#chiming ⊹ inbox

[chiming-bluebells]

oh my gollyy i love your tmr posts cuz first of all they're just sooo pretty and second it reminds me of my first ever dr ( tmr also ) and its such a great feeling of nostalgia and moving on . but , i need to know more about your maze runner dr , i'm SAT .

AAAA thankuuu !!!! 💗💗💗 first ever drs are always so special, through the nostalgia, the growing, and the goodbyes - it’s like ones first multiversal love of sorts.

i actually have a few posts about my tmr dr on the way!!! (i have one i’ll either post tonight or tomorrow, depending on when i’ll have the finishing touches in place) buuuut here are nonetheless some things about my maze runner dr! :D

current predicament and some lore???

it’s been a year and a half since i first awoke in the box as the first girl in group a. the beginning was turbulent; one too many court meetings, one too many confused looks, and one too many ”stay away from the girl until we figure it out”s from alby.

waking up in a dark and cold metallic box without memories from ones past is not for the faint of heart. i’ve mostly forgotten my first initial moments in the glade. not because it was insignificant, but rather since it might’ve been too much for me to handle at the time. what i do recall, however, is how i made a beeline for first best tree, climbed it, and hid in the branches like some sort of animal for (what felt like) an eternity. naturally, the gladers approached the tree with something bordering on both curiosity and authority. i threw my rubber boots at them in protest. missed the first time. not the second. they mostly left me to sulk alone after that.

that being said, this was over a year ago. i’m a changed (wo)man now. i’m basically fully integrated into the glader culture. not with the slang though. you will never catch me uttering the word ”shuck”. ever. i’m primarily working as a med-jack, but i also help out anywhere i can around the glade whenever i have time. i spend too much time in the garden.

my dr is basically a mix between the movies, the books, and my own ”headcanons” for lack of a better word. before the maze i was brought in by wckd all the way from sweden (haven’t figured out the logistics behind that but… ya know LOL) and was schooled in medicine. wckd wanted nurses in the mazes, that’s why they prepped some of us with nitty gritty details of human physiology and biochemistry. we might not remember everything due to the swipe, but some knowledge is basically muscle memory at this point.

[downbadumu]

it's not like your head is an erogenous zone but more like it's cuz caleb's touching your head :)

༄𓏸ଳ˚࿔⋆ content summary: mature themes, set in a vague au during a vague time because i can’t decide if this is canon compliant or an au, unhinged behaviour, caleb is his own warning (so be warned), something weird about having your hair washed (i swear im not weird), sexual tension (i hope), nothing happens though hehe, psuedocest, caleb’s definition of a gege/meimei dynamic, author hasn’t written in a while so bear with me but like I had to get this out my nogging, not beta read + lowercase because im too lazy

༄𓏸ଳ˚࿔⋆ word count: 1446

༄𓏸ଳ˚࿔⋆ shanna's notes: i'm now, once again, asking the lurkers of tumblr to hit up my askbox for requests so that i may be creative for the sake of my sanity

caleb’s never been a believer of the whole love language spiel; sure, he loves receiving gifts from you, hell, he has kept receipts you’ve unconsciously passed to him countless of times. yeah, hearing a simple praise from your mouth could send him into a spiral and have him cumming in his pants. but he’s so smitten with you anyways, there’s nothing you do or don’t do that he can’t love. and there’s nothing he won’t do for you.

so that’s why he’s standing right next to you as the lady from the salon is washing your hair despite being told that the wash area is restricted to customers getting the service only. it’s stupid because what do they think was going to happen? let you be by your lonesome at the back of a very public salon? absolutely not. it wasn’t anything a very charming smile couldn’t fix, however.

he knows you know that he’s watching you like a hawk despite his nonchalant stance and casual conversation. you’re talking about that new donut place that opened up last week a street away from the salon and how you’d like to visit it sometime soon so he offers to take you there once you’re done here. he chews on the inside of his cheek as he feels his blood wanting to rush down to his cock when you smile at his suggestion. god, you are just everything to him.

you’re probably trying to think of something else to say to fill the silence, but you’re starting to really relax into the scalp massage the hairdresser is giving you. his eyes expertly take in every miniscule movement of yours, from how you readjust yourself for the sake of your hairdresser’s ease (you really are a saint) to the tiny twitches, shudders and deep breaths you probably aren’t even aware of as she scratches your hairline that’s probably making your spine tingle. jealousy shoots through caleb like lighting and suddenly his laid-back smile wasn’t as easy to keep anymore. still, he scrutinises every movement of yours and the hairdresser’s, committing this too to his memory so that he can be the one that washes your hair next time.

he doesn’t make you wait long for it, though, he has your favourite haircare products ready to do the next time when your hair was due for a wash. your little squeal was worth the huge ulcer he bit into his cheek.

“i think the donuts weren’t that great,” you said.

“you like the ones from that shop by the train station don’t you?” he answered with a hum, eyes trailing your figure wrapped in nothing but a stupid towel. “they’re fresher.”

“yeah! they’re not actual donuts though,” you were sat in front of him on a small stool, hands fiddling with the conditioner bottle caleb put next to you when he sat down on his own stool. “bombolone.”

he hummed in acknowledgment while putting shampoo in your hair. “i could swing by and get them before coming back home tomorrow.”

you giggled coyly. “you’re the best, gege.”

“only for the you,” he countered.

caleb’s smiles grew as he watched you form a jab in your head but was quickly replaced by a pleasurable tingle that crawled up to your upper spine when he gently traced his fingers on your hairline. experimentally, he tapped his fingers lightly along it before scratching lightly at your scalp before transitioning back into a massage. he could practically feel the wheels in your head turning under his fingertips.

“i’ll get the mini ones, i heard they were doing a sale on a half a dozen,” he said cooly.

“mm,” you replied weakly, almost sounding like a moan, and caleb thought about biting another ulcer into his cheek.

he mimicked that hairdresser’s movements perfectly; it wasn’t hard to see what made your skin crawl with goosebumps and how your breathing hitches at this distance. of course, he was better than her, he knew your better than yourself, everything he does is tailored specifically to you.

“caleb,” you started as he ran his fingers from the top of your head to the back of your neck. he hummed, waiting for all the cogs to turn so you could form a coherent sentence.

he waited too long though, there was a chit in your voice when you said, “since when were you an expert at washing hair, huh? have you been washing someone else’s hair?”

he chuckled, fingers moving in quicker and harder succession to sparsely scratch at your scalp. something you seem to enjoy as another shudder runs through your body. “you doing good, meimei? you’re shivering a lot, is it getting cold?” he asked in fake sympathy.

“i’m fine,” you answered curtly, lips jutting out in a pout that he desperately has been wanting to bite away.

he doesn’t say anything else, because he’s too busy fighting his own shiver crawling up his spine. he’s happy when you’re happy, hurting when you’re sad, and livid when you’re upset. it’s natural that he takes pleasure in your pleasure. caleb’s fingers work expertly, alternating between light tapping, medium pressure circular motions, hard and too fast scratches that has you chewing your lips and balling your hands into fists. he relishes in the fact that your body relaxes at the familiar movements but you trying so hard to fight back your sighs.

really, he can’t help but get into it. besides, he has read something about scalp massages being good for your hair growth and stress relief and all sorts of good things he can’t conjure up now; every fibre of his being hyper fixated on you. it’s absolutely not his fault when he so gently tugs at the strands at the back of your neck to get your shivering body closer to his almost too warm one.

“fuck,” he almost doesn’t hear your curse. you’re getting a little too good at hiding things from him, he’ll have to fix that soon. not now though, he’s busy keeping a mental record of everything you’re trying to suppress as he glides his hands slippery from the suds down your thin beautiful neck for a massage. too busy to even think about the tightness in his pants.

lightly, slowly, delicately, his hands went back up from your shoulders, to the base of your neck, up the back of your head. one hand taps his way to the front of your head along your jaw while the other traced its way back up to the top of your head with light massages. too gentle, too fleeting, something he knew you’d hate, now that you would curse at him in your head for. he tilted your head back firmly, the sudden change in pressure made your suck in a breath. he was eager to drink in the look in your eyes but you had them screw shut. the thought of patting your cheek hard enough for you to glare up at him crossed his mind but it’s ok, next time.

caleb then picks up the showerhead that was filling up the tub. subtly, he tested the temperature before rinsing out the shampoo with deliberately slow movements. he needed you to feel every trickle of warm water. this time you couldn’t hold back your sigh.

“warm?” he asked, voice as parched as he was.

“yeah.”

“good,” he cooed, gently repositioning you so you’re leaning against one his thigh like a makeshift shampoo bowl. “you’re doing your hair mask today, no? i left the barley on the stove, so after this you’re on your own.”

your eyes snapped open, the spell breaking along with it. “what?! you can’t do things halfway, gege!”

with practise ease, he smiled down at your pleading eyes and flushed face. “you’ll be fine,” he crooned. “besides, you’ll be out in no time, you can have barley while you wait for the mask to do its thing.”

you pout again and he takes the opportunity to look while he reaches over you to grab your hair mask. “close your eyes,” he said, and you do. caleb doesn’t bother biting back his grin as he applied the mask on your hair.

he watched you try not to get used to his touches again, knowing he’s about to leave to your own devices. your eyebrows furrowed; hands balled into fists again but for a different reason. when he was done, he let you lay on his leg sulking as he washed off his hands, then he gently guided you back up into a sitting position, warm lips brushing against the tip of your cold ear.

“i’ll go heat up the barley for you.”

[sunnys-aesthetic]

Can we get the gay Cloud on set

[jack-o-phantom]

okay this is the last one i prommy (i got too tired to render the hands sorry orz)

OUGH,, Cloud you're gonna kill me

[chimeowrical]

I've officially sent out the last emails for commission requests submitted in December!!!

[fussypaws]

Hey so. There's an ask I got from a Gazan looking for funds for their GFM, like I have been getting lately, but under the organizer's name it says "Pompano Beach, FL"... is that a red flag? The GFM is only three days old, and the blog that sent me the ask is only a few hours old... Should I be skeptical? I don't want to assume they're lying...

[5iceroy]

successfully brainwashed 😵‍💫 the chalex golden age between feb-aug 2022 changed the trajectory of my life and i fear we’re never getting a run like that again

HAIIIII (r u the same chalex anon or a diff one j so theyre straight in my head :D)

anyways I AGREE every day i rue not being on f1blr in 2022 cus they were ON IT back then. also 2020 vis a vis the twitch streams... and the golfing ig stories.... and the bear grills shirt... LIKE. !!

chalex hasn't even broken 100 works on ao3 yet so jsyk im actually launching the spanish armada at dawn to rectify this [tiktok audio: "i have plans (chalex art) that I cannot share with you right now, because the haters (Big C2 and Big Lestappen) will sabotage me."]

[genius-in-training]

*After getting away without consequences, Yi takes her free time to run around uptops on the rooftops. She watches the city under her while moving around*

[primewritessmut]

for the ask game: ♫ - send a fic and i’ll make a 3-5 song playlist for you

It'd be cool to have some songs for your fic "Need a Helping Hand?" I loved reading it!! hope you're doing well xoxo

the one question i hope i never get

i'm not one of those musically inclined freaks, i prefer silence and my brain is a literal blank canvas when it comes to music so i have zero songs to recommend for that fic

so sorry

i'm a terrible ambassador for neurodiversity

[nexus-of-light]

tags yippee!!!!

[chiming-bluebells]

( 🧺 🐚 🩰 ) for your maze runner dr !!!!

- it’s @lolashifts <3

hi paola !!! tysm for the ask :D <3 so excited to answer these for my maze runner dr sooo without further ado, here we go!!

˖˙ ᰋ ⋆ ˚ ⊹ യ *◞ ˚ ꕀ .*

THIS LITTLE LIFE ᰋ shifting ask game i.

answered for my

MAZE RUNNER DR !!

⋆ ˚｡⋆ ᨳ

🧺 : SOFT LAUNDRY . . . what is your comfort item? a necklace you always wear? the soft blanket at the end of your bed? a certain drink you pick wherever you go?

like the sentimental woman i am, i always manage to assign emotional value to any object i come into contact with; doesn’t matter if it’s a random wildflower i once picked and pressed between book pages, or if it’s the wine glass i accidentally knocked over after one too many — almost everything in the glade has gained a well-deserved element of comfort to me.

but i do have my favourites.

like the pocket knife i woke up with. that one pocket knife was (apart from the clothes on my back) the only thing i was allowed to keep from my past before getting my memory swiped. i always keep it close at hand. almost always use it to eat apples (apple piece by apple piece directly from the blade. methodical, methodical). and often trace my fingertips on the black letterings ”heart to heart” and ”h.h.”, wondering what they once might’ve meant to me.

a close runner-up is the malfunctioning big mouth billy bass resting on top of my bedframe. he was scavenged from the box by some gladers long long before i even arrived and was subsequently claimed by newt. the electronic doesn’t work, at least not when you want it to, and he almost exclusively comes alive at night. billy is his name (naturally), and he is our version of a haunted victorian doll. ginger the cat hates him. i find him hilarious, however.

⋆ ˚｡⋆ ᨳ

🐚 : QUICK SHELL . . . okay, just a quick fire of a few questions. favorite inside joke? what food combination do you love but other people think is strange? how do you feel about surprises? do you live a more analytical or creative lifestyle? if you had to describe yourself in three words, what would they be?

◞ inside jokes : any joke publicly made during a sitting (party-esque dinner) will automatically gain inside-joke status overnight. even unintentional ones do, like me accidentally knocking over drinking glasses on the table after a certain point in the night (its a habit at this point), or that one time zart accidentally made a weird, loud and misplaced throat-sound when it was completely silent by the tables.

◞ food combos : not a food combo per se, but rather a snack that earns me scrunched up noses and furrowed brows from the other gladers whenever i eat it. and that snack is salmiakki. saltlakrits. liquorice. the real stuff. not the sweetened kind pleasant for american tastebuds, but rather the unforgiving kind you learn to love.

◞ surprises? : not big on surprises unless they’re pleasant ones, like an extra piece of garlic bread from the cooks for dinner, or the next move from minho on our ongoing prank war. he’s pretty slow though, considering he only really has time to lay his traps during evenings. it’s boring to always win…………

◞ analytical / creative lifestyle : both. you have to lead with both an analytical mind and a creativite one in a place like the glade. counting supplies, organising said supplies, figuring out when i should go to bed at night to get the most amount of sleep….. it all needs some form of analytical thinking to pull off properly. then of course some extra creativity for problem solving (and let’s not forget the creativity i save for leisure time: drawing, painting…)

◞ me in three words : mischievous, calm (what a juxtaposition), and artistic.

⋆ ˚｡⋆ ᨳ

🩰 : DYNAMIC DANCE . . . who is the one person that is the complete opposite of you? are you two friends? why are they the complete opposite of you? what mannerisms do they have that conflict with yours?

i’m on good terms with most. i mean, i kind of have to; keeping it civil with the shanks is absolutely necessary for things to work smoothly in the glade. the gladers are all lovable idiots, though, so that do make things easier for me.

but, naturally, there are those who are the polar opposite of me, both acquaintances and close friends.

first to come to mind is gally. always wary, always suspicious of others, rather unforgiving — he somehow managed to be my friend, altough our friendship is mostly me trying to talk some sense into him, and him giving me grey hairs every few weeks. he only wants what is best for the glade and the people in it though. he’s a hard worker and rather misunderstood i feel, and i do get where he’s coming from.

then we have alby. strict and authoritative alby. he’s one of my close friends as well as an older brother figure for me. and also the polar opposite of who i am. while i’m more lenient with the newest greenies, he’s… just… not. yeah, he’ll bite your head off if he thinks you’re slacking off or breaking some unwritten rule, might also throw in a threat of banishment for good measure.

might’ve gotten a biiiiit carried away with answering the questions (i love yapping, as you might’ve noticed…), but this was so much fun!! gave me a way of fleshing out my dr even more, so yaah!! :DD have another one in the making hehe…

[rpclefairy]

Hello! Question: how to search for role-playing games in order to then go to discord? I myself am in a different fandom (I don’t want to say which one, because they don’t really like me for it.) and therefore I don’t speak English well. :(

my guess would be browsing through the "discord rp" tag in order to find people interested in writing over there, but i don't part take in discord rp outside of writing with close friends so if there's any particular way people go about it i wouldn't know i'm afraid!

[sunnys-aesthetic]

congrats on your dca fnaf oc to original character pipeline!! also cloud looks like he'd taste like cupcakes/pos

honestly I don't blame you at all he does look like he would.

ALSO LMFAO. THANKS IT WAS TO BE DONE AT SOME POINT

[jack-o-phantom]

slaps this down then poofs into the void

AHHHHHHHHHH!!! fishing you out from that void STAT

AHH?? this is so nice??? ohmygod,,, it's him!!

[damselneedssaving]

BATBOYS BUT THEY SEE F!STREAMER!READER PLAYING SMASH OR PASS WITH THEIR HERO PERSONAS WHILE COSPLAYING AS THEM ON STREAM.

★ TAGS: older!damian wayne, older!duke thomas, did someone ask for some crack?, suggestive content (it's smash or pass, people), dirty talk, surprise surprise those boys remain majorly obsessed with you, mention of the boys getting boners, yeah... this one's not for minors, duke glows when he's flustered and it's so cute

★ A/N: this one was requested! and omg, the hero that slid into my inbox sure has one hell of a creative mind. srsly, this was such a good idea, i had to add it to the main timeline 🤭 just a heads up though, because this is suggestive content, i will not be using the taglist. i don't tag for suggestive content as i have no way of checking if you are acc an appropriate age for it or not. oh and as always, you do not need to have read the other parts of this series to get this one!!

★ F!STREAMER!READER MASTERLIST ★

Jason's mouth is dry, tongue like sandpaper as he stares at the title of your stream displayed clearly on his phone: Cosplaying as Gotham's vigilantes!

It takes no less than five seconds for Tim to come stumbling into the room.

"Did you see the stream name?!"

Jason doesn't answer, doesn't think he can. He's too busy staring at his screen in bewilderment to even begin to formulate words at the moment.

But he doesn't need to honestly, something else responds to Tim instead.

A low whistle.

Dick strides into the room. "Forget the name, did you see the thumbnail?"

As though summoned by just the mention of you (or rather, the thought of someone thirsting over you) Damian pops in not a moment after, lips pulled down into a scowl.

"Use those eyes of yours to prey on her, and I will make sure you lose them."

And then, as if to put the final cherry on top of the Wayne family cake gathered in the living room, Duke enters, all but ignoring his brothers in favour of grabbing the remote and using their amazon stick to navigate the TV to Twitch, immediately clicking onto your stream.

All of their eyes dart to the screen.

"That's right, guys! You read the stream name. Your girl's gonna cosplay everyone's favourite group of Gotham vigilantes!"

There you stand, a smile on your face and your eyes crinkled at the corners, looking just as pretty as the week before, and the week before that, and the week before that—

God, you're so pretty.

"Now, you might be wondering: say [Name], how come you're suddenly cosplaying when your channel is usually about playing video games?"

You disappear off-screen, the sound of shuffling causing the boys' saliva to roll down their throat.

"Well, my friends, to put it simply—your girl is about to head to Gotham for a Meet-N-Greet, and is hoping this stream will catch the eyes of the vigilantes there so I can gift you guys with a very special collaboration stream."

The room was already silent before, but after your words, it somehow seemed to double, the boys all staring at the screen with wide, dilated eyes.

You want to catch their attention. Beautiful, perfect you wants to collab with them. Them.

"Holy shit," Tim whispers, breathless and in that familiar daze only you can put him in.

"Fuck me." Jason runs a hand through his hair.

The stream chimes with a donation.

@/therealdamianwayne donated $15,000! They would be lucky to even be in your presence, Beloved.

You giggle, the lower half of your face hiding behind your hands as you bashfully look away from the camera. "Thanks, Damian."

The demon head's lips only quirk up even further at his brother's scalding glares.

The static sound of you clearing your throat reverts their attention back to you though.

"Anyway, does anyone have a suggestion on who I should start with?"

@/dukethomas donated $1,000! what about the signal?

The bats turn to send their daggered eyes to Duke, but he doesn't even spare them a glance, his own eyes too wide with hope as he stares at the screen of the TV.

"Oh! So glad you suggested him actually—"

Woah, woah, woah, what? You're glad he suggested himself? Holy shit, Duke thinks his heart just tried to lunge out of his chest.

In fact, he's so focused on the pink feeling that just engulfed him, that he misses the rest of what you say, and in a blink, is faced with your empty room as you disappear somewhere to change into the outfit.

And when you come back on screen? All dressed up in his metal-plated armour? With his name practically written all over you?

Well... Duke doesn't think he's ever seen such a beautiful sight in his life.

"Thomas, quit blinding me."

Duke blinks, glancing around to see his brothers squinting in his direction, faces scrunched up and mouths pulled into scowls as they regard the light with disdain like the bats that they are.

"Sorry guys." He chuckles awkwardly.

But before he can dim the glow surrounding him, your voice catches his ears.

"'Smash or pass The Signal?' Oh, hard smash."

The way he brightens next is half intentional, and half not. Half intentional because he can feel the way his pants strain against his crotch. And half not because, holy fucking shit, you said you'd smash him.

Before Damian can hiss again at his light, Duke already rushes straight out of the room.

The Wayne heir's lips pull down. "Disgusting."

@/greatestdetective donated $1,000! can you do red robin next?

In an instant, the remaining brothers turn to send the resident sleep-deprived detective very pointed glares, green radiating off them in waves as he shamelessly stares at the screen with dilated pupils.

"Sure thing!"

"You are utterly perverse." Damian points at Tim, brows furrowed and tone screaming judgement.

Tim only scoffs in response. "Oh please, like you aren't waiting just as much to see if she'd smash you."

He catches a batarang right before it hits his face.

"What the fuck?!"

Damian's teeth grind over each other. "Do not accuse me of such shallow thoughts towards my beloved."

"You almost killed me, dude!"

"And I would do it again."

"So? How do I look?"

Instantly, Tim's anger flushes straight out of his system, gaze darting to the screen as he mindlessly catches yet another batarang aiming straight between his eyes.

"Oh fuck..."

You're stood there, hands resting on your hips as you adorn his suit like it belongs on you, like he belongs on you.

His fingers move before his mind can.

@/greatestdetective donated $5,000! smash or pass?

"Geez, again?" You sweatdrop, reaching your hand behind his cowl much like he does when he's nervous. You two share nervous habits, holy shit. "Y'all will think I'm a slut for this but, I don't care. Smash."

With that, you've reduced Tim to a curled up ball, blush heavy on his face, pupils dilated to the sun and back, and mouth muttering obsessively about his love for you.

"Alright, since we're doing the boys, I might as well go through all of them before getting to the girls, hm?" You smile at the camera before sending it a little wink. "Anyone else wanna suggest who I should change into next?"

@/jaybird donated $10! red hood

Dick curses, his phone just short of in his hands as he sends a glare to a very smug-looking Jason stood with his arms crossed and his gaze trained onto the TV.

"Oh? The bad boy?" You giggle from the other side of the screen, hand cupping your mouth much like it did when Damian sent in a donation earlier, that same way the boys recognise as your signature move when you're flustered. "Sure thing!"

Needless to say, the two remaining brothers that have yet to be brought up on your stream are very much boiling beneath the skin.

Something which, is only furthered by the next thing you say.

"I don't quite have his build—which, by the way, is insane. I mean, have you guys seen the muscles on that man? Hot damn. I'd love for him to throw me around."

"Beloved...?" Damian mutters, voice wavering and pupils shaking.

Dick follows after by falling to his knees all dramatic-like, and if Tim hadn't been in a trance, and Duke was in the room rather than who-knows-where to take care of that little problem of his, those two would probably also react with just as much as despair at your words.

Jason, however, lets his jaw drop so low, flies could probably enter his mouth and choke him to death—assuming he hasn't already died from your audacious words, that is.

He's seen people thirst over him online before, of course. But for that to be you? For you to find him—scar-filled, ugly-hearted him—attractive?

Someone better pinch him 'cause he must be dreaming.

"Here I come!"

You stroll in, hands in the pockets of his jacket—his jacket—and face completely out of view, completely engulfed by his mask.

Oh yeah, he's definitely dreaming.

He blinks, watching with a dry mouth as you strike a pose.

"Well? Badass, huh?"

Badass, but, missing something.

It's okay to be a little selfish and ask for more, right?

@/jaybird donated $15! you're missing the guns sweetheart

"Oh! Right you are, Jaybird." You perk up, and the tone of your voice is enough for Jason to tell you're flashing him a smile beneath his mask. "Hope I don't get banned for this."

You disappear off-screen and reappear not a moment later dual-wielding pistols. Dual-wielding. pistols.

Holy shit, that's hot.

So hot, in fact, that Jason can feel the room getting warmer, warm enough to shrink his pants actually.

...

Oh shit.

"Barbarians," Damian starts, his tone screaming all the disgust written over his face, "I live in a house surrounded by barbarians."

Jason narrows his eyes right back at the man, but his eye-contact is swiftly broken the second he hears a—"Smash,"—coming from the TV, and his pants tighten even further.

Damian scowls in disgust.

"Right. I think only Robin's left of all the boys? Not including Batman of course."

Dick's scream breaks the other two brother's out of their staring contest.

@/sweetestassingotham donated $5,000! what about nightwing babe???

You frown at the camera, Jason's helmet now off and placed to the side, tilting your head all cutely. "Isn't Nightwing a Blüdhaven vigilante?"

@/sweetestassingotham donated $5,000! hes sometimes in gotham too :((((

You place a hand beneath your chin, gaze far-off, thinking, before you lift a finger and flash the screen a smile. "Right you are! I think I have a cosplay of him lying around here somewhere? Might be a bit small though, I remember wearing it to a costume party a few years back."

And just like that, Dick's earlier scream of dismay turns into one of delight.

"I gotta say though, sweetest ass in Gotham"—you giggle off-screen—"if we're counting Nightwing as a resident of Gotham, you've got some competition. Have you seen the cake on that guy? Ugh. Another huge smash."

Dick collapses to his knees, thanking everything that he was blessed with such a sweet ass and chose to flaunt it so that you would be able to see and notice that he is very smash-able and that you should indeed, 100% hook up with him when you come to Gotham.

Jason seems to beg to differ however, lips shifting into a scowl before a bang resounds through the room, and Dick is up on his feet in an instant.

"You just shot at me!" He points straight at the younger man, who all but shrugs in response.

"No I didn't. You were just in the way of my bullet."

Dick gawks.

Your voice sounds from the screen.

"Okay, uh, it fits, but it's a little tight, so don't make fun of me, okay guys?"

Dick's, Jason's, and Damian's eyes all instantly shoot to the screen.

You enter, hands running down the skin-tight suit on your body with your lips pulled into an unsure smile.

And as if that sight wasn't enough to bless the boys, you proceed to turn around, head tilting over your shoulder as you use the lens of the camera to check yourself out in Dick's clothes.

To check your ass out in Dick's clothes.

The sound of a camera shutter echoes through the room.

Then another. And another. And another—

Both Jason and Damian turn to see Dick with his eyes trained onto you, entirely in a trance as he repeatedly presses his thumb against the screen of his phone, each time causing the device to echo the sound of a camera shutter.

It takes only a second for Damian to lunge.

"You perverted piece of—"

Dick books it straight out of the room, and Damian goes to follow, ready to use every single technique his grandfather taught him to rain hell on his father's ward for daring to look at you in such a way, when, just like how it always does with all his other brothers, the sound of your voice brings him to an abrupt halt.

"Alright, now it's just Robin left, right?"

His eyes slowly drag themselves to the screen.

"Alright, little confession time, I've always kind of imagined how romantic it would be to have Robin swing into my room just before bed to wish me a good night," you say, and in it's in a voice that's bashful, nervous, maybe even a little embarrassed.

Oh, Beloved, you have nothing to be embarrassed of.

God, if Damian only knew of this before, he would've taken the trip all the way to your city just to swing into your window and wish you good night a long time ago.

"I don't know, I guess he's just got this charm to him."

Be still, his heart.

But how could it?

"Alright, here goes nothing. Final boy vigilante of Gotham."

Damian watches, breathless, as you step into the light like a moonbeam peeking through clouds.

You stand there, hands wound around his hood as you pull it over your head, your smile as radiant as ever and his clothes fitting you so perfectly, they might as well be yours over his.

And as you send another wink at the camera with another, simple but effective—"Smash,"—Damian's brain turns to static.

You have now simply and effectively reduced all the batboys into putty with just one stream.

And you don't even know it.

COMING NEXT -> BATBOYS BUT THEY ATTEND F!STREAMER!READER'S MEET-N-GREET.

[dakusan]

BLOOM UNDER NEEDLES

Tattoo Artist!Hwang Hyunjin x Reader | he’s touched you five times. tonight, he ruins you

🔞synopsis: Tattoo Artist AU. You’ve been friends for years. He’s inked every part of your body except the one he’s dying to ruin. But the second you show up again, hips bare and eyes burning, asking for another piece? He doesn’t just mark you. He fucks it into you. This is possession. This is art. This is obsession.

💌a/n: This one’s for @bemyaehiweloveskz, who sang into my inbox the sweet sounds of "tattoo artist!Hyunjin x reader". You asked. I delivered. We’re doing this first come, first serve, so next Filthy Friday, it is Seungmin's time to shine. So buckle the fuck up. p.s. reblogging = mouth-to-mouth resuscitation p.p.s. yes, you can request the other members, please do. who do you wanna read after Seungmin? p.p.p.s. If this fic made you moan, clench, or whisper “jesus fuck,” you now owe me your spine, one (1) unhinged tag, and a slightly sinful reblog. That's the deal. I don’t make the rules. (I do.)

⚠️ warnings: 18+ | MINORS DNI | EXTREMELY NSFW | Friends-to-lovers tension finally snaps and it’s carnal, needy, and fucking overdue | Oral (f. receiving) | Latex gloves | Spit | Tattoo chair sex | Filthy dirty talk — praise + hunger: “sweetheart,” “good girl,” “let me taste you again.” | Fingering | Thigh gripping | Ass worship | Tattooing as marking kink | Reader on all fours, bent over the chair | Clit attention that makes your brain fog | Aftercare so tender it hurts

📌 Please read responsibly. Hydrate. Stretch.

📍credits: dividers by @cafekitsune

🎧 » Love Talk — WayV « 0:58 ─〇───── 3:53 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

Seoul's early spring was always deceptive—sunlight soft on the surface but the air still kissed your skin cold when you walked too fast. Your coat’s too light, your hands half-numb, but the minute you step into NO SAINT INK, everything warms.

The scent hits you first: incense and antiseptic. Burnt vanilla over sharp alcohol wipes. Clean, familiar. The quiet hum of lo-fi beats weaves through the matte-black interior—half gallery, half hellmouth. Every wall is scattered with framed flash art—some crisp linework, others feral, chaotic sketches with phrases like “Bite Me” and “Pretty Hurts” etched beneath dripping roses.

The warmth isn’t just from the heater. It’s him.

Hwang Hyunjin is hunched over a drafting table toward the back of the studio, black hoodie sleeves rolled to his elbows, ringed fingers smudged with graphite. His hair is tied up—loose bun, strands falling across his cheekbones, lip bitten as he sketches something you can’t see. You pause in the entrance, watching him work.

God, he’s always like this. Still. Focused. A little too beautiful for a tattoo shop that’s home to chaos incarnate (read: Han Jisung) and Felix’s glitter-drenched custom piercings. Hyunjin feels like a walking contradiction—poetic and sharp, serene and volatile. An ink-stained symphony of clean lines and deliberate hunger.

He looks up.

His eyes meet yours instantly, like he felt you enter the room. Not surprised. Just… aware. Like you live inside a part of his brain he never locks.

“Hey,” he says, voice low, soft as velvet over bone. The corner of his mouth quirks—barely a smile, more of an acknowledgment. Like he’s happy to see you but won’t say it unless you ask.

“Hi,” you breathe, stepping inside fully, the door shutting with a soft chime behind you. “Still open?”

“For you?” His pen halts. “Always.”

You snort, dropping your bag onto the client couch. “That’s the cheesiest shit I’ve ever heard.”

He leans back in his chair, arms stretching over his head, hoodie rising to reveal the silver flash of his hip chain. “I save my best lines for Han’s clients. He likes to pretend he’s the shop flirt.”

“And you?”

“I prefer…” He pauses. Tilts his head. “Slow burns.”

There it is—that unspoken thing. You’ve known Hyunjin for years now, back when NO SAINT INK was just a cramped two-room hole above a bakery and he was still an apprentice shading roses on fake skin.

You were his first real client. Small piece. Inside of your arm. Something small.

Since then—five tattoos. All from him. All delicate. Personal. Quiet marks he made on your body with gentle hands and steady breath. And he never once crossed a line. But he always hovered near it.

The way his thumb would linger too long when wiping down ink. The way he’d mutter, “Hold still, pretty,” and your pulse would stutter like a skipped beat. The way he’d sketch flowers that looked suspiciously like the one he placed under your collarbone, and you’d find them in his book months later, unlabeled—but unmistakable.

Still, you stayed friends.

Coffee runs. Late-night ramen. Art gallery detours. Matching silver rings you bought at a flea market once and never really talked about.

And now, standing here again, watching him toss his sketch pad aside like it’s weightless, you feel it—that shift. The quiet knowing. Like the seed of something unsaid is finally cracking open.

“You working on a new piece?” you ask, nodding toward the table.

He shrugs. “Just sketching.”

“For a client?”

His gaze flicks to you. Unblinking. “Not yet.”

There’s something thick in the air now. Not awkward—just dense. Weighted. You clear your throat.

“I, uh…” You hesitate, fingers brushing your wrist. “I wanted to ask you for something.”

His brows raise slightly. “What kind of something?”

You pause.

Then you pull a folded sketch from your pocket. Smooth it out on the counter. His eyes drop to the paper.

It’s a flower. Hand-drawn. A Lily of the Valley—delicate, nodding petals arching off a thin stem. At the base of it, a faint phrase in cursive: “I bloom where I ache.”

He stares for a long moment.

When he speaks, it’s almost reverent. “You drew this?”

You nod.

His thumb traces the corner of the page. “Where do you want it?”

You swallow. “Right here.” You place your fingers at the sharp curve of your hipbone, just beneath your waistband.

Silence.

You can feel the air shift.

Hyunjin doesn’t move for a second. His jaw tightens. When he finally lifts his gaze, it’s slower. He looks at you like he’s taking you in all over again.

“You want me to tattoo you there?”

“Yes.”

A long breath. “Why me?”

You blink. “What do you mean?”

He steps around the counter. Closer. Close enough to smell the cedar on his hoodie, the faint scent of ink that never quite leaves his skin. “You could’ve asked anyone here. Jisung’s the wild one. Felix would pierce your entire soul if you let him.”

You shrug. “I don’t want chaos.”

He raises a brow. “And what do you want?”

You meet his eyes. Slowly. Gentle. “You.”

The pause between you is deafening. Then—his voice, low and frayed. “You can’t say shit like that when I haven’t even touched you yet.”

“You’ve touched me five times.”

“Not like that.”

Not yet, you think. And suddenly, the air feels even heavier.

But then he steps back. Just a little. Just enough to breathe. “Alright. I’ll do it.”

You nod once, pulse thudding.

“Tomorrow,” he says. “After hours. Just us.”

You try to play it cool. “For professionalism?”

His mouth twitches. “No. For focus.”

You arrive before closing.

The sun is already dipping past the horizon, casting long shadows across the alley where NO SAINT INK lives—half-sacred, half-possessed. The neon signs haven’t lit up yet, but the glow inside is warm. Low amber light spills from the studio windows, wrapping the interior in something softer than usual.

You knock once before nudging the door open, a little bell jingling above your head. Your hands are full—an iced Americano in one, a paper bag of pastries in the other.

“I brought bribes,” you call, stepping into the familiar scent of incense, ink, and disinfectant.

From somewhere in the back, you hear him.

“Depends,” Hyunjin says, voice echoing through the curtained hallway. “Are they sweet enough to justify me rearranging my entire night for your hipbone?”

You roll your eyes, smirking as you head toward the front counter. “Don’t act like you weren’t already gonna.”

He appears a moment later, pulling back the curtain with a casual flick—black long-sleeve pushed to his forearms, hair loose today, curling slightly at the ends. His silver earrings catch the light as he moves.

You offer him the coffee.

He accepts it without question, sipping as he glances at the bag. “What is it?”

“Strawberry scones.”

He pauses. Blinks once.

Then, soft and flat: “You’re trying to seduce me.”

You shrug, innocent. “You said you preferred slow burns. I’m just feeding the flame.”

He exhales sharply through his nose. Amused. Maybe impressed. Maybe ruined.

“Come on,” he murmurs, nodding toward the back. “Booth’s ready.”

You follow him through the curtain, until you reach Hyunjin’s space. It’s quieter here.

Dimly lit by a single lamp angled down over the chair. Black walls. Floating shelves with sketchbooks stacked high and carefully labeled bottles of ink arranged like altar offerings. A large framed print of a blooming rose leans against the far wall—your eye catches on the familiar linework.

One of his.

He gestures to the seat. “Make yourself comfortable.”

You do, settling your things on the side table as he rolls on a fresh pair of gloves. The snap of the latex still makes something flicker in your chest.

“Still want the Lily of the Valley?” he asks, voice calm but slightly huskier now. He hasn’t met your eyes yet. Too focused on laying out his stencil materials. Too aware of what’s coming.

You nod. “Still want you to do it.”

That makes his head lift.

His eyes find yours. And this time, they don’t look away.

Slowly, you reach for the hem of your sweatshirt. Tug it off in one smooth motion, leaving you in a cropped tank top and soft cotton shorts. No tights. No barrier. You watch his gaze dip—briefly—to the exposed skin of your upper thighs.

Then you hook your thumbs into your waistband.

“Here okay?” you murmur, sliding the fabric just low enough to reveal the curve of your hipbone—the exact place you want him to mark. The edge of your panties still covers what it needs to. Barely.

His inhale is so sharp you hear it.

“Yeah,” he says after a beat. His voice is quiet. Rough around the edges. “That’s… That’s perfect.”

You try to keep your tone light. “You’ve seen skin before, Hyun.”

“Not like this.”

Your breath catches.

He steps closer, holding the stencil between gloved fingers. His touch is steady when he kneels beside the chair, head tilting slightly to examine the space. But when his hand settles on your waist to hold you still, you feel it.

The difference.

It’s not professional anymore. Not strictly. Not the way it used to be.

His palm is wide. Firm. Anchoring you. But his thumb brushes the hollow just above your hip, a spot he doesn’t need to touch at all. His breath ghosts over your stomach as he positions the stencil, close enough that your skin prickles.

“Breathe for me,” he murmurs. The same words as always.

Only this time—you feel them in your thighs.

You inhale slowly. Exhale.

He presses the stencil gently to your skin. Smooth. Measured. His gaze flicks up once, meeting yours from below, and you swear—just for a second—he looks like he wants to bite.

“There,” he says softly, pulling back to admire his placement. “Check it in the mirror before I commit?”

You nod, rising carefully to your feet. His hand lingers a second too long before letting go.

You step over to the full-length mirror mounted in the corner. Turn slightly. Examine the stencil on your skin—delicate lines, tiny petals, soft cursive nestled against bone. It's beautiful. Quiet and aching and so personal it almost hurts.

He watches you from the chair, arms crossed now, gloves still on, forearms flexed just slightly as he leans back.

“Well?” he asks.

You meet his gaze in the mirror. “It’s perfect.”

“Then lie back for me, angel.”

You lie back on the chair, the black leather cold beneath your skin, even through the thin cotton of your tank. The lamp above casts everything in a halo glow—focused, intimate, like a spotlight trained just on you.

Hyunjin is quiet as he moves around the station. He preps with the same practiced rhythm you’ve seen five times before—ink cap, paper towels, sterile wipes, machine hum warming in the corner. But there’s something different in the air now.

A little too still. A little too loaded.

And then he turns.

Rolls his stool over beside you, knees brushing the base of the chair. He’s sitting close. Closer than he usually does when tattooing you. The heat of him radiates under the low light, hands gloved and resting on his thighs as he looks at you.

At your skin. At the spot where he’s about to mark you.

“You good?” he asks, voice low and a little hoarse.

You nod. “Yeah. Just… aware that I’m in my underwear in your lap basically.”

He snorts softly. “First of all, dramatic. You’re not in my lap—yet.”

Your breath catches. He doesn’t take it back.

You glance down. “I just meant, y’know. This placement. It's a little…”

“Intimate,” he finishes.

You nod once. Slowly.

He leans forward. Just a little. “Does it bother you?”

You blink. “No. Does it bother you?”

He tilts his head, mouth twitching like he wants to smile but won’t let himself. “You think I’m bothered?”

“I think you’re trying very hard to act like I’m just another client.”

That earns a quiet laugh. Low and sharp.

“You haven’t been ‘just another client’ since the first time you asked me to tattoo your collarbone with that stupid flower that made you cry.”

You shove his arm playfully. “It was a sentimental flower, not stupid.”

“It was both. And you cried like I stabbed you in the soul.”

“It hurt!”

“It was a two-inch peony.”

“Shut up,” you grumble, biting back a smile.

He smiles now. Full, real, warm. It fades just slightly as his gaze drags down again, returning to your exposed hipbone.

You feel your stomach tighten when he speaks again—softer now.

“Touching you like this… isn’t nothing.”

You swallow. “So don’t pretend it is.”

He nods. Silent agreement. Then slips back into motion.

He sanitizes your skin first. Cold alcohol on gauze. His fingers brush over your hip as he cleans the area, and even through the gloves, it feels like fire.

“You’re already warm,” he murmurs.

“You’re hovering,” you shoot back.

His laugh is quieter this time. “I have to. This is a sensitive area.”

“Mmm, right. Totally necessary to lean in so close your necklace is touching my stomach.”

He does not, in fact, move away.

Instead, his thumb brushes just below your waistband, fingers spreading gently across your hip as he holds your skin steady. “Stop wiggling.”

“I’m not wiggling.”

“You are.”

“You’re—” Your voice hitches slightly when his palm presses down with more intention. “You’re being a menace.”

“Always.”

He picks up the tattoo machine with his other hand. It buzzes softly to life, a familiar whir that still makes your nerves spike.

He notices. Of course he does.

“You okay?”

You nod.

“You always get twitchy right before the first line,” he says softly, like he’s reciting an old memory.

“You always hold my hand when I do.”

He pauses. Just a beat.

Then—he gently reaches up, slides his fingers between yours, and squeezes once.

You don’t let go.

And then—

“Here we go,” he says quietly.

The needle touches your skin.

Sharp. Hot. Deep. You flinch slightly, but his hand on your hip tightens instantly—not rough, but anchoring.

“There you go,” he murmurs. “Breathe. Just like that.”

The buzz continues, steady and rhythmic as he pulls the linework with impossible control. You force yourself to focus on the sound of his voice instead of the pain.

“You’re good,” he says again, thumb brushing a slow arc into your skin. “Taking it so well.”

You blink hard. “Don’t say it like that.”

“Say what?”

“‘Taking it so well.’ That’s porn voice, Hyun.”

He grins—sharp and unrepentant. “So?”

You glare at the ceiling. “You’re unbearable.”

He leans in slightly, still drawing. “You’re wet.”

Your whole body freezes.

“I—excuse me—”

“Your skin,” he says smoothly, as if he wasn’t just trying to end your life. “It’s damp. Warm. From the alcohol. What did you think I meant?”

“You know what I thought you meant.”

He hums, like he’s pleased with himself. “Interesting.”

You let out a long, slow exhale.

“Still doing okay?” he asks, voice back to low and sincere.

You nod, chest rising and falling. “Yeah. It’s just…”

“What?”

“Hard to stay still when you’re—” You cut yourself off.

His voice drops. “When I’m what?”

Your mouth feels dry. You look down at him. He’s crouched over you, hair falling forward again, neck bent in full concentration. One gloved hand spreads over your hip, holding you down, while the other guides the needle with ridiculous precision. He looks like he’s worshipping your skin. Like this act—this pain—is a form of reverence.

“You’re touching me like I’m yours,” you say before you can stop yourself.

The sound of the machine falters—just a fraction. He doesn’t speak for a second. Then, finally—his voice low and wrecked: “That’s because you are.”

Those words echo.

Not just in your ears—but in your bones. Your breath stutters. Your lips part. You watch him blink, jaw flexing like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud. Like he’s wondering if he can take it back.

You know he won’t. Because he meant it. Because it’s been there—under every lingering look, every playful comment, every time he touched you for just a little too long after finishing a piece.

This has never just been ink.

Not for him.

And not for you.

“Hyun…” you whisper, unsure whether it’s a warning or a surrender.

He doesn't answer right away. Instead, he sets the machine down—gently, slowly, deliberately—onto the tray beside him. The buzz fades into nothing.

His gloved hand is still on your hip.

Still holding you steady. Still not moving.

“I shouldn’t have said that,” he says softly, but his eyes never leave yours. “Not while I’m tattooing you. Not while you’re lying here half-naked and trusting me.”

“But you meant it,” you say.

His jaw tightens. “Yeah.”

The silence between you goes thick again. Almost unbearable.

And then—still seated beside you, still bent low enough that his breath brushes your stomach—he murmurs, “Do you want me to stop?”

You stare down at him. And shake your head. “No,” you breathe. “I want you to finish.”

It’s not just about the tattoo. It never was. Something changes in his face. His pupils dilate. His mouth parts slightly, like he’s tasting the weight of what you just said.

“Okay,” he murmurs.

But when he picks the machine back up, his hands aren’t steady anymore.

The lines are still perfect—Hyunjin doesn’t do less than perfect—but his breath is uneven. His gloved fingers flex harder on your skin, not quite possessive, but close. His knuckles brush the edge of your underwear again and again, and not a single one of those brushes feels like an accident anymore.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs, like he’s talking to himself.

You’re not sure if he means you or him.

“I’m fine,” you manage.

He hums. Low. “You always say that. Even when I’m breaking you open.”

Your thighs press together involuntarily. You’re certain he notices.

“I’m almost done,” he says. “Just a few more petals.”

You nod, chest rising with shaky breaths. “Okay.”

Hyunjin works in silence for the next few minutes. Only the buzz of the machine fills the air. His jaw is tight, lips parted, eyes flicking from the lines to your face and back.

Your breath stutters every time his fingers press a little deeper into your skin to hold you steady.

He notices. He always notices.

"You need to stay still, baby," he murmurs after a minute, like it costs him to say it gently.

"I'm trying," you whisper.

"I know," he says. "You're doing so good for me."

The pet name lands hard. You bite your lip, trying not to squirm. He grins. Quietly. Like he’s winning.

Another petal. Another clean line.

Your skin stings, but his voice is soothing. Warm. Reverent.

“Almost there,” he breathes, wiping the fresh ink with gentle circles of gauze. “I promise.”

You nod, nails digging into your own palms.

And then—

He stops.

The buzzing dies.

You feel the soft click of the machine being placed down. The final swipe of his gloved thumb wiping excess ink. The moment his hand lingers too long, brushing up toward your waist.

“…Finished,” he says quietly.

You look at him.

His expression is wrecked. Dark eyes, blown pupils, the barest sheen of sweat at his temples. He swallows hard, blinking slowly like he’s holding back a flood.

He pulls the gloves off.

Snaps. Tosses them to the tray.

Then looks at you like he’s still starving.

“Let me clean you up,” he murmurs.

You sit up a little, and his hand immediately comes to your back to support you—too gentle, too familiar. The intimacy of it makes your stomach flip.

You watch him work.

He squeezes out clear cleanser onto a pad, drags it carefully across the ink. Wipes you down like you’re porcelain. Like you’re sacred.

You shiver.

“There,” he says, fingers resting lightly at your waist. “We should wrap it but…”

You blink at him. “But?”

His eyes flick to your mouth. Then to your thighs. Then back to your eyes. “…But I don’t think I can keep my hands off you long enough to give you proper aftercare,” he admits, voice breaking open.

But then Hyunjin blinks, jaw clenched, and suddenly he’s standing. Suddenly he’s all discipline again. You watch in disbelief as he turns, grabs a box of plastic wrap and surgical tape like he didn’t just tell you he wants to ruin you.

You blink up at him, chest heaving, as he cuts a clean piece and starts prepping like this is a normal day.

Is he seriously—

“Lie back,” he murmurs.

You hesitate.

“C’mon,” he says gently. “Gotta protect the art.”

You lie back, narrowing your eyes.

He crouches again, presses gauze delicately to your tattoo, then begins wrapping with the kind of precise tension you'd expect from a fucking surgeon. His fingers glide over your waist as he smooths the film into place—practiced, familiar, infuriatingly neutral.

"You're being professional again," you mutter.

His mouth twitches. “Would you rather I forget how to do my job?”

“I’d rather you remember what you said five minutes ago.”

“I remember everything I say to you.”

He tapes down the final corner of the wrap, hands steady even though you can see the vein twitching in his neck. You can see the way his mouth keeps parting like he’s holding back a groan. His eyes won’t meet yours for more than a second.

And then, like a fucking menace, he clears his throat and reaches for the aftercare sheet.

The goddamn printed paper.

“I know how to—”

“I’m required to go through it,” he interrupts, not looking at you. “So. No heavy workouts. No soaking in water. No scratching even if it itches. Moisturize gently once the wrap’s off—”

You sit up abruptly.

His words die in his throat.

You reach for the collar of his shirt, grab it, and pull him in. You kiss him like you’re done waiting. Like his little show of professionalism just lit a fire under your skin. Like you’re done pretending you’re not his.

His body reacts before his mind can catch up—he lurches forward into you, hands bracing behind your back, and kisses you back like he’s making up for every second he spent pretending he wasn’t about to come undone.

Your legs wrap around his waist on instinct.

He groans into your mouth, deep and unfiltered, like the leash he had on himself just snapped in two.

“You’re such a fucking tease,” you whisper against his lips.

He pulls back, just enough to rest his forehead to yours, breath heavy.

“You think I was trying to stop myself?” he says, voice rough. “No. I was trying to deserve you.”

Your breath catches.

He kisses you again—deeper this time, desperate.

Then he’s standing. Hands sliding under your thighs, lifting you like it’s nothing. You wrap around him, gasping into his mouth as he sets you down on the tattoo chair again—but backwards this time, so your back is to his chest, your legs spread.

“So,” he says low in your ear, voice gone completely to sin now, “how’s your pain tolerance, baby?”

“Why?”

“Because I’m about to fuck you without touching your new tattoo,” he growls. “And I’m not sure if that’s going to make you scream louder… or quieter.”

Your breathing’s uneven. Your skin still stings faintly from the tattoo. And Hyunjin—Hyunjin is standing behind you, hands gripping your hips like he’s trying not to shake.

"Stay still," he murmurs. “You’ll make me lose it.”

“You already have.”

He huffs a breath that sounds like a laugh if it weren’t laced with so much need. Then his hands trail lower—thumbs hooking into your shorts.

He pulls slowly. Too slowly. The fabric drags over your thighs, bunches at your knees. You shift, arching slightly without meaning to, and he groans low in his throat.

"Fuck," he breathes. "Look at this."

His palm smooths over the curve of your ass, fingers spreading wide like he’s cataloguing every inch.

"You’re unreal," he mutters. "Always knew it. But like this?"

The shorts hit the floor.

And you hear it—the hitch in his breath when he sees your panties.

Thin. Soft. Lace-trimmed. They’re slightly pulled up from your earlier writhing on the chair, and now they’re framed perfectly. Your ass is practically spilling out of them.

Hyunjin makes a sound that is not human.

“Oh, baby…” he murmurs, hand splaying fully across one cheek. He squeezes—firm, greedy. “You wore these for me?”

“I didn’t know I’d be bent over in front of you,” you say, voice breathy.

“Bullshit.”

He leans in, lips brushing your lower back, just above the wrap.

“You always knew where this was going,” he whispers. “You’ve been showing me this ass every time you walked into my shop with your little skirts, your cocky smirks—”

A kiss over the curve of your ass.

“I tattoo you with a straight face, and you sit there like I’m not fucking hard the entire time—”

His hand slides lower, palm pressing against your inner thigh. His fingers trail along the hem of your panties, teasing.

“I should rip these.”

“You won’t,” you gasp.

“Oh?”

“You like how they look too much.”

He chuckles—low, dark, reverent. “You’re right.”

And then he does something you don’t expect.

He kneels behind you.

Both hands on your thighs, spreading you gently. His thumbs drag upward, slow, until they reach the curve of your ass again. He groans softly under his breath—visibly, audibly, aching.

Then—

A kiss. Right on your left cheek. Then another. And another. Trailing closer to the centre. “You know,” he murmurs between kisses, “this view might actually kill me.”

His thumbs hook into the waistband of your panties, and pulls them down.

Hyunjin lets out a shaky, reverent breath. His hands grip your thighs harder. His lips are parted, his eyes wild.

“…Holy fuck. You’re dripping. Just for me.”

His voice is guttural—low enough to make your spine arch without thinking. You can feel his breath right there—hot, heavy, reverent.

Then—

Spit.

The sound is sharp. Obscene. You gasp as it hits you—warm and wet, mixing with your slick, sliding between your folds.

“Fuck,” Hyunjin breathes, watching it trail down. “You make me so fucking messy already.”

And then he dives in. No hesitation. No soft teasing. He licks you like it’s instinct, like it’s oxygen, like this is the first and last meal of his entire life. His tongue parts you, slow and deep. He groans into your pussy like he’s overwhelmed by the taste.

“Jesus,” he whispers between licks. “You taste like a fucking dream.”

His hands grip your ass, spreading you wider. His tongue flicks over your clit—once, twice, and you jolt, gasping into the leather chair.

“Keep still,” he mutters, voice wrecked. “Let me enjoy you.”

Then he sucks. Hard.

Your whole body shudders. Your knees nearly give. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow down. He alternates between long, deep licks and desperate flicks, burying his face in you like he wants to live there. Like he’s tattooing his tongue into your memory.

One of his hands slips down, fingers trailing to your soaked entrance. He groans when he feels how ready you are.

“Holy shit,” he pants. “You’re gonna let me fuck this perfect pussy, aren’t you?”

“Yes—god, yes,” you whimper, pressing back against him, dizzy from pleasure.

His fingers press in—two at once, slow but deep. Your walls clench around him, and he curses under his breath.

“Already so fucking tight,” he groans. “Can’t wait to stretch you out on my cock, baby. But first—”

He curls his fingers. Licks again. And you scream. It’s filthy. It’s divine. It’s Hyunjin with a mouth full of you, humming like he’s high off the taste, dragging you toward the edge faster than you can take.

“Don’t hold back,” he says against your cunt. “I want you to cum all over my face.”

You don’t even answer. You can’t. You’re too far gone. Your thighs start to tremble, hips twitching uncontrollably, and he knows.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, tongue relentless. “That’s it, pretty girl. Let go for me. Cum for me.”

And with one more curl of his fingers and one more harsh suck on your clit—

You do.

You break. Hard. Shaking, moaning, collapsing forward against the chair as your orgasm rips through you. You gasp his name, legs trembling, slick dripping down his chin.

But he doesn’t stop.

He keeps going. Licking you through it. Kissing you through the aftershocks. Fingers still inside you, soothing, teasing, owning every wave of it. When you finally lift your head, panting, dazed, and weak in the knees—he pulls back just enough to look up at you. His lips are slick. His eyes are dark. His chest is heaving.

“You’re even prettier when you fall apart,” he whispers.

Then he licks your juices off his bottom lip—

And stands.

You see the outline of his cock in his jeans—thick, hard, straining.

He steps forward, rubbing against your ass, groaning into your shoulder. “Now,” he says, voice wrecked. “I’m going to fuck you so deep, the next time you come in for ink, you’ll still be dripping from this.”

His hands fumble with the button of his jeans, curses falling from his lips like prayers.

“Fuck, fuck—why are these so tight today—”

You glance back, dazed and flushed, still bent over the chair, legs weak from his mouth.

He finally shoves them down, briefs included—and there he is.

Long. Thick. Red at the tip. Veins tracing the sides. So hard it curves slightly, twitching with every heartbeat. Your mouth parts involuntarily. He catches your gaze.

“You staring?” he says, breathless.

“Obviously.”

He smirks—then hisses when his own hand wraps around the base, pumping once to relieve the pressure.

“I’ve dreamed about this,” he mutters, stepping closer, cock dragging over your ass, your soaked thighs, your still-sensitive folds. “Bent over my chair… ink still fresh… wrapped like a fucking gift—”

You whimper as he grinds against you, the head of his cock smearing pre-cum along your skin.

“—and all mine.”

He strokes himself once more, then lines up—sliding the tip through your slick folds, teasing your entrance.

You jolt.

“Still sensitive?” he asks softly.

You nod.

He leans down, voice curling around your ear.

“Good.”

And then—

He pushes in. Slow. Deep.

Your breath catches hard. He’s thick—stretching you inch by inch, until the pressure is so full, so overwhelming, it blurs the edges of your vision.

“Fuck,” he groans, gripping your hips, fingers sinking into your waist. “You’re so tight I could die.”

You moan, forehead pressing into the leather. “Move, Hyunjin—please—”

He pulls out halfway—

Then slams back in.

Your cry echoes through the studio.

“Sound so pretty,” he pants, setting a rhythm—deep, deliberate thrusts that hit every nerve-ending you didn’t know you had.

Every time his hips meet your ass, your body jolts.

“You were made for this,” he mutters. “Made for me.”

One hand slips around your waist, sliding between your legs again, fingers finding your clit with pinpoint accuracy.

“Hyunjin—!”

“That’s right, baby,” he growls. “Take it. Take all of me.”

He pounds into you harder—louder now, the slap of skin on skin obscene in the quiet room. His name spills from your lips over and over, useless and raw and desperate.

The tattoo stings with every motion—but you don’t care. You’re fucked open and filled and god, he’s not stopping. You look back over your shoulder, dizzy, ruined.

And Hyunjin’s eyes are locked on your face—wild. Starved. Obsessed.

“I’m not done,” he says, voice barely human. “Not till you cum on my cock. Not till I fuck my name so deep into you it echoes.”

His fingers rub faster. His thrusts get rougher. And then—

Everything snaps.

You cum again—louder, harder, legs shaking, walls pulsing around him like a vice.

“Holy fuck,” he shouts, cock twitching—

And then he’s spilling into you, deep and hot, hips stuttering, breath caught in his throat.

For a moment, the only sound is your breathing. The ruin. The afterglow. His cock still buried inside you. His arms wrapping around your torso as he leans in and presses a kiss to your back.

“Worth every second I waited,” he whispers.

You laugh—wrecked and glowing. “Told you you’d break the chair.”

“Worth it,” he grins.

Then: “Round two?”

You snort. “Gimme ten minutes and a juice box.”

He kisses your shoulder. “Done.” He kisses again, again, and again. “You okay?” he whispers.

You nod slowly. “Better than.”

He chuckles under his breath, one arm tightening around your waist. “I could stay inside you all day,” he murmurs. “But we’d destroy the whole damn shop.”

You feel him pull out—slowly, carefully, letting you feel every inch retreat until your body clenches one last time in protest.

A gasp escapes your lips.

Hyunjin groans softly behind you. “Don’t do that,” he warns. “I’m already thinking about round two.”

You give him a breathless laugh and he grins. Now pulling up your panties, still bunched halfway down one thigh. He slides them up slowly, smoothing the lace back into place, pressing a kiss to your right cheek as he finishes.

Next come the shorts. He helps you step into them, then pulls them up gently, carefully over your still-tender skin. He pauses at your waistband. Fingers resting there. Holding.

“Let me see it,” he whispers.

You glance back, confused.

“The tattoo.” he clarifies, voice soft.

You shift your hip toward him, tugging the waistband down just enough.

He crouches again.

One hand cradles your thigh. The other touches just above the wrap.

His eyes go soft.

“I can’t believe I finally got to mark you,” he says, almost to himself. “Right here. Where no one else gets to touch.”

You watch him trace the wrap with two fingers, reverent. Then—

He kisses the corner of it. Barely-there. Sacred. You feel your heart stutter. He looks up at you—flushed, hair a mess, lips swollen, eyes absolutely feral with devotion.

“Come home with me,” he says.

Your breath catches. “Hyunjin—”

“I’m not done with you,” he murmurs. “I need to see that tattoo in the morning light. Need to kiss every part I didn’t get to tonight. Need you in my bed. On my sheets. Wearing nothing but your bruises and my name.”

You stare at him. Then lean down. And kiss him. Soft. Slow. Final.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Okay. Let’s go.”

You wake up to the feeling of his fingers on your hip.

Not just touching—tracing. Careful. Curious. Worshipful.

The morning light spills through the blinds in lazy stripes, painting the sheets in pale gold and soft gray. You’re lying on your side, half under the duvet, one leg bare and bent—perfectly exposing your hip. The wrap is still on.

Hyunjin is shirtless, hair an absolute mess, lips kiss-swollen and pink. His chain dangles forward as he leans down to look closer, one hand brushing back your shirt to keep it out of the way.

You blink sleepily. “You’re staring.”

He doesn’t even pretend to deny it.

“Can’t help it,” he murmurs. “I know I just did this, but I still can’t believe it’s mine.”

You snort. “You mean mine.”

His gaze flicks up.

“No,” he says softly. “I meant what I said.”

He leans in. Kisses just beside the wrap. “You let me mark you,” he whispers. “Right where I’ve always dreamed.”

You feel your stomach flip, heat blooming down your spine. “You’re being sappy,” you mumble, hiding your face in the pillow.

He grins. “You love it.”

His fingers trail lower. Along your thigh. To the dip just before it curves into your ass.

You squirm. “Hyunjin—”

“Let me see how sore you are,” he says, voice suddenly lower, throatier.

He lifts the covers. Exposes both legs. His eyes darken at the sight—faint bruises from where he held you. Scratches on his arms from when you clung to him.

And then—he kisses your thigh. Slow. Open-mouthed. Lingering. “I want to put another one here,” he says.

You blink. “Another what?”

“A tattoo,” he says. “Something small. Hidden. Right where only I get to see it.”

He slides lower, kissing your inner thigh now. His hair brushes your skin. His breath is hot.

You shiver. “Hyunjin…”

His mouth pauses a breath away from your cunt. Then: “Or maybe I’ll just taste you again first. Remind you who you belong to before we start sketching.”

You moan—already soaked, already clenching.

But he just smirks.

“You want it, don’t you?” he murmurs. “Want to be mine in ink and sweat and everything else.”

You nod, voice wrecked. “Yes. Fuck, yes.”

He lowers his head again. “And you will be,” he whispers. “One mark at a time.”