically at you, "no princess, only satoru has had his fun." he grinned, one of his hand coming down to gently slide his fingers through your slit.

"awe princess, you're so messy~" he teased, bringing his fingers coated in your cum to his mouth, sucking them clean, which made you moan.

satoru ran his fingers through your hair soothingly, whispering into your ear, "we both are going to take our own time to deal with you, pretty princess."

you swallowed hard, feeling their hungry gazes on you. satoru, being the impatient little bitch he is, made his first move, kissing you with full force, holding you down with one hand and roughly fucking you with two fingers, while suguru simply watched, a huge bulge visible in his pants.

now getting impatient as well, suguru unzipped his pants, pulling his boxers and pants down enough for his huge dick to spring free. it was too big. a little over 7 inches, at least. it was very fat, and you were worried about taking it into your mouth.

he brought it to your mouth, tapping it thrice against your lips and without word you took him, jaw stretching as he shoved it entirely into your mouth.

satoru licked his lips, "mmh that's a huge dick, suguru...didn't know that you came with the whole package." he joked, shoving a third finger into you while sucking on your clit, lapping up at your juices.

suguru grunted and fucked his dick into your mouth as tears made their way down your cheeks due to his dick being shoved in roughly. satoru pulled his fingers out, shoving them in suguru's mouth.

"mmh, so sweet, just like nectar..." suguru whistled, fastening his pace of thrusting into your mouth. you held onto his thigh, feeling brain fucked. the fat tip of his dick repeatedly hit the back of your throat. he grunted, gathering your hair into a ponytail, pulling harshly as he thrusts got sloppy. "mmh i'm gonna cum..." he grunted, his hips stilling.

to his shock, satoru pushed your mouth away from his dick, deepthroating suguru himself as suguru groaned loudly, emptying his load into satoru's mouth. he came so much, some of it even dripped down the corners of satoru's mouth.

you swallowed hard as satoru turned towards you with a grin, kissing you roughly, sharing suguru's come with you. it was so hot, so fuckin hot that suguru went half hard again.

"s'good..." he licked his lips, eating off the rest of the cum. you wiped your cheeks while satoru helped you onto the floor, on your knees, "time to suck my dick now, princess. it's nearly the same size as suguru's, just a little smaller and thicker." he grinned, pulling his thick, veiny dick out of his boxers, positioning it in front of your mouth.

just as you opened your mouth to take it in, you heard the flash of a camera. suguru, with a wide smirk on his face, took a photo of you in this position. you were so fucking vulnerable.

"ah, just right." he spoke to himself, tossing his phone onto the seat. he palmed himself, waiting for satoru to get done.

satoru shoved his dick into your mouth, and his girth was definitely bigger than suguru's. you moaned, while he bottomed out in your mouth. soft grunts escaped his dick as you sucked on him, tracing every vein on his dick.

satoru wasn't someone who lasts long. within a few minutes he was spilling his seed into your mouth, grunting in satisfaction.

"now now, princess. time for the real deal." suguru put you back onto the seat, pressing his chest against your back. "this is super uncomfortable." he grumbled, unhooking your bra and tossing it to the side.

satoru whistled, face coming close to your exposed boobs, ghosting his tongue around your nipple. he took it in his mouth, suckling on it while you moaned. suguru tweaked the other one in between his index and thumb, making you arch your back.

satoru let go of you nipple with a pop, grinning at you, shoving three fingers back into you, "mmh perfectly stretched out. suguru, shove it in." he grinned, holding you up and suguru put you on his lap, rubbing his dick along your slit before shoving it in, as you cried. once his dick was in completely, he let you relax around him.

"tell me when to move and i will." he grunted, tilting his head backwards as the tight heat surrounded his pulsating cock.

satoru cooed, rubbing your clit a little before sliding a finger next to suguru's cock. "hm, i should fit in along if i stretch you out just a little more." your vagina clenched around the girth of suguru's dick when satoru shoved one more finger in, rubbing your clit with his thumb.

once he was satisfied, he pulled his fingers out and shoved his dick in with great difficulty, moaning at the extreme tightness of your cunt pulsating against their own pulsating dicks.

suguru began thrusting in while satoru relaxed, letting himself adjust. once he got used to it, they alternated in thrusting into your cunt, which made you scream in pleasure.

satoru moaned into your ear, having a vice grip on your sides, thrusting upwards as his thighs trembled, shuddering aa he moaned and came into your cunt, being overstimulated from your mouth already.

suguru scoffed, "can't even last for at least 5 minutes, satoru?" he teased, pulling satoru's fave close to his, roughly kissing him.

satoru moaned, kissing him back as he kept thrusting into your cunt sloppily. you whined, shaking as your orgasm approached you. a few more thrusts from them is all it took for you to squirt like a fountain all over their dicks, messing the seat and the floor in the liquid.

satoru pulled out, feeling super overstimulated as he continued kissing suguru who was busy chasing his high. with a final grunt, he thrusted up into your cunt, dick pulsating as he came all into your cunt, and there was a lot of it.

he stayed like that for a little, pulling out after sometime. he moaned looking at his and satoru's come leak out of your cunt.

"oh suguru, don't you think we need to take a photo of her tattoos?" satoru grinned. suguru nodded, a mischievous grin playing on his face as he grabbed your thighs, holding your legs wide apart. satoru angled his phone, taking a photo of the tattoo on your thighs while your cunt leaked of their cum.

"i'm gatekeeping this to me and suguru." he licked his lips, shoving his phone back into his pocket. he leaned down, gathering all the leaked cum and thrusting his tongue into your gaping cunt, fucking the cum back in, as a sob escaped your lips, feeling too overstimulated.

suguru groaned, "you never have enough of it, do you?" he pulled satoru away from you, pulling him on his lap, kissing him roughly. their dicks shamelessly rutted against each other, and it took just a matter of seconds for satoru to tremble and shiver and cum all over his own and suguru's dick again.

"satoru, shit, i didn't know you were so fuckin...horny." he grunted, pressing satoru's body close to his, as satoru kept on rutting his dick against suguru's, wanting suguru to come all over him. and suguru did. white ropes of his come shot out of his cock, painting satoru's chest white. they both panted, collapsing onto the seat.

satoru sighed, looking at you and stroked your hair, giving you a sweet smile. suguru shoved satoru off his lap, pulling your head to rest against his lap.

"did you like it?" he asked, stroking your cheeks. you blushed and nodded, hiding your face into your hands. suguru laughed softly, stroking your head.

satoru grinned at suguru, "are you done?" he asked and suguru nodded. "well, i'm not." he said, bringing his face to your cunt and eating you out, ready for round two.

[skade32]

Inspired by ABBA’s “Slipping through my fingers” lyrics:

I read a fic on AO3 with these lyrics and I WISH I REMEMBERED THE NAME SO I COULD RECOMEND IT

I was inspired to like encapsulate some ‘childhood memories’ of the Fushiguro siblings that I like to imagine Gojo has reminders of in the form of drawings and objects and letters and photos in his office.

In my found family fantasies, Gojo would relate to these lyrics regarding Tsumiki (don’t come after me I know this is mostly copium idc) and her sudden disappearance from his life. Also a little bit for Megumi who is not so suddenly, but nonetheless moving farther away from him as he both becomes an adult and no longer needs Gojo as much as he once did.

This was not really planned to be a whole thing. I initially just drew the bottom panel for fun bc I’m extremely not normal about teenage-single-parent-gojo (again I’m aware of the copium please don’t burn me at the stake) and idk I just couldn’t tear myself away from working on it and the next thing I knew it built itself up to the whole page and I hope other people can enjoy it as much as I have.

Description:

A graph paper notebook page covered entirely with a graphite sketch of a quickly thrown together comic scene. Two panels are featured atop the background which appears to be a cluttered desk in the foreground with numerous kinds of papers strewn about from mission reports to a letter addressed to Tsumiki. Amongst the papers in the top right corner, just adjacent to the first featured panel, a traditional jar of ink supports a dark pen, gently resting at an angle against the ink well. The pen seems to have been carelessly put aside as ink still drips down into the well below. The small portion of the scene not taken up by the desk has the walls, covered entirely by nondescript talismans, loosely sketched so not to drive too much attention from the subjects of the piece.

Wax drips from long-neglected candles, leaving almost no remnants of the once smooth and unblemished form it must have held just hours earlier that day. The residues of the wax leave bulbous trails, stopping just before the edge of the candle-holder sitting just to the left of the first feature panel.

Within the first panel is a scene of a little girl, squatting down so her shorts sit just above the heels of her little rubber rain boots. She seems distracted, lost in thought, as the rain pelts her and the sidewalk beside her becomes more reminiscent of a canal rather than a pedestrian pathway. The overgrown garden of the small cottage she loiters by fades into the misty sky, dark leafy bushels obscured by the soft glow of a lamplight to her left shoulder which complains achingly to the deafened thoughts of Tsumiki’s mind, still lost pondering the butterfly that rests gently upon her outstretched fingers, lovingly sheltered from the oppression of each raindrop which could rip its fragile scales in an instant. Such danger seems to not affect Tsumiki as she endures the assault from the heavens to endure the butterfly gets not a drop on his fragile wings. Her left hand holds the umbrella at such an angle that tree butterfly’s safety is assured, her own soggy hair a small price to pay for preserving such a beautiful creature.

Connecting the edge of this panel’s bottom edge to the background, a small square with a slanted cursive script writes “Slipping through my fingers all the time…”

The second panel, shifted slightly to the right of the former, occupying the focus of the bottom half of the page, displays a simpler image. The bright smile of a certain white haired idiot grows brighter as black spikes hair brushes against his chin. His dimple’s grow deeper when he notices the camera flashing at him and his disgruntled child relenting finally to sleep against his collarbone— leaving no doubt to any onlooker that the smile reached his eyes, true glee racking the young man’s expression as he jokingly flaps a limp hand about in a greeting gesture towards the camera. Whether or not Megumi’s participation in this memory was unwitting or not, that was up for debate. Regardless, the boy was clearly exhausted. Likely from some kind of jujutsu training after a mission that day if his athletic shorts and Gojo’s uniform were any indication.

A text box yet again connects to the bottom left corner of this panel reading: “…I try to capture every minute…”

[sub-urbanwitch]

My year in review, featuring many never-before-seen pieces! This year, I discovered soft shading digitally, ink, and underpainting in burnt sienna. More details on each individual piece under the cut.

January: Untitled Drawing of Alex Strike, Procreate. I had just gotten an Apple Pencil (no more drawing with my finger!) and wanted to try it out despite not being in an art mood. The full ‘comic’ was based off a post, which I reblogged with the drawing.

February: Bl. Carlo Acutis, Procreate. This was actually undated. I don’t know when I did it because I never did sign it, but I had an empty month to fill and I liked it. I enjoy drawing the saints, but iconography is a deep topic and very hard to get into.

March: Untitled Drawing of Falcus Vandacia, Procreate. I drew this in Virginia while on my spring break. It took me under a day. It’s another one of my silly four-panel ‘comics’.

April: Sketch of Dagoth Odrosa, Pencil. Another undated one, from the era before I discovered sketchbooks. I only know this is from April because I have the reference photo on my phone still. It was originally intended to be a full digital piece, but we’ll see if that happens.

May: Zenaida macroura, Acrylic on Canvas. One of my gallery pieces! I didn’t show much this year, but I went out of my way to get this one in because I loved it so much. Technically, I put it in under Plotting a Coo, because the gallery director is a bully (kidding, he’s a mensch) but in my heart it’s the species name. I pushed myself with the colors, and I think it came out the better for it.

June: Dagoth Family Tree, Procreate. The full tree plum wouldn’t fit with this format, but it’s posted on my blog. This one pushed me on my character design. Still suck at it though :D

July: Isabel Mazer, Procreate. This was probably the turning point where my art went from the harsher shading I was using before to a form similar to my traditional style. This was also done while I was working my summer job where I interacted with a lot of seagulls and a lot of Orthodox. I had them on the brain, so I smushed them together.

August: Lady Dagoth Gilvoth, Procreate. This was the piece where I discovered soft shading. I also tried to use perspective, but I think that failed. Still one of my best pieces from this year, though.

September: Nerevar, Procreate. Taken from a larger reference sheet for my Nerevarine. I’ll get around to posting it someday.

October: Louise Mallard, Procreate. Don’t much like this one. Did it for my Lit class. Not much to say.

November: Grainne Mhaol, Acrylic on Canvas. This is when I discovered underpainting in burnt sienna! Before, I was just blocking out shapes/colors, but not value, so all my pieces felt flat. I told my teacher this like it was some new discovery, and she went: “Yeah, probably should have told you about underpainting about six years ago when I realized you liked acrylics. Do you want the rest of my soda?” And I said yes because I am physically incapable of being mad at her. I also listened to Óró sé do bheatha ‘bhaile on repeat for a week for this.

December: Lili Marlene, Ink on Paper. My father voluntold me to make some art for his DnD holiday party, and I said to myself that I was at least going to have fun with it, so I drew a bunch of evil women. Most of them I didn’t care about giving up, but this little lady kind of latched onto me. I’m going to keep her design around, maybe write her a wee story. Her name comes from the song, because I had been playing my ‘40’s CDs while drawing.

[lilitheillustrator]

Artist research - Wuon-Gean Ho

I chose to research Wuon-Gean Ho as my practitioner whose work I am interested in because I’ve been following them for a while on instagram and I am always inspired by their work. I love the sheer volume of work produced and the freedom of narratives and perspectives.

Ho makes prints, books, and animations and has ben printing for 35 years. Initially, she did a degree in veterinary medicine and then studied Japanese woodblock print making in Kyoto on a Japanese government scholarship. She also has a BA in history of art from Cambridge university and did a MA printmaking at the Royal College of Arts. Ho learnt to print as a child then did it in her spare time for 14 years before learning it formally. Currently works in East London Printmakers, a collaborative studio.

For her materials Ho uses Japanese vinyl which is similar to Lino cuts. She uses separate blocks for each layer of colour. She prints the first colour onto another block then carves out for the next colour onto the block using chalk to set the ink. Then uses an Albion press (cast iron press to push ink onto the paper. Ho uses sakura oil-based relief inks because of their intense colour and make vibrant blends and are easy to wipe.

Wuon-Gean Ho draws directly onto the printing block from her memory and imagination. She finds drawing from life ‘favours a photographic view of the space’ so she uses her imagination to draw wide angled perspectives to produce works with ‘dream-like’ logic. Ho hides stories, clues and times and images into her works to create a richer narrative. Her narrative is ‘a little satirical, a bit tragic, sometimes absurd’. Ho is inspired by situations, the way people move, funny things she overhears, many of her works include snapshots of life which is what I lover about her work.

If I was doing the work Wuon-Gean Ho is doing I think I would be really happy as I could produce lots of work with a large amount of freedom. I am always happy in a print studio so to have access to the East London Printmakers would be a huge privilege. Although, if I were doing only what Ho is doing, I would miss doing my digital illustrations because her work is mostly physical. But I like her sketches also.

I think Ho’s position in the illustration world is highly successful and and compared to me she is very high up however I am in the process of getting my own degree and she has several. She has been doing this for many years and I am still young so I don’t feel disheartened but I feel inspired because Ho could be a reflection of my future as a printmaker. I aspire to be like Wuon-Gean Ho but with a more digital side. I feel lots of her work is similar to what I do and would like to continue doing, for example the narratives and situations illustrated in her prints.

Sources:

[industryrelatedlearningrhianna]

Creative Art Studio - 21st Jan 2023

Tiger Project - 7 Hours

For this project they gave me the choice to choose between a tiger as a reference, or a dragon. Seeing as these as the most common animals due to their mystical meanings. From here, I was to draw them in 3 different styles; Cartoon, Tribal and Oriental/Traditional. First sketching with a pencil to get the rough shape, tidying it up and drawing in the main lines with the pen. The first photo is of my set up, they suggested I use Pinterest for reference material, as this is the best way to find aesthetic media. I had an hour to complete each style.

First I made two cartoon tigers, I kept these strict to the reference and did not add any flare of my own. They felt I had capture the facial expressions really well, especially on the left one. The proportions were good, I had little critique on these, other than the shading, which they recommended was not needed for a stencil but was fine to include for a sketch. Though there are specific shading methods, which they said I would learn more if I enrolled into an illustration class.

I then attempted the tribal, where I combined the head of a tiger and the 'body' as the tribal pattern. This was a little underdone due to me taking too long to find a reference I was happy with, so this was a good lesson to focus less on finding some perfect, and trying to improvise more.

The last one was their favourite, I used more references and combined them to create something more intricate. I combined a tiger head, tiger paws, a skull, maple leaves and smoke. Some details were not finished due to me running out of time, but this time it was because of the depth I went into. They loved this piece and said they did not expect me to create something this intricate, so this was a huge boost in confidence. Within and under the skull, you can see some shading, this is where the artist was showing me how they shade, which replicated their tattooing techniques with the machine. Another day full of advice and practice that will help me build a portfolio.

Digital Introduction

For this part of the day we looked into digital drawing, as apps like procreate have been adopted by the industry to help bring together their compositions. The first image is from one of their books, where it shows the flow of the body, which is vital in making sure that the tattoo works well with the body, rather than looking random and incomplete. Second is the reference of an arm that the artist was using, she airdropped it to me so I may create some designs and practice wrapping it around an arm. On the right are designs I came up with, placing them onto the arm and playing around with their dimensions to really get an idea for placement. This is a huge help in the creation of a stencil, as before it would be drawn by hand, printed and stuck on the body, then redrawn adjusting to the clients preference. This was obviously time consuming and wasted materials, compared to now where you can draw it and adjust it digitally. It still takes the same level of skill and practice, but is definitely a boost for them.

This was my last day in their shop, they allowed me to watch them 'set down' which is putting everything away, preparing for the next day and shutting down the shop. They highlighted the importance of setting down, what is reusable (such as the tattoo machine) and what is not (like the gloves, the needles, the paper, the ink). How they dispose of them, using their biohazard bin. They sterilised the area, mopped the floors and brought down the blinds of the shop, once outside they bulled down the barriers to prevent break ins.

I am overly grateful for the time, experience and knowledge given to me here. I will be able to take this information forward in order to go along the journey towards my preferred job.

Notes Taken

These are the notes from this day, including the task points, plans for the day, and tips from the artists.

[yeojaa]

( NEVER LET YOU GO. )

You do things without thought, making impulse decisions that’d make Freud proud.  Sometimes they pay off, sometimes they don’t.

(or:  Jeon Jungkook’s just as impulsive as you.)

pairing.  tattoo artist!jjk x f!reader.

genre + rating.  slice of life fluff, light smut.  explicit (but only at the end). 

tags / warnings.  mentions of heavily tattooed!JK, casual drinking, tender lovemakin’, JK with the bad jokes, honestly just him being funny and chill like that one guy you never get over...

wc.  7.6k.

beta reader(s).  @hobi-gif​, @papillonsgf​, and @yeoldontknow​​ 💛 ty for always indulging me and most importantly, supporting me when i begin to spiral. 🤠

author note.  i got this idea into my head one evening in the shower and now... it is this.  it’s not your usual bad boy tattoooist!JK fic but i hope you enjoy regardless.  as always, feedback means a lot! 

You and forethought aren’t close friends.  You really aren’t even distant cousins, or part of the same family tree.  You consider it a stranger, wave loftily as it passes you by, squinting like you can’t properly make out what it is.  Careful consideration?  Thoughtful patience?  None of that exists for you.  At least, not when you really, really want something. 

It’s what has you here now, bumbling your way into the tattoo shop like a newborn baby bird.  

You wonder how it must look, whether the shop assistant is used to this.  Random girl shows up on a Sunday afternoon looking like a fish out of water, eager yet afraid.  By how she greets you - with a curious stare and not quite a smile - you’re sure she is.  

“Do you take walk-ins?”

You’d meant to make an appointment.  Had sat for hours on the shop’s Instagram page, combing through the residents’ portfolios, trying to decide who to reach out to.  When you’d finally decided, you’d realised books were a thing and most of them were closed.  (Just your luck.)

Still, it never hurt to try, right? 

“Everyone’s fully booked.”  The girl sounds bored, apathetic yet genial.  (You don’t blame her.)  By the way her stare swings over you, it feels like a dismissal.  You’re ready to admit defeat - head half-bowed, words draped over your tongue.  “But our apprentice might be able to squeeze you in.”

An apprentice?  Well— that’s not exactly what you’d been hoping for, but this shop is reputable.  Well-known.  Considered one of the best in the city.  Surely their apprentice would be fine.  Just less seasoned, not as experienced. 

You all but snap your neck nodding along, gratitude tumbling out in the form of awkward laughter.  “That’d be great!”

The girl passes you off with a nod of her head, gesturing down the hall.  “Last room on the left.  His name’s Jungkook.  His schedule says he’s all clear, but maybe knock before you go in.”  It’s not the sunniest smile you’ve ever received, but the small thing she offers helps with the nerves.  Stills them beneath your skin as you do as you’re told. 

“Jungkook?”  There’s not really anywhere to knock, every wall neatly frosted glass and no doors in sight.  (You had passed a few folding screens but otherwise, it’s open concept, each room offering a glimpse into the artist who works inside.)  It feels too disruptive to tap your knuckles on one glass pane, lest it interrupt someone else. 

(His studio is minimally decorated but inviting:  one big cabinet; two of those typical IKEA shelves in the 4x4 grid that every new homeowner and their mother have; and a shop table, upon which a black backpack sits.  Various plants dress the room - both hanging from the ceiling and along the window - and Polaroids string over walls, held aloft by twine.  A Roomba sits by itself in a corner and the tattoo bed dominates most of the space, positioned closer to the dividing wall;  one teeny tiny rolling chair sits beside it.  There’s a bench on your left, with a pair of Birkenstocks tucked beneath.  All in all, very homey.  Reminiscent of your own apartment.) 

Hidden behind the bed, crouched low to the ground beside the cabinet, is a head of dark hair that speaks, drawing your attention from studying the cozy space.  “Oh?”

You’re not expecting the face that turns to you, all big doe eyes and the sweetest dimples. 

For a moment, you forget what you’re here for.  Why you’re standing in the empty door frame, staring down at the guy like you’ve spent your entire life secluded and have no idea how to speak.  

The longer you’re quiet, the more his concern seems to grow, single brow disappearing into his inky fringe.  It hangs in his vision at certain angles, shields the brightness of his stare with each turn of his chin.  “Are you okay?”  He’s even risen - stopped what he was doing - so he can see you more clearly, without any obstruction in the way.  Good for him, but worse for you. 

He’s so cute.  Were you prepared to look like an uncertain idiot in front of this… angel?

“Y-yeah.”  You manage after what feels like forever, sweeping your nerves under the rug that sits on the floor, separates the sole of his sneakers from hard concrete.  “Um— I was told you might have some time?  For, uh, a walk-in?”

(Why’re you stuttering?  You’re never shy.  Or rather, you’re not this nervous mess.  People have always called you an extrovert, outgoing as hell, a social butterfly.)

(You aren’t those things but you appreciate the sentiment nonetheless.)

“Oh!”  Realisation dawns across his features, throws his kind smile into greater relief, and you have to actively tell yourself not to stare, tearing your gaze away to focus on the wall of stencils past his shoulder.  He moves into motion then, stepping around the bed to meet you still rooted in the doorway.  “Yeah, I’ve got time.  Come in.”  Up close like this - there’s only maybe two feet between you - you can make out the little scar on his cheek;  the tiny beauty mark below his bottom lip;  each individual lash that frames his Bambi eyes and flutters when he blinks.  “I probably can’t draw you anything new right now but I’ve got some flash, if you’re interested?”

Even if you weren’t interested, you don’t think you’d say no.  You were always a sucker for a cute boy and this Jungkook?  He was that.  In spades. 

“Sure.”

“Are you looking for anything in particular?”  He’s retreating back into the room, moving to grab his iPad off the far table.  It’s balanced on his arm when he swivels to you, prominent front teeth on full display.  “I’ve got a pretty big selection.” 

When he drops onto the bench - a wayward vine above his head tickling his cheek - he gestures to the spot beside him.  This time, you don’t stare for a stupid amount of time, instead taking up the seat without hesitation. 

“So—”  He’s swiping through the photo library with his Apple Pen.  You’re sure there are pretty sketches on the screen - you just can’t focus on them, too preoccupied by the artwork that crawls across his hand and into the sleeve of his oversized, well-worn shirt.  It’s an intricate chrysanthemum, impossibly well-shaded with bold colours that demand attention and stand out over his fair complexion;  it creeps halfway up the back of his hand to tickle over his knuckles.  He notes your attention with a quiet chuckle, fingers wiggling.  The ink moves, flows, ripples with the motion, before his hand relaxes, knuckles unravelling as he offers the limb to you and your curiosity.  “Do you like it?”

“It’s incredible.”  It really is.  You’ve never seen anything like it, as if a painting has been done across his skin, laid in watercolour rather than tattoo ink.  “Did it hurt?”

(You almost want to hit yourself for the stupid question.  Of course it did.  It’s a hand tattoo.)

Jungkook only laughs again, doesn’t hold it against you despite the verbal barrage you’re faced with internally.  “Like crazy, but it was worth it.  This was my first tattoo and all the rest have just sort of been—”  He shrugs, fabric of his shirt bunching around his collar.  

“A piece of cake?”  You can only imagine.

“Exactly.”

You nod thoughtfully, as if that means anything to you.  (It doesn’t.  You’re bare as a baby’s bottom, blemish free save for the occasional hellish pimple and the scar you have from surgery on your hand when you broke parts of it in sixth grade.)

If he can tell you’re talking out of your ass, he says nothing, redirecting your attention back to the iPad propped on his lap.  “Do any of these interest you?”  He’s resumed scrolling, swiping carefully through pages of flash.  There are assorted floral pieces (plum stems, lily stalks, fully bloomed mums) and various skeletons (what looks like a deer, a dragon, a wolf).  They’re mostly blackwork with fine lines and heavy contrast, so wonderfully detailed you spend too much time studying one piece before he’s flipping to the next.

“That one.”  It catches your eye more than the others have.  Likely because it’s one of the few pieces in colour, soft hues spilling over neat lines.  A pretty little cat with a braided collar, big golden bell centered beneath its head, unravelling petals sweeping around it.

“You like cats?”

You do.  “She looks like mine.”

“It’s settled.”  He beams then, rising so quickly you’re startled;  you watch as he moves around the space with decisive steps, putting your plan into motion.  A paper is pulled seemingly out of nowhere, laid on a wooden clipboard and offered with a blue ballpoint pen.  “If you can fill all of this out, I can get the stencil ready.”

Well, that was easy.  Somehow, you’d thought it’d be more complicated, a ton of back and forth and yes and no.  You can’t deny you’re nervous, staring down at the consent form.  

(It doesn’t mean you read it any more than you normally would, though.  You gloss over all the points, making note of what you’re agreeing to without really considering any of it.  You’ve wanted a tattoo for most of your life.  There’s really no going back now.)

(You just hope it turns out like you want - that you’re not just being blindsided by a sudden superficial crush and a lack of critical thought.)

“I think I’m done,”  you mumble, slashing the date into the paper with gusto.  

“Do you have your ID?”  You’ve got it ready for him when he returns to take both it and the form.  “I’m just going to make copies and then we can discuss more.”

He’s gone with that same smile, disappearing back the way you’d come. 

Alone, the nerves set in.  You’re actually doing this.  Getting a tattoo.  Putting something permanent on your body.  It’s exhilarating and terrifying all at once, shaking your hands in your lap.  Maybe you should’ve eaten more before you’d come.  (You’d woken up late - had only shoved two pieces of raisin pinwheel bread into your mouth before you’d made up your mind about this.) 

(But had you really made up your mind?  Was this going to be it?  It feels mostly like yes, though the repetitive thud of your toe against concrete seems to indicate otherwise.  It’s as if you’re tapping out something in morse, telling yourself—)

“Okay!”  Jungkook’s back before you know it, driver’s license returned to you along with an unsealed envelope.  You eye it curiously.  “A copy of your form and an aftercare sheet.”  

He’s really thought of everything.  Or the shop has.  Either way, you appreciate that when you’re not so sure, caught somewhere between giddily excited and vaguely worried, as if someone’s pulled a weight off your shoulders, taken on some of the burden of this spontaneous choice.

“So, where do you want it?”  It’s like he has a one track mind, utterly focused on the task at hand.  (Probably a good thing, given you’re about to voluntarily let him needle your poor skin.) 

You hadn’t thought about that.  You’d always liked the idea of a back of the arm tattoo, positioned somewhere along your tricep so it could be seen while turned away.  “My arm?”

“Upper?  Forearm?”  There’s not an ounce of annoyance or exasperation or anything else negative.  He’s just genuinely curious, peering over his shoulder at you. 

“Tricep area, I think?  Would that look good?”

“If you like it, it will.”  Then he grins - beams so bright you half expect the sun to come zooming out of his mouth - and laughs, a funny little cackle that makes you do the same.  “I’m kidding.  That was cheesy.  But I’m sure it’ll look fine.  We can try laying it down first, so you get an idea?” 

“That sounds good.”  A lot better than endless years of regret for poor placement. 

“You’ll, uh— need to take your shirt off though.”

It’s then you realise your mistake:  wearing a turtleneck.  “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

A beat of silence passes, then another, and he smiles so kindly you wonder what your expression must look like.  Sour, like you’d sucked fresh lemon?  Awkward, as if you’d never worn anything less than double layers before (a proud Never Nude)? 

“If you’re uncomfortable, we can reschedule.  Or I can put a divider up so you don’t have to worry about being seen from outside.  Whatever you’d prefer.” 

The longer you stay quiet - a seemingly common occurrence today - the closer his brows furrow, preparations coming to a standstill.  You can tell he’s not trying to rush you, politely waiting for an answer with transfer paper in one hand and scissors in the other.  

(If only he could peek into your brain, see the whole reason you’re hesitating is because you can’t quite remember which bra you’re wearing, whether it’s the slinky black one that offers absolutely zero support or the lacy blue one with the cute detailing and practically see-through cups.)

(Did it really matter either way?  He was probably desensitized.)  

“It’s fine.”  You find the confidence somehow, nodding firmly.  Jungkook’s still studying you carefully, though.  Waiting as you strip your purse off your shoulder and reach for the hem of your sweater.  It feels funny in your fingers, more like steel wool than sheep’s.

One breath.  Two. 

You fold your turtleneck neatly, laying it beside your bag and turning back to face him.  “All right.  Let’s do this.” 

“So, which arm?”  He’s close now - crossed to you in two strides of his long legs - and holds up the stencil.  

Your right rises, fingers wiggling as if to say hello. 

He lays the design down, pats it into place with deft fingers.  You don’t realise the breath you’re holding until he pulls the sticky paper away, leaving neat line work in its wake.

“Oh.”  It slips out of its own accord, almost a whisper as you stare at the design in the mirror.  “It’s so pretty.” 

There’s pride in his eyes as he stares with you, bounces his gaze between it and your face.  “Thanks.”  He lets you linger, peering thoughtfully at your reflection before speaking, casually hopeful.  “What do you think?”

“This is it.  Right here.”

Maybe he’d fist pump, if he were any less cool.  As it stands, he simply nods, cheeks round like fresh baked bread, nose scrunched with glee. 

“All right.  We’ll shave you down and get started.  You like the colours, right?”  Once again, he’s buzzing around the room, gathering up all his materials and snapping black gloves on once everything is laid out upon his cart.  It’s heavily stickered, covered in video game vinyls and anime mattes.  (You recognise a handful of them, make a note to ask him where he got them from.)  He pats the tissue papered bed top when you make no movement toward him.  “Hop on up.  Face down, if that’s okay.”

You do as he says, climbing atop with minimal grace.  It takes you a bit of adjusting to get comfortable, folding your left arm under your head and allowing your right to simply dangle, uncertain of where it should be.  

“You’re sparkly.”

“What?”  You’d misheard that, right? 

“Your skin.  You’re sparkling.”  He sounds a little in awe, surprised as wetness spills across your arm, the edge of a razor following closely thereafter.  

“Oh.”  Heat creeps over your cheeks, slinks all the way up into your roots and has you chuckling awkwardly.  “It’s my soap.” 

“Sparkle soap?”  Whether he’s just making conversation or genuinely curious, you’re not sure.  He does seem delighted by the fact, though, as if he’s never seen a girl covered in glitter before.  (Which, fair.) 

“It’s this specialty holiday soap.  It has pigment in it.” 

“That’s cool.”  He’s laying the stencil down again, smoothing it over your now-hairless arm.  “It smells nice.”

Obviously, you agree.  It’s honey and citrus, brightly fragrant but not overpowering, lingering on your clothes like the subtle golden glitter does.  Still, you flush, heat crossing from a casual day under the sun to burning-on-the-stove hot.  “Thanks.” 

“Was that weird?  I hope not.”

“No, you’re fine.” 

He hums a tiny noise, something that sounds like understanding and appreciation all at once.  

Then the buzzing starts - a steady, inescapable brrrrrrrrr - and he’s gripping your arm, steady yet gentle.  “Ready?” 

Honestly, you’re not sure.  Hearing the noise makes it seem scary, has your entire body tensing up like Pavlov’s dog.  Your honesty can’t be helped, a nervous giggle chased off your tongue.  “I think so.” 

“I think so too.”

By the time you’re done - a good almost five hours later, your arm stinging so bad you wonder why you’d ever sat down in the first place - you’d fallen asleep twice, started drooling on your other arm once, and really, really have to pee. 

“All right—”“  The incessant buzzing stops.  Liquid spills where the pain centres, followed by rougher paper towel.  “You are finished.”

(You might be imagining it, but he sounds about as relieved as you.  Maybe because you’d been sitting for hours on hours, turning down his offer for a break because you just wanted to get it done and therefore forcing him to do the same.) 

“Can I see?”  You don’t want to leap to your feet - feel a bit too lightheaded for that - but you’re bouncing with excitement, the thrumming in your arm intensified when you shift to catch a better look at Jungkook’s face. 

“Yeah, go ahead.  Just be careful - you might be a bit—”

He’s right.  You nearly topple over the moment you stand, none-too-gently rolling off the edge of the bed and barely landing safely on your feet.  It’s only his close proximity that prevents you from falling to your knees, one degloved hand darting out to steady you. 

“Careful!”  It’s politely reproachful, coloured soft with worry.  

“Sorry, sorry.”  You seize the edge of the bed, gripping tight as you wait for everything to settle, the lightheadedness to recede.  Everything straightens out quickly enough.  “Got up too quickly.”

“Do you need a snack?”  He’s already up, moving faster than you, rummaging through the cabinet against the far wall.  “I’ve got seaweed and Choco Boys and shrimp chips and—”

You can’t help but laugh, hobbling to the mirror to inspect your new piece of art.  “I’m fine.”  That, and you’re too occupied with the ink that now sits embedded beneath your skin, a flurry of lovely colour and impressive line work.

“Choco Boys it is then.”  The familiar yellow package is thrust toward you, a pack of his own already ripped open.  Mushroom-shaped treats are tossed into his open mouth, lips curling around chocolate and his next words,  “it’ll help with your sugar levels.”

A thank you comes, fingers curling around the snacks, but you’re still in deep, so focused on the lovely hue that bleeds over your skin, marks up previously unblemished flesh and holds your attention.  It’s better than you could’ve possibly imagined, a piece of artwork forever yours.  It makes you giddy as you stare at it - almost reach for it, but stop when you catch the alarmed widening of Jungkook’s eyes.  

“You like?”  

“I love.”  You’d stare at it for hours, if you could.  Likely will, once you get home, sitting in front of the mirror like a zombie.  “Thank you so, so much.”

The brunet beams as he polishes off the last of his Choco Boys, tossing his dark hair back with a flick of his head.  Triumph rolls off him in palpable waves, sitting pretty in the lines by his eyes, the scrunching around his nose.  Seeing how it blooms in his stare is like a straight endorphin shot, as if you’ve done more than just be the canvas he’s laid all his hard work into.  “It was a pleasure.”

It’s a whole month later - enough time for the piece to heal - before you decide you want another one.  It’s not as spontaneous as the first time, instead led with an Instagram direct message to @jeonink.  (You half expect him not to answer;  you’re utterly delighted when he responds not five minutes later.) 

Maybe it’s fate or maybe it’s luck that has him with availability the same day you reach out, bringing you back to the studio three hours after you’ve messaged him.

He’s just as cute as before, black baseball cap pulled low over his ears, silver-lined ears twinkling beneath the shop lights.  

“So, what’re you thinking?”  

Truthfully, you hadn’t done much thinking.  Just like before, you’d decided you wanted a tattoo and, well, the rest had been history.  You figured you’d let him have free reign, given how happy you were with your first piece.  “A sleeve?”

That surprises him.  His whole face lights up, eyes wide, mouth rounding curiously.  “Like, a full sleeve?”  It’s not necessarily a no - more of an are you sure? he hides between the syllables.

“I think so.”

He nods slowly, knowingly, arms folded over his chest, expression suddenly unreadable.  “You caught the itch.”

Your own features twist, brows shooting high.  “The what?”

“The tattoo itch,”  he clarifies with a laugh, the sound sweeping your concern away like the sea.  “People say once you get one, you get addicted to the feeling.”  He’s extending both arms to you now, hands palm up.  For a moment, you’re note sure what he’s doing.  (In actuality, you’re distracted by the fact that he’s in a tee, muscle cording his limbs, undulating as he turns his arms over.)  “I got bit by it when I lived in Japan.  It’s actually what got me into tattooing myself.”

You remember what he’d said last time - how he’d spent a handful of years overseas, working in restaurants after having followed his last partner there.  He’d shared lots about his life, giving you the Sparknotes version while you’d ground enamel to fine dust.  

“I guess I have the itch then.”

“Guess you do.”  

Your dream comes to life in four excruciating sessions.  It’s some of the worst pain you’ve ever endured (you’re never going to get an elbow tattoo ever again) but you’d do it all again in a heartbeat, utterly in love with the mural that now lives on your skin.  A peony caps your shoulder while one runs halfway up your bicep.  Another takes up the entirety of your forearm.  There’s a darling little bird and delicately inked koi.  It’s breathtaking, greater than anything you could have dreamt up.  

You’ve been staring at it for at least three minutes now, tracing over the freshly laid colour with a tender touch.  You’re grateful for the SecondSkin, the clear bandage that wraps everything up and keeps it safe from your over eager hands.

“You did it.”  Jungkook’s grinning at you, feet kicked up where he sits, his usual bag of Choco Boys balanced in his lap.  “Big girl.”

From anyone else, it might sound condescending - might rub you the wrong way and have you glaring daggers.  Instead, you take it in stride, beaming at him from your seat.  He’s been there with you every step of the way, been there for every hour (seventeen over three months, to be exact) you’ve dedicated to finishing this beauty up.  Tease you as he might, you know he really is proud of you.  

“You mean we did it,”  you return, giddy like a child.  

“Ah, right.”  The chocolate-covered snack he’s devouring goes crunch crunch crunch before he speaks, mouth still full, eyes crinkled.  “I guess I did do all the work.”

“Hey!  Screw you!”  You’re glowering at him, middle finger raised in defiance.  

(How curious that your relationship has grown like this, turned from tattoo artist and client to what feels like more.  It probably makes sense, given the long hours you’ve spent together, the support he’s had to offer each time the pain has gotten this side of too much, chattering your teeth and dizzying your head.  Solidarity in pain and all that.)

(You really had tapped out once, when he’d crept his gun into the ditch of your elbow.  You’d asked him whether it’d hurt beforehand and he’d only laughed, shrugged off the question and continued with the careful shading to your inner arm.  That in itself had hurt like a biiitch;  you hadn’t thought it could get worse.)

(You’d been mistaken.)

“Am I wrong?”  He drawls, full of laughter and that big dumb smile of his you’ve grown accustomed to.  It eats up his cheeks and disappears his eyes, makes it hard to be mad at him when he looks so sweet.  

“Yes, you are.”  You’ve got absolutely nothing to back it up, but who cares.  This is the sort of banter the two of you have developed, like two old friends forced to spend too much time together.  (Not that you’d complain.  You’ve loved hearing his stories, all the tales he regales you with whenever you’re in his chair.)

A snort is his answer, the full roll of his eyes over-exaggerated and playful.  “You’re lucky we’re all finished or I’d sneak in an ugly fish somewhere on your arm.”

You think he’s kidding - know he takes too much pride in his work to do that.

Still, you stick your tongue out, hopping down from the bed with your freshly inked arm, hands clapping together in celebration.  “You wouldn’t dare.”  You’re confident, crossing to the bench to tug your flannel on, careful of the dull pain that throbs beneath the thin medical dressing.  

“Wouldn’t I?  I’m leaving anyway.”

You’re ready to call him out for it, insist he would never ruin the sanctity of his profession in such a way, when you realise the words he’s spoken, the casual tidbit he’s just dropped like it’s nothing.

“Leaving?”  

(Is it you or do you sound disappointed?  You can’t dwell on it for long, worried you’ll miss his explanation.  Had he mentioned it previously?  Slipped it in when you’d been delirious from pain?  No, you would’ve remembered that.  You swear you would’ve.)

“I’m moving to Tokyo.”  How he’s so casual, you have absolutely no idea.  You suppose it’s not a big deal for him - he’s not from here anyway.  Home is back in Korea, the place he’d spent most of his life before moving to Japan and then here, just two years ago.  (God, your memory is good.  If only you’d retained knowledge like this when you were in school.)  “My flight’s next weekend.”

Your face must be hilarious because Jungkook’s laughing, cackling like the evil villain in an anime.  

“Gonna miss me?”  

Would it be inappropriate to say yes?  Because you will, you realise the moment he’s posed the question.  You’ve grown to consider him a friend, someone who you send random memes to on Instagram (usually pertaining to #tattooartistproblems or one of your shared hobbies, like video games and finding the best noodle soup restaurant in the city).  

You go for the safe bet, answering with a question of your own.  “Are you gonna miss me?”

“I’ll miss your restaurant recs,”  he answers, offering honesty to your reticence.  “You can still send me funny photos though.”  

You can’t help your laugh, the tiny quirk of your mouth into a smile.  “I guess you’re right.  Will you still be tattooing?”  It’s an innocent enough question - you really do want to know.  You can’t imagine going to anyone else, even if it means you’ll be shelling out an absurd amount of money for a plane ticket.

“Yep, new shop.”  Something twinkles in his stare, has him giddy as he rises to his feet, tossing his empty packet of snacks into the trash bin.  “Actually, where I got most of mine done.”  You understand it then - that it’s a move of faith.  He’s finally come full circle.  You’re unbelievably happy for him, brimming with delight to mirror his pride.  

But you’re still going to give him a little bit of a hard time because you have to.  It wouldn’t feel right otherwise.  “Whoa, big shot.”

“I am actually,”  he sniffs, raking an ink-strewn hand through his hair.  It’s longer now than it was when you met him, curling over the tops of his ears, hanging in his eyes at every turn.  “You’ll be lucky if I remember you when I’m famous.”

“Famously lame, maybe,”  you tease, slipping your bag over your shoulder.  You busy yourself pulling your keys from the interior pocket, checking your phone as if you’re ready to go.  It’s only when you’re standing in the hallway - you have no real intention of departing like this and he knows that, considering you haven’t paid yet - when you level him with a half-formed smirk.  “But I guess I should take you for a drink?”  

His hoodie is on before you know it, yanked over his head and tugged into place as he joins you.  It’s become your regular routine - leaving together after your sessions, a perk of always booking the last slot he has available.  (Not that you relied on that, but simply because your work schedule didn’t really allow for anything else.)  “Obviously.”

Jeon Jungkook is a talented artist, a dedicated snacker, a lover of the colour black.  You discover, sitting on the patio of the nearby bar, that he’s also really, really good at holding his liquor.  

(Not that he’d ever indicated otherwise.)

“Do you think you’ll get anything else done?”  He’s on his sixth pint, casually leaned back in his chair as he picks at the fries you’d ordered but that he seems perfectly happy to help himself to.  (Payback for all the times he’s forced snacks on you maybe?)  “Like, a face tattoo?”

You scoff at the question as if greatly offended.  “You think I’d get a face tattoo?”  

While a little glazed in the eyes, you can tell he’s altogether coherent, grinning across the table at you.  “Hey, I don’t judge.  You like making surprise decisions, so I wouldn’t be surprised.”

Okay, so he’s got you there.  Used your own impulsive history against you.  “I would never.”  

“If you change your mind, do I get first dibs?”

“Dibs on what?  Tattooing me?”

He nods as if it’s the most obvious answer in the world.  “Duh.”

You can only roll your eyes, tossing a wayward burnt fry end at him.  “Yes, Kook, you get first dibs on ruining my face.”

His expression twists, mouth shaping around words he’s keeping caged behind his teeth.  There’s something he isn’t saying, a comeback he’s chosen to lock up.  You wonder what it is.

“Hey - nothing wrong with face tattoos.”  

“Really?”  You’re leaning forward, a clear challenge written across your face.  “Then why don’t you have one?”  He has a million others as it is:  a hand, nearly the entirety of both arms, his chest, his shoulders, one of his legs.  (You haven’t seen them all in person but you have seen them online, memorialised on his Instagram feed.)  

“And hide all this?”  One inked hand is gesturing toward his own face, gesticulating wildly as if that’ll drive his point further home.  “I would never.”

“That’s what I said!”

It doesn’t matter to him, not when he’s fully sober and most certainly not now, when he’s slightly buzzed, eyes glossier than usual.  “But I’m cuter.  It’d be a shame if it were me.  You…”  The way he trails off is suggestive, indicative of something mocking and mean.  (Except it’s never cruel - far too friendly and soft to ever hurt your feelings.)  “—not so much.”

Another fry hits him right between the eyes and then another disappears into the hood of his sweater, lost to the black fabric that bunches up around his neck and hides the flush he’s been battling since you two got to the bar an hour ago.

“Don’t be rude!”  

He beams at you then, so unnecessarily endearing you can only throw one more piece at him. 

“I’m kidding.”  You knew that already but pretend to ignore the pseudo-apology, choosing instead to polish off the last of your now-cold fries.  A bad choice, you realise when he continues, surprising you with the words that come out of his liquor-laden mouth so much so that you almost choke.  “You’re actually pretty cute.”

(So what if you’ve sort of maybe been waiting to hear them?  Wondering if the tiny crush you’d developed was in some way reciprocated?)

(Not that this meant it was.  Only that you perhaps weren’t alone in thinking he was the most lovable - and somehow simultaneously hot - person you’d ever met.  It’s almost rewarding to know the long hours together hadn’t left him unscathed.)

“You all good?”  The look on his face is worse than that smile he usually offers, instead a devilish smirk that makes him look like Satan himself.  

Were you?  You’re not sure.

“I can’t believe you just said that.”

“Really?  You can’t?”  You’re not sure what that means, whether you’re simply reading too far into it.  But then he’s dragging his bottom lip through his teeth, head cocked curiously.  It’s a bait, you realise—and one you’ll gladly take.

“Should I have expected it?”

Shoulders hike, rising up around his ears.  “I thought I made it sort of obvious.”  

Had he?  Thinking back on it, you can’t really recall.  Of course, he’d always been friendly, indulging you in your pursuit of body art, sketching up the loveliest things you’d never even think to dream of;  accepting your distracting Instagram messages without complaint, always tossing you a like or some sort of acknowledgement no matter what you’d send (and you’d send some random, random stuff).  Chatting with him daily had just become the norm, conversation flowing freely whenever you’d pop in for your next session.

But that was just because he was a nice guy - or so you’d thought.  You realise now how wrong you’d been, too occupied with your own crush to notice his (if it could be called that).

“You like me,”  you hum, surprisingly nonchalant despite the little pitter patter in your chest, the flutter of your heart within your ribcage.  

“I think you’re cute,”  he retorts, though there’s no real weight to his rebuff.  The two statements are really one and the same and you’re giddy with the knowledge, absolutely tickled pink.

Except for the fact that he’s leaving, fully prepared to start a new life in another city in just one week.  The irony isn’t lost on you, like fate’s laughing even as she offers you this little crumb.  (You feel like Oliver Twist, frankly.)

“Same difference.”

He huffs - you’re reminded of how adorable he is when he does that - and downs the lukewarm remainder of his beer.  “I take it back.”

“No, you don’t.”  Where the confidence comes from, who knows.  You grip it tight with both hands though, hold it snugly as you level him with a stare that has his own unwavering.  It’s almost as if you’re caught in a staring match, a battle of unspoken wits. 

It drags on longer than it should, just the two of you locked to each other with nowhere to go. 

Then he does the last thing you expect:  shoves his chair aside and leans across the table, stealing a kiss and returning to his seat, all in the span of time it takes you to blink.  

(His lips are so soft.  A little chapped, a tiny bit dry, but soft - deceptively delicate.  Bitter, touched with sea salt and something else distinctly him.  French fries and beer and his Chapstick.) 

(For the briefest moment, you wonder whether you’d just imagined it - if your imagination had truly gotten the best of you and you’ve absolutely lost your mind.) 

“You just kissed me.”  It seems like you’ve found your new favourite hobby of just repeating things, giving live play-by-plays like an awkward narrator in a romcom.  

“Yeah, so?”

“You’re leaving.”  Speaking the words into existence feels bad;  you see the way his eyes tighten, the subtle sobering of his expression even while he tries to keep his cool.  

“I am.”  At least he’s realistic.  It saves you from any uncertainty, keeping the what-ifs at bay. 

You suppose it means you have nothing to lose. 

“Do it again.”

And Jungkook does - over and over, sinking the taste of him almost as deeply as ink, offering a piece of himself you want to keep for just as long.  

It takes you longer to add to your collection of art, nearly four whole years before you decide what you want next.  (It’s a back piece this time - a full body suit from your shoulders down past your ass.  Another cat, dressed in traditional Japanese clothing and surrounded by flowers.  An ode to your first tattoo, to the one that had started it all.)

(You’re not sure you’re ready for the pain, though.)

“Lay down,”  the artist instructs, back turned to you, busy preparing his materials.  You’d stripped down while he was occupied, discarded all your clothes to the allocated basket and stood quietly in anticipation. 

You do as he says, dropping atop the tattoo bed with a quiet oof.  The stencil has already been laid, the entire outline ready to be inked into your skin.  You can’t deny you’re more than a little nervous.  It’s been years since you’d last gotten anything done, uninterested in finding a new artist since Jungkook had left. 

(Which he had, exactly as he’d intended, gone on a 6 AM flight that you’d driven him to, teary-eyed and embarrassed.  He’d laughed at you standing outside of the departure gate, his suitcase at his side, arms wrapped around your shoulders.  You’d refused to show your face, burying it instead into the warmth of his neck, into the familiar scent of him that was going away for who knows how long.

“Stop being a baby,”  he’d said, smothering you in kisses, the full weight of his laughter palpable through your close proximity.  It'd rumbled out of his chest all the way into yours, finding a home behind your ribcage, right alongside where your heart fluttered, shaded blue and sad.

“Stop being mean,”  you’d countered, petulant like a child.

It couldn’t be helped.  You’d had only one week with him - one glorious, chaotic week filled with eating too much junk, rewatching your favourite animes, and generally making up for all the lost time you’d never even known there was.  As amazing as it’d been, it still hadn’t prepared you for the goodbye.

That was your fault, though.  You’d wrongly entertained the idea that maybe things would work out, that he’d change his mind or ask to take it - whatever you had, that is - with him, keep it going somehow.  He hadn’t.)

“Do you have a preference where I start?”  You’re unbothered, hair loosely knotted over your shoulder.  Ready for the session to start - ready to feel the familiar sting again.  (You’re proud of that.  It might have taken you years and years but here you were, tackling something huge.)

“Nope.”  

“Sounds good.”

The buzzing begins and pressure lands upon the small of your back, a gloved hand laid over the centre of your spine.  You remind yourself to breathe in, out, focus on something other than the pain that fizzles over your skin and then ebbs into tenderness.  Where he’s started - just above the fattiest part of your butt - isn’t too bad.  Tolerable and yielding.

You can do this.

Your back aches in a different way than you’d anticipated, soreness buzzing beneath inflamed skin and making it uncomfortable to move around.  It’s not any worse than your arm had been - the lines along your spine had felt comparable to that of your elbow - but it’s fresh, not dulled by years like your sleeve now was.

The artist is stripping his gloves off, your back neatly covered and the bed stripped of its original tissue paper.  He’s leaned against the sink, onigiri held in his now-free hands, nibbling at the edge of the rice ball as you turn this way and that in the mirror.  “You did good.”

You’re still undressed, admiring the linework from different angles, shimmying closer to your reflection to catch the lighter inking that makes up the undefined edges of the various florals.  Something tells you that you should be shy - eager to redress after spending nearly five hours naked in the secluded studio - but you don’t care.  Your back is quickly becoming a masterpiece, something that might as well be hung in the halls of the Louvre.  You’re in love with it.

“Thanks.”

You mean thank you for his compliment but also for all his hard work, the long hours he’s put into bringing this beauty to life.  It means so much - like progressing to the next level.  

Which, you suppose it is.  This is a fresh start for you.  A new beginning in a new city.  

“Proud of you,”  he hums, suddenly close, broad palms searing heat over your hips.  He’s careful to avoid the edge of the bandage that wraps your back and holds you delicately, like fine china or the most precious jewel in the world, lips sweet against your temple.  

You meet his eyes in the mirror - the same sweet doe-eyed stare from five years ago.  A little darker now, aged by the hand of time but endlessly kind, shining beneath the overhead lights.

“Proud of you,”  you chirp, identical smiles spreading over your faces.  

Jungkook’s having none of it though, bratty as usual.  “Proud of us.”

You suppose you can settle for that.  You really are proud of the two of you - for how far you’ve made it and all the obstacles you’ve overcome.  From the first few weeks of sadness, all the melancholy that’d set in when he’d left, to exactly one month after, when he’d called you in the middle of the night, drunk and stumbling home.  

(It’d been infuriating at the time - incoherent and foolish as he was - but it’d bloomed something between you, something neither of you could ignore.)

Four years of miserable long distance had become this:  a love that's brought you back to his side, to a city you’re unfamiliar with but that he calls home; to a city that never sleeps, loud with pachinko machines and some of the best food you’ve ever had;  to the place you’ve been missing every minute you were apart.  

You’d never thought you would move for someone, uproot your entire life for a relationship, but he’d changed that.  Made it worth it in ways you had never considered.  Convinced you more and more with each trip you’d taken, two visits twice a year, for a measly two weeks at a time.

“Should we head home?”  He means your physical home - the apartment the two of you had decided on in Roppongi, the one you haven’t seen yet, that he’s had to move into all by himself.  It’s not quite as nice as the home in his arms.  

You say yes anyway.

“I’m so talented.”  The words come entirely too whole for your liking, loud somewhere above your head.

“Are you serious?”  You’re levelling your boyfriend with the most incredulous look, whole face scrunched up, hands fisted into his dark sheets.  It’s uncomfortable at this angle - kinking your neck as you look over your shoulder - but you really can’t believe he’s just said that.  He’s knelt between your legs, knees spread wide around his own, his hand halfway up your back and tracking heat over your spine.  

Somehow, he has the audacity to look surprised.  “What?”

“You’re really patting yourself on the back right now?”  Now, when he should be pounding you into oblivion, working that big fat cock of his through your fluttering walls, making you moan his name into his pillows like it’s his only job? 

(It truthfully could be.  You’d rank his skills in the bedroom on par with his skills in the studio.)

“Oh.”  All at once, he’s the devil - sin personified. Or would be, if he didn’t somehow still look infuriatingly cute.

The gentle touch turns bruising, heel of his palm pressed hard into the tender notches of your spine.  “You don’t like when I admire my own work?”  Asked as he shifts behind you, length dragging out of your dripping cunt to gently tap against your aching clit.  The head of it glides through your folds, mercilessly teasing but never slipping back in, never filling you whole like you need.  (Because you really do need it.  You haven’t seen him in six months, left to your own devices - literally.)  It feels like heaven and hell, too good and not nearly enough all at once. 

“Kook,”  you snap. Try to, anyway, his name far too whiny and breathless to hold any real weight.

“I’m just admiring you, sweetheart.”  He’s dragging the hand over your back, tracing all the lines he’s embedded into your skin.  They make up his favourite piece, inked permanently into his favourite canvas.  A testament to his hard work, his dedication, his love.

Any other time, you might not care.  Here and now, after not having felt his touch in what feels like forever, you’re burning from the inside out, a million volts of electricity tripping your circuits.  When you speak, it’s more a plea than a reprimand, uttered so sweetly you know he can’t deny you. “Admire me later.”  

“I’ve missed you” is his only answer, punctuated by a fluid roll of his hips, the heavy press of his cock back into your dripping cunt.  “I’ve missed this,”  he breathes out, sinking all the way in, so slow you can feel every ridge and vein as he fills you.  

“Missed you too,”  you parrot back, a little delirious now that you’ve gotten what you want.  

Now that he’s right where he should be - with you.

tag list.  @neverthefirstchoice​​​ @youwannabelostandnotbefound​​​ @snackhobi​​​​ @codeinebelle​ @xjoonchildx​

[fizzyxcustard]

Dum Spiro Spero. (Armitage Summer Splash. Day 19.)

As part of @lathalea and I’s Armitage Summer Splash, I present to you, day 19. 

Masterlist of fics for Summer Splash

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

Prompts: “I can't do this." / Matching tattoos trope.  

Fandom: Spooks

Pairings: Lucas North/John Bateman x OC (Amy Holland)

Warnings: Mentions of kidnap, double identities, language.

Summary: Amy has found out that Lucas has been living a lie for quite some time and is not really Lucas North. After she was kidnapped earlier in the series, she is now living with him in America, under a new identity.

Comments/Notes: If anyone would like to be added to or removed from my tag list, please say. If you haven’t seen season 9 of Spooks, then I suggest you don’t read this.

Amy lay awake early that morning, looking at her outstretched arm on the pillow. Along the inside of the top of her left arm, from shoulder to elbow, now read the words, in permanent ink, Dum Spiro Spero. While I live, I hope. It mirrored the tattoo that Lucas had across the base of his neck, and now acted as a reminder that despite being on the run and living under a new identity, she still had hope. While she was breathing there was always hope to be felt.

Lucas had disappeared into the early morning gloom while Amy was still asleep, hoping to meet with a contact and pick up their new American driving licences, and get details on the safe houses that littered the States where he and Amy could go in case the shit hit the fan. Lucas had always made sure he had foreign contacts while he was working with MI-5, just in case the worse had happened, which it did.

The sun was rising as Amy stood in front of the living room windows, which spanned the length of the room. It gave an impressive view of the New York skyline. She had never asked the exact methods that Lucas had used to obtain their wealth, and had learned to try and not think about it.

Amy held a mug of freshly made coffee in her hands and thought on her family. None of them would ever know what happened to her. Maybe one day she could send a letter, and just tell them that she was at least alive.

I can't do this. Those had been the words that Amy told Lucas daily once they had fled from the UK. Her whole body was racked with fear; and for two weeks, she had lived on an hour per night of sleep. But eventually that fear had dissolved away into a sense of contentment that she had never quite felt before.

She remembered the day when everything went to shit. When she found out that his real name was John Bateman. When Ruth had uncovered the truth. She remembered kissing Lucas as the police stormed the building he had taken her to, and then on spur of the moment, she told him to run and that she would find him later.

For the first time in her life, Amy lied to authorities. She told them that she had no idea where Lucas was. Then she fell off the grid. She'd returned home to her flat, only to find a passport on her pillow. Her photo was inside, but had the name Rebecca Wilkinson. A burner phone was on Lucas' pillow, with one unread message.

I'm coming for you. 6 o' clock.

Lucas had been prepared for the eventuality for some time. And as Amy sipped her coffee, she began to wonder just how long he had had that passport ready for her. Had it always been in his possession from early on in their relationship? Or had he obtained it once he got wind that Ruth was investigating him?

Had all of this been worth it? Following a man who had lied about his identity and betrayed his country?

Amy knew in her heart that most people would follow their rational thinking, their moral judgement, and would have thrown Lucas to the dogs. But her heart was too strong in this, her hope for a future with Lucas trumped it all.

"Dum Spiro Spero," she whispered, with a smile.

***

Follow Forever tag list: @i-did-not-mean-to @lathalea @middleearthpixie @linasofia @xxbyimm @guardianofrivendell @knitastically @meganlpie @sketch-and-write-lover @msjava1972 @lilacpulse @asgardianhobbit98 @spidergirla5 @rachel1959 @enchantzz @medusas-hairband @luna-xial

Richard Armitage tag list: @eunoiaastralwings @cryptichobbit

[bridgyrose]

If you're still taking requests:

Ruby goes to get her very first tattoo at the new parlor in town, but finds something awakening within her due to the artist, a certain black haired cat faunus~

Ruby nervously walked into the tattoo parlor, the small bell above the door chimed softly as she made her way inside. The scent of vanilla and chamomile filled the room from the candles and teapot that sat on the front counter. As she looked around the small waiting room, she’d see photos of the tattoos the artist had worked on before, each one more intricate than the last. Finally, she heard the voice of the artist ring from the room she was in as the electronic whirring of the needle paused. 

“I’ll be right with you in a moment!” 

Ruby sat down and took a couple breaths as she pulled out her scroll to try to calm herself. Without her scythe, she felt vulnerable. Slowly, she found the picture she wanted to use as her tattoo and waited for the artist to finish. 

It wasnt long before Blake pulled out of the room she was in with a bull  faunus in tow, a fresh tattoo wrapped up to protect it. “Now remember, leave that on for a few days to let the ink dry.” 

“You know I will.” The faunus said as he kissed Blake’s cheek. “And we’re still on for later, right?” 

“Yes Adam, I’ll make sure to come around this time.” Blake waved him off and took a look at Ruby with a smile. “Here for a tattoo or a piercing?” 

“A uh… tattoo.” Ruby slowly stood up and made her way over to Blake. She quickly pulled out the ID she used for undercover work with a smile. “You’re pretty busy for having just opened.” 

Blake shrugged and took the ID to look it over before handing it back over. “When you’re one of the few faunus friendly places around, its easy for people to start making their way over.” She paused for a moment and looked Ruby over. “Though, you’re the first human to willingly come through those doors without the intent to hurt anyone.” 

“In the week that you’ve opened, I’ve heard great things about you and your work,” Ruby said as she rubbed the back of her neck, hoping Blake would believe the lie. Though, it wasnt a complete lie as she had heard good things about the place as she questioned around a bit, but it certainly wasnt the only reason. “And I figured that if I”m going to get a tattoo, I might as well get it done by someone who knows what they’re doing.” 

Blake nodded and motioned for Ruby to follow her to another room for a bit of privacy. “What exactly did you have in mind?” 

“Its an emblem I’ve been working on.” Ruby fumbled with her scroll and brought up a rough sketch of her rose emblem with a few variations of flames wrapped around it. “Something to help me have a piece of my family with me at all times.” 

Blake took Ruby’s scroll to look at the picture and frowned when she recognized the symbol. With a heavy sigh, she handed the scroll back and sat down on a chair and motioned for Ruby to sit next to her. “If you’re going to do something like that, you’ll want to make it a bit… simpler.” She picked up her digital tablet and started to draw Ruby’s emblem with small flames around it. “Something like this. It pops, its simple, and its still recognizably you.” 

Ruby nodded and looked over the picture of the tattoo. Before she knew it, she was pressed down to her back with Blake looking down at her. 

“So, ready for your tattoo?” Blake asked. 

Ruby nodded and took a deep breath. “Alright, I”m ready.” 

“And where did you want it?” 

“On my upper arm.” 

As the needle started to whir once more, Ruby closed her eyes and took in the smell of the room to distract herself as Blake rolled up her sleeve and the pain of the needle started to radiate through her arm. Her heart started to pound as she felt Blake’s breath against her neck. 

“This isnt too painful for you, is it?” 

“N-no, its not.” Ruby slowly opened her eyes and blushed when she realized just how close Blake was to her. She winced as the needle started to hit a sore spot in her arm. “I’m just trying to-” 

“Relax?” Blake pulled the needle back to give Ruby a small rest. “Dont worry, this wont take long at all. Mind if I light some incense to help you?” 

“Sure.” 

Ruby took another small breath as she tried to relax and look around the room. After all, she still had a mission to do and couldnt let herself get hung up on how pretty Blake was. She never realized her head started to spin as Blake let the incense burn, the smoke wafted around the room and almost seemed to collect right above her. 

Blake smiled a bit and went back to work on Ruby’s tattoo. “You know, you’re not the first huntress to come around here since I’ve opened. And I know you wont be the last either.” 

Ruby paused as she found it hard to focus, her words slurred as the smoke from the incense started to get to her. “But… I’m not…” 

“Please, I make sure to know who all the huntsmen in the kingdom are when I open shop.” Blake slowly put on a cloth mask with the White Fang insignia. “The only shame is that you’re not going to remember any of this when I’m done.” 

Ruby’s eyes finally shut as she dozed off, Blake’s name and face started to fade from her mind. “What… doing to… me?” 

“Nothing that’s going to matter in a few hours.” Blake let out a heavy sigh and continued to work on the tattoo that Ruby had paid for. Once she finished, she pulled out her own scroll and quickly dialed a familiar number. “Ilia? Yeah, I’ve got another one. Can you drop this one off in the forest this time? This one’s different and I need her alone. After I’m done talking to Adam.” 

[jadelynlace]

Ink Drinker / Modern Vikings AU [Ivar x F!Reader], Chapter 6

catch up here!

synopsis: Ivar was only meant to be a friend with benefits, but he caught feelings for his older brother’s best friend, and co-worker: you.

pairing: Ivar x F!Reader

***content warning [PLEASE READ]: this chapter has the after effect of the trauma call, and too many emotions. surgical mentions and medical terminology are in this chapter as well. anything in italics indicates a flash back.

author’s note: I’m so sorry.

 ~

“Floki, why can I be left alone?” Ivar asked.

“Because the last time you were left alone you ended up with fifty thousand milligrams of pain killers in your stomach. Now, come here—do you know this?” Floki replied with his fingers taping the photo copied image.

“I drew that.” Ivar said back.

“Yes, you did. Where do you want it?”

“What do you mean?” 

“You hate your body so much why don’t you cover it in something you like?” 

*

It is sixteen hours that Ivar is in surgery. His world is dark, nothing but, with pierces of noises that he can recall. But trying to decipher them only makes the surroundings dull, caked in black and muffled with a buzz of an unruly bee hive. There are pokes of pain, he remembers the green light, and he remembers the pot hole he swerved to miss. He doesn’t remember how fast he was driving and the second he was over the yellow line made no difference for the sudden beast of a truck to find him. 

Everything below Ivar’s powdered knee caps are reattached. Grueling hours on the table while he’s sewed back together like a monster. Enough time for Hvitserk to get clothes, to get you clothes, to pack a bag for his brother per your request. Even in the presence of clean laundry you can’t take your blues off yet—they’re holding you proper because you just saw Ivar that morning. You two made love in the low morning light, filled with ecstasy, his seed and then he made you eggs with extra hot sauce and hugged you tightly you were sure you stopped breathing. He told you to be safe, baby, like he did at the dawn of each shift and that he would call you when his last appointment was finished, and on his way back from shopping for supplies for the parlor and that you two would make lunch plans. In his speed, his haste to make sure he didn’t miss you before the two tone song of death would sing in the radios, he instead, became the reason it did.  

Your chief shows up when you tell him the nature of the emergency. Pulling additional personnel on for overtime and they take the rig out of service and from your hands. Words don’t spare any differences and although he offers you a hug, when you take it he slips you a piece of paper. 

“Remember the job you’re doing. And the change you’re making.” He whispers in your ear and you look at the folded sheet. It’s a photocopy of a poorly drawn fire truck with an even worse sketched stick figure, and you had scribbled it when you were five. Back when you met chief for the first time because now you hold the same badge number your father once did. 

“If I give you your Dad’s old badge number, are you going to act like a jack ass like him?”

“I can’t make any promises chief.”

“I have a partner in mind for you, you’ll like him. He’s a good kid. A good medic.”

“This good kid got a name?”

“Yeah, Hvitserk. I’ll introduce the two of you.”

This is the call that shapes you as a medic, as a provider, and changes how you see things. This is the call that sends a new person out into the street, whether Ivar lives or not. This is the call that forever holds terror in your heart because he was laying in the back of your ambulance, and that was the one spot you never wanted him to occupy. 

Aslaug walks through the doors and she’s already two tissues deep into a soggy mess. Hugging Hvitserk and hugging you and you wish you were meeting this woman for the first time under any other circumstance. Floki thanks you and you don’t quite know why, even though the words fall heavily and un-calming, he still thanks you. And when the surgeon returns before the four of you, you’re the only one that doesn’t stand. But he calls your name because you know him, he was lab staff that tested you for your certifications and he told you that you’ll make a damn good medic one day. 

“Remember what I said on the day of your exam?” He asks and you nod, puzzled and impatient looks on the other faces. “You are a damn good medic—you both are.” He adds, eyes jumping from yours to your partners. “And it shows on this call, of all of them.” Hvitserk’s shoulder nudges you and you only nudge him back, perhaps little too hard in your delirious state. “Essentially what we did, was replant the lower portion of each leg. Now, given the extent of his injuries and how his body handles such, I don’t have a clear cut answer for you on his overall mobility. He may need to have screws implanted, he may need prosthetics. He’s going to be in the ICU for the next 48 hours for constant monitoring. We’ll have him sedated so his body can focus on what’s at stake. He’ll need physical therapy for a long time, and he’ll likely be disabled for the rest of his life, given again, how his body handles this. It’ll be a long road. But, like I said—you two are damn good medics and that is the one reason his legs were able to be saved. I will let you know when he’s moved to the ICU.”

You look back at your partner and his face is as blank as yours; influx of emotions just ready to dive from the void but your minds are still churning, still processing all of what boomed from the doctor’s mouth. Ivar’s chance at returning to a normal life was resting in your hands and you two gave the best damn efforts and they worked. The countless hours of dissection, wondering if you’re cut out for this career, these responsibilities, hours of trauma and blood and vomit all fizzle away because you now know that you are. And it just took Ivar to prove it.

When your eyes open again there’s a sharp pierce in your temple, scrunching eyes together and slowly moving, your head rises from Floki’s shoulder and the lights in the ICU have dimmed in the late hour. Impressions stood between his nostrils, falling like petals over his cheekbones, bleeding through split brows and pink flowers through the depths of his neck. His chest sinking and fainting with time, there was a moment of deafening silence when you are looking at his body; seemingly so small under the contraptions. The depths of earth, and the worst hell was seeing him lay on this cot. He’s only sedated now, even though Ivar looked of death, he was still alive under the harvest of wires. The words of how “we’re doing all that we can” do not bring any more comfort, they just take Ivar like a wave rapidly back out to sea. And now you understand how your patients, and their families feel when you speak the same phrases to them. The clinical assessments do not stop a rigorous schedule, motoring for the possible failure. The room is kept warm, and every so often when you will yourself to peek in, you can see the sheen of sweat that’s over Ivar’s forehead, dancing across his chest under the stickers, the monitors. The capillary refill on his toes show promise, and when the nurse says that to her doctor, you find yourself attempting the same motions on your thumb nail. Pressing the pink away and making room for the white, and then in a quick release, the pink swarms back. The ultra sound machines reminds you of the new equipment in your rig as it assess arterial blood flow every hour.

IV bags drip, slow and agonize and the change of wrappings, dressings and cleaning of both the limbs and Ivar himself collect. You spend hours watching the fluid levels sink, his eyes flutter, his fingers in his hand dance and you grow cold because you just want to hold him. To lock him in a steel tower and to constantly remind him how strong he is, because you know the longest road will not come from learning to walk. It will come from Ivar trying to find that he is worthy to live on.

Blackness had retired across your cheeks, wrapping a veil of makeup that melted into battle scars and you could not move if your body depended on it. Aslaug sits next to you; she takes her time wiping the makeup off from under your eyes, the soiled mascara and she’s humming to you. She had been telling you how when Ivar was young, she would sing to him and it would calm him down. How she sang to him in the hospital after he tried to overdose, tubes pumping his stomach as she blamed herself for such wrong doing. How Hvitserk blamed himself because he gave no one a warning cry. And how she’s singing to Ivar now, even though he can’t hear it, because it comforts the three of you as a whole. 

When your eyes follow the nurse into the room, you can hear her say something to Ivar and you watch his head turn in confusion. Grogginess and a fog on his brain as she talks to him like it’s a normal conversation; wishing him a good morning, how the weather looks promising for a beautiful day and you wish you had that level of bed side manner. You never get the promising parts of the journey; you get the patients that are coding and in a rush to the life saving team in the hospital. You love the ones who tell you their entire live’s story in the back of the rig on the way to the emergency room, sharing details and calming your mind with how simple, and yet how different every walk of life is. The nurse says something about you, about Hvitserk and Aslaug and Floki, out and waiting and ready to see him when he’s fit. You wave through the glass and there’s the tease of a smirk on Ivar’s face, even in his slightly sedated state. A dastardly, bastard smirk and his hand lifts off the bed slightly, wiggling his fingers back to you. The tears start up again, pounding a sledge hammer through your skull after all of the unruly pressure and messes of crying as your body tries to go numb.

“Where’s my mom?” You hear Ivar say in a voice that muted slightly as the nurse stands in the door way to exit. “Can I see my mom?” And the nurse nods. Aslaug stands and kisses your hair line as she walks into the vicinity, Ivar watching her and you need to back up, you need to walk away from the room, this hall way and this battle. A faint wheeze goes through your chest and Floki catches it first before Hvitserk has a chance to lift his head and open his eyes.

“Let’s walk, dear,” Floki says and his voice is not authoritative but it still demands you to comply as he loops an arm around your shoulder. “Walking can help to clear the mind.” It’s your first time outside in almost three days, and the sunlight burns you like you had been its victim on a sand covered shoreline for one too many hours. The hospital grounds are manicured, they’re neat and arranged with an abundance of flowers and colors in the open air but everything to you still feels so dull and lifeless, pointless and hopeless and walking only churns your thoughts to double, triple in size like a snow ball rolling down a hill. 

You’re finally allowed in to see Ivar and you approach slowly, like touching him will seer you suddenly, stain you with a unremovable pattern and you’ll forever be reminded. His blue eyes are dull and groggy when they open, the nasal cannula wrapping his face and your eyes dance over the scurf collecting on his jaw, and the faint bruising, cuts and scrapes on his skin.

“Hey baby,” His voice rasps and you kneel by the bed, tears already on their journeys to streak your tried skin and Ivar’s needle poked, IV covered arm comes to wipe what he can reach. “You were there, weren’t you?” And you can only nod, eyes still damp and you relish in the touch he gives you only if it’s for a second. “You saved my life, baby,” Ivar finally adds and that makes the whimper start again, the choke of a sob in your throat and he tries to quiet you, slithering a quick noise from his lips and you rest your head against the bed, his hand still on your hair. 

“I drove the ambulance over a hundred miles an hour,” You finally say and they’re the first words you can use to process the trauma you two had lived through together.

“That’s my girl,” Ivar smiles, speaking with a voice that sounds like sandpaper.

“I love you Ivar—no matter what happens, I love you so much,”

“I love you too, Y/N,” Ivar says and his voice is weaker now and he needs rest. “Kiss me before you go?” He says with eyes scanning your face, and you can’t deny that now. Pressing your lips softly against his, your hands cupping his cheek and you hope it’s not the last kiss you’ll ever get from him. “I’m not going anywhere, baby,” Ivar tells you. “I’m afraid. But I’m not going anywhere,” You nod as he speaks, a forehead against his for a second and his hand is still trying to reach on you where he can. This is the man that would pull the tubes and the wires from his chest if he could, if that would make him get closer to you. “You’re stuck with me,” And there’s a faint snicker after his words, weak and drowned out from the normal tone but you’ll take it after not hearing his voice for three days.

“I’m stuck with you,” You say back with a small smile. But it still doesn’t bring enough hope.

Ink Drinker Tags:

@smileysam13579 @dreamtherapy @heisentwerk @angelofthenightposts @ill-skillsgard @youaremyfamiliar @unbetaedimagines @kathryn-jane @readsalot73 @skrsgardspam @lihikainanea @queen-sarang @anastasiaskarsgard @andmyannabellee @walkxthexmoon @flowers-in-your-hayr @peachyboneless @heavenly1927 @istorkyou @victoria-styles @quantumlocked310 @xbellaxcarolinax @mighty-ragnarssons @alexhandersen-marcoilsoe-fandom @queen-of-upshur @nanahachikyuu @fandomlifeandeverythingelse @ivarhoegh @a5hl3y5ibley @hashimily @youbloodymadgenius @love-all-things-writing @theanxietyqueen17 @trip2themoon @tgrrose @synnersaint @kataphine

*please message me to let me know if you would like to be added or removed from my tag list. specifications for series/etc. are also welcomed, as well as feedback.*

full masterlist can be found here.

[the-hydroxian-artblog]

Where in the hell do you store all that motivation??

in my ass. i force art out of it. we call this technique “f-arting”

also i've been getting a lot of anons and answering them all would seriously clutter the blog so. here’s a big bunch of anons I’ve answered. 

FYI, the most reliable way of getting a response from me is asking off-anon, so I can send an answer privately and not have to worry about cluttering up the blog if it’s a question that’s been asked previously or just a simple remark

Don't know if you've answered this before but what program/brushes do you use?

What art software do you use? I want to use the brushes you've been using in your shit. They look fuckin' bangin'.

Clip Studio Paint, check here for an answer to a previous ask like this! But for my recent ink sketches, I’ve used this 

hey, i know what i may be saying is useless but i was listening to some music and To My Enemies - Saint Motel reminded me of your STH AU, that's all lol, love ur art bye

Honestly a neat connection, not one I’d expect but it’s welcome all the same

Beth and Spamton. Violence or joy?

Beth scams Spamton then feels really bad and gives him some tips. Then she goes on a dinner date with Queen

what font do you use for text in ur art

Answered! Lucida Console.

Will we see Tails interacting with tails bot? Or Knuckles with metal Knuckles?

Tails might interact with TD at some point. I dunno about Knuckles though. I barely have any notes on either of their characterizations.

wot ur opinion deltarune chapter too

it’s good

thank you so much for creating mothy, best moth i've ever seen

thank you for appreciating him

Does it give him (Mike) some solace knowing that he will likely outlive Sonic and be able to breakdance on his grave?

yes. that is the plan.

As a lesbian i think i owe you my life for Tikal and Rouge in Hanging Out 😂😂 truly.... perfect 💖💖💖

how does it feel to have perfect taste

I feel like Metal would at some point call sonic Flesh Sonic or Meat Sonic out of spite

That’s a really brilliant concept to be honest

Say, with Cream having a vampiric mom and potential vampiric powers despite her mortality, would her relationship with Cheese n' Chocola change? Actually, now that I think about it, what role might the Chao in general have in your AU (if they have any that goes beyond canon)?

Cheese is Cream’s body guard. Cream likewise has no powers, other than remarkable marksmanship. Chocola is just chillin.

Is Amy aware of Gamma’s death? Like, that the original Gamma from Adventure is dead, and was subsequently one of the birds from photo in the pendent (did she ever find/figure it out)? Or does she think Gamma’s still out there, somewhere? Does she ever think about him and whatever happened to him?

Follow-Up Question: Zero. Does Amy have, like, any nightmares or stress dreams about him showing up again in her life, somehow (like smashing through a wall into her house like the kool aid man)?

1. Amy learned of Gamma’s death through Tikal, who witnessed it. Amy wished things didn’t end that way, simply put.

2. Nah.

I know you got commissions but do you also do art/sketch trades?

Not at this time, sorry.

Sticks has enormous “Hey friend listen, I know the world is scary right now, but it’s gonna get way worse” energy.

That’s her character, yes.

Speaking of Badniks, any Scratch and Grounder hc's?

Their situation in the AU is dimensionally complicated, and I won’t get into it at this time. *flashes you with a neuralyzer*

What is Blaze like in your AU? Is she from the future or from the Sol Dimension? Both? Is she even real? Did Silver find a pointy pineapple and name it Blaze in his bad future?

blaze is literally just canon self but like, older by 7 years. she’s from the sol dimension, minding her own business

I know it’s been years but in Hangin’ Out - 23 why does Amy react so badly to being called pink?

she reacts badly to being pursued and implied to be an acceptable target for being pink. I feel there’s a difference here

Have you ever heard of the band Steam Powered Giraffe??? I think they'd be up your alley!

perhaps they would... i may give em a listen, hm

i really like mike the hedgehog (metal) and i'd love to hug him, but i feel if i did i would die on the spot so instead i'll give him a gun as a gift

you wouldn’t die he’d just be really uncomfortable and would probably swat you away, like he always does at things that annoy him. he’d appreciate the gun, though

[hangovercurse]

Blind Date (continued)

You invite Colson in after your blind date

Request: “I loved this so much! If you get the chance and are up to it, I’d love a second part!” ”I would like to read a second part of it”

Colson X Reader

Warnings: cursing

A/N: Have I edited this? No. Did I even look back over this after I wrote it? Also no

Word Count: 1974

Your hand touched the handle before you turned around, finding Colson in the same situation at his car door, still looking at you. “Do you maybe wanna… come in?” You asked, biting your lip. His face lit up, a smirk highlighting his features.

“I would love that.”

The man’s lanky figure strutted over to your front door as you opened it, pausing as he entered to take in the smell of your house that screamed you. He let his eyes wander around the place as he stepped further in, taking off his coat and shoes at the front entryway.

You moved into the kitchen, pulling out a bottle of red wine while he made his way into the space. You found a note on the counter from your best friend and roommate.

Staying at Eric’s tonight in case you and your date need the place to yourself <3

You rolled your eyes at the note, chuckling as you tossed it in the trash. You rustled through your drawers to grab a corkscrew, fiddling with the bottle as Colson shuffled into the room, standing behind you to encase you in his arms.

He took the corkscrew from your hands and opened the bottle with ease. “I was getting there,” you whined jokingly.

He chuckled, “I could see that.” You turned around and allowed your lower back to rest against the counter, squeezed between the surface and Colson. His arms rested on the countertop on either side of you, his figure leaning to be level with you.

You couldn’t help but admire his features, his bright blue eyes and the stubble on his jaw sparking your artistic mind. “I wish I could sketch you right now,” you murmured your thoughts aloud.

He smirked, leaning closer into you, your lips almost meeting, “why don’t you?”

You smiled, pressing a soft kiss to his lips before softly speaking, “you would get bored being my model.”

He pulled away from you, fingers running across your waist until they found your hands, intertwining your fingers. “I would be honored to be your model.”

You perked an eyebrow, “seriously?”

He shrugged, “I’ve done it before for cameras, and you are much more interesting than photographers.” He pulled you away from the counter, “go get your stuff and I’ll pour wine.”

Rolling your eyes, you walked towards your art room, which was really just your bedroom, “don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

When you returned, he was wandering your small living area, a glass of wine in his hands and one on the small coffee table. His eyes danced along the picture frames you and your roommate had placed around the house when you first moved in, which you honestly hadn’t looked at since.

You stepped into the room with your sketchbook and pencils, making your presence known. His gaze drifted to you with a smile, watching you settle onto the couch, “so, is this your roommate?” He motioned towards one of the pictures.

You glanced up, smiling at the goofy picture you two had taken at graduation, “yep, that’s us.” You turned your head back to your book, flipping to the next blank page as he continued asking about your pictures.

“Who’s in this one?” He asked, pointing to a photo of your roommate and her boyfriend, Eric.

You chuckled at the image of them pulling funny faces in the front seat of a car while you sat in the background looking bored, “that’s Eric, her boyfriend. We went on this huge road trip and they swore I wouldn’t have to third wheel, but I obviously did.”

Colson let out a small laugh, taking a sip of his wine, “and who is that?”

You had honestly forgotten about the picture he was pointing to, but seeing it made your stomach fill with unease. “Oh, I forgot that was still up,” you sighed at Colson’s curious expression, “that’s me and my ex, TJ. We broke up months ago, I thought I’d gotten everything of his out of here.”

Colson could see the discomfort in your expression, sitting down on the armchair next to your couch, throwing his legs over the side and posing dramatically. “Bad ex, huh?” You nodded, not wanting to make him uncomfortable with the conversation, though you wanted nothing more than to open up to him. “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”

You rolled your eyes, turning so you could face him, “of all the poses, that’s what you pick?”

He smiled innocently, “yep.” A chuckle fell from your lips as you looked down at your sketchbook, pressing your pencil to the paper. “Fine, I’ll go first,” he began, “can’t really get to know each other if we don’t get at least a little bit of trauma out of the way.”

You looked up at him and giggled, “you got me there.”

He sighed, taking a sip of his wine, “Baze told me not to talk about it, but the look on your face when I asked you about him tells me you might be able to relate.” You raised an eyebrow but kept drawing, giving him a silent signal to continue. “I was dating this girl for a while, you’ve probably heard of her, Megan Fox.”

Your eyes went wide at the name, looking up at him in shock, “yeah, because that’s not an intimidating act to follow at all!”

Colson waved you off, “you’re doing great so far, don’t even worry about it.” You gave him a stern look, but he only continued with his story, “anyways, we were together for a while and she told me all the time she thought we were soulmates, and I believed her, you know?” You bit your lip, starting to feel slightly intimidated as he spoke about the woman. “But then she cheated on me after, like, 9 months. And I realized after we broke up how wrong we were for each other and how much she manipulated me.”

You frowned as he spoke, his tone getting sadder with each word. “That’s so shitty. I don’t understand why people cheat in long term relationships, especially after you’ve given them so much hope and trust. Like someone convinces you that they love you and then they go around and pull that shit. It’s evil.”

He nodded, a slight smile on his face, “I’m over it now though, in case you were worried. Came to the realization about a month or two later that I was better without her.”

You held the pencil in your hands still, trying to find the words you needed to say. “I, uh, I was dating that guy, TJ. We had been friends for a while and he asked me out and I said yes. Everything was great, you know? And then like almost a year end he starts acting all weird and possessive. Like just because we had been together for so long means he doesn’t have to treat me like his girlfriend anymore. He would make me feel like shit in front of our friends and just all around was being a shitty boyfriend.” Colson stared at you intensely with a frown on his face, eyebrows furrowed.

“A guy should never do that shit to his girl. You don’t deserve that shit, no one does.”

You nodded sadly, “yeah, well, then I found out like 4 months into all of this that he had cheated on me and gotten the girl pregnant so… I ended things real quick.” You let out a sad huff, turning your attention back to the book and continuing your sketch of the beautiful man in front of you. “I was really upset at first but now I’m just kind of angry. Dude was a dick.”

Colson let out a dry laugh as you took a long sip of wine, “sounds like it. I’m sorry you went through that shit.”

You shrugged, smiling up at him, “if I hadn’t, we wouldn’t be here.”

He chuckled, biting his lip, “guess something good came out of it.”

A blush spread across your cheeks, “oh yeah, the food was amazing.” Your words were full of sarcasm, yet the pout on his face still made you giggle, “I’m joking, loser.”

“You better be miss second-date.” You giggled but didn’t respond, turning back to draw him. It was quiet for a few moments, your pencil tracing along the paper.

He shifted, at which you glared up at him, “I told you you’d get bored.”

With a chuckle he said, “I’m not bored. I get to look at you while you draw, it’s far from boring.” You tried to look annoyed at him but failed miserably at his flattering words. “I was thinking though, since it’s my picture and all, I should get to make some executive decisions.”

You scoffed, “you chose your pose, what else would you like oh great model Colson?”

He rolled his eyes playfully, stretching his arm out to set his glass on the table. “Well, I mentioned that I have some tattoos,” he reached for the hem of his shirt, pulling it up, “you should draw them.”

Once his shirt was fully removed from his body, you couldn’t help but gawk just a little. His entire chest was covered in ink, designs beautifully engraved into his skin. “I was gonna make a joke about this only being our first date but holy shit, these are beautiful.”

He blushed, looking down shyly, ”I was honestly scared you weren’t gonna like them.”

You looked at him with wide eyes, “Seriously? This is so cool. I’m an artist, you really think I’m not gonna like tattoos? Its an art form in itself.”

Colson shrugged, moving back to his pose, expecting you to continue your drawing. Instead, your eyes wandered his torso, taking in every detail of the work. “If you’re lucky,” he commented slyly, “one day I might show you all of them.”

You rolled your eyes with a scoff, moving back into drawing position, “you think you’re so cool.”

A breathy laugh fell from his lips, “I do, actually.”

The two of you continued banter-laced conversation while you drew him, his likeness coming to life on your page. At some point it turned into 3 am, and you were struggling to keep your eyes opened, but you were finished.

“Here.” You turned the book to him, letting him take in your work. He didn’t speak for a few moments, causing worry to build in you. “I mean, it’s no Mona Lisa but-“

“That is fucking amazing.” He cut you off with a wide smile, “you make me look hot.”

You rolled your eyes with a grin, “I’m not going to feed your ego by saying something super lame like “that’s just what you look like,” but I’m glad you like it.” He chuckled at your response, climbing off of the chair to stand in front of you.

“Damn, I was really hoping to get my ego fed tonight.” He grabbed the sketchbook from you and threw it onto the couch next to you before grabbing your hands and pulling you up to stand.

You smiled to yourself, chest shaking with silent laughter, “does the sketch not feed it enough?”

He shook his head, “I need the approval of a really pretty girl to satisfy its hunger.”

Rolling your eyes, you leaned up into him, “you gotta work harder than that, Rockstar.” Your words came out breathy against his lips as he wrapped his arms around your waist.

His mouth connected to yours, the kiss deep and passionate. His soft lips meshed perfectly with yours, his hands pulling you up to stand on your tiptoes. Once you pulled away you stayed close to him, breathing in his intoxicating scent. He whispered, “I never thought a blind date could turn out so well.”

[a-gun-with-one-bullet]

Mondo Owada x Ultimate Tattoo Artist!Reader

Request by @bxby-riah fic under cut!

  It was Daiya who brought it up, just before the third anniversary of the Crazy Diamonds coming together. It was about three in the morning, when Mondo was shaken awake by his brother, who was trying his best to whisper about his idea. Tattooing the logo of the gang on both of their backs.

  As the current leader of the Crazy Diamonds, Mondo made sure he looked his absolute best. He spent hours on his hair, made sure his jacket was clean, and polished his bike before riding every day. If he put that much time into making everything for the gang perfect, then the tattoo must be perfect too.

  It took him and Daiya a few weeks to find you. He was searching through a magazine, when he found an article written over you and your work. Another Ultimate, graduated a year after him. He was quite surprised to see that, as he thought he knew the classes under him well, but hadn’t seen you. Stunned, he stared down at your photo, tracing your dress with his thumb. Most of the artists he had seen were men, and none of them were dressed anything like you. Your look must draw eyes from everywhere, as he looked through your reviews, most had commented on your fashion, ranging from ‘doll-like’ to ‘scary.’ He knocked on Daiya’s door, before just slamming it open, startling his brother. Daiya’s smile was wide as Mondo went on about your article, reviews, and photos. 

  “You just think she’s cute, don’t ya?” Mondo went red as Daiya grinned.

  They both decided that they wouldn’t find anyone better than the Ultimate Tattoo artist. They rode side by side, to the little tattoo parlor down town.

  Parking their motorcycles outside the little black shop, they looked through the windows, parted black curtains with silver floral print, to the black walls covered in artwork and photos. The door was white with black stripes, and chimed as they went through. You were perched on the black velvet loveseat, idly drawing until the chime caught your attention.

  Being this way, not much scared you. No movie, story, or sight could shake you. But, as the two biggest gang leaders of Japan stood in your doorway, you admit that it shook you. Daiya and Mondo Owada- you had seen that name often- Mondo? You remember seeing him at school, usually sleeping in class with his feet propped up, or yelling with one of the other Ultimates. You knew he was trouble, however you were known to never turn away customers, so you braced yourself and put on your best smile.

  “Good afternoon, boys, what can I do for you?”

  Daiya stepped forward, began to speak, but was interrupted by Mondo. 

  “We need to have our emblem tattoo’d! We have the image right here!” His voice loudly echoed in the parlor, and you flinched at the volume of his voice. His smile dropped, replaced with a shocked expression, as his brother chuckled and continued on.

  “Sorry, miss, what my knuckle-head of a brother was trying to say-“ he elbowed Mondo with a sharp jab- “is that we’d both like to get tattoos from you, if you aren’t busy.” Immediately you spotted Daiya as the more suave one, his tone lulling you into calmness. Mondo huffed, crossing his arms and looking down at his feet.

  You and Daiya spent a few minutes discussing prices and times, ultimately deciding that since you have nothing scheduled and no current customers, that Daiya would get his in a few minutes, and afterwords, Mondo. Daiya gave you a paper with the design, and took his jacket and shirt off as you traced it on tattoo paper. He laid on his stomach, and you got started. 

  Daiya was easy. Hardly any movement, never flinching, slight flirtations came from him, and out of the corner of your eye, you could see his brother shifting. You finished the design, wiping off excess ink, and putting a clear patch on it. Daiya stood up, went to the mirrors, and examined the job you did. He seemed happy with it, and encouraged Mondo to lay down.

  As Mondo undressed, you didn’t mean to stare, but the way his muscles rippled, moving to get the jacket removed, made you blush. His shirt peeled off, his abs per-

  Mondo chuckled, and you jerked out of your stare, your face becoming scarlet shade. You never saw, but behind you, Daiya smiled, nodding at his brother. You pointed at the reclined seat, motioning for Mondo to take his turn.

  Daiya’s was definitely a lot easier than Mondo’s. While the older brother laid still, sometimes lightly chatting and looking out the window, Mondo wanted to move and look at everything in the decorated room. Your sketches on the walls- he asked everything about- to the photos of your friends in the parlor, lazy grins and one frozen talking to the other. It was then when he spotted your guitar. Black finishing, with yours and the band members signatures in silver ink across the body of it. Mondo had always wanted to play the guitar, but with a short attention span, and a motorcycle gang to take care of, he had never had time to pick it up.

  “You play guitar?!” You nodded.

  “I play it for my band.”

  “You have a band?!” You giggled, wiping the cloth along his back.

  “I do.” After you put the patch on, Mondo rose to his feet, an excited grin stretched across his face. 

  “When’s your next show! I’ll buy tickets! I’ve gotta see you play!” You giggled at his cute mannerisms. 

  “Actually, I think I can save you a seat,” Mondo looked surprised.

  “Front row. You and your brother, Friday night?”

  “I’ll see you then, promise!” 

  And he kept his promise.

[babyloposts]

RoseBud

My Hero Academia Gang AU

Pairing(s): Sero Hanta x fem!reader

Warnings: language, drug use, explicit content, sexual themes, gang imagery, violence

Summary: a simple crush on a guy quickly turns south as you become wrapped up in an unsafe life of lies, drugs, and violence. What happens when you become a key player in a war between to rival gangs and have to deal with a complicated love life all at the same time.

—————————————————

0.4

The tattoo shop was small and almost unnoticeable if it weren’t for the glowing neon sign in the window that read “Fuck Off!”. That sure is welcoming. Sero glanced at you, his signature smirk plastered on his face as you approached the shop.

“Tattoo shop?” You quirked an eyebrow at him.

“Figured you should get something you like, and will remember.” Sero chuckled and continued his walk to the back of the shop. It was cozy and surprisingly quiet. Not much business tonight even though it was the start of the weekend. You weren’t complaining though, it’d be nice to get some alone time with Sero.

You both neared a back room that was separated from the rest of the shop by beads that hung from the door frame.

“Is... anybody here?” You asked your guide hesitantly. He smiled at you and winked before going to another door behind the partition and banging on it hard.

“JESUS FUCKING-” You heard a voice yell from behind the door. Startled by the abrupt opening of the door, you stepped back a bit as a pink head popped from behind the wooden door. “Bakugou I swear if-” She began, but was cut off when she saw Sero’s smiling face.

“Not Bakugou. Better.” He chided and she came fully out of the back room. You were able to take in her appearance fully. She had short pink hair pulled up into a messy bun displaying her overgrown undercut. She was wearing a low cut tank top that showed off the top of her lace bra and tattoos that littered her skin underneath. And she was clothed from waist down in comfy oversized sweatpants and Nike slides. Lowkey she had looked like she just woke up or something, but her striking features and pierced skin was a beautiful contrast.

“Hanta? The fuck you doing here without the Creep Squad?” She laughed and pulled him in for a quick hug.

“‘Sup Hatsume. And it’s just me today. I was reprieved from my duties a bit early and decided to stop by. I hope I’m not, uh, bothering you?” He looked her up and down and she placed her hands on her hips and smirked.

“Never. Out of all of the hoodlums I deal with you’re probably my favorite. Well, aside from Izu~” she gushed before finally turning her attention towards you, giving you a once over. “And who’s this?”

“This is y/n. She wants to get a tattoo so I thought I’d bring her to the best damn tattoo artist I know.”

“Hanta please. Don’t flatter me. Especially before you tell me what you want.” Her gaze suddenly turned cold and was staring daggers into the tall man. He put his hands up in protest.

“I promise it’s nothing out of the ordinary, usual stuff. But really, she wants to get inked. You free?”

Mei sighed. “Of course I’m free.” She threw her hands up in the air and stomped off toward the main area of the shop leaving you and Sero a few paces behind her.

“I know how she seems, but don’t worry. I trust Hatsume to do all of my ink even though she is a bit... theatrical. Second only to Mina of course.”

You laugh and nod. “Yeah it must be the pink hair or something.” You quip as you make your way to the main area where Mei is already putting on some gloves and prepping her work station.

“So do you know what you want to get done?” Mei raises her brow at you questioningly. In all honesty you hadn’t thought about it. You never explicitly told Sero that you wanted to get a tattoo. He just volunteered you for it, but you weren’t gonna decline. It would be nice to get some ink that you could look at and love.

“I don’t know. I’m still kind of deciding.” You chuckled nervously, embarrassed at the fact that you didn’t have an answer for her. This seemed to annoy Hatsume more than she already was, but she didn’t let it show in her voice.

“Okay...” she trailed off and swiveled in her chair to reach for a photo album tucked beneath her work station. It looked like it had started collecting dust. “Well you can look through my portfolio, let me know if you see something you like. Or you can suggest something and I can freehand.” She smirked suggestively. You hoped that freehand didn’t mean she would do anything obscene.

You flipped through the book looking closely at some of the designs. Hatsume’s work was beautiful, but that was evident from seeing Sero’s tattoos. The designs were all nice, but none of them really spoke to you. You sighed quietly under your breath and paused on a page that had some flower designs on it. Your breath hitched as you felt a presence over your shoulder. Sero was behind you looking at the flower on the page you had stopped on.

“That’s nice.” He smiled, “it wouldn’t suit you though. Roses are definitely your flower.” He suggested and went to sit down at the waiting area towards the front of the shop.

Roses you thought. You already had a rose tattoo, and it’s not like you didn’t like it, but you wish you hadn’t gotten it when you did. Maybe if you got another one now, you could start to appreciate the flower as you once did.

“A rose?” Hatsume smirked at you. “Very romantic flower. I think it’d suit you.” She looked hopeful and you nodded. She smiled to herself and began to sketch out an idea.

“Ooh!” She squealed. “And I have the perfect idea. Do you know where you want your tattoo to go?” You shook your head solemnly. Again, you hadn’t really thought about it. You thought Hatsume would have been annoyed, but she looked ecstatic. “Perfect I know just the place. I’ve always wanted to do a cutesy underboob tattoo.”

Underboob? That seemed a little out of your comfort zone, but to be fair this whole situation was out of your comfort zone. You out with a guy? Unheard of to the masses.

Reluctantly you agreed and Hatsume took you back behind the beaded-off area.

“You can take your top off back here and go in that room. I’ll go get my stuff, okay?” She happily skipped back out to retrieve her tattoo gun and you followed her instructions to strip.

The room was small and the warm toned walls were barren yet inviting. You got up on the table that you vaguely remember laying on a few years back and positioned yourself so Mei had easy access to stick you.

Hatsume barged into the small room, startling you. Quickly you scrambled to use your hands to cover yourself, but clearly she had already seen.

“Girl, don’t be shy. Just think of me as your doctor. It’s a no judgement zone in here.” She reassured you and you calmed down from the mini heart attack you just had. “Plus your boobs are super nice. My A Cups could never.” She whined eliciting a laugh from you. Hatsume turned out to be pretty cool.

Once she was all set up and you were numb and had the design was applied your anxiety was quelled by the overwhelming feeling of pain that you almost forgot.

“Damn I forgot how much this shit hurt.” You laughed in an effort to not tear up. “Makes sense that I was black out drunk the last time.” Hatsume laughed as she continued the process trying to be as gentle as she possibly could (not much change was made, but it’s the thought that counts).

Hatsume had begun the finishing touches and clean up details when you started to hear a bit of commotion outside. You could hear two distinct voices aside from Sero’s coming from the front of the store. It sounded like yelling and it quickly approached you. Hatsume seemed unbothered by it until an angry figure popped its head into the doorway of the “private” room.

“Hatsume!” A buff blond guy yelled as he entered. It took everything in Mei to not accidentally stick you with the gun.

“Bakugou what the fuck!?” Hatsume yelled and whipped her head around. “Do you not understand the concept of a private room?”

“Hatsume I’m not in the mood. I just spent the last half hour getting yelled at for Sero up and leaving without telling anyone and I have to do his little chores now. So give me what Hawks wants so I can get the fuck out of here.” The blond man rants and raves all the while you’re just kind of sitting there trying to cover your tits from the glaring eyes of the crabby intruder.

When his gaze met yours his eyes went wide. You didn’t know what he was expecting to find Hatsume doing back here, but tattooing a half naked girl probably wasn’t it. His eyes snapped back to Hatsume and the malicious glare came back as if he wasn’t phased at all.

“Don’t come in here fucking yelling at me to get you something. One I’m with a client and two I’m doing Hawks favor with all this so don’t demand shit from me. You’ll get it when I’m done.” She seethed, her words laced with venom. She was clearly not a fan of Blondie over here.

At the commotion you heard another set of footsteps approaching quickly. Just great.

“Bakugou calm down.” A taller redhead popped into your view trying to get the angry man from berating the woman who was supposed to be dressing your wound. When he made eye contact with you his whole face lit up red as hell and he quickly turned away to spare you whatever dignity you had left. “Uh... j-just let her finish man.”

“No fucking way. I wasn’t even supposed to be working today, but fucking IcyHot bailed and I just had to chase Tape Face around the whole fucking world. I’m ready to get my shit and go.”

“You do know that this is my business, right? I have an obligation to my clients. Not Hawks, you, or any other goons that try and threaten me. So you will wait.” Hatsume seethed. This set Bakugou off. His large hand came down to grip Mei’s upper arm and pull her in close. His eyes spoke only violence and Hatsume’s an intense fear. This guy was not to be played with. If he was this bad you couldn’t imagine what this Hawks guy was like.

Bakugou was fixing his mouth to spew out another threat, but before he could finish you were already interjecting. “I can wait!” You catch everyone’s attention again; although rather embarrassing.

“What?” Bakugou glares now at you, his stare burning into your skin.

“I said I can wait. Go ahead and do what you need to do Hatsume. No need to cause trouble.” Hatsume’s eyes soften and she shakes out of Bakugou’s death grip.

“Fine.” She sighs and stalks off to the back room she had started in earlier that night. “Bring the car around back. I got everything ready for you.”

Bakugou nodded and he and Red exited out the way they had came in.

Finally you felt like you could breath again. There were no longer so many eyes on you and the tension within the room finally dissipated. This definitely wasn’t how you expected your first date with Sero to go.

A/N: I’m backkk. Had a bit of writers block and I was away visiting family last weekend but I had a free day today and got lots of good ideas about the story while writing this. So yeah ALSO I know in the show Hatsume has big boobs, but everyone has big boobs in My Hero so lemme change it up a bit 😩😩 anyways I hope you guys enjoyed and uploads should start becoming more frequent (I hope :))

previous|next

Masterlist

[spookyceph]

Pull Test

Summary: Shigaraki and Kurogiri meet with the League of Villain's newest candidate.

Rating: Gen Fic, SFW

Relationships: Shigaraki & Magne

Characters: Shigaraki Tomura, Magne, Kurogiri, Giran, mentioned Dabi, mentioned Toga Himiko

Words: 2,732

Warnings: Implied/Referenced transphobia and deadnaming when Magne's background is mentioned, swearing

The manila folder dropped from the air like a dead bird, hitting the bar top with a slap. Tomura jerked back, stool wobbling beneath him, and grit his teeth as he heard the staccato sounds of his fighter taking damage in his game. Recovering balance, he hit the pause button before glaring at the warp gate that swirled into being across the way.

“Another one already?” he snapped the moment the tall figure of his caretaker stepped out of the darkness.

Kurogiri straightened both his tie and metal gorget. “I was quite impressed myself. Giran is proving to be as professional and efficient as advertised.” He motioned to the folder he’d air dropped in. “Shall we consider this new candidate together, Shigaraki Tomura?”

Tomura wasn’t in the mood to consider shit. He hadn’t been hanging around the bar for going on two hours hoping for work to come along. One of his hands strayed to his pocket. He touched the lump that was the jar of salve he’d taken to carrying at all times. The serpentine ridge of a friendship bracelet (I used red, white, and black string so it would match you, Tomura-kun!) had joined it a week ago. Of course, he’d die before admitting to lurking just to catch a glimpse of Dabi. Or that he’d agreed to let Toga show him her favorite otome games as soon as she came back from her shopping trip. He definitelycouldn’t tell the smug old ink splatter to fuck off and let him get back to his goal of a high score—not without having how wrong he’d been about those same two people rubbed in his face.

That left being a responsible leader as the only option.

Tomura growled and set his game aside. He flicked the folder open. “Fine. What’s this new asshole’s name?” Giving in didn’t require him to be gracious about it.

“Ah. About that. I believe there’s a conflicting issue in her files about that point. Her family name is Hikiishi, however, her given one, or both, may require an update.”

A look at the top of the file filled in the blanks. The picture Giran had included showed the candidate flashing a bold smile at the camera. Shoulder-length auburn hair framed prominent cheekbones. Slightly darker fuzz lined her jaw and chin. Tomura couldn’t tell what color her eyes were behind her sunglasses, but they locked with his through lenses and stock paper alike. Hikiishi Kenji, read the first line of information on the page beneath the photo. A police report, by the looks of it.

“I see. Well, for now let’s just call Hikiishi by her alias until she confirms with us.” Tomura skimmed through the info again. “Magne, right? Related to her quirk, I assume.”

The currents of Kurogiri’s mist slowed and relaxed into looser coils. “Correct.”

Tomura frowned. “What? Did you think I’d have some sort of problem with the name thing?”

“After the misunderstanding with Dabi—”

“Dabi and I talked.”

The yellow eyes glowing within the darkness widened. “Did you now?”

Fuck, he wasn’t turning red, was he? Was he? “We’re adults. We worked shit out, okay? Not everybody has a stick up their ass about being polite all the time.” He scooped up his game, more than ready to retreat into something he could control. “When are we expecting Magne?”

“Giran can bring her by tomorrow evening.”

“Fine. Let’s get the stupid meet and greet crap over with.” When only silence followed, Tomura raised his gaze from the screen to glare at Kurogiri. “What?”

The wisps curling from the smoggy bastard’s head looked suspiciously like smiles. “Nothing, Shigaraki Tomura. Nothing at all.”

-

Taptaptap.

Tomura’s finger rose and fell on the bartop fast enough to give a sewing machine needle a run for its money. The ball of his right foot bounced on the stool’s crossbar in time with it.

Taptaptap.

Giran had promised he’d be there between 9:00 and 10:00. The clock by the door pointed to 9:51.

Taptaptap.

Lots of people would be riding the trains on a Friday night. Or roaming the streets, looking for food and alcohol, karaoke, strangers to stave off loneliness. Heroes would be out in force as a result, watching for any predators stalking the herds of humanity. Tomura didn’t know how to calculate exact probability rates for shit hitting the fan, but he got the sense they were on the higher end under such conditions.

Taptaptap.

Why couldn’t he just run into party members along the way as needed, like in games? Each one would specialize in a skill, forming a well-rounded team. Everyone would follow him to the bitter end because they believed in him and not some ass goblin named Stain. Why they believed in Tomura wouldn’t matter, though money would be a reasonable guess. Idealism didn’t pay much from what he could tell.

Taptap—

“Be calm, Shigaraki Tomura. This meeting will go well.”

He bared teeth at Kurogiri. “There has to be a meeting for it to go a certain way. And I am calm, damn it.”

“So I see.” He finished wiping down the glass he held before setting it on the bar and grabbing another. “My apologies.”

Tomura twisted on the stool to give the smart ass shadow a piece of his overthinking mind.

Knock, knock, knock.

Without missing a beat, Kurogiri stuck his free hand through a small warp gate and turned the handle of the door across the room. He went back to polishing as two figures entered the bar.

For someone who charged such high fees, Giran went out of his way to look cheap and kitschy. Little round tinted lenses pinched to the bridge of his nose. A scrunched scarf like someone’s guts slung around his neck. One front tooth missing in his low-key sleazy smile. The woman following right behind him and surveying her new surroundings made for a more welcome sight. Sunglasses (her and Giran both, for fucks’ sake) hid her eyes just like in her picture, but her lips held a hint of a smile.

The essence of good manners, Kurogiri bowed to their guests. “Good evening. Welcome to our humble home.”

Tomura, to balance the scales, snorted and folded his arms across his chest. “Took you long enough.”

Giran shrugged and twirled his hand, leaving behind a smoke spiral from the tip of the cigarette between his fingers. “Our train was delayed by some prankster threatening to blow up the tracks.”

“Doesn’t sound like a prank.”

“It wouldn’t have been if the lazy bastard hadn’t been trying to pass off children’s clay as plastic explosive. One of the cops noticed the stuff was bright yellow and they rushed him. They didn’t even call in a hero.” The broker shook his head. “What’s this world coming to? People can’t be bothered to find and pay for real weapons anymore. It offends my pride as a businessman.”

Behind Father, Tomura grimaced. His short-lived venture with Stain had indeed moved people to lash out at society. The problem was most of them were fucking morons. He doubted any decent candidates the League managed to net would make up for all the secondhand embarrassment he’d suffered in the past couple of weeks from watching the news.

“Oh, I don’t know,” the woman said, tapping her chin. “I felt kinda bad for the poor guy. He looked like your average office wage-slave. I thought he was going to break down in tears when they hauled him off.”

“Serves him right for cutting corners. No conviction, no integrity these days I tell you.”

She hid a grin behind her hand. “You’re heartless, Giran.”

The broker snorted smoke from his nostrils like an exasperated dragon. “I’m practical.”

“And yet you still haven’t introduced me.”

Posture straightening, Giran tugged at his weirdly anatomical scarf. “Sorry, got sidetracked. Magne, Shigaraki Tomura and Kurogiri of the League of Villains.”

“Pleased to meet you.” Slipping off his stool, Tomura gave her a short bow. The way Kurogiri swayed slightly, as if he’d swoon from shock, made the display worth it.

“I take it I’ve earned my fee?” chimed in Giran.

Kurogiri’s misty form shuddered as he roused himself. “Of course. We’ll hear from you again soon?”

“I’ve got a few candidates lined up.” The broker sketched them a mock salute before turning and closing the door behind him.

“Please, have a seat.” Tomura motioned to the row of barstools beside him.

“Thank you. Don’t mind if I do.”

While Magne approached, he studied her movements. She strode across the hardwood floor, work boots making minimal noise with each step. Grace as well as power. She knew how to use the muscle under her shirt’s rolled up sleeves rather than relying on pure size. Although, that didn’t hurt either—Tomura put her at over ten centimeters his own height at least, and she definitely outclassed him by weight. He wondered whether she had speed to go along with strength. She slid into the next seat over and rested her chin in her hands.

“Would you care for something to drink, Miss Magne?” Kurogiri asked, jumping at the chance to play host.

“Oh, my. So formal. Sure, I’ll have whatever you recommend.”

Tomura waited until a small glass of something amber-colored had been set in front of them both (ginger ale for him) and she’d taken an approving sip before getting things rolling.

“You have quite a record, Magne.” Though he’d already memorized the relevant bits, he flipped open the folder container her information.

She glanced over, shades slipping down her nose as she scanned the first page of the police report. “Twenty-nine attempted murders, huh? Is that what they’re calling those? I’m surprised you guys bothered having me come in after reading that garbage.”

“Why?”

Like a small bird, Tomura’s stomach dipped and fluttered when Magne looked at him over the edge of her glasses. Not quite in the same way it did when he caught Dabi watching him from across the room, but close enough to classify the sensation as pleasant. Her irises shone like polished agates, made up of rich layers of browns from a starburst of mahogany around her pupils to flecks of burnished copper. Tomura suddenly understood her hiding them behind lenses. Such a beautiful detail would stick in anyone’s memory.

“Somebody who tried and failed to kill that many people would look pretty incompetent, right?” she replied. “Or like they chickened out at the last second. I don’t enjoy killing. I’ll tell you that up front. But…I didn’t hesitate with the three I did put down, let’s just say that.”

Tomura, a multiple murderer himself, examined the square set of her shoulders, the twist of scorn to her mouth towards her accusers, and found no reason to doubt her. He nodded.

“The so-called attempts were from the robberies you pulled off then?”

“Mostly, though I’m sure a few of the bullies I smacked around exaggerated just to prove what big, strong men they are.” She harumphed and took another sip from her drink.

“And the actual murders?”

Her lips puckered, as if she tasted something more bitter than whatever alcohol Kurogiri had given her. “Personal matters.”

“I see.” Tomura turned the page and ran his finger further down the information. “Your quirk has some unique parameters.”

The lines of Magne’s face eased into a smile. “Oh, the gender thing? A theory really. I haven’t had much opportunity to test it seriously. It might be nothing but my own perception…but I guess that doesn’t make it any less real, does it?” She lifted a hand from her glass and reached halfway toward him. “Care for a demonstration?”

Tomura caught himself drawing away from her, his nails latching onto the sides of his neck. Cowering—great way to display his leadership skills. “What’re you going to do?”

“Oh, just tug on your arm a little. Go ahead and put it down by your side for me.”

Resisting the urge to look to Kurogiri for reassurance, he did as asked. For safety’s sake he curled his fingers into a fist.

Magne smiled. “Ready?”

According to the knot in his stomach, no, but he nodded anyway. His arm jerked and leapt up as if it were tied by a string. Tomura gasped, almost slipping off his seat. Magne caught and steadied him.

“Sorry, honey! Got so excited to show off I put a bit too much oomph into it.” She patted his shoulder as if there weren’t dead, gray hands clutching it.

“’S’alright,” he mumbled. And it was—his skin showed no marks, his muscles and joints registered no pain. He readjusted the delicate hand decorating his wrist. Cold, waxy, and pliant. Nothing like Magne.

“So, can you manipulate people’s movements? Turn them into your puppets?”

She hummed and pushed her sunglasses back into their proper place. “Not really. I can move someone with the proper amount of push versus pull, but it’s such delicate work that they could break free pretty easily. Hold out your arm and I’ll show you what I mean.”

Still making a fist, Tomura followed her suggestion. Magne positioned her hands on either side of his forearm, spread about half a meter apart. Concentration dug a V between her brows. A thrum jolted through Tomura’s bones. He startled at the rush of tingles in his elbow and shoulder but kept his balance. Something like a low electrical current pulsed along his arm, raising its pale little hairs. Eyes wide, he watched as the limb drifted from one side to the other, then up, down—anywhere the poles of Magne’s palms guided it. He could even see, feel his skin being tugged and pressed by her quirk. Taking a deep breath, Tomura drew his fist back. He met some resistance, but didn’t have to put up any real struggle.

“Weird.” He shook his buzzing fingers out. “But kinda nice. Tingly. Like an electrical field.”

Magne tilted her head and smirked. “Oh? That’s a new one. Then again, maybe I’d have heard it before if I used my quirk for something besides bashing jerks.”

What would he have done without Father hiding the fact he blushed at the slightest fucking thing? He’d never get used to talking to people at this rate.

“Your skills would be a great asset to the League, Miss Magne,” Kurogiri said, saving Tomura from having to pretend he could be witty. “I presume Giran discussed the expenses we cover? Upon joining, you would also be welcome to claim a room upstairs, should you wish.”

Magne went still. Even her breathing stopped for a moment. “You’d let me stay here?”

Tomura knew right then he’d never live down being wrong about not letting League members move into the hideout. Kurogiri would never be crass enough to say it out loud, of course. He didn’t have to. Tomura sighed, accepting his fate.

“Two members live here already, including another woman. We can introduce you to them both before you decide.”

Gaze aimed at the ceiling, Magne touched fingers to her pursed lips. “I’ve already made up my mind.” She met Tomura’s eyes, a smile lighting up her face. “Sign me up.”

Well. He had no clue whatso-fucking-ever how they’d convinced her, but results were results. Besides, she hadn’t mentioned Stain once. She deserved free room and board for that alone.

“Ah, wonderful. We’re so delighted to have you, Miss Magne.” Kurogiri steepled his fingers. “Please let me know if you require any assistance in moving your belongings. I can warp them to whichever room you choose.”

A soft laugh huffed out of her. “No need, honey. I travel light these days. Would tomorrow evening be too soon?”

Tomura shrugged. “That’s fine. I’ll make sure Toga and Dabi are around so you can meet them.” Even if he had to staple the latter to a chair to make him comply.

“Sounds like a plan.” Magne raised her glass. “To new friends then?”

There was that word again. Offered with the same ease Toga had shown. And Dabi…he’d never said it maybe but his gift had implied…well, something. Tomura touched his pocket. The weight and shapes of the items inside it. With the same hand, he picked up his own glass and clinked it against Magne’s.

“Sure. I’ll drink to that.”