#BUT THEN WHAT DO I DO ABOUT THAT SCENE IN THE ORIGINAL FIC

[gamerphobe]

op turned off reblogs so the correction i made cant be reblogged, so im making a new post, mostly just repeating what i said. tl;dr:

google docs is not randomly deleting peoples work for being nsfw. there is no evidence at all that you are at risk of having google delete your fics for having "inappropriate" content.

this article by the wired is the only "source" op has ever provided. i would very very much recommend both reading the entire article and looking at the linked posts in it for yourself. it is also self-admittedly the only source they've ever found - so keep that in mind. it's about k. renee, an open door romance novelist who had her work restricted by google. "open door romance" refers to works where sex scenes happen on screens and are described in detail. they are explicit works. the article talks about similar things happening to a few different authors who write in the same genre.

the incidents described in this article happened in march 2024, which is over a year ago.

those affected had their works restricted, with a warning message. they were not abruptly deleted out of no where. authors were able to file appeals with google to recover their docs, though i havent found any updates on if they were successful in doing so.

the reason this happened is because google docs incorrectly flagged the shared documents as spam.

That author later posted a video to Instagram explaining that it wasn’t the adult content in the files but rather “Google thought I was spamming people.” Apparently, sending the same doc to scores of people—for example, alpha and beta readers—can make it appear as though the doc was unsolicited.

sharing a document that contains "adult content" with a lot of people will trigger google's automod, but the adult content itself is not the problem. if you are sharing a doc with a handful of people, or arent sharing it at all, this is not going to happen. from my own personal testimony, i have dozens and dozens of explicit, nsfw work in my google docs that ive shared with people, and none of them have been touched. i have not seen a single claim with proof that anyone's work has been deleted in the manner the original op describes.

there is no source at all for original op's claim that google is "using AI to find inappropriate and problematic content". in the above article (again, the only source), ai is mentioned once, to say that k. renee had ai functions turned off and did not think that was the problem.

Renee hadn’t turned on any of the AI functions in Google Workspace, so she doubted it could be chalked up to a bot banning her books. After all, a 2016 paper coauthored by Google researchers revealed that its recurrent neural network language models had been fed thousands of romances. If for some reason a bot was crawling her work, wouldn’t it recognize what it was looking at?

and, lets just think logically for a moment. if google docs was doing some sort of mass cleans of nsfw content using ai, dont you think it would be a more widespread story? would it be this hard to find sources and testimony about it? google docs has literally millions of users, including published authors and scientists and academics. if an ai bot was crawling works and deleting any it deemed nsfw, it would be mainstream news because it would be affecting countless people. and especially without disclosing a change in policy beforehand? they would probably get sued for it!

i am not making this post in defense of google, god forbid. google is open about the fact that they use any "publicly available" information to train their ai models (and did get sued for it), though they claim that they dont take from docs that they dont have permission to. i honestly, genuinely, cannot tell you the veracity of these claims or how serious the scraping is. like, i just do not know if google scrapes from private gdocs. if someone knows more and has better sources they are free to add on to the post.

but i want it to be clear that google docs is not going to randomly delete your works for having nsfw content. docs and pages disappear sometimes because google docs is a mess. you should always back up your files locally (switching to programs like ellipsus doesnt make your work safer, per se, as ellipsus is still cloud-based), and you should consider switching away from google docs if youre staunchly anti-ai, but they are not going to abruptly explode all your fics. that is simply not happening. you do not have to panic.

[eulogiez]

drabble of farmboy!clark kent when you take him out on a little beach excursion…

( short author’s note: )! ngl i’m scared to see how this will flop so i didn’t make this as long as i wanted to, sticking to a drabble! i’m so inexplicably happy to see the love i received on my recent clark fic which i totally wasn’t expecting with my blog being so new, so thank u all truly! my expectations are high for myself though so i shake in my boots when i think of posting again now unfortunately

- also random little thing—the pic to the left is mine from my digicam lol, just thought it was a nice little touch

pairing is (implied) coast/city!girl reader (more gn!reader but one mention of fem clothing) x farmboy!clark kent (or just clark). 1.1k words.

- unedited! pls don’t mind mistakes!

check out my recent: understandably so

“Why? Was I supposed to have been?” Clark rubs the back of his head where his raven-dark curls rest above the bridge down the nape of his neck nervously with eyebrows furrowed, at your awestruck revelation that he’d never been to the beach before.

The question and your reaction make him nervous, as do much of your surprised reactions the more you get to discover about your meek and mysterious boyfriend. Growing up to find out about his extraterrestrial origins made him awfully conscious about how well he fit in on the basis of his humanity—what things he might have inherently did or felt differently from humans, and how to adjust his every knack and tick to satisfy the idea of normativity to the best of his abilities. He was unsure whether beach trips were something of rudimentary human nature and if he’d missed out on the memo.

You were aware of Clark’s rural origins and that his parents, sweet and humble in nature, practically raised him outside and made him accustomed to a more rustic scene, living where sheep and pigs and other farmstock roamed—this, you believed, largely encouraged Clark’s compassion and in-touch attitude towards the world and to others. Nonetheless, you were taken aback to find his naturalistic way of life didn’t extend to a more coastal landscape. He defends that he often visited the lake some way down the road from his farm, but you reply that it just isn’t the same; the warm sand sinking beneath your feet with every step (and the atrocious walk from the car to the shore,—blanket, tent, and other setup accessories in hand), with the salt air ticking your nose and swaying your hair every which way.

“No, Clark,” you replied with a laugh to reassure, “I’m only surprised is all. I’d love to go with you sometime, though.”

And so you venture on to the coast, palm trees lining the roads as you drive on by, the view of the highway in your passenger seat overlooking the pacific blue of the water crashing along the skyline of the shore. An overcrowd of people are populating most every corner of the beach, just dots in the distance from where you’re driving. You turn from your window view to see Clark glancing over at you, drawing absentminded circles on your thigh while the other steers. Even when his lips so slightly upturn with vestiges of a smile, his dimples reveal themselves to you—as well as the urge to kiss the little indents there. He is beach-ready as if he’d always been, wearing a white button-up halfway mussed and rolled up at the sleeves to match the look of his jet black hair, paired with khaki shorts and brown sandals. You can’t help but revel at how perfect he is at everything he does, at something as simple as dressing himself.

Naturally, Clark doesn’t let you hold anything. Your way towards the shore is a matter of Clark nursing the mat you brought for the two of you to lounge on and pop-up tent for two, as if they weigh nothing in his large arms, his biceps only slightly flexing. You scope out the scene for a good place to set up camp while a hand shields your eyes above your forehead from the blinding sun while Clark looks at his feet descending in the thick of the sand with a wondrous “Ooh” and “Ahhh.”

The sight makes you laugh, distracting you from your endgoal in mind before finding the perfect spot free of frat boys with large loudspeakers and kids aimlessly running around chasing beach balls. You’re seated some way from an older couple overlooking the sea from their beach chairs and when you turn around to see Clark sturdily setting up your lounging mat, you can’t help but picture the same future for the two of you.

“Clark, I brought a little surprise for you,” you say excitedly, grinning from ear to ear. “Check the pop-up tent bag.”

He gives you a curious look before finding a spike ball net inside the tent sleeve, and his eyes light up.

Playing spike ball with Clark is no better than playing with an excited dog finally touching grass after a long day cooped up inside (if said dog had exceptional aim). He’s hitting the net with flash-like speed before you can hit it back and you accept defeat. He’s bouncing around in the sand, suddenly used to the formless weight of it under his bare feet and moving like a pro around it. You’re both having a fit of giggles when you finally fall onto the mat, breathless and ready to rest. You scooch to rest your head on his shoulder, sweaty from activity under his buttoned shirt that he finally gets up to remove before falling back onto the mat to let you reset himself on his shoulder. His chiseled chest is bare besides the glinting Superman chain you gifted him. You’re watching the blue waves crash onto the sand into ivory foam in a serene silence. You turn to look at him though your eyelashes before asking him with anticipation, “You wanna go?” Clark smiles that dimpled smile, looking back at you and replying, “I thought you’d never ask.”

Before he can say anything more, you’re quick on your feet and dragging him behind you, lugging him by his large calloused hand (as rough but as comforting as the sand) and running without any direction or caution. You’ve thrown your sundress off and don’t fail to notice Clark’s admiring eyes, wandering and searching your body before meeting your eyes when you look back at him, trying his best to hold his gentlemanly resolve when you’re left in your bikini. You’re back to a fit of giggles together, and before you can warn him about the power of the waves, all six feet and four inches of him are tumbling to his feet when a particularly great wave pushes his back, to which he responds with a surprised, “Whoa!”

You’re laughing harder, covering your mouth with your hands and suddenly regretting forgetting to hold on to him, helping him to his feet after a moment. Before helping him up, you can’t help but relish in this spectacle and his amusing vulnerability, of the man so accustomed to helping you with everything, always unmoved by most any force, suddenly brought to his feet by no less than water.

Before planting his feet firmly this time, stable when the water returns to ski the two of you back to the shore, his eyes are set on you—not the salty and threatening unforgiving waters (that he later receives a punishing mouthful of) or the coarse sand submerging his feet, just the deep hues of your eyes more entrancing than the enigmas lying beneath the shore ever could be.

“I love you,” he says finally, both his hands clutching onto your fingers, icy and quivering from the cold. “Thank you for this.”

You only nod, returning his smile, and pressing you lips to his, equally as cold and slightly sandy, forehead to his. “I love you, Clark,” you say simply, easy as the calm of the pacific blue meeting the chaotic sand in routine, only moments before he’s knocked back down, beckoned towards the wet sand in his distraction.

—

i hope my clark was giving female gaze i lowkey just space out and imagine him as if he were the lyrics to a lana del rey song

[jarofstyles]

King Of The Jungle 2.0

Hello my lovebugs! Here we have it. The first section of rewrite for these two.

Now, I do want to preface this by saying these sections are smaller than the original parts, mostly for my sanity’s sake, but it will end up being longer with the added stuff and the next parts I am writing. I want to give it more time to go through, add more detail, make things more fluid, and ultimately make sure it’s more on par to our writing now. We originally wrote this in 2019 and put it up in 2020… 5 years ago, and if I think too hard about it I will feel ill, haha. But! The original King of the Jungle is still up and will continue to be up- but I wanted to bring this fic back to life. There will be changes but the main plot and subject matter of the scenes will be staying the same. Please let me know what you think!

Check out our Patreon for early access to our writing and 300+ exclusive writings and series, and 3x a week updates!

WC- 2.7k

Warnings- mention of parental death, mention of hunting, some angst but mostly curiosity, etc

The big noise that had hurt Harry’s ears had brought people. 

People that looked a lot like him. Five fingers with short nails, mostly naked body, soft looking hair that covered the tops of their heads. Dull teeth, sloped noses on somewhat flat faces. Front facing eyes and two legs.

It was… strange.

Harry hadn’t seen his own kind very often since his mother and father had been killed by the jaguar. The same jaguar he killed years later and used as a skin to keep himself warm in the rainy season, now. The revenge did little to soothe his young and fragile heart, the wound slowly patching up over time but never to be fully healed. It had been for survival, out of necessity, but he didn’t lie to himself and say he felt remorse. He loved the creatures he called his friends, the respect for those around him had grown along with him as the years had gone by. But the circle of life had been the hardest lesson to learn. 

In some situations, it was kill or be killed- and he would rather be the one on top. 

He had gotten extremely lucky, he was pretty certain. Being alone in the lush, dense rainforest, there wasn’t much a child his age could have done to survive on their own. After his parents had so violently been ripped from him, the reality had set in his little mind that he was completely and utterly alone- until he had been rescued in a way that he hadn’t seen coming. 

The troop of gorillas found him four days after the tragedy had taken place. The fruit harvested before the incident had been eaten by his protesting belly, the water drained from the flasks, Harry had laid in a ball as he tried to ignore the hunger pains in his belly and the headache that had formed when two curious young gorillas had found their way inside the treehouse. 

The scene had been, to the best of his ability, cleaned. The stains of blood still laid on the floor, the scent of death not far from where their bodies had dropped, but Harry had done everything in his power, like his father had tried to teach him, to be safe. 

In a strange way, he knew they weren’t a threat when they came in, and vice versa. Rolling over to face the young gorillas, his bottom lip wobbled as he tried to speak, but he wasn’t able to say much- though he knew they most likely wouldn’t fully understand him verbally- there was an understanding spiritually. It was as if his voice had been stolen along with his parent’s souls, but he hadn’t needed it with them. He was alone, and it was obvious they hadn’t expected to find any life in the dwelling built up in the trees- so they grunted and went to the door, waiting for him. 

Harry didn’t have much else to lose by following them.

 It was a blur after that, his beginnings with the troop. Learning how to survive. The animals were more empathetic than he had ever expected them to be. The head female— Mama, he called her in his head, had taken him in. It was something he would be thankful for as long as he lived. He was just a child with no real knowledge of survival, no real understanding of the world except from the fading memories of what his father had told him, so he was taught by the troop.

 Even with the inability to speak to one another verbally, he quickly understood through body language. Showing him things and letting him repeat them. Corrections were more physical than he had been used to. And as he grew older, the instincts kicked in. Learning how to tie the strongest knots, skin and hunt for himself, harvest the berries and fruits ripe for the taking. What animals to avoid. All of it. 

He protected their space. The troop stayed nearby, some even choosing to sleep in nests higher up in the very tree that held his dwelling. The territory had become his own, one he shared with them all. It had stayed that way, untouched and undisturbed from anything except an occasional leopard that tried its luck with one of Harry’s spears. 

Until now. 

Harry hadn’t ever seen someone that looked like him in the jungle up close until the past few days. Watching from the trees, a safe distance away, he saw a woman. It took him aback, really, because in a ray of the warm sunlight stood the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. He had felt a weird twinge in his body, a yearning that was completely unfamiliar to him. An odd warmth spreading from his chest to his groin, making him antsy. The beautiful woman had taken her time ambling down the trail, following the larger group but at a distance as she was obviously lost in her own head. She had coverings on. More than the cloth he wore around his waist, it was fitted to her body, wrapped around her legs and up to her waist- and then a covering up top that was close to her skin. That gave him a view of her that he hadn’t expected.

He wanted to see more. 

The feelings he had accrued had unsettled him at first, but he found himself wanting to feel more of it. Any other time he’d seen the people in the forest, he’d stayed away. Watched from a distance to ensure he and his found family were safe, spear in hand in case they got too close to him or his own camp.  

It was the first time he’d broken his promise to keep away from the strange people and gone to them.

 Only at night, under the cover of darkness had he gotten close enough to her sleeping place to see that she had curves on her soft looking body where he was hard and built. Her hair was tied up somehow, like how he tied vines. It had annoyed him because he’d wanted to touch it, but he didn't disturb her. The plan had always been to stay far, far away from anything that could be a threat- and he knew these people could be a threat.

Somehow, though, he was more curious than irritated at her presence. 

Different. He’d wanted to see more of her. Of their differences, similarities. 

However— he hadn’t expected her to be the one to find him first.

 His home wasn’t on their trail, perfectly camouflaged up In the trees and the path covered in vegetation. Vines hung around and kept it from being seen easily from the ground, like a hammock. His mother and father had built it and it was a steady foundation, climbing vines and a ladder he had reinforced many times. He watched from above as she walked around the large base of the tree looking slightly unsteady and took it all in, curious look her features as took it all in as her face flushed in surprise at the fact that the large winding wood wasn’t just a vine.

 It was a support for the house in the trees. 

His home wasn't large by any means but it was big enough for Harry to sleep comfortably with his old sleeping pad stuffed with old skins and dried leaves, keep watch from above and widdle wood. His fire was on the ground where he roasted meats when needed, his belongings stored up in the home. There wasn’t much that he had positions of. Animal hides he had tanned, a leaf stuffed pillow. Books that were faded and tattered from the repeated use and wear. His knives he had been using since he was left alone and other things he had found and made. Spears, a place to sit, a support for the pot his parents had managed to salvage to sit on over the fire- he didn’t need much else. The jungle provided what he needed. 

But now, the pretty creature was in his camp, closer than he’d ever experienced and he didn’t know what to do.

—

“I’m going to get some water from the river Papa, I won’t be long!” Y/N called out, pushing her braids behind her shoulders. 

“Please, be careful! Watch out for snakes... Keep your surroundings in mind. Please.” Her father begged and Y/N let out a small sigh. “Use your knife if you have to!”

“I promise. I’ll be fine.” 

The Y/L/N  family were a wealthy bunch. Funded by the Royal Wildlife Preservation Society, Y/N and her family have been traveling around to the rainforests and different terrain all over the world doing studies on several species of animals. 

She’d spent a few seasons on the Savanna, watching from a covered vehicle as lions prowled around so close she could almost touch them, naming them based off of their little differences she’d been able to find. She drew them in her journals, watercolor them when she had the time. The same went for the elephants, though it was mainly the young ones that got a wild hair and decided to investigate them before the hovering mothers called them back to them. Giraffes and Zebras kept their distance but it didn’t make their presence less magical to her. 

Her favorite experience, though, was getting to see a cheetah on the hunt. Getting to see its magnificent body nearly fly through the wild grasses to take down a wild hare, it had seemed like something out of her dreams. Violent, perhaps, but the circle of life. Seeing the fur hanging out of the wild cat’s maw, she couldn’t help but admire the strength and beauty of the animal as it settled close by the truck where they sat silently to watch it eat its meal. 

It was hard to comprehend how she’d gotten to do what she did, but Y/N was thankful for the fact that she was able to see such things. 

But now the gorillas were their main focus. Y/N’s favorite animal of all time, the ones that fascinated her the most. So intelligent, so strong. Similar to humans to a point that she had seen the way that they reacted to human children behind glass, and a mother grabbing her own to show the human her own. They were more intelligent than anyone even knew, including her, and she couldn’t wait to get closer to them.

 There was a specific band of gorillas that her family had been tracking for years, but she had never been able to go on those excursions because it was too dangerous and she was far too young. The rainforest was harder to navigate than the Savanna, harder to anticipate. More risks. Harder to find her if she wandered off. But now, as an adult, she was allowed to come. She’d been waiting for ages to be here, and she felt a thrum in her veins being able to walk around and feel free. The jungle was incredibly beautiful, full of life, and she couldn’t believe she had actually managed to get here.

 About three days ago, their team had set up in a secluded area, set up camp with fire and comfortable layout beds, though they had special zip up bedding to prevent any surprises. Apparently there had been an incident with a snake once, and no one was keen to repeat it. It wasn’t luxury, but it was far better than she’d expected when originally coming out.

 Y/N had tested her ability from a basket making class she had taken and weaved them an overhang for the sleeping area when she couldn’t sleep, making it from banana and coconut tree leaves to let the rain trickle off of their tents to keep them as dry as possible with the damp surroundings.

It was amazing out here. The cover of the trees, the trickling sound of the stream close by that eventually lulled her to sleep, it was a dream come true.

After three days, Y/N felt like she knew the area well after following the men around like a puppy, mentally mapping the trails and markers they set. She had a relatively good memory and trusted herself to keep to where the trail was, but it still surprised her father let her go on her own. 

He was protective in a sense, especially when it came to the jungle.

The trail had been marked by the footsteps of the team and little dots of spray paint on trees that would eventually wash away, Y/N stayed observant of her surroundings. It wasn’t lost on her that she was in the home of many creatures, a guest of theirs. It was her job to keep herself safe- But it was around noon and well, she felt rather safe and at peace as she took her time ambling about. Exploring where she could find when the sun was at its highest and leaking through the heavy leaf cover to give her some more warmth.

 The river was her favorite place to be, the water was clear and fresh coming off a specific rock and into a watering hole. Y/N was always careful around rivers, knowing it was most likely slippery, but she was still clumsy. The area surrounding it was wet, along with the leaves on the ground. It was harder to keep her balance off trail, and honestly? There were better options for her shoes, but it had been too exciting this morning when her father let her go off on her own- she hadn’t bothered changing out of the ones we usually had around camp. 

After her third near heart attack with slippery leaves, she had the brilliant idea of looking for a vine that she could use as leverage. Scavenging the surrounding area until she reached a rather large tree that had a vine hanging from it. There were plenty higher up, but this one in particular was almost touching the ground. Her saving grace. 

She tugged on it, thinking it would come off but to her surprise it was tied.

Looking up, she saw it. A… house? A structure. Surprisingly sturdy looking, snug in the middle of what had to be an ancient tree based on the width of the giant trunk. It was hard to get a proper look. 

It was probably a lookout of some sort. Did other groups have permission to be out here? Why hasn’t anyone mentioned it?

Y/N wasn’t much of a climber, so she didn’t bother to attempt to get up there at all. She wasn’t sure if she should call up. Considering she knew their group was the only authorized group to be out there, she wasn’t sure if she wanted to draw attention to herself. Who knows who was up there or… what? She didn’t want to disturb any animals on her own. 

Instead she put on her thinking cap, looking around to search for clues of civilization- and found them fairly quickly. There had been a place built for a fire with what seemed to be fairly new ash, some scraps of fruit and pits off to the side in a dug hole. 

Where could she find fruit for herself? A banana sounded so good right now.

What really sold it, though, was the wood shavings and sharpened bone. Which… was odd, but it led her to confirm what she already knew. It wasn’t hard to come to the conclusion she had a gut instinct about in the very beginning.

Someone was up there. Someone human. 

There wasn’t any abnormal noise, no movement from the tree house when she looked up at it, but she had goosebumps on her neck. That all too familiar feeling that had her shivering. 

Something was watching her.

[xylatox]

Bite, ink, repeat - until i stay || psh

Going to eat up my love’s work sm ugh <//3 literally so excited

Love the description in the beginning, the way you literally bring a scene to life on the screen :( 

“I mean — I thought this was someone else’s table, honestly. But I guess yours isn’t bad. I’ll let it slide.”

LOL i fuckin love it

Shes so fucking bratyy from earlllylyyyy

“You strike me as the type who always has something to say,” he said, placing it in front of you on the table. “Here is something to keep that mouth busy.”

So many other things can keep me busy rn 

“I’m counting on it.” He retorted, not breaking eye contact. “Bring that stubborn mouth with you.”

ON MY KNEES TOOOO

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… you absolutely looked up the second you got home. Just to verify, obviously. For research purposes, due diligence.

I love this because same ugh, hes hot and annoying

Also berry i hope you know im literally weak knees and crazy for Soobin, gonna lose it whenever he appears

 Each piece looks like it was made to live on skin and not on screens. 

Your words :( literally in love with you

Also i freaking love the tension like fuck me. I love Sunghoon because i feel like the tension is always there and drives you crazy

“Wait — what about your break, Hoon?” Sunoo called after him.

He didn’t pause. “Didn’t sound that important.”

Would **** *** *** right there i cant lie

“See? Knew you could handle it.”

Berry, love, you scrambled my brain

“Shhh,” his voice filled with quiet encouragement. He placed a hand on the dip of your hips, the latex cool against you but the pressure’s gentle. “You’re doing great. Need a break?”

I cant do this, hes too fucking hot

By the time he finished, you felt completely drained and wrung out; but underneath it all is a hushed sense of pride swelled in your chest. 

Gonna be the same way when hes done with you in other ways

As he rubs the ointment over your skin, he glances up from under his brow. “Now stay out of the sun, alright?” He tuts as he starts wrapping you, “no matter how cute your dress is.” 

FUCKKKKK MEEEEEE

ALSO HIM NOT CHARGING WHAT THE FUCK SUNGHOON, Just say you want her rn🫵🫵

Also i am loving the style of this fic, the mix between scenes and headcanons is so freaking cute and a breath of fresh air

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… keeps a slim, black portfolio near the front desk with Sunoo — tucked neatly beside the appointment book and labeled ‘designs just for Y/N’ in his own handwriting. 

Oh my god this is hot

SOOBIN UGH

“She’s not even here yet,” Soobin deadpans from his station. “Are you tattooing her or summoning her?”

Would have you too <//3

“Oh, that one?” he’ll say, all polite charm. “Sorry, that’s reserved for my girl.” 

He doesnt know im freaking crazy

Also i fucking love how cute he is where he just has an angy resting face ::( im so fuckin soft rn

Originally labeled ‘better than Soobin’s’, it’s now been quietly renamed to ‘not mine but mine’.

Im going to sob

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… tells you not to get tattooed by anyone else. Not just because he’s confident in his work (which he is, to a borderline arrogant degree) but because the idea of someone else — especially another guy — leaning in close, pulling at your clothes, touching your skin, mapping it like it’s theirs to read, marking you? Yeah, no. Absolutely not.

Biting my lip i love when people are possessive

“Go ahead. Let Soobin ink you.”

You raised a brow, testing him further. “Really?”

“I’ll just tattoo over it, babe.”

I LOVE HIMMM OMG

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… can’t help but get a little messy when it comes to you — filthy hands, filthier mouth, mess all over you and him.

Need this need this need this

“I’m mean, huh?” He echoes, voice gravel-soft, rasp when you’re this — open and so easy to read — it’s almost cruel to you. His mouth is everywhere but where you want it most, making you lean backwards on the island, hoping he gets the message. And Oh he does, but he's savoring the control and not giving in yet. “We both know that’s not true.” 

I cannot do this ill pass out

“Mm,” he hums, voice low against your mouth, “tastes even better when you’re bratty.”

I CANNNNNNNT RELEASE ME

“Keep testing me,” he pants as his hips thrusts hard enough for his tip to nudge your cervix, “and I’ll tame you all the same.”

Berry i cant fucking do this 

"I’ll fuck it back in if I have to."

HELL FUCKING OOO

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… lets you talk him into getting a tattoo to commemorate the trip. 

DOWNBAD (Same)

“Studio’s always open for you. Couch too.” He murmurs, thumb tracing the curve of your cheek, “but next time, just go home, yeah? I’ll be right behind you.”

Im so soft :(( 

I would fuck Sunghoon silly with long hair

*clears throat*

Sorry

Its so fucking cute when she tattoos him oh my god

“She’s mine today,” the other tattoo artist, now truly a friend of yours, calls from her chair with a shrug, eyes never leaving the digital tablet in her hand. “Finders keepers.”

Me whenever i flirt with women :3

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… pretends to act unfazed when you walk into the studio, lean against the counter with your chin resting on your folded arms, and dead-seriously say, “I think I want a tramp stamp.” 

Me. its literally one of the sexiest placements in my opinion

Also th ematching lollipop tattoos?? So fucking cute

Literally my brain is freaking scrambled i cant do this

He leans in, catching your lips in a kiss —  like he’s done it a thousand times and will do it a thousand more. Soft and annoyingly sure of himself. “No, I won’t.” he promised against your mouth. Because this one? Like the subtle constellation he hid behind his ear (your birth stars), the micro heart near his collarbone (lifted from one of your silly iPad doodles), the flower tucked behind his bicep (your favorite kind)? 

I fucking cant oh my god

Berry oh my god. I literally loved this so much. I love your writing, Its genuinely so damn good i cannot. Like, I enjoyed all of it so much, i love them and I love this style, its so cute to get the headcanons and snippets while also seeing their relationship progression. I love them so much :(

bite, ink, repeat — until i stay

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who...

Synopsis: Sunghoon’s hands were made for ink —  but you, untouched and inkless, became his favorite canvas long before the needle ever kissed your skin. (a series of drabbles from the Tattoo Studio Collective: “Fated Ink”) Word count: 17.7k Warnings: tattoo artist AU, slice of life, first tattoo experience, friends-to-lovers energy, softdom!sunghoon x brat reader (with a lot of love), Soobin (TXT) as Sunghoon’s coworker, Sunoo at the front desk (aka emotional support), mentions of Jake hehe, tattoo shop family vibes, slow burn but also unhinged at times, warm domestic moments, acts of service as love language, lowkey loverboy hoon, very much “lalala” (yn) x “okokok” (hoon),  fluff + smut (MDNI), messy feelings but even messier smut, i didnt mean to write rough sex but here we are, backshots + tramp stamp combo (yeah… I had to), oral (f. receiving), creampie / cumplay, breast play, tattoo kink adjacent, some (... a lot) of overstimulation, praise + slight teasing, marking kink, breeding kink, aftercare (emotional and physical), matching tattoos duhhh, and sm more...

a/n: hiii this is in collaboration with my baby @hoonieyun after i dreamt about this tattoo artist sunghoon hehe… this is part of my birthday present you to kiki <333 happy birthday cutie, i hope all the coming years treat you with love, joy and health <333 this is my very first time NOT writing a full fledged fic and writing in yn's 2nd pov … so im veryyyy nervous about this but wtvvv enjoy guys lol.

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TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… you met at a tattoo expo where he was a featuring artist, you were just a curious first-timer. You’ve been toying with the thought of a tattoo for a very  long time, yet hesitation keeps holding you back. What design do you want to get? The placement? What about the pain? What if you regret it? So you told yourself that coming here was a way to get you inspired, to see the artists in action, to get a real feel for the culture — a step towards making it real. As a matter of a fact, you went with a list, literal Notes app receipts of artists you'd stalked online for weeks: this was your research mission.  

The expo pulses with life before you’re even through the gates — a tangle of music, voices, and the unmistakable whir of tattoo machines drifting through the summer heat. It’s all fluorescent lights and the constant hum of tattoo machines, mixing with the faint thump of bass-heavy music from a DJ booth tucked somewhere in the far corner. 

People weave around you in all directions, skin on display like walking museums — fresh pieces glistening under plastic wrap, it was all healing layered work. Booths line the convention center floor, some extravagant and flashy portfolios open on tables with neon signage, others grungy and industrial with metal panels and graffiti art.

You approach an artist’s booth you’ve been eyeing for days — one of many that you have bookmarked obsessively, saved every design that caught your eye. The booth was minimalist, almost stark in its simplicity. The sleek setup with matte black banners and moody lighting feels familiar, absorbing the harsh expo lights rather than reflecting them — exactly what you were expecting. Small spotlights are strategically placed to illuminate a few framed sketches and carefully pinned flash sheets — each design detailed, precise, and clearly crafted with serious skill. 

A portfolio lies open on the table, the plastic sleeves faintly glossy under your hands. You begin flipping through the pages — delicate linework, expert shading, black-and-grey florals swirling into intricate dotwork patterns that catch your eye.

At the second page, you pause, brow furrowing. This style, this artist… it’s not the one you were searching for. The designs are stunning, but completely different from the color work you’d been studying. Your lips part slightly in surprise as you realize: you’ve wandered into the wrong booth. “…Wait. Shit. This isn’t — this isn’t who I thought it was.” You said, flipping through the portfolio once more. 

From behind the booth, a calm and dry voice pierced in through the noise. “Disappointed?”

“No,” you said, raising your eyebrows as you glanced at him — and immediately wished you’d worn sunglasses. His gaze was razor-clean, cutting straight through whatever bluff you were about to make. “I mean — I thought this was someone else’s table, honestly. But I guess yours isn’t bad. I’ll let it slide.”

His lips twitch, the beginnings of a smirk tugging at the corner. “Let it slide?”  He crossed his arms over his chest, forearms flexing beneath ink and fabric. “How generous. High praise coming from a girl who’s been stuck on the same page for two minutes.”

Rolling your eyes, you snapped the portfolio shut a little harder than needed. “Please. Don’t flatter yourself.” you said as you pushed it back on the table. “I’m just being polite.”

He leaned forward slightly, his tone dipping a bit with him. “You don’t strike me as the polite type.” You tilt your head to the side, curiosity piqued — you were maybe a little too ready to press the edge of his patience, a little too eager to get under his skin. “Oh yeah? And what ‘type’ do I strike you as?”

There’s a beat where he just looks at you — and then, with an exhale that might be a laugh, he grabs a lollipop from the small jar beside him. “You strike me as the type who always has something to say,” he said, placing it in front of you on the table. “Here is something to keep that mouth busy.”

Oh, he thinks he’s funny. This smug little shit. 

“I do, but I’m not sure that you…” Your tone breezy before pausing as you let your eyes drop, up and down, openly sizing him up now — tattoos slipping out from under his sleeves, muscle coiled just enough to catch the light, jaw tight like he’s fighting a smile.  “…are qualified.”

He let out a quiet huff, something close to a scoff, then set a business card beside the lollipop. “Right. My qualifications” he said, laced with sarcasm. “How reckless of me to forget I need approval from the girl who walked up to the wrong booth.”

You glanced down at the card, then back up at him — jaw tense, pulse ticking in your neck. “I am serious. Just… picky about who gets to put a needle in me.”  He lets out a soft hum, “sure you are,” as he nodded toward the card. “You can find me here, if you’re actually serious about getting inked and not just talking shit.”

You snatched what he offered on the table. “Might swing by.” The wrapper of the lollipop crinkles as you peeled it. “Just to prove that you are all talk.” You challenged, popping it in your mouth. Your eyes don’t leave his, even as you lean back a little to leave. 

“I’m counting on it.” He retorted, not breaking eye contact. “Bring that stubborn mouth with you.”

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… you absolutely looked up the second you got home. Just to verify, obviously. For research purposes, due diligence.

The studio instagram account loads — sleek handle, booking link in the header, clean bio with two names: Soobin and Sunghoon. Meaning it's two artists who share the space, or probably built it together. However, there were no clear faces to match the names to, which is annoying. Now, you’re realizing… you only talked to one of them at the expo, and you forgot to ask his name... too busy running your mouth, apparently. 

Now here you are, deep-diving an instagram account, trying to reverse-engineer names from tagged highlights and healed back pieces. You scroll… then scroll some more, before one post turns into five. The posts make the split between the two artists even clearer. Some are punchy and playful, others quietly meticulous. Eventually, you figure out who is who, and who actually runs the page.

Soobin posts frequently — flash sheets and dumb behind-the-scenes clips. In one of  his story highlights where tattoo guns buzz in the background of low chatter, the camera drifts across the shop and lingers just long enough on him — who you're now deducing has to be Sunghoon — at his station, head down and headphones in. He’s sketching, completely absorbed. You find another time-lapse video posted six months ago of him working. Gloved hands hovering just above someone’s back as he lines up stencil to skin. His sleeves rolled, head down, brows slightly knit — completely focused. He's frustratingly handsome, annoyingly hot — leaving you caught between wanting to look away and needing to see every little movement.

The worst part is that he barely posts, especially compared to Soobin’s constant flood of updates. When he does post, it’s quick — maybe a flash drop, a booking form, or the rare repost of a freshly healed tattoo. His feed is a curated gallery of ink masterpieces: clean lines, sharp blackwork, delicate fine details. Each piece looks like it was made to live on skin and not on screens. 

You close the app, then open it again. Shit, you might actually want him to tattoo you.

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… You booked the appointment partly out of spite — a petty, simmering need just to prove a point, to keep him from thinking he won. You weren’t about to let some smug tattoo artist win that easy. But the other half of it — the part you didn’t say out loud — was curiosity.

The studio hit differently the second you stepped inside — all exposed brick and matte black walls, low lighting humming quietly overhead. A flickering neon sign pulsed in the back with a lazy heartbeat, casting a soft red glow across the floor. It smelled like antiseptic, ink, and leather — sterile, but soothing in its own gritty way. There was a gumball machine by the front door, chipped chrome and faded pastels, nestled next to a hand-painted spin wheel labeled with things like ‘free flash!’, ‘$50 off’ or ‘try again…’ and ‘lucky pick’. 

You were still eyeing it when the man behind the front desk looked up. “Hi! Are you here for Soobin or Hoon?” He asked, voice chirpy like you’d met before, giving you that kind of smile that felt like a shot of espresso. You blinked, you recognized Soobin… not the other name. “Hoon?” You echoed, confused.

Before either of you could say anything else, the black curtain at the back swayed aside with an easy flick of a wrist. A figure stepped through with casual ease, voice trailing mid-sentence as he strolled in, not even glancing your way as his head turned toward the front desk. “Hey, Sunoo, I’m gonna clock out for a —”

The figure’s voice cuts off, stopped like someone pressed pause. You turned toward the sound, just as he looked your way. The two of you catching each other in full view. He stepped into the light — black shirt stretched smooth over his chest, sleeves shoved up haphazardly, forearms marked with faint smudges of stencil ink and skin-safe gloves tucked into his back pocket. His hair was pushed back in some places and falling into his eyes in others.

He stalled for a beat before that unmistakable smile curved across his face. “Oh, color me impressed,” he said, voice dripping with a quiet edge of amusement, “look who wandered in.” Now you're sure, it's Sunghoon unmistakably. 

Of course he recognized you. That first conversation had practically scorched itself into his memory. That attitude, that mouth, that very specific expression you wore when you knew you were about to stir the pot — yeah, he’d remember you anywhere. He leaned a shoulder against the counter, relaxed but dialed in, eyes tracking over you. “You lost, or just window shopping?”

You crossed your arms, brows raised. “Maybe. Depends.”

He tilted his head, playing along. “On?”

“What your rates are.”

He chuckled, almost in disbelief. “Oh, you mean my qualifications?” he teased. Of course he also remembered how you tossed jabs at him without hesitations, like you weren't the least bit interested. He found it entertaining — charming, even. Most people shifted under his stare and silence, but you weren't intimidated in the slightest. And fuck, it made his pulse stir with hotter blood to all his body. 

With one hand braced on the counter, you step closer to him — not overtly, just enough to tilt the space between wonder and provocation. “Figured I’d let you plead your case.” you said with a sweet smile, a disarming contract with your constant sharp digs at him. Standing this near, your perfume wrapped around his senses — soft, sultry vanilla folded into warm amber — it slashes and stands out through the shadows of his dimly lit studio. Impossible to ignore, impossible not to follow. “It would be fun to see you trying to convince me.”

Behind the desk, Sunoo blinked like he was watching a game without knowing any of the rules — eyes darting between you and Sunghoon, trying to keep up.

Atlas, he spoke. “She’s with me, Sunoo.” he tossed over his shoulder, gaze locked on yours. His voice was casual, but there was something definite in it — like this wasn’t up for discussion. Then, he tilted his chin toward the back of the studio, already turning. “Come on in.”

“Wait — what about your break, Hoon?” Sunoo called after him.

He didn’t pause. “Didn’t sound that important.”

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… could tell you were very nervous but stubborn as hell, refusing to back down and leave the appointment. Honestly you’d bite down on your very last nerves before admitting to them. You told yourself it wasn’t faintheartedness, just anticipation. Still, you fidget your feet a little too rhythmically under the desk.

Sunghoon flipped open a thicker binder, one you didn't recognise. “Didn’t bring this with me last time at the expo,” he said, thumbing through the new crisp, clear plastic sleeves. He angled it toward you, letting you take in the pages — clean, intricate linework, delicate shading, wings layered with downy texture so light you could almost feel the breeze they’d stir, tiny motifs were tucked into the corners — pieces that felt personal, not just flash and filler. He showed you some ideas, some of his own favorites, pointing out a few softly as you turned the pages — he’s not pushing, just letting you find something that fits. 

He was hoping that by letting the art speak first, it might say what he wouldn’t — that the quiet weight of ink and pencil might calm your shaky hands better than any rushed reassurance.

You flipping slowly, simply at awe. The designs weren’t just good — his work is remarkable, impressive even. A thoughtful mix of fine-line florals, anatomical sketches, many abstract concepts that made you pause. “Okay,” you said after a moment. “You’re… actually decent.”

“A compliment needs to be dragged out of you, huh?”

“Wouldn’t want it to go to your head.” Even with your heart racing, you fired back your reply without missing a second. A low, knowing sound rumbles out of him — more breath than laugh, but still laced with an unbothered grin. He already knew not to take your deflections seriously.

You hovered over one of the more intricate pieces — fine lines, some soft texture, deceptively simple but elegant. Your jaw slackened just slightly, tension dropping from your shoulders. “That one,” you murmured, tapping the corner of the sketch with your finger. “I like it.”

His smile softened, the usual smugness dimming and settling into something genuine. “Yeah?” he said, already sliding the binder away with care. “We can do that one.” He laid the page flat on the table, smoothing the edges like the piece deserved gentleness now that it was yours to carry. “Okay. Next up — placement. Where were you thinking?”

You gestured towards your side, just above the curve of your hip. “Right here.”

He didn’t say anything at first. Instead, his eyes dropped, studying the spot you pointed to while shifting his weight to kneel in front of you — a better viewing angle. He moved with practiced efficiency, you could see the way his mind was already tracing invisible lines, envisioning how the piece would sit on your skin. He glanced at your hip through the tall mirror, head tilted in quiet concentration. “Are you sure you want it here? It’s a pretty sensitive spot.” he asked, gaze flicking up to meet yours in the reflection.

“That’s kind of the point.” You retorted, trying to sound assertive even as your pulse thudded a little faster where his gloved fingers hovered on your skin and clothes. He cocked a sly eyebrow, “you like making my job hard, don't you?” he taunted, already reaching for the stencil from his drawers.

You’d usually fire back with some clever, witty — or just something, anything — but right now, your confidence was slipping through your fingers like sand. Your nerves were successfully eating at your bones. Sitting on the edge of his tattoo bed, you focused on steadying the erratic rhythm of your pounding heart and quieting the whirlwinded breathing inside your chest.

“Wait!” You blurted before you could bite your tongue. Your eyes locked onto his, wide and a little vulnerable — like a deer caught in headlights. He froze instantly as he was putting on his black gloves, turning his full attention to you. Your voice barely a whisper now, betraying the jitters you couldn’t hide anymore, “what if I cry?”

He chuckled, an amused sound that made you realize you’d scared him for nothing. Shaking his head, he laid out his tools. “You won’t cry.”

“Glad you’re confident.”

He gave you a knowing smile, one that held reassurance. “More like experienced,” he corrected, fingers steady as he prepped the needle. “And don’t worry, I’ve got plenty of tissues ready to catch any tears.”

You huff and circle back to the tattoo bed, letting Sunghoon’s hand settle against your side again, warm through the glove. He guided you into position with a quiet sort of supervision, fingerspads pressing the stencil onto your skin. No wonder he pulled so many clients — it's the way he worked: every touch felt attentive, respectful, almost reverent. 

Eventually, everything was set. 

“Alright. Now, no moving.” He instructed before the machine buzzed to life behind him, the sound louder than you expected in the quiet of the room. You forced yourself not to flinch when the first drag of the needle caught on your skin — sharp, precise and blooming into heat beneath the surface. You frowned, fingers tightening reflexively on the edge of the bed, though it wasn’t exactly painful.

He stepped back, giving you space and letting it sink in. “Okay, first little line. How do you feel?”

You exhaled slowly. “It’s not so bad.”

“See? Knew you could handle it.”

A few more minutes passed, you stayed still — mostly. The sting was manageable now, but your muscles tensed every time he hit a new line. You squeezed your eyes shut, focusing on steadying your breath and tuning out the hum of the machine with his occasional soft swipe of his hand as he wiped ink from your skin. At one point, he must’ve pressed a little harder than usual, drawing a subtle wince from your lips. 

He pulled the needle off from your skin instantly, but the machine continued to buzz. “Shhh,” his voice filled with quiet encouragement. He placed a hand on the dip of your hips, the latex cool against you but the pressure’s gentle. “You’re doing great. Need a break?”

You shook your head, because stopping meant thinking and registering how close he was. “No. Keep going.” You weren’t sure what stung more: the tattoo or the way your brain wouldn’t shut up about the dip of his breath against your flushed skin, the smell of his cologne, the steady heaviness of his hands…

By the time he finished, you felt completely drained and wrung out; but underneath it all is a hushed sense of pride swelled in your chest. You did it — body spinning and a little sore, but also... content. When he started cleaning the freshly inked skin, you expected him to be methodical, yes — pieces like his needed coherent structured aftercare — but you didn't expect him to be so tender, like he cared just as much about the healing as the art itself. 

As he rubs the ointment over your skin, he glances up from under his brow. “Now stay out of the sun, alright?” He tuts as he starts wrapping you, “no matter how cute your dress is.” 

“Didn’t know you were keeping tabs on my wardrobe.”

“Someone’s gotta keep an eye on trouble like you.” He said with a low voice that’s effortlessly magnetic, that unexpectedly curls and sinks in your stomach. He nodded toward the exit of his station, he drawled — smug as sin, “now move it, pretty.” You heard him say before his hefty boots thudded against the studio floor, each step was louder over your skipping heartbeats. 

With Sunoo chatting away at the front desk, you dug into your bag and pulled out your wallet, already bracing for the damage to your bank account. “So… how much is it?” You asked cautiously. Before Sunoo could answer, Sunghoon cuts in, ginning like a cat with playful intent. “Consultations are free.” 

Wait, what? Your brows furrowed, confusion flickering through your thoughts. “I wasn’t here for a consultation.”

He shrugged as he peeled off his gloves, fingers flexing like an artist unwinding. “Still not charging you.”

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… keeps seeing you show up at the shop’s doors again and again, session after session — each time with a new design in mind, always requesting him by name. You two pretend it’s about work and business, but he secretly scans the booking sheet every morning, searching for your name.

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who…  should be taking those rare moments between appointments to rest, to stretch his back, close his eyes — but instead he sketches extra pieces with you in mind. Spontaneous ideas and designs he hoped might catch your eye if you happened to walk in unannounced and need something fresh on the spot, like always. That familiar impulsive spark in your eyes when you see something new, just before kicking off your shoes, pulling up your sleeves, and saying, “put it here,” like your body was made to wear his work? It never got old to him. It only urged him more to create something just for you, right then and there.

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… listens — really listens — during appointments. He’s careful with his hands on you but focused with his ears, eyes occasionally flicking up from your plush skin to catch the way your soft, glossed lips move when you talk. You tell him about your job, your playlist, the dumb thing your roommate did this morning. Whatever it is, he would listen and drink in every word like it’s the most important thing in the room.

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… says he doesn’t play favorites, but Soobin knows better. There is always a saved slot in his schedule, open and waiting just for you.  

All those new tattoos you got are starting to heal, the skin still tender but the ink already vivid and alive. Today, you find yourself back in the studio again — partly to show him how well they’re mending, but mostly because it’s a perfect excuse to see him again. You roll up your shirt sleeve just enough to let the soft studio light catch the crisp, healed lines of your latest piece. The delicate shading and fine details seem to glow under the light of the overhead lamp.

Sunghoon leans in, careful not to touch but his eyes skim over you with an artist’s meticulous attention — focused, assessing, appreciative. “You did a good job taking care of it.” He hummed with approval. 

“I was under strict instructions.”

“You follow orders well when you want to, huh?”

You rolled your eyes, letting your sleeve fall back into place. “You're such a pain in the ass.”

He gave you that look — the one laced with amusement and the tiniest spark of challenge — as he stepped in close, the scent of clean skin and aftershave curling right into your space. “Takes one to know one, brat.” He whispered against the shell of your ear like velvet, only wanting you to hear it, before a sharp smack against your ass just bold enough to make you jolt. 

You flinched as your breath caught on, but didn’t move away. If anything, your spine straightened, warmth flooding your cheeks — not from embarrassment, but from how easy it was to feel seen by him. Teased and tracked down with ease. He was already turning back like nothing happened, resuming his work with maddening facility. 

His smile was still there. That smug, irresistible thing he wore whenever he got the upper hand. Equal parts infuriating and unfair — the kind of smile that made you want to throw something at his head… or drag him into the nearest empty room.

Depending on the day, or depending on the hour… hell, maybe even depending on the next breath.

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… keeps a slim, black portfolio near the front desk with Sunoo — tucked neatly beside the appointment book and labeled ‘designs just for Y/N’ in his own handwriting. 

It’s not official like the other portfolios are, but not something he offers anyone else. Frankly, you’ve come in enough times now, asked enough questions, changed your mind last minute, circled back with new ideas — that he’s kept track of every single one, filing them in his head first then later on paper. 

It's simply a personal archive of you and your style, your taste, the placement ideas you've wavered on, sketches he’s made on a whim because ‘it just reminded me of you’. You caught that portfolio once, half-hidden under a clipboard when Sunoo moved it aside looking for a pen. You blinked at the familiar sketch on the top page — something you’d rambled about weeks ago.

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… always puts on your playlist before tattooing you. You’d mentioned offhand what you liked to listen to when you’re on edge — and the next session, he already had them queued as the needle buzzed. Soft synths, sugary vocals, crooning through the shop speakers. A little Sabrina Carpenter, some Ariana thrown in like glitter, and Janet Jackson rounding it out with groove-heavy nostalgia. 

In fact, the second he sees your name on his day’s schedule, he’s already switching playlists. Even before you walk through the door, your playlist is bleeding through the shop’s speakers. And by now, the others have caught on. Sunoo groans from the front like clockwork. “I swear I’ve heard this ‘Dandelion’ song twelve times this week.”

“She’s not even here yet,” Soobin deadpans from his station. “Are you tattooing her or summoning her?”

Sunghoon would just say it's about atmosphere or client comfort, pretending it’s clinical. What they don’t know is that sometimes, when the studio is empty and the floor's dead quiet… he plays it anyway. Late at night, he would be sketching under low light, nodding his head while his studio bathed in your soft pop hooks. It’s the kind of music he’d never put on himself, but in his eyes, it makes the wait between your bookings feel a little shorter. 

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… wasn't kidding about that portfolio labelled ‘designs just for Y/N’. 

When other clients flip through his books and want something from your folder — the linework catches their eye, or the subject matter hits just right — Sunghoon doesn't hesitate. “Oh, that one?” he’ll say, all polite charm. “Sorry, that’s reserved for my girl.” 

It doesn’t matter if they offer double, triple, if they pout, beg, or pull the whole ‘but I’ll change it a little’ routine. He stays unmoved, like it's a rule. “Nah,” he’ll say easily. “It's priceless. Pick something else.” 

Honestly? He knows you’re not going to get all of them inked. He’s drawn more for you than your skin could ever hold. Pieces too large for what you asked, too delicate for your usual style. But the point is that they’re yours and not for sale. Every curl of linework, every intricate design, every bit of blooming ink — made with your name already stamped on it — in his head and heart, that is.

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… is a sweet boy in disguise. A buff lover boy in a compression tee, really. When he’s laser focused on his work or deep in his own thoughts, his brow naturally furrows into what most people mistake for a glare of doom.

People who come in and out of the building are terrified of him sometimes, giving him a wide berth. Not because he’s ever actually rude — but because his default face just... looks agitated. Like he's already halfway through plotting something violent. You found this out the hard way when Jake pulled you aside one afternoon. He glanced over his shoulder, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Hey, uh… is he mad at me?” 

You blinked. “Who?”

“Sunghoon,” Jake said, like it should’ve been obvious. “He’s always squinting at me — like glaring at me. I swear I didn’t do anything.”

You raised an eyebrow, still confused. “Why would he be mad at you?”

Jake shrugged. “I don’t know? I just… came to see my girlfriend upstairs. She is working this weekend. But every time I walked through, he looked at me like I keyed his car or something.”

You bit back a smile — because it was silly — how that man who barely spoke more than a few words but always noticed the little things, could look so fierce without meaning to. Jake wasn’t even a client of his. And still, Sunghoon noticed and locked him, involuntary of course. You laughed and decided it was time to intervene. You walked straight over to Sunghoon, who was at his station, bent over a sketch, brow furrowed and lips pressed in a line — maximum concentration. “Relax your face, grump.” You said, voice lilting as you nudged his shoulder.

He looked up, caught off guard like coming out of a fog. “Huh?”

“You’re scaring people again.” 

He cracked a sheepish smile, stretching his brows upward, deliberately exaggerated, until they arched like a cartoon character caught off guard before relaxing them. “Better?” 

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… lets you hang out at the studio after hours and pretend you’re just ‘browsing flash tattoos’, but really you’re stalling and he’s hoping you’ll stay a little longer.

The studio is quiet now — the droning of the machines long gone, the fluorescent lights switched off except for a single dim lamp on his desk casting soft shadows across the room. It feels more like a secret hideout than a workplace right now. The air still carries the metallic bite of ink and antiseptic, but under it mingles a faint trace of the cologne you once bought him — the very same one he struggled to pick out himself, so you took matters into your own hands, grinning as you said, “now i own your smell, you can’t escape me.” — it’s a scent he only wears when you’re around.

You sat perched on his desk while swinging your legs slightly, the vinyl cool against the backs of your bare thighs. He stood between your knees, hands planted firmly on the table behind you, subtly caging you in. He’s close enough to count your breaths, the heat of his body seeping into yours. He held your gaze with that familiar quiet intensity — a little fierce, a little soft — as his face tilted down. Lips so close you can feel the words before hearing them, close enough to test the space.

“You know,” his voice lowered with fake reprimand. “I should probably kick you out right now.”

With that slow, stubborn smile — half-angel, half-trouble — the way you always do with him, you toss back, “then why haven’t you?”

His eyes drop to your lips like it’s muscle memory — something he can’t help. A few strands of hair fall across his forehead, softening the edge of his usual cold expression. Then, almost like gravity made the choice for him, he leans in. The kiss came slow, almost tentative at first. His mouth brushed against yours with a gentleness that matched everything about the way he carried himself: it was mellow, patient.

When he finally pulls back, it’s only an inch — close enough that you still feel the warmth of him, his breath fanning over your cheek. His hands stay where they are, resting on either side of your waist. His eyes flicker between yours, searching for something — maybe trying to gauge if it’s too much, too soon. “I like you,” he admits, the words small and stupidly sincere, almost shy, “like… a lot.”

Your heart is doing laps in your chest at this point, chaotic and embarrassing from his kiss and his confession. But your mouth is still working overtime to keep your pride intact — still as stubborn as a mule. “Took you long enough,” your voice came out breathless, “I was starting to think I’d have to tattoo it on your forehead.”

He lets out a laugh as he shakes his head, eyes squinting just slightly — both exasperated and completely smitten. His fingers curl deeper around your waist, drawing you in even closer until your inner thigh bumps his hips. “Mouthy even when you’re swooning,” he cooed, nose brushing yours. “C’mere.”

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… never minds when you steal his iPad and start doodling absolute nonsense on it — crooked stars and hearts, a sword with a bow tied to the handle, angry little frogs, a tiny cartoon him with hearts eyes and a caption underneath that reads ‘cranky tattoo boy’. He never deletes any of it, in fact he saves them. All of them. One quiet evening, while you’re curled up sideways on a worn chair in the waiting area, and he’s finishing up with a walk-in client, you accidentally stumble across a hidden folder in his files. Originally labeled ‘better than Soobin’s’, it’s now been quietly renamed to ‘not mine but mine’.

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… only ever books you in at the end of the day — last appointment, every time. 

He would dim the lights low, put on your favorite playlist, and tell the rest of the shop to head out early. It's the time of day where no other clients with wandering eyes linger around. He never said it outright, but you noticed how Sunoo was always slipping on his jacket when you came in and Soobin’s already gone. 

After all, when it comes to you, he wants to take his time. He doesn’t rush, he never does with you. “I want to focus on you.” He’d say simply. No distractions, no one else in the room to see the way your shirt rides up, or how your lashes flutter when the needle hums to life. 

“You just want me all to yourself, don’t you?” you teased one night, reclining back slightly with a smirk dancing on your lips, trying not to show how flustered his attention made you. He leaned in then, gloved fingers brushing your waist as he adjusted your posture, “damn right I do.”

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… tells you not to get tattooed by anyone else. Not just because he’s confident in his work (which he is, to a borderline arrogant degree) but because the idea of someone else — especially another guy — leaning in close, pulling at your clothes, touching your skin, mapping it like it’s theirs to read, marking you? Yeah, no. Absolutely not.

He’d never say that part out loud. Not directly, anyway. Sometimes he’s subtle about it and say things like, “most of them don’t even know how to line properly. I’ve seen it. Plus, the places they chose are too shallow — you'd be lucky if that thing lasts the year. You’d regret it.” 

Other times... less so. You once mentioned a different artist in passing — someone you'd bookmarked on Instagram in passing — he didn't even bother to hide his reaction. “That placement? From him?” Sunghoon wrinkled his nose in disgust, “symmetry’s garbage.” Maybe he’s right, but deep down, you know it’s not just about technique. It’s about you: your skin, your time, your attention.

One day after finishing work, you sprawled out on the cracked leather lounge chair near the front desk, your legs draped over the arm, idly flipping through your portfolio — the thickest binder in the shop by far. Across the studio, Sunghoon was bent over his iPad at his workstation, scribbling away with his habitual furrow in his brow. His whole posture was tight, head low, wide shoulder blades flexing beneath the fabric of his shirt. He's the perfect picture of hyper-focused dedication.

However, you were in the mood to poke the bear. “Hmm,” you hummed, just loud enough for him to hear. “Maybe I’ll let Soobin do the next one. Y’know… just to switch it up.”

The scratching of the stylus on glass stopped. He didn’t turn around right away, just tapped the pen against the screen once, twice. When he finally spoke, his voice came out light, too light, “yeah?” A smirk of victory came to your face, oh, you hit a nerve in no time. He didn’t stop, “you in the mood for crooked lines and shaky hands now?” 

You bit down on your smile. “So dramatic.”

Still not looking at you, but his next words came with a quiet edge. “Just make sure he spells everything right. Would be a shame if your skin got stuck with a typo.”

You snorted, Soobin wouldn't be his coworker — let alone his friend — if Sunghoon didn’t respect his work. “He’s good, you know that.” 

Finally — finally — he turned, slowly and lazily. One elbow propped on the armrest of his chair, head tilted slightly, eyes dragging over you like he was daring you to keep going. Like your comment hadn’t just lit a fuse in his chest. “Sure,” he said, smile curling, sharp and toothy. “Go ahead. Let Soobin ink you.”

You raised a brow, testing him further. “Really?”

“I’ll just tattoo over it, babe.”

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… has coworkers who all know exactly who you are the second you walk through the door. 

Sunoo’s already sliding the clipboard off the counter before you reach the front desk. “Before you ask,” he says, eyes glued to his phone, like he’s done this a thousand times. “Yes, Hoon’s with a client.” And without missing a beat, you smile at him, “I know,” as you skip through the hallway like you own the place — because, at this point, you kind of do. 

You slip into the chair in the far back corner — the one you’ve only recently started calling yours. After weeks of perching on counters, switching seats, and pretending not to hover, you’ve finally landed here. It’s tucked just close enough to Sunghoon’s station that you can hear the hum of his machine and the low tone of his voice when he speaks to a client. You don’t interrupt, just sit and wait, content to exist in his orbit.

 And Sunghoon? He’s mid-session, black gloves tight over steady hands, eyes narrowed in concentration as he lines a delicate design into the crook of someone’s arm. But the second he hears your voice from the front — muffled but familiar beneath the quiet music and the buzz of his machine — something in his jaw eases. The tension he didn’t even know he was holding unspools. His lips twitch into the barest smile, a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it shift. Like somehow, your presence tilts his day back into place.

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… can’t help but get a little messy when it comes to you — filthy hands, filthier mouth, mess all over you and him.

The rest of the night after your chest tattoo — a new piece you’d been craving for weeks, high on your sternum just above your heart — wasn’t the easiest to say the least. At home, he got you sat perched on the kitchen island while your tattoo sat nestled between your breasts, a fresh red and wrapped in cling film. 

He moved around the kitchen, pulling things from drawers, heating the kettle. Maybe for tea, maybe to clean your tattoo again. You don’t know and you couldn't care less. You watch the way his forearms move under the soft sleeve of his shirt, the faint sheen on his skin where sweat clings just barely, proof of the hours he spent bent over you. His hands are steady as ever, even now — long fingers, inked knuckles, clean palms wiping absentmindedly against a towel slung over his shoulder. You try not to stare — really, you do — but it’s hopeless. 

He looks irresistible like this — domestic, tired, hair a mess, still smelling faintly of  that sterile scent but mostly of his musk with soft tobacco — like he hasn’t just spent the entire evening memorizing the curves of your chest. There’s something about seeing him like this, worn down but glowing faintly in the soft kitchen light, that sends heat skimming along your spine.

You shift without meaning to, thighs pressing together as if that will help your leaking throb on the cold table. The squirming made the cling film crinkle slightly against your skin, which in turn made his eyes glance over — checking in on you. It was enough to catch the sight of your knees drawing inward in a pressing motion. 

He stops in front of you to rest a hand on your knee — a solid grip that burns nonetheless. "You okay?" he asks, voice’s a little worn around the edges from the long day, but still gentle with you. His thumb traces slow circles on your thigh, featherlight. 

You nod, eyes flicking away for half a second. “Just tired.” That was your first lie of the night. You’re many things at this current moment — sore, burning,  aching, buzzing from endorphins — but mostly? Restless, overwounded, and so, so frustrated. He’d been alluring and riling you up the whole time during the tattoo session — and the kicker? The worst part? He wasn't even doing it intentionally. He was endlessly tolerant, and kind in every little way.

However, from the way you’re acting… you’d think he’d performed open-heart surgery instead of tattooing your chest. 

The pressure was stirring harder as your mind replayed every movement of his fingers on your skin, Every gentle press of the needle, every low instruction, his sultry breath close as he's tattooing you or speaking to you, “breathe for me, baby, I’ve got you” and “Almost there…” and “I need you to relax and open up for me” . You didn't even know a voice could do that to you, or that a touch could stay burned into your nerve endings. You got up from the tattoo bed damped and with wobbly knees — he just mistook it for post-tattoos faintness. 

He tilts his head a little with a furrow between his brows. "You’re all red, baby," he murmurs, genuinely sounding concerned. His eyes rake over you — taking in your flushed skin, the glazed, unfocused look in your eyes, the slight parting of your lips as you keep swallowing the wet heat pooling in your mouth, struggling to keep your breathing quiet. The air between you two stretched like elastic, threatening to snap like a live wire. 

Then his hand lifts, palms are a little cold as it settles a press against your warm cheeks. “Hm,” he hums, thumb brushing along the bone beneath your eye before trailing lower. His touch slips down to the curve of your jaw, then your throat, where he pauses, pressing the backs of his fingers lightly to your neck — like he’s checking your temperature. "You got a fever?" 

No, but technically, yes. Your temperature is up. But not from sickness, or any flu or cold. It’s him and everything he’s doing to you now and earlier. The weight of him, the scent of him. The soft silken hands, the sweet honeyed voice. The way he’s close enough to kiss. That thumb trail back up to your cheek again, prompting you to speak. Your fuzzy eyes scan his face, “I…” You trailed off, really trying. 

He leans in closer, lips barely grazing the skin of your jaw,  his stubble catches on your delicate skin leaves a heat that makes your thighs twitch. You're pretty sure this stopped being about your temperature fairly quickly. “You what, baby?" His lips now are just millimeters from yours. "Hm?"

You rock your hips where you sit, beats pulsating at the base of your throat. The kitchen suddenly feels too bright, too quiet, too charged all at once. You could kiss him, you could beg him but you were unyielding. It is unfair how he gets to break you to pieces, and he’s blissfully unaware. “Fuck — you’re mean.” You whisper your second lie. 

It makes him pause before laughing — that low, gorgeous boyish laugh, bubbling up from somewhere deep in his chest which vibrates in your ribs before it even reaches your ears. A slow smile spreads across his face as his fit dies down. “I’m mean, huh?” He echoes, voice gravel-soft, rasp when you’re this — open and so easy to read — it’s almost cruel to you. His mouth is everywhere but where you want it most, making you lean backwards on the island, hoping he gets the message. And Oh he does, but he's savoring the control and not giving in yet. “We both know that’s not true.” 

He cradles you like an fucking angel — weather in or out of bed, his attentiveness never falter. Even in the thick of it, when your heart is frantic and your thoughts scatter like smoke — he's attuned to every shiver, never forgetting to care for you. Always patiently devoted. 

A kiss was pressed just beneath the cling wrap framing your still-tender tattoo. The warmth of his mouth soothes and sparks at once, each brush of his lips prudent but intentional. He knows how sore you are — which spots are raw, which are sensitive. “If I was mean, I wouldn’t have spent three hours working between those pretty tits.” He says before kissing lower, the cold metal of his chain brushing your belly. “Could’ve sworn I kissed every spot that made you flinch.”

“You teased the hell out of me the entire time,” you argued, your words barely carrying any weight — they’re more like an acknowledgement than an accusation. You mewl as his mouth lifts again and bites just above the fresh ink, just enough to make you jolt and arch into him. The pain is deliciously light, fleeting and dances on the edge of your ache. You feel his breath puff out against your skin before the stretch of a smile you can’t see as you're laid down on the kitchen island, but know all too well. “Did I?” His voice was too assured, too amused by the view. “Is that why you look so fucked out right now?”

Before you can respond, his palm is already sliding between your thighs to your needy, deprived cunt through your shorts. His knuckles dragging just right, his fingers cupping you with practiced ease. It’s not even skin on skin yet you feel your whole body lean into the contact. You tilt your head instinctively towards him as he noses along your neck — your body’s already surrendering and greedy for more.

“This pretty pussy missed me? Is that it?” he mutters, voice dipping into something actually mean. Now he's just being vulgar. You bite your lip, thighs trying to clamp shut again, but his firm hand keeps them open. “Don’t pout,” he mocks, soft but cutting as his lips ghost your ear. “She’s the one asking for it. Not me.”

You keen as your heart skitters, your hips grind ever so slightly against his hand. You’re restless now, burning up from the inside out, your body practically vibrating with impatience. This friction is simply not enough for what he accidently started at the studio. “I’ve had better from my vibrator,” you threw back, getting reckless but your third lie crackling in the space between you. “Either you fuck me or I’ll finish the job myself.” 

It's a bold, hard bait. You both know it. Because toys? You tossed them the morning after your first night with him — nothing’s ever felt like him since, not even close.

He just smiles, he knows exactly what game you’re playing — and he’s already winning. He leans in and kisses you, savoring something sweet that he earned. His mouth parts against yours, warm and coaxing, his tongue sweeping slowly across your bottom lip — licking into the kiss like it’s sugar. “Mm,” he hums, voice low against your mouth, “tastes even better when you’re bratty.”

The halt of his hands left you empty, twitching. Your legs instantly hook around his waist, pulling him to you with a strength you didn’t know you still had. “Don’t you dare stop,” you whisper, voice shredded and near a desperate whine. “But I thought I was mean,” the words dripped with feigning offense. He tilts his head like he’s genuinely considering it — oh, this asshole — gaze burning through your skin like a slow drag of heat. "Aren't I?”

Your lips are kiss-bruised, your body nothing but limp nerves and need.  “I’m sorry,” you gasp, the words breaking on your tongue. “I’m sorry.” It’s humiliating how pliant you’ve become. How quickly he’s undone you. You know he’ll hold this out until he drags it out from your lips. His palm finds the curve of your ass again as he squeezes, fingers digging in just to hear the sound you’d make. “For what?” He croons. “You know I don’t take empty apologies.”

“For…”you whisper, barely above a breath. “Calling you mean.” You finish off, sounds small coming from you, mustering the best helpless, heart-melting gaze you could give him.

He smiles down on you — fond, wicked and satisfied. "Now how could I ever say no to that face?” 

The space between you disappears, every touch setting fire to the air around you — and just like that, you’re lost to the wild rhythm that’s been building all evening. His hand moves to your lower belly, fingers splayed wide as he groans, feeling just how deeply he fits in you — needing to remind you, wanting you to keep remembering him. 

“Keep testing me,” he pants as his hips thrusts hard enough for his tip to nudge your cervix, “and I’ll tame you all the same.” The kiss that follows was sloppy, possessive regardless, before breathing against your mouth like a promise he will keep, "I’ll fuck it back in if I have to."

You believe him, he's a man of his word after all.

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who…  you end up feeding more than yourself whenever you show up with lunch. 

Many times find him hunched over the inner curve of his own bicep, tattooing something new — a design you recognize as yours because it’s always about you lately. “Just a sec, babe.” He’d say without looking up, his needle continued to dance above his skin. He’s used to you being part of his space — like the sound of your footsteps is just another thing he learned to listen for. He doesn’t need a glance, he just knows it’s you. 

You cross the floor in soft steps, careful not to bump the tray as you set the drinks down gently on the side table next to him. You reach out — just your fingertips, brushing the inside of his forearm, light enough to ask without interrupting his flow.

That’s all it takes: he stops immediately and sets the machine down. “Okay, okay,” he surrenders with a breathy chuckle, finally looking up. “Gimme a bite.” You laugh softly, fishing out his plate before holding the fork out to him like you’ve done it a hundred times. He leans in carefully, making sure his ink-stained hands don’t brush against you, and takes the bite with a small, pleased hum, “God, you always bring the best shit.”

“I’m starting to think you only keep me around for lunch.” You giggled, holding out another spoonful toward his waiting mouth. His chewing stops to raise a brow at you, “only?” He echoed before shaking his head, “you’re underestimating how greedy I am when it comes to you.”

Your hands feed him, his hands ink you. It’s balanced, really.

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… keeps a blanket just for you at the studio, folded neatly over the back of your chair…

There’s also a mini fridge in the corner near his station, tucked behind his rolling cart of inks and sterile packs. It has your favorite drinks — not just one or two, but full color-coded rows of the exact brand and flavor you always reach for. You’ve never seen it empty. And the snack cart? Off-limits, everyone knows that. Sunoo even calls it your ‘VIP buffet’. One time Soobin tried grabbing a granola bar without asking, he got hit with a look that could have curdled milk from Hoon.

Then there is THE drawer… the second one from the bottom. You didn’t even know about it at first. It wasn’t until you opened it one day looking for a charger, finding that it’s filled with little pieces of you: the lip balm you left behind once, now replaced in multiples. The hair ties you always lose. Two packs of your favorite gum. Advil. Bandaids. A fresh pair of socks. A mini mirror. Two kinds of heat patches and endless period supplies. He never made a show of it, never pointed it out or bragged. because to him, it's the bare minimum.

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… believes in a lot of aftercare — after tattoos and after sex. 

Quiet attentiveness stitched into his every movement. He keeps your sunscreen and creams in his drawer next to his own supplies, always warming it between his fingers before applying it to your skin with slow, gentle strokes that border on devotional. “Gotta protect my work.” He’d say as his hands — large, ring-heavy, deceptively skilled — move the same way they do when he inks you: careful but softer now, if that's even possible. 

“Sealing it in,” he’d mutter against your neck, leaving a kiss behind your ear as his tattooed knuckles ghost over your thighs. The pads of his fingertips trace over fading patches of blush pink, soft imprints on you from hours of being tangled in his sheets. If you’ve still got enough energy to tease, you would respond, “the ink or yourself?” With a voice that’s sleep-drunk and worn out. His digits pause where they’re stroking your skin, like he wants you to really hear it. Then, with a kiss just above your hip, “both.”

After a long night  — whether spent beneath the sharp hum of his tattoo machine or laid in the burning friction of his mattress — when you're all skin-warm, sore and sleepy, he tucks you into his bed. His fingers trace the edges of the piece he inked the week before, still not over how stunning it looks on you. His mouth follows with cloud-soft kisses, “this one’s my favorite,” he’d whisper against your skin, awe in his voice. He says this about every single one, just before biting near the skin — gentle but playful, just enough to make you stir under his blankets… then plants another kiss on another tattoo. “Fuck — actually, they’re all my favorite.”

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… you notice doesn’t really do social media.

He doesnt have a personal insta account, no twitter, no stories of what he’s eating or where he’s going. Just that one business insta page where he shares his work. Clean, minimal, clinical even — at first glance that is. If you scroll through, it becomes obvious real fast who is his muse. He tags you every time, on every post — like a quiet brag to the world.

Regardless, your tattoos show up on his grid more than anyone else’s — close-ups of healed ink on skin his hands have memorized, shots of stencils across your ribs, your wrist, your spine. A favorite of his is the one where your head’s tilted down, hair pulled to the side, and the caption just says, “healed perfectly”. Once you two started dating, he stopped posting other clients unless it’s a joint project, a convention promo, or something contractual. 

Every new design sketch he uploads sparks the same responses from his followers: “let me guess — hers?”, “you’re not even subtle anymore and I respect that”, “at this point just tattoo ‘in love’ on your forehead”. And they’re never wrong, he just likes the comments. 

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… is always hustling to grow his business — his books are full three months out, getting DMs from big-name shops across the country, running on fumes and his sketchbook’s overflowing with new concepts. Which means traveling for guest spots, conventions, and collaborations. He’ll do them — but not without you. He can’t imagine going without you. “Every time I travel with you,” he’d admit, “it feels less like work.”

At the airport, he's navigating terminals, checking bags, scanning the board without ever letting go of you. You’d think he worked TSA or he was a luggage concierge by the way he handles both your carry-ons, slinging them over one shoulder, his own gear already strapped tight to his back. When you reach for one, trying to lighten the load — he just flicks his eyes over at you and scoffs, “you think I’m gonna let you haul your own shit while I’m here? Not happening.”

One hand always hovers at your back, guiding you through crowds with quiet certainty. He opens doors, stands between you and the rush of bodies, pulls you into his side when lines stall or flights delay. His palm finds yours mid-escalator, thumb tracing idle circles against your knuckles.

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… lets you talk him into getting a tattoo to commemorate the trip. 

He pretends to roll his eyes when you beg with a smile, but he gives in faster than he wants to admit. When you both walk into the unfamiliar shop — your excitement bubbles, while his focus sharpens. His eyes don't stay still from the moment you step in, they flick across the room, landing on every tray, every stencil, every move the artist makes. He’s calm on the surface — but you know that look. That slight pinch between his brows? That’s scrutiny. He's already reworking the design in his head long before the needle even hits your skin.

When the fresh tattoo is covered in wrap and still tingling across your skin, he finally lets it out. “I could’ve made it a hundred times better,” he grumbles, bitter. You laugh, kissing his cheek, but the glint in his eye says he’s not joking.

Later, in your hotel room, it doesn’t take long before the air is thick and humid with sweat, steam, and whatever lingering tension hadn’t been fucked out of you yet. He’s bottomed out — missionary, the classic, favorite way — that’s how Sunghoon likes to indulge his so-called ‘attention to detail’, but you know better. You call it what it is: jealousy. Yet, he always fucks like he’s working on something permanent. 

Your thighs and poor cunt are still sticky and full from the last couple of times he came, coating your insides with his thick, cream colored load. You hadn’t even finished coming down from your own orgasms before he was pumping back in, fucking his own cum deeper, muttering something about ‘layering technique’. He’s fucking like he’s building something inside you again — not just pleasure, but proof. His body pushes in close, lips brushing your neck. “Next one’s mine,” he mutters, lips grazing your skin. “Gotta fix the symmetry.”

You reach for a comeback — but you cannot answer properly, not with the way you’re gasping. All you manage is a strangled, breathy whimper that doesn’t sound anything like defiance. You’re too gone to be smug, too full to be sharp. Sunghoon knows it, he hasn't given you a moment to recover like usual. Every time you try to meet his thrusts, he changes the tempo — faster when you chase slow, meaner when you try to melt. It’s not just overwhelming or rough. It’s strategic, ruinous stuffing. 

When he hears no response, you find your wrists clasped low together in his hands and held right between your bodies. Your arms arch like some devotional offering while your palms rest against the edge of his V-line — sticky from saliva, tears and most probably both of your cum. The new position pushes the fluff of your chest towards him, giving him an unguarded, full view. He knows he doesn’t need ropes or cuffs when it comes to you — just patience, you’ll puddle in his hands eventually. His voice brushes your ear, dark and velvet-rough. “Do I make myself clear?”

You nod, that’s all you can really do when you're cockdrunk and pliant. Your lips won’t form real words anymore, your eyes glassy and wide, clinging to him like gravity might flicker if you let go. His hips roll — agonizingly steady — hitting places inside you that make your body seize and melt all at once. Your cunt is such a tight fit even while trying to accommodate his size, hypersensitive but insatiable. The sound between your bodies is obscene — wet, slick, loud enough to echo. Like he’s stirring up everything he already gave you, then asking for more.

“You’re too big,” you mewled, voice cracking on a whimper as your walls trembles around him. It slips out before you can help it — overwhelmed, stretched, aching in all the sweetest way. “Yeah?” he groaned, his cock’s the one doing the thinking for him now. One hand gripping your thigh, the other steadying your waist. “Then why’s she taking me so well? Mh?” The words tumbled out of him, cuntstruck for sure. 

Nails rake down his back, dragging enough to leave angry pink lines, enough to make him hiss — but he doesn’t falter. “I’m coming again — baby, please —” You blabbled, you’re fucked dumb to say the least, mind all fuzzy. You barely register your own voice until you’re begging again until your limbs shake, your head lolls: you’re unraveling all over again.

“There she is,” He whispers against your mouth as you cling to him, his voice maddeningly calm with smug precision. “There’s my good girl.” He’s still moving — slow now, cruelly slow — like your pussy isn’t clenching from being used up, like your body isn’t begging for mercy and more at the same time.

You don’t realize you’re crying until his thumb sweeps under your eye, brushing away tears. “Want me to stop, baby?” he asks softly, mouth pressing to your cheekbone. You manage to whimper out the cutest “no”, your arms curling around his neck tighter. He hums to your response as he kisses the corner of the corner of your damp lashes, then your nose, your jaw. “You’re doing so good. So fuckin’ sweet like this.”

You feel him twitch inside you for the nth time tonight — still hard, still wanting and insistent. He’s still not done and simply insatiable.

He pulls out just enough to look down between your warmed bodies — where his cum leaks out like syrup, glossy against your folds and thighs. “One more time, baby?” He breathed as he ran two fingers through your slit, catching some of his release and yours before lazily pushing it back in. You just nod, lower lip trembling, hips shifting up to meet him again. “Yeah? Wanna make sure it sticks.”

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… known for his sharp lines and darker motifs, yet secretly enters one of your sketches into a mixed media show. 

It’s the dumb little doodle you made one night when he was too focused on a client to notice you snatching his iPad. You’d been swinging your legs at the edge of his table, nibbling on leftover takeout when you sketched a wide-eyed Kuromi and a permanently grumpy Badtz-Maru —  insisting they looked just like the two of you.

He had saved it like usual, but now it's in a goddamn gallery. The night of the exhibit, you’re drifting from one of his pieces to another — all dark strokes and matte finishes, monochrome palettes and heavy emotion. His work stands out even here: each one meticulously composed, a perfect reflection of his precision and control. You’re halfway through reading a small placard beside one of his more abstract designs when you round the corner — and you stop short.

There it is, your sketch. Projected ten feet tall against a clean white wall. It’s so… stupidly soft. Next to his broody, moody pieces., your favorite shade of pink is practically glowing. It’s surrounded by charcoal realism and shadowplay canvases — and it shines like someone hung valentine decorations in a haunted house. Your jaw drops, “you absolute ass,” you whispered, swatting his arm — not out of anger, but because your heart is doing too much. He’d smiled back like a boy caught red-handed. 

Later, in the stairwell — just past the main exhibit space, where the bustle of the crowd fades into the hush of polished concrete and gallery-glow — you finally get him alone. You kiss him hard like the whole night’s been leading to it, the projects on that wall have rewired something in you. Your hands tangle in his hair, fingertips skimming the tattoo behind his ears, pulling just enough to make him groan low into your mouth. It isn’t teasing — it’s gratitude, awe, longing pressed into the seam of your lips as he exhales into you like you’re the only oxygen he wants. You don’t even know how long you’re pressed up against that stairwell wall with hearts thudding out of sync.

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… insists on covering your nail appointments like it’s not even a conversation, “you use those hands to feed me, the least I can do is keep 'em cute.” He’d say, already sending the transfer. 

He’d also tag along every time, no matter how booked his week is. At first, he sits beside you and observes: legs spread wide, arms crossed, eyes sweeping the space like a bored security guard. The buzz of the nail drill hums under your laughter and the back-and-forth chatter you and your nail tech have built over months of soft girl gossip and inside jokes. 

But soon enough, he starts to sink. The rhythm of your voice, the occasional brush of your fingers on his thigh between sets… it all lulls him. You glance over — and sure enough — his head’s tipped back against the wall, arms relaxed now with soft snores ghosting past parted lips. 

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… is a man who only has two modes: working or with you… sometimes both at once. 

The studio’s quiet after hours have set in, the buzz of machines long faded with the low music. You’d started the night talking to him between sessions and clients, curled up on your chair with legs pulled up under you. But now… your head’s tilted against the armrest, eyes fluttering closed every few minutes. You’re not even pretending to stay awake anymore. Still, mid-line work, mid-shading — doesn’t matter — he’d glance over constantly to check up on you.

By the time his last client leaves — a long appointment, full sleeve, his shoulders were tight with fatigue at the end — but he’s already moving toward you. He crouches beside the chair, one knee to the floor, just to be eye level when he gently brushes a few strands of hair off your cheek. “Hey,” he murmurs, voice gravel-soft from hours of talking, “let’s get you home, baby.” You’ve done this two nights in a row already: waiting up on him, staying past closing time with the very last client, eyes droopy with sleep but never leaving him.

The keys jingle as he shuts the door behind you, then leans in to press a kiss to your forehead and your drowsy pout. It’s like the last thing on his list that he refuses to skip, no matter how tired he is. “Studio’s always open for you. Couch too.” He murmurs, thumb tracing the curve of your cheek, “but next time, just go home, yeah? I’ll be right behind you.”

You blink up at him, bleary-eyed but still flickering with that stubborn spark, your arms curl around him. “I didn’t want to leave you alone.”

He exhales slowly — a ragged sound that’s equal parts fondness for you and exhaustion from his day. “I know, baby, I know,” his fingers trace lazy circles on your back now, “but you’re really gonna choose that lumpy-ass couch over our bed?”

You shift in his arms, your body instinctively leaning close into his, “it’s… fine. I’m fine.” You mumble something incoherent that's more like the sleepy whine of someone too hardheaded to admit he’s right. He presses his smile into your hair, inhales the scent of your shampoo — making his whole world soften. “Come on, let’s get you to bed.”

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… you wake up before him, the early light just began to filter through the blinds, casting soft patterns across the bed and tracing the curve of his bare shoulder where the blanket’s slipped down. 

The room is quiet except for the faint sound of his steady breathing. You can tell he’s still deep under, mouth parted the slightest bit with his hair tousled across his forehead. As you were trying to nudge closer towards him under the covers, you pause when something resting on his nightstand catches your eye — a worn sketchbook left open. It’s one of his older ones, you recognize it by the frayed edges and worn leather cover. 

You reach out with careful fingers, sliding it closer without disturbing the way his arm is still draped over your waist. In loose, dreamy pencil lines is the outline of your profile — your face nestled gently against his pillow and safe in his bed. Next to the sketch, in his familiar handwriting, there’s a simple annotation: “♡ sleepy girl”. With a swelling heart, you realize that you’re loved in all the quietest ways.

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… absolutely melts whenever you offer to massage his back and neck after a long day. 

He’s a hardworking man through and through, always putting in long hours at the studio with clients, focused on every line and shade but always ends up tight and sore from the constant strain. He never asks — not once — but you can see it in the slope of his shoulders when he walks in, the quiet sigh he exhales when he finally shrugs off his work clothes and rolls his neck.

You’ve watched him work for hours without a break. Even when the studio closes, he stays behind — cleaning, organizing, prepping for the next day. He’s never one to complain, never says he’s tired. Tonight, he finally drops on the couch after showering, smelling like aftershave and with his hair damp. He groans as he’s sinking in like it’s the first time he’s been still all day. 

It never stops tugging at you — how much he gives, how little he asks for in return. So you settle in behind him, folding your legs on either side of his hips and begin to work your thumbs into the taut knots between his shoulder blades. Your touch is like pure relief, he sighs deeply and leans into your hands like it’s the best part of his day. “Holy shit,” he mumbles, voice hoarse. “I swear your hands should be licensed or something.”

You smile, dragging your nails lightly along the base of his neck, just the way he likes — soft but just enough to itch the right spots. “You forget who paid for these?” You tease, referencing the soft-but-deadly manicure he insists you keep up with.

He huffs a low laugh, tipping his head back slightly until it rests against your collarbone. “Best investment I ever made,” he mutters, eyes fluttering closed. “You’re lucky I don’t make you scratch my back all day.”

You press a bit deeper and feel the muscles shift under your hands — tight at first, then slowly giving in — making him dip lower on your lap, every breath a little softer now. “Promise me you’ll never quit this job,” he murmurs, almost too quietly to hear. You kiss the crown of his head, a smile playing on your lips. “Only if you promise to keep pampering me like a spoiled housecat.”

That earns you another low chuckle from him, eyes still closed. He turns just enough to catch your hand in his and presses a kiss to your palm, warm and slow. “That’s a deal I’m happy to sign up for.”

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… is a little bit of a nerd when it comes to his craft. Okay — not a little. A lot.

You’ll be curled up next to him in bed, half in his lap, scrolling aimlessly through your phone with your ankle looped over his thigh. You pause on a trendy, hyper-detailed tattoo — some fine-line celestial piece with stars trailing over a collarbone — and you turn the screen toward him, “think this would look cute on me?”

His brows furrowing slightly, eyes flicking over the image with laser focus of an artist. At first it's a thoughtful hum, then he starts talking. Like, really talking. “That ink saturation wouldn’t hold — especially with that much negative space. Would fade fast, too. Line weight’s not balanced either. They used too tight of a needle grouping here — you see it? There, see how it’s already fuzzing even though it’s fresh? That’ll blur in a year, tops. And yeah, placement’s cute, but if you ever wanted to add anything later, it might trap the flow. You always want to leave room to grow the piece, not corner it…”

You stare at your usual quiet, broody boyfriend, who is now suddenly animated, explaining gradient blending and machine stroke length and how certain pigments heal under different skin tones. He picks the whole thing apart with surgical precision. It's art meeting science meeting poetry.

You’re used to being the chatterbox in every room, filling every silence without meaning to. However now he’s fully in his element, and you’re the one listening  — you really can't help but listen. The way his voice dips with knowledge, how his fingers ghost across your skin in thought, like he's mapping something there.

When — and if — he catches himself over-explaining, he reels it back in, “but if you want it, I’ll make it work.”

Your heart’s already doing flips. He doesn’t even know what he does to you when he’s like this, so unflinchingly competent. There’s something magnetic about his confidence — not loud or showy, but built from calloused hands, long hours, and a mind that notices everything. 

You’re not sure if your heart or your thighs react first, to be completely frank… Who knew watching your tattoo artist boyfriend nerd out over needle depth and pigment retention could be this unfairly hot?

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… lets his hair grow out — not on purpose, not at first. 

It just got a little too long one week… then another. A few too many back-to-back weeks, until  strands are falling into his eyes mid-linework, tickling his cheek when he’s trying to focus. He huffs, frustrated, trying to blow them away with a puff of air while he’s sketching a design for an important client. 

Digging into your bag, you fish out a pink bunny clip you keep for emergencies. “Hold still,” you giggle, brushing his hair back. He doesn’t even flinch, just tips his head slightly to give you room. You secure the glittery thing in place, and smile at how ridiculously adorable he looks. 

He didn’t take it off, not even when Sunoo poked his head in and snorted, “nice accessory, Hoon.” Not even after the sketch is done… not even when his client shows up.

Soon, the bunny clip is joined by a sparkly bow, a red snap-barrette, even one shaped like a tiny strawberry. One by one, they find their way into a little glass jar on his workstation — tucked between ink caps and spare needles like they belong there. You caught him once, staring into the jar like he’s choosing a weapon, “need a new one?” You teased, you couldn’t help it — he looks like something out of a pastel daydream when he puts them on, “we can go to the store.” 

But he would just shake his head, voice soft and a little shy. “Nah. I want one of yours. Yours are better.”

What you don’t realize is… he could’ve cut it months ago. He should’ve, but it came down to your hands, always tugging gently at his roots and threading through the strands  when you kissed him. How you grip him when he’s between your thighs — clutching, curling, grounding yourself on him like you’re not sure where else to hold. He notices how tight you hold when his tongue slows down between your folds and clit, when his hands spread your thighs wider to give him more access, when you breathe out a broken version of his name. 

He pays attention — of course he does. He’s an artist painting his canvas with his tongue. And he loves it — the taste of you, getting his face soaked in your pussy like it’s the only way to really clear his head after a long day. “Fuck, angel —” He groans, voice muffled against your skin, hair’s already a mess. “You’re dripping.”

“All your fault,” you fuss, just to be difficult. It gave you a slow, smug bite — teeth sinking into the soft of your inner thigh — not rough, just enough to whine beneath his mouth. “Sensitive today, huh?” He tuts, lips brushing just beside the mark he left. His tongue follows soon after, soothing over the spot like an apology and a claim in one. He always makes sure to sooth it with his tongue, all while your hands tangle hardens and loosen in his once-groomed hair.

His digits found their way to your glistened lips — two of them already messing up your gloss to rest heavy on your tongue. “Suck, baby.” The words leave him low and firm — but when your eyes met his, clearly about to test your luck, he caught it. “Nicely.” He instructed a subtle warning, gentle only in tone. You huff, just for show, before finally obeying — lips wrapping around him with slow, deliberate pressure. Your cheeks hollow ever so slightly as your tongue swirls — giving him exactly what he asked for, but still on your terms.

There’s a glimmer of something playful in your eyes as you glance down at him, lashes low. You make sure to keep eye contact as you drag your tongue between the space of his two fingers, mimicking exactly what he promises. You let out the faintest hum, just to feel his fingers twitch to your preview dressed up in sugar. And he watched every second of the way your mouth works like he’s in a trance, expression impossibly fond and ravenous. “Jesus,” he mutters over his shallow breath.

His free hand slid beneath your thighs, thumbs pressing into soft flesh, folding you open like he’s studying a piece of art. He pulls them out with a soft pop, using those spit-slicked digits to part your swollen, puffy folds, spreading you open. “Too pretty to be this messy,” he breathed, his lips hovering just above your soaked skin. His mouth follows, deliciously cruel — with a long languid lick traced from your needy, dripping hole all the way up to your swollen clit, savoring every slick inch.

One palm drifts to your lower belly, applying gentle pressure that makes you keen — you feel his cold rings on your warm skin. The other comes up to your chest — calloused fingers and warm palms cupping your tits, brushing over your nipples in circles as his mouth stays sealed between your legs. His eyes never left your face, watching how your eyes flutter shut and your chest rises with every shaky breath by the co-stimulation.

Long after you cum, he keeps eating like he means it, tasting his own victory — like he doesn't want to waste a drop of you. Every flick of his tongue is deliberate, every hum against your skin sending aftershocks through your hips. He doesn’t just taste you — he savors you.

By the time he finally rises, his lips are slick, cheeks are flushed, hair is sticking to his forehead. He doesn’t bother wiping his mouth or acknowledge his own weighty bulge straining beneath his denim. Instead, he kisses you so you can taste yourself on his tongue — like he’s giving you a piece of his mind about how palatable you are, “taste how sweet you are, my love?” He whispers between your damp lips. You nod, breathless and boneless, dizzy from your second orgasm — adorable in your daze, your fingers still tangled in his hair long after the high has passed.

He swears, it makes him want to grow it a little longer — just to give you more to grab.

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… always, always shows you his sketches first. 

Even when the design isn’t completely finished, he would find you — whether you’re tucked into the corner of the studio or lounging somewhere around his apartment — and with that boyish tilt of his head, he’d ask, “what do you think, babe?” While his eyes flick between the page and your face. Your answer is almost always the same: an unfiltered smile and a soft, “I love it” because you do. You really, genuinely do. 

The truth is that he really values your opinion. Not just because he loves you, but because your reactions, your little gasps, how your eyes light up, the way you notice and study the details — they remind him why he does what he does.

Later, when the piece is fully inked, fresh and glowing on someone else’s skin — the cilent would stand in front of the mirror, grinning wide, praising the design — he’d murmur, “yeah… my girl saw it first.”

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… agrees — maybe too confidently — when you suggest a Mario Kart bet one lazy afternoon: winner gets to tattoo the loser.

Twenty chaotic minutes, three banana peels, one blue shell and a very unfortunate tumble off Rainbow Road later — he’s dramatically slumped on the couch with his face buried into his hands, groaning like he’s just faced mortal defeat. You’re already tugging him to his feet, smug as hell. “A deal’s a deal,” you sing-song, practically skipping toward his own studio chair. “Get comfy, loser.” 

He watches you prep with exaggerated seriousness — slipping into gloves that are a little loose (one inside out, which he gently helps you fix), your brows furrowed in concentration as you fumble to pick out the smallest and the friendliest needle you can find. He’s biting back a laugh the whole time. “I’m gonna give you the stinkiest, cutest little prison tat,” you gleamed with mischief as you sketch the design — a tiny, lopsided heart — on the side of his ankle. “Yeah? can’t wait to walk into the next guest spot with this.” He mused, settling onto the tattoo bed with how arms crossed over his chest like a stoic soldier. 

Despite all the teasing, he still walks you through it — instructions softened by affection: “angle your wrist more… yeah, like that.” and “careful, don’t press too hard — gentle, babe. There you go.” Of course, the moment you get too confident and accidentally jab just a little too deep, he sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth — a tight hiss breaking through his grin. “Oh, okay — shit,” he winces, but he's still smiling. “Damn, straight to the bone, huh?”

When your hand trembles slightly, heart pounding with the pressure of not screwing up permanent ink on a professional tattoo artist, he immediately steadies it with his. His fingers are warm over your glove, his thumb brushing gently across your knuckles. “You’re fine, baby,” he’d say quietly, eyes on you instead of the machine. “Keep going. You’re doing great.”

Later, when it’s done — crooked little heart and all — he fawns at it. “I’m retiring,” voice completely serious.  “You’ve outdone me.” 

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who... finds you curled up in someone else’s studio when he’s done with his last client for the afternoon — legs folded, drink sweating in one hand, flipping lazily through a portfolio that’s definitely not his.

“You always make yourself at home wherever you go, huh?” Said a wry voice — not his. You grin over your shoulder at her, one of the other tattoo artists in the building. She’s a little blunt, a little sharp around the edges. No-nonsense, usually hard to read. But once you cracked her tough exterior, she’d started leaving her studio door open whenever you wandered by. Letting you hang around her space like a stray cat she’s decided to keep. 

“I bring snacks,” you say in your defense, shaking the half-empty bag of gummies you mostly ate. She snorts, reaching over to steal one just as Sunghoon leans into her doorway.

“There you are,” he says, his voice softer, worn from hours of work and not seeing you. Hands still smudged with stencil markers, brows a little furrowed like always when he hasn’t seen you in a few hours. “You ghosting me for other artists now?”

“She’s mine today,” the other tattoo artist, now truly a friend of yours, calls from her chair with a shrug, eyes never leaving the digital tablet in her hand. “Finders keepers.”

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… picks you up from work even on his busiest days.

No matter how packed his schedule is, no matter how late he stayed up finishing designs the night before — he’s always there, without fail. You spot him leaning against his car from across the lot, hands tucked into his pockets, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, the tapestry of ink on his forearms sets in motion. His sunglasses are perched slightly low on his nose as he watches the entrance, waiting for you. He looks like he will cut someone's jaw in any second, but when he sees you? That edge softens instantly. 

“Hey, baby,” he murmurs when you reach him, voice still laced with that sleepy rasp like he hasn’t used it all day — like he’s been saving it just for you. “Tired?” He asks gently, eyes scanning your face like he’s already reading the answer. You nod, too drained to even think properly. “And missing you,” you mumble almost into his chest as you lean into him, wrapping your arms around his middle. 

He doesn’t say anything at first — just one arm comes up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading softly through your hair. The other wraps around your back, palm smoothing down your spine like he’s pressing you back together. You feel the deep breath he lets go against your hairline, like your touch alone loosened something in his chest he’d been carrying. He felt your absence all day.

He pulls back just enough to guide you to his car, opening the door with one hand and keeping the other steady on the small of your back. Not pushing, not rushing — just waits until you settle inside before leaning in one last time, pressing a kiss. “Missed you too.”

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… pretends to act unfazed when you walk into the studio, lean against the counter with your chin resting on your folded arms, and dead-seriously say, “I think I want a tramp stamp.” 

His head doesn't lift right away from sanitizing his workstation. His back stayed turned, gloved hands still moved with mechanical ease — but you notice the pause before he glances over his shoulder, “yeah?”

You nod, feigning innocence with glimmering eyes but you continue to push, “something cute. Lower back. Real classic, y’know?” You tilt your head, watching him closely with your grin already threatening to break through. He meets your gaze just long enough for you to clock it — the way his jaw flexes, the faint twitch of a muscle beneath his sharp cheekbone. There it is, bingo.  

He’s recalibrating every thought in his head because you just short-circuited his brain. Still, he keeps it cool, turning back to his tray like you didn’t just test every ounce of his patience and professionalism in one sentence. “Send me references.” He says casually, but you don’t miss the way his grip tightens slightly on the spray bottle. He’s already picturing it — his symmetrical design on you, in that placement, your skin — all his.

And references you were sure to send — dutifully.

Later, when his phone buzzes with your name lighting up the screen, he's already reaching for it before the second vibration. It’s maybe the third photo you’ve sent him that day. The earlier ones were tame: a Pinterest board,  some half-serious meme about butterfly tattoos. This one’s different, though. Closer and clearer. 

It was a mirror shot with your back on display. Shirt pushed up messily with one hand, the other tugging your waistband low across your hips. Just enough to reveal the curve of your spine, the soft dip of your lower back. Your skin is warm in the dim light of your room, cast in golden tones, and there — drawn faintly in pink marker — is a tiny arrow pointed right to the spot you wanted him. Underneath the photo, you wrote: ‘Make it pretty, Hoon.’

Sunghoon’s patience is the kind that stretches. He’s meticulous by nature, measured in every word, every breath — but, you — oh, you test the limits of that discipline.

He sat up straighter in front of his phone before leaning back in his chair, dragging a hand down his face and trying to breathe. He never stood a chance — not with you, not like this. Now he’s designing your tramp stamp at war with his own sanity.

When you actually show up for your appointment, the studio's air is already tight and inflated all at once — like the walls, and especially him — remember every message and photo you’ve sent, leaving them to burn into the back of his brain.

You strip off your shirt before stretching out on his tattoo bed with a lazy grace, like a big, spoiled cat basking in attention. Waistband’s tugged low revealing your hip dimples to him under the overhead lights. You fold your arms under your cheek, angling your head just enough to catch  his reflection in the mirror — the way his broad shoulders fill the frame, strong and solid, casting a shadow that covers most of the glass.

You bat your lashes at him when his eyes meet yours, making him mutter something low under his breath — like he’s trying to curse the thoughts you’re putting in his head before they take root. He didn’t even say much when he saw you — trying hard to stay composed, contained. Yes, he’s always the type to go quiet when focused — but this is unusually muteness. The silence sat thick between you two as he preps the stencil, jaw tight like he's chewing on the words he won't say, gloves already snapped on.

When the machine starts — that low, distinct buzz slicing through the studio — you take a deep breath, bracing yourself, a conditioned reflex at this point. 

Ten minutes in and the needle failed to drown out the sound of your shallow breathing you were trying to control. “Still with me?” He asks, tone dripping with honeyed ease even though he hasn’t smiled once since you walked in. You hum in response, barely audible, eyes heavy-lidded from the rhythmic sting and the warmth of his palms against your bare skin. 

His gaze drags to the hollow of your lower back — that dip where muscle softens and spine curves, the exact spot you pointed out in that photo. The same one that’s been seared behind his eyelids every night since. He leans in closer, needle’s still buzzing in his grip, but his focus has shifted entirely. “You’re doing so well,” he murmurs, lips brushing hot over your ear. His free gloved hand settles at the base of your ass, right where the swelled curve meets your trembling thigh. “Taking it like a fucking angel.”

Your fingers curl into the sheet with every tripped heartbeat. It floods you — his closeness, his quiet reverence wrapped in filth. “Hoon,” you whisper, and it sounds more like a plea than a warning.

That response from you makes it hard for him not to smile as he pressed a feather-light peck on the tip of red ear before trailing down to the back of your exposed neck. Every inch he closes the distance feels like an act of revenge — a slow payback for testing him. It’s his way of settling the score, a delicious kind of retribution just for you. “You gotta stay still,” he says, all velvety patience, he’s enjoying this way too much. “You want me to finish this or not?”

“Okay okay. I promise I’ll be good.” you mumble, voice half-drunk on endorphins and half-intention.

He clicked his tongue to that. “Liar.”

His reprimand made you twitch — hips squirm just slightly, barely perceptible. However, it’s enough for his palms to register instantly, that tiny flinch of guilt or want — he knows the difference. Immediately, the buzz of the machine falters for a beat before he kills it altogether, setting it down with a sharp click of it hitting the tray that's louder than it should be. “That’s it.”

Your eyes snap open. “Wait —”

“You keep moving,” his voice was stern like he’s teaching a simple lesson you clearly keep failing. “I take my lines seriously, you know that, I can't do them right if you keep moving.”

With your breath catching at the edge of frustration and something else that makes heat crawl up your neck, you're still persistent. “And you said you’d finish.” You fire back.

He pauses and then just sighs, unbothered, before grabbing a paper towel from behind him. With careful precision, he dabs over the half-inked lines and does a full swipe on the whole stencil. Not all of it is gone, but most of its outline is barely visible. You feel the pure force and heaviness of his touch, what’s been building for hours.

“You —” You turn while on the bed, incredulous and flushed, “are such a dick.” He doesn't bicker back, he just slips his gloves off with a snap and a lazy smirk. “You’ll come back tomorrow.”

“Oh, will I?”

“You will,” His voice softens just a little as he confirms for the both of you. His hand rises, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek with the backs of his fingers. It’s jarringly tender for someone who was just threatening to leave you with a half-done tattoo. “You don’t like unfinished things.”

Your throat bobs, but you keep your eyes on him. “You’re just drawing this out.” He doesn’t deny it — the endurance in his self-restraint allows him to indulge and also stretch the tension. Instead gives you an unfairly pretty smile — cocky nonetheless — with dimples peeking through his blown pupils. 

“You’re my favorite canvas...” he says, voice dipped lower than before — like he means every word and then some. He’s close, impossibly so, the air between your lips barely exists. “So why would I rush?” He finishes off — like the answer had been obvious all along — before his hands flip you gently, but with a finality that leaves no room for protest, guiding you back onto your stomach. A quiet oomph escapes you, stunned by the motion and the sheer audacity. 

The cool air kisses your skin again where the stencil used to be. “You know what they say — you gotta stretch the canvas, warm it up...” He spoke as he settled behind you, like he’s got all the time in the world — and you’re the only thing worth spending it on. No one else is on his mind but you. “Gotta break them in to make them fit like a glove…” You can’t see his face, but you can hear the grin over the sound of his heavy belt unlooping. 

“Except you?” His voice is hoarse as his swollen, neglected tip first rests on the plush of your ass, then dragged along your slit before he parts in slowly, like he doesn't want to miss a single second of how you try to wrap around his size — his proportions extending you to your limits. 

You try to bite back the noise that leaves you, but it slips anyway — soft, broken mewls. “You are tight enough to make me never want to pull out.” He groaned, quite simply you’ve knocked the breath out of him just being this snug, this soaked — this goddamn perfect.

One of his hands fists the sheets beside your head, the other slides under your thigh, lifting it just a little higher — angling you to take every inch of his girth. His hips grind the flush of your bottom, making your thighs jiggle with it. “There we go… told you I’d make it fit.” He’s speaking under his breath, staying there motionless with a buried, smothered cock before grinding once more just to feel your walls clench around him. He then sinks the rest of the way in, rougher now — deeper than you thought your poor cunt could take, “I was patient all damn day — this is what you do to me.” The spread of your walls makes your vision blur as he bottoms out in you. “Is this how you repay me? Mh, baby?”

He’s acting like you orchestrated all of this, like some grand seduction to drag something primal out of him — and he’s the helpless victim who’s drunk on you. And the thing is … he’s not exactly wrong. 

You tilt your head just enough to glance back at him, even as your breath hitches with every thrust, you can't keep your tongue tamed, “not my fault if — mmph — my pussy’s better than your self-control.” Your words drip off like syrupy venom. You keep sparring with him — with your words, sharp tongue, your stubborn pride — but everything else betrays you. 

Your body’s already sold you out. Your knees are unsteady, muscles twitching with every slow grind of his strong hips. Your lips continue to part with soft, involuntary whimpers and little ‘fuck, fuck, fuck’s. Your breath became shallow and shuddered like your chest can’t decide whether it wants to fight or melt.

And he notices all of it.

He huffs a low, amused laugh at the sight of you — wrecked and trembling around his cock — before his big hands find your arms, guiding your back to his chest with an unhurried pull. There’s no resistance in you, just pliancy. One strong arm snakes around you, securing both your wrists in his grip behind your back — while the other drifts to the base of your neck, just holding you there steadily without pressing. You gasp, not just from the sudden shift, but from how your spine arches for him so easily, so naturally. Like your body already knows how to obey him.

“Is that so?” He tutted right into your ear, almost a threat. Pressing deeper until your next moan chokes itself halfway out before it dissolves into something more desperate. His cock continues to edge your cervix, unforgiving. The hand at your neck slides up, fingers curling firm beneath your jaw. He tilts your head back with practiced ease, just enough to make you look up at him, revealing you to be vulnerably trembling in his grasp.

His eyes rake over your face like he’s inspecting you, every twitch of your long lashes, every shiver in your pump lips, every glint of subversion that's fast unraveling under the weight of him. “Look at you,” he murmurs — not mocking, no, his eyes are way too soft for that — but rather possessive. His calloused thumb brushes your cheek, deceptively gentle compared to his gut arranging pushes, “so sweet when you’re fucked open like this.”

Soon the stencil is long wiped clean, forgotten really. Part from him rubbing it off with that crumpled paper towel, part from his messy hick ropes spilling across the plush of your ass and the soft slope of your back. Some are still slowly cooling down, others already smeared into your heat-slick skin. Round after round, each one more feral than the last, now decorating your behind. 

So yes, he made sure it's pretty — but first, pretty with his dripping release. Then, and only then, with his design. You know he won't stop until you're sobbing his name into his tattoo bed. Dragging every orgasm out of you like he wants to memorize your pulse from the inside of your cervix.

You don’t even know what hour it is anymore. Morning? Night? All you know is that he’s still behind you, only now one his fingers are slowly dragging over the sticky remnant streaks on your skin, tracing the rope lines as if admiring a map. The other hand is drawing circles on your puffy clit. His teeth nibble along your neck and shoulders to leave red and pink blemishes, making you tense and relax beneath him. You hear the soft click of his jaw — not with anger, but satisfaction — as he surveys the aftermath, his aftermath. 

You still try not to melt into him and his engulfing scent just by how close he has you again. But your body is already singing for him, aching in all the places he ruined. “You gonna behave for the stencil this time?” He asks, mock-polite, brushing your hair away from your shoulder with his cum dripping fingers. His hips snapping hard against you when your answer took a moment — each thrust greedy, not giving you a second to catch your breath. 

You bite back a moan and shift just enough to meet his rhythm, daring him. Not only can you feel him inside, but also everywhere: on your skin, under your nails, in the throb of your clit. It’s not just sex… it’s claiming. He’s painting you from the inside out. You swear you can feel the imprint of him by now, like he’s marking you in a way no tattoo ever could. “You’re gonna stencil me up just to fuck it up again?” You huff, breath hitching from the force of him. 

“You’re stubborn as hell,” he grits with another thrust, the kind that knocks every thought from your head — again, “and that’s exactly why I’m gonna keep fucking you through every goddamn stencil until you learn.” His voice was unrepentant before he sighs, “guess we’ll have to start again tomorrow.” He muttered, not sounding even a little sorry.

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who... doesn’t finish the tramp stamp that first session. Not because of technique, or timing, or because he’s tired. But because the second you whimpered his name, squirmed just a little too much beneath his hands… and the way you turned your head to look at him after he wiped off the stencil? Dazed, pouty, half-pissed? Yeah. That look on your face was enough reason for him to keep the machine from ever moving past idle.

The second session began much the same. You find yourself perched on the edge of the tattoo bed, hips bare and still faintly pink from last time visit, the imprint of his ink work lingering. You avoid his gaze when he smooths on the fresh stencil. “Still sure about the placement?” You hear the smirk laced between the syllables.

“Sunghoon,” you say, meant to be firm but it comes out more like a whine than a warning. He hums, brushing the pad of his glove across your back. “Just checking, baby.”

But none of it mattered — your body had already made the call before your mouth could, arching into his touch. your hips canting back like you need him to touch you, like you need him to forget the stencil again. Gloves off, cast aside — again. 

“Fucking hell — You’re so fucking addictive.” It’s not just a statement — it’s a ragged confession, groaned under his breath, more to himself than to you — like he can’t believe how good you feel, how easy it is to lose himself inside you. You've got this man wrapped around your pinky, and he doesn’t even care. He’s not fighting it, he’s chasing it. The stretch from his length is a sting and a sigh all at once, your cunt is dewy slick is clenching around him. Every slow drag out feels worse than the push in — empty, then full, then empty again. 

“That tattoo’s not gonna finish itself, y’know.” you choke out, breathless as you roll your hips on his cock, just enough to test the sharp edge of what’s left of his control, taunting beneath his grip. You don’t even need to see his face to know it worked, the sharp inhale behind you gives it away. You can feel the heat of his stare burn into the back of your neck. 

His fingers trailing down to the soft dip above your tailbone, pushing you to an even lower arch with your back before he shifts you, tipping you onto your side to an unbearable angle — your thigh slung over his, your spine curled into the curve he demands. While the other palm hooks around your bent knee, keeping you wide open. “Shit, babe —” You jolt, barely manage a gasp before he’s inside you again, leaving no room for teasing. 

"Keep talking like that," he said, frayed with want while pulsing inside you, waiting for your bite back. “and we’ll never finish it."

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… surprises you by agreeing almost instantly when you suggest getting tiny matching lollipop tattoos — just a small, playful token of something only the two of you understand. 

Later, when you're both comparing the finished pieces — standing shoulder to shoulder by the mirror — you realize he didn’t just match the design. He mirrored everything. Same size, same shade of pink, placed just above the wrist. “You’re gonna regret this when someone asks what it means,” you giggled, it looks absurdly and comically out of place on him, nestled between all his badass tattoos. 

He leans in, catching your lips in a kiss —  like he’s done it a thousand times and will do it a thousand more. Soft and annoyingly sure of himself. “No, I won’t.” he promised against your mouth. Because this one? Like the subtle constellation he hid behind his ear (your birth stars), the micro heart near his collarbone (lifted from one of your silly iPad doodles), the flower tucked behind his bicep (your favorite kind)? 

This one’s yours too. Just another mark you left on him.

[vivitalks]

guys i genuinely don't know what to do. my quirky little destiel fic which was already far too long to begin with now has a second smaller fic nested inside of it and somehow the second smaller fic is the absolute crackfest of this supernatural/tazamnesty crossover where dean lowkey hooks up with barclay the bigfoot and i don't KNOW what to DO. do i cut the scene. do i post it separately. do i post it separately but ALSO leave it in the fic. do i just pretend like barclay is an OC i made up and all the references to the fictional town of kepler west virginia are incidental. WHAT IS THE MOVE HERE

[sysig]

You're still standing off to the side. Somehow, center stage has shifted from under your feet without you realizing, and you're standing in the wings, performing to no one.

Starring Role (Patreon)

[nenoname]

stan twins the canon cptsd brothers i will always think about all your unaddressed issues that would make perfect plot fuel for your spinoff

and also the whole 'stan getting that poem by bill via a website which contrasts with bill getting one from the axolotl via a website' foreshadowing thing

like idk i would love something like su future but like more optimistic, aka not an accumulated breakdown that has to be mostly resolved off screen at the end :/// but something thats being kinda addressed throughout? (although would love to see one of them turn into a monster thats always fun lol)

stan having severe issues from his dad and those years of being homeless that we keep on getting more info on but never really getting confronted on (the drifter catalogue and tijuana incident...), him being completely alone for like twenty years when running the shack before soos comes along to the point that 1998 is noted as his low point, and him not really learning about bill+what he did to ford until ages after he killed him if he ever did get the full context

while i think amnesia and everyone seeing him as a hero actually helped with stan's 'i'm a worse version of my brother' thing its still a lingering issue too and we now got him being insecure over his own hands

ford being immediately thrown from 'being tortured by bill' to 'being stuck in the multiverse and being chased by bounty hunters constantly', him fully expecting himself to die when destroying bill, and him only now being safe for the first time in 30 years ....relatively safe, he's still in constant danger because of course he is

idk in the end the series wants them to be happy and they deserve it, its why i wasn't too worried about the book being like 'ooh bill is back!! and the book is haunting ford' thing cos i knew they'll be ok

[twisting-echo]

Thanks for the tag @firawren 💖

👵🏽 First fic: "The Proposal."

“The Proposal” was the first fic I ever wrote and published to AO3, back in 2023. It’s about Death from Puss in Boots: The Last Wish proposing to Dulcinea from The Adventures of Puss in Boots. I’d been into the Puss in Boots fandom for years before TLW came out and was happy to see the fandom come alive again.

I didn’t expect, though, to be bullied by newer fans who joined after the sequel’s popularity—and even by some TAOPIB fans—because of this ship. I ended up leaving several Discord servers due to the discouragement, ship bashing, and polyphobia.

All that said, I’m still proud of this fic—and I fully support this ship.

👶🏽 Last fic: "Unsolicited Advice on Manhood and Marriage."

“Unsolicited Advice on Manhood and Marriage” is the last fic I wrote and published to AO3. It’s set in the world of Disney Mirrorverse and follows Gaston giving advice on manhood and marriage to Ian Lightfoot. I really love this fic! Seeing Ian and Gaston interact is honestly what I live for!

☝️ Only once: "Beauty and the Beetle."

I wrote “Beauty and the Beetle” for @beauty-beast-week almost a year ago. It’s a crossover between the Beauty and the Beast and Beetlejuice fandoms, all about Belle befriending Beetlejuice and going to a party with him.

This fic came completely out of nowhere. 😵 I ended up scrapping my original idea because I fell in love with a ship moodboard my friend made, and I just had to write something for it! It took me about two and a half days to finish, and to this day, it feels like one of those “Only Once” moments, lol.

📚 Fav fic from fandom/ship with most works: "Into the Fray."

"Into the Fray" is another fic I wrote for @beauty-beast-week, and god damn—it’s my absolute favorite! It’s set in the Beauty and the Beast fandom, and I think it’s safe to say Belle/Beast is probably the most written ship in that tag on AO3.

I wrote it based it on the intense wolf pack chase scene when Belle flees Beast’s castle but wrote it with Belle’s personal perspective in mind. I remember loving that scene as a kid, and it still gives me chills when Beast comes to save her.

🙏 Wish more people read: "Curses? I’ve Had Worse~"

"Curses? I’ve Had Worse~" is a fic I wrote based on an idea that started as crack—but then I realized I was sitting on something surprisingly rich. A lot of Disney characters have curses or blessings, and that theme really spoke to me.

This fic takes place in Disney Mirrorverse, and is about Jack Sparrow absorbing Beast’s curse as part of a test orchestrated by Belle. It also features Sulley, Ian Lightfoot, Anna, and Rapunzel. There's some implied shipping, but it's mostly focused on exploring their character dynamics and interactions. I worked my butt off on this fic, and I wish more people would give it a shot! I also have it up on my Tumblr, by the way. [Here]

😩 Agonized over: "The Pirates and Their Little Mermaid" and "Unexpected Connections"

“The Pirates and Their Little Mermaid” and “Unexpected Connections” are two fics I absolutely agonized over.

“The Pirates and Their Little Mermaid” is set in the Sonic the Hedgehog fandom. It follows Captain Infinite the Jackal falling in love with Maria Robotnik, who’s a mermaid—and having to compete with his biggest rival, Captain Shadow, who’s also in love with her. I remember the prologue being especially hard to write, but I do plan to update this fic in the future.

“Unexpected Connections” is a crossover between Danny Phantom, Rise of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, and Total Drama. It’s about Donatello developing feelings for Sierra, a longtime online friend of his. Raph and Jazz Fenton are engaged and planning their wedding, Leo is in a polyamorous relationship with Danny Fenton and Octavia Goetia, and Mikey is dating Dani “Ellie” Fenton.

I just remember really struggling to write Sierra’s breakdown and some of her dialogue. It was a tough scene to get right emotionally, and I agonized over how to make her feelings come through authentically.

💡 Sprang fully formed: "Because of You"

“Because of You” is a fic I wrote in about an hour, mostly pulling dialogue from the ‘Because of You’ scene from HTTYD 3. It’s set in the Disney Mirrorverse, with Merida encouraging Ian Lightfoot to recognize his own growth and self-worth—mirroring the emotional depth of that scene.

🏆 Proud of: "Bound by Duty, Yearning for Freedom"

“Bound by Duty, Yearning for Freedom” is, surprisingly, the fic I’m most proud of. Set in the Sonic fandom, it focuses on a heart-to-heart between Sara from the Sonic OVA and Knuckles, where they open up about their lives, regrets, and the things they truly want. I poured a lot into their conversation, and I love how naturally they play off each other.

The responses I’ve gotten—both here and on AO3—especially about how I handled Sara’s character development, have meant so much. It feels amazing knowing all those years of headcanon-building really paid off.

Tag: @small-tragedies @babsvibes @hah-studios @kittydoremi

And anyone else who writes fanfiction!

"Get to know my fic" tag game

No one tagged me for this, but I found this old fanfic tag game that I wanted to resurrect.

Rules: Go to your published works on AO3 and list the first fic you ever published there, the last fic you published, any fic that you wrote for a fandom/ship only once, your favorite fic you wrote in the fandom/ship that has the most works, the fic you wish more people read, the fic you agonized over the most, the fic that sprang fully formed from your mind without any effort, and a fic you are proud of—for whatever reason.

👵🏽 First fic: "The last man in the world I could ever suspect of being ticklish," in 2022. I still enjoy this little fic.

👶🏽 Last fic: "66% agony"

☝️ Only once: "Teach and teach" for Our Flag Means Death, "Everything he's got" for Hercules, and "Every heartbeat" for Lost in Austen were all one-offs for their fandoms. "Rediscovering what was lost" was a one-off for the Anne Elliot/Colonel Brandon ship.

📚 Fav fic from fandom/ship with most works: Not sure if this meant most works by me or most works on AO3. Most works by me is Beast/Belle, so for that, my fav fic is "Transformation." Most works on AO3 is Elizabeth/Darcy, and for that my fav fic is "Ungentlemanly."

🙏 Wish more people read: "No other way" not because it's my best but just because I want more people to buy in to my headcanon about the Enchantress from Beauty and the Beast. It's only 902 words, please read it!

😩 Agonized over: "The Rose Brides." It was really hard for me to figure out the new curse and how to resolve everything in a satisfying way, plus I didn't have much experience writing the falling in love part of relationships back then. I'm happy with how it came out, but I had to put a lot of effort into it to get it right!

💡 Sprang fully formed: "Charming in its imperfection." Not sure why, I just poured the whole thing out in an hour or two.

🏆 Proud of: I've already mentioned "Transformation," which is my top choice, and a couple other of my favorites, so I'll say...hm... "The touch of a name" because I think I'm good at the vignette format and it's sweet and romantic with great yearning.

Tagging (no pressure!) @aloveforjaneausten, @mollywog, @annaofthenorthernlights, @bad-at-names-and-faces, @eclaire-and-pocky, @bennetsbonnet, @twisting-echo, @a-lost-illusion, @supahnon

[mummer]

anon w/ the writing questions: not pretentious at all!! If anything i find that having a creative outlet is a double edged sword wherein the layman will look at you and roam around searching for the insane asylum you escaped from & the fellow artist will always eye you with skepticism & as not taking the craft seriously enough (i only ever get this since im not a writer by “trade”). But anyways, back to your comments, thank you!!! I appreciate them, i did wanna dig into why you dont think of your fanfic work doesnt work the same muscle as fiction? I can see somewhat where fanfic is almost like doing a fancy coloring book, it looks nice and the lines are all filled in but the lines were already drawn on the page for you. What do you think? Does fanfic really not exercise/fulfill the same creative itch as og work?

yeahh so to me fanfic is different to fiction mainly because 1) it isnt original. evergreen statement but ideas out of thin air are just generated differently than ideas within an existing framework. it fulfils a creative itch but a different one— you have to be thinking about the nooks and crannies of the original work (which in some ways is more akin to criticism lol) and you are contained by those margins. i compared it to a puzzle— which yeah, if it’s anything, it’s a thought experiment. if you change one thing (the degree of care between characters, the setting, the outcome of a canon event, etc) how do the other dominoes fall? that’s what’s exciting about it. it’s a dialogue, it’s play!

and 2) the stylistic conventions are totally different. straight up, it is not expected to be as polished or particularly voice-y. there are more paragraph breaks, usually more scene breaks, less attention to setting because it’s already familiar to us. cliche is not only acceptable but also a central part of the experience— including often the subversion of cliche! fic will often mimic the voice and style of the original work, but just as often the fun comes in contrasting it— a medical jargon show lifting into intense emotive language, or a big flashy movie dwelling on small minutiae. ntm everyone who approaches it has a sort of “just for fun” exploratory attitude that can overlook elements of style that would bother a fiction audience. like if i’m writing fanfic and im being repetitive or purple prosey or tonally off i’ll just ignore it and keep it in because i’m having fun and playing around and it’s not that serious lol. and because it’s a dialogue, its ‘theme’ is often a response to or elaboration on a theme of the original work too. it’s rare that fanfic will have its own totally original and separate “ideas about the world” that fiction is expected to have. it’s just not about you!

(in this way i sometimes think fiction is more ‘self indulgent’ than fanfic. fanfic (and the shaping of its conventions fandom by fandom) is necessarily a communal activity and cannot stand on its own, and it’s written with a very specific small well defined audience in mind. it’s in service to the source. fiction has influences and works in dialogue with other works, but it is also centrally about Your ideas and Your voice and what You think is important. you have to have a Perspective and be secure enough in it to want to express it to a wide audience! that’s what makes it a “higher art” in the first place.)

[supervisormeero]

God help me when I actually start posting the Amnesty Program AU and my Favorite Most Special Guy isn’t just in my head anymore

[clegfly]

“Of course you have an Other Brother,” he says, waving off her denial as he opens some nearby cabinets. “Who else would I be if I wasn’t?”

Small WIP sketch of the Other Brother from IDKSomethingClever99’s fic “Mari in the Pink Palace”!!! OMORI and Coraline are my two biggest interests ever so this fic was like winning the lottery for me. Not to mention how good it is… please go read it ragh

[obligatory-name-change]

the father [solar lunacy] the son [you move to dayshift but aren't paid any more, go figure] and the holy spirit [i see you, sundrop!]

[a-gay-bloodmage]

Liberal With Her Affection

(Thom Rainier x Mallory Trevelyan)

After she helps him retrieve the Warden-Constable's badge, Thom Rainier can't stop thinking about the Inquisitor, Mallie. Once she returns from sparring practice, he confronts her about his feelings and learns some things about her that she may not have meant to admit.

[igarbagecannoteven]

hi!! just read your cake at the craft store fic and thought I'd introduce myself on here :) you're a talented writer and seem like a lovely person!

oh my gosh thank you so much! that's so sweet of you 🥰i'm so glad you enjoyed my work! (and thank you so much for the lovely comment on ao3!) also love your handles on both ao3 and here, i'm a big fan of herons myself 😊

[kalosian-woods]

If you’re still doing the ask game, how about 26? I’m kind of interested in your writing process

That’s a fun question (and dw, it’s totally fine!!)

Honestly, I’ve always been a pantser, basically writing off the seat of my pants. I can never plan things even irl so doing that for fics was nigh impossible for me. Whenever I did try to plan it out I would hit a block or just get bored because for some reason my brain considered it that I’ve already ‘written’ the fic somehow?? So playing fast and loose really helps me actually get things done. Ig it’s also interesting to me since I’m literally falling into all of these twists and plot points just like a new reader would and it’s exhilarating in a way, getting surprised at where the writing takes me.

Of course I don’t just walk into a fic with no preparation— I usually have a ‘core’ idea of what I want to write about (e.g. a rewrite/exploration of events between Lumiose and Santalune for early Kalos Gang sans Serena, a focus on Clemont, for ‘safe bet’) and then get started on a particular point of time (for the example, I actually started with the final line about normal choices lol, and a small bit of battling that random kid). It usually depends on the fic and whether I have a clear idea on how it’s going to roughly go (like the plot of ‘second chances and other euphemisms’), just tweaking some details of canon (like ‘standing at the edge of the forest’) or a complete rewrite/reimagining (‘exploits of a friendly neighbourhood hero’ whyyy). 

Sometimes ‘canon’ fics go way out of hand like ‘measure twice and cut once’ or ‘knowing when to lose’— the latter one was especially hard because I had to cut out a big portion because it wasn’t headed the way I planned it to and had to rearrange some parts to make the fic flow better. That’s pretty much the same story with ‘exploits of a friendly neighbourhood hero’— every chapter I’m struggling with because it just won’t go in the right path!! The characters keep talking to each other when they should be doing something!! That’s actually a big problem with some of my fics— balancing action with talk, as well as the atmosphere of a particular scene. I let myself go with ‘measure twice and cut once’ which is why it’s simultaneously goofy and sad/serious, but I’d like to have a normal progression of emotion over a particular fic so it isn’t jumping around everywhere and feel tone deaf as a result. 

And as I said with fics like ‘safe bet’, sometimes I start at a particular spot and end up realising that there are events that i need to write before it, or that one line works better somewhere else. I usually keep every line I write around in the doc in case I need it somewhere else, but it can get confusing at times juggling so many ideas on one doc which is why there are so many spaces lol. Usually when I start I fic I don’t have the intention to write it perfectly in one go or even post it as it is— I just tell myself that I’m seeing where this one idea is going and if it’s good, I can continue, and if not I’ll start again from a different ‘angle’ or perspective to really get the creativity flowing.

This AU has really changed me in the way that I go about fics overall though, I can tell you that. Since I need to know the order of fics so I can connect them in a meaningful way, I go check the XY ep list and sort of plan my way around, see the gangs presumable route in the AU and have some ‘markers’ where some things will happen. Truth be told it’s not a lot, especially for s2 and 3, but I’ve got a very very rough idea of the overall thing. You can probably tell I was jumping around random fics at the start lol, and now I’ve settled more into early s1– that’s to help me have more flow with character development, arcs and storyline’s overall. If I can’t plan the whole thing, then plan out small chunks at a time heh. There’s probably more things I’m doing but this is a good overview of my process(es), hope that answered your question and thanks a lot!! :D <33

[midnightwind]

and to think I'm still considering extending the intro blurb to cover Rook reaching the ritual site...