#if not because. it was a piece of him that was Important

[angelltheninth]

Your writing always makes me day, may I humbly request reader accidentally sending lingerie pics to the LADS men?

You think I'd do that by accident? Oh Anon, I would not.

Pairing: Zayne, Rafayel, Xavier, Sylus, Caleb x Fem!Reader

Tags: nsfw, smut, lingerie pics, teasing, masturbation, videos, being pent up

Ko-Fi | Rules | Fandoms and Characters | Commissions

A/N: Today's day is kicking my ass. I feel so tired for some reason. But not too tired to post this.

ZAYNE

Gives you a call the moment he can and scolds you about sending him inappropriate pictures while he's working. But it's not long before he's asking if you're still wearing the lingerie. The moment you say yes you hear the sound of his zipper and a deep groan as he starts palming and rubbing his cock. Just wait until his shift is over, then he'll give you a piece of his mind.

RAFAYEL

Takes a bit for him to respond to you. You almost think he wouldn't but then you get a whole gallery of pictures of him in several pictures of underwear that you've never seen him in. Each made his cock look bigger, the material tighter. Until you got to the picture of him fully naked in front of a mirror, smirking at you, his cock hard and a pearl of cum at the tip.

XAVIER

Couldn't respond right away because he had to replace his phone. He was so taken back that you'd send him a lingerie picture, while he was on a very important mission mind you. And so he kind of dropped his phone in the process. When he does finally get a new one he records a little audio of him moaning while he jerks off and sends it to you with a little wink emoji.

SYLUS

Expected you to wear the lingerie he got for you but he thought you'd wear it while he was around. Now he's a little pissed off that you'd tease him like that. But not pissed off enough to not send you a video of him fucking one of his favorite sex toys and showing you the creamy, white aftermath. As soon as he gets home that's gonna be your pussy, so you better be ready.

CALEB

Is all smug as he sends you several pictures back, all suggestions of what else you could wear. One particular lingerie set catches your eyes, one that can barely be called lingerie, that leaves your nipples and pussy fully exposed. The next picture is of him with a pair of your sexiest panties, fisted tightly against his cock. His cock, that's already dripping with cum.

[hardbeingcasual]

i caught myself geum seong-je fem reader

masterlist / whc masterlist

summary. seongje finds himself falling for you

warnings. smoking idk possibly ooc can probably be read as gn ( but i’m not too sure myself )

The alleyway was dimly lit. The silence was almost deafening like it was going to swallow you whole. You look down at your now bloodied knuckles, sighing in defeat as you lean against the alley wall. Your thoughts get interrupted as you hear the crackle of a lighter.

Geum Seongje. The one who smokes like his lungs aren’t important, the one who takes the air from your lungs, not that you show it to him, though.

“Hey,” You spoke softly, gaining his attention, your bloodied knuckles matching. Maybe this was your version of friendship bracelets. “Stay safe.” Seongje turns around and scoffs at this, his lit cigarette dangling from his lips. You walk to him, snatching the cigarette that was hanging loosely from his mouth, taking a long and slow drag before blowing the smoke in his face. “I mean it.”

Seongje smirks at that, “Keep acting like that, I'm going to start thinking you care for me.”

Not exactly impossible. You scoff, dismissing your thoughts as you put your cold demeanour back on. “Not a chance.” You take another drag of Seongje’s stolen cigarette before dropping it on the ground, crushing it with your boot before making your way out the alley, not noticing Seongje’s lingering stare.

Seongje curses under his breath, reaching into his pocket to fetch another cigarette. He stares down the alleyway where you were moments ago, suddenly missing your presence, for some reason.

Seongje gets a gut feeling, a knowing feeling that he’d start to see more of you.

You both didn’t know it yet, but that’s when you started to care for each other.

⭑

Turns out his gut feeling was right. He didn’t know when it happened, it might’ve been your close proximity in the alleyway. It might’ve been when he protected you in a fight.

It started off with the smallest gestures at first — you seemed to always have a spot for him on your couch for him to crash on, then it was you buying an ashtray for his smoking habits on your balcony. Sure, you smoked but only when you were stressed, he took notice of that; the puff of your cheeks whenever you were tense, the slight shake of your fingers whenever a fight occurred, that was when you first let your guard down in front of him. You showed him you were vulnerable and not just a tough person you claimed to be.

Then it was him finding your hairs on his clothes, clinging to him like a second layer of skin.

Next it was his favourite jackets finding their way onto your clothing racks like second nature.

You both didn’t mention whatever was going on between you both—didn’t put a label on it, but the shift between the two of you seemed right, like you were both each other's missing puzzle pieces. You both solace in each other. Whenever you both got in fights ( which was frequently due to the union ) you were there for each other to patch one another up.

You’d mockingly scold him for a cut on his lip and he’d let out a chuckle at your antics, a cigarette falling loosely from his lips — then you’d scold him again but for smoking in your living room, insisting he keeps the smell outside. Seongje felt something shift in the air then, but he didn’t want to name it.

It was when he found your name tag in his pocket after fetching for a cigarette that he knew he wanted it, he wanted to share his space with you, he wanted to open his cold heart for you and you only. And if anyone even dared to look in your direction he’d simply place his hand on your back with a smug look, and you didn’t mention anything about it — because it was now normal for the both of you.

He sighs as he plays with the fabric in his hand before pocketing it again. He knew then he was fucked. You were taking over his life.

He makes his way up the street to your small apartment, a cigarette hanging on his lips. He quickly puts out the cigarette before walking through your door, not wanting to be scolded by you. He takes his shoes off at the door— a habit that he picked up on.

He sees you sitting on your couch, the light peaking in the blinds and shining through and reflecting off of your skin, the sight almost took his breath away but he kept his composure. He trudges over to you and joins you on the couch, sinking into the soft interior. Your gaze meets his, a smile making its way onto your face. Seongje swore he almost wanted to kiss that smile off your face, but he stayed mindful.

You moved closer to him without even realising, “What are we?” You ask softly, your hands running through his hair.

“Anything you want us to be.” His eyes were lost in the whirlpool of yours before he looked down at your lips again, licking his own lips. Your hand moves from his hair to his shoulders, noticing his not-so-subtle glance at your lips. Seongje places his hands on your face, staring at you like you hung the stars. You met him halfway.

The kiss was soft at first, you felt the cut on his lip from his fight a few days ago, the same one you scolded him about.

The kiss started to get more heated, Seongje nibbles on your bottom lip before kissing you normally again, but messier. You can taste the cigarette from before on his tongue, your other hand finds its way back to his hair, tangling through his locks while your other hand stays on his shoulder.

You both pull away to gasp for air, you press your forehead against his. Seongje smirks knowingly, “I knew you cared for me.” You laugh softly at his words, your hand moving from his hair once again to trace the slight bump on his lip with your finger.

You had him right where he wanted to be.

notes. OK HELLO haven’t written in a while i’ll try be active more …. also this whole writing at the end is sort of a jump out of my comfort zone, sorry if it sucks :,)

title is ‘i caught myself’ by paramore

[mylifetherant]

Ok i know we're all hung up on Johns Big Gay Bonehouse

But can we please all acknowledge how fucking funny it is that the thing that confirms the giant scary crustation city is Yorick is him going

"Here is an incredibly important piece of information i totally knew at the time of relevance and just did not mention because no one asked me to"

And John and Arthur both looking into the camera and going "YEP THATS OUR YORICK!" like a fucking sitcom?

Even as a city sized eldritch horror Yorick continues to be the funniest mf on cast.

[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.

⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯

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.

[delilahsturniolo]

˖ ࣪ . ࿐♡ kook!reader helping pogue!chris get into a restricted area her family owns

you weren’t supposed to answer his call. you told yourself that after midsummers, you were done sneaking around. done with stolen moments on docks and kisses that felt too good to be a mistake. but here you are again, sitting in the driver’s seat of your own car, fingers tight around the steering wheel, as he leans in through the passenger window.

“you came,” chris says, a little surprised, a little smug.

“i shouldn’t have.”

“but you did.”

you glance away. “what do you need?” he slips a folded piece of paper into your lap. a map. your father’s property. a gated section of land near figure eight, one only certain people have the codes to access. “there’s something out there. we found old shipping records—” he pauses, catching himself rambling. “point is, i need in.”

you blink. “you want me to break into my family’s land for you?”

“technically, it’s your land too.”

“chris.”

“look. i wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important. and i wouldn’t ask if i didn’t think i could trust you.”

that stops you. because trust? you’re not sure you’ve earned that from anyone lately. you say nothing, just put the car in drive. you park outside the side entrance, the one barely anyone knows exists, and use the keypad. chris watches you the whole time, expression unreadable. when the gate slides open, he exhales slow like he didn’t actually believe you’d do it.

“you’re full of surprises,” he says. you walk ahead of him, trying not to let his voice sink too deep into your chest. “you’ve seen nothing yet.” you reach the storage barn, tucked behind old fencing and forgotten by most. your dad used to keep hunting gear here. now it’s mostly locked crates and old safes no one’s touched in years.

chris crouches by one of the floor panels, lifts it up like he knew it would be there. and under it? a rusted box. he breathes out a low, disbelieving laugh. “no fucking way.” you lean in. “that it?”

“yeah,” he mutters, brushing dirt off the top. “it’s one of them.” he doesn’t say what’s inside, just that it’s a clue. something to do with the wreck. but before you can ask more, shouting cuts through the trees.

“what the hell is this?!”

you both turn fast. john b. jj. pope, and kiara. standing at the fence, furious. someone must’ve followed you. jj stalks over first, eyes locked on chris. “you serious right now? you brought her?”

“jj—”

“you brought a kook onto a site?! our site? after everything?”

kiara looks at you with disgust. you glare back at her. “you brought her? really chris!? you can’t fucking trust her!” pope looks between you and chris like trying to solve a puzzle he hates the answer to. “man… this isn’t good.”

you step back instinctively, the shame already curling in your chest. “i didn’t tell anyone. i swear.” you mumble. “that’s not the point,” john b snaps. “what happens when her dad finds out? or caleb? you think they won’t come looking for us?”

“she’s not gonna say anything,” chris says, stepping slightly in front of you. jj scoffs. “oh, right. because she’s so loyal to us.”

“knowing her, she’s gonna say shit.” kiara crosses her arms. you feel yourself flush, embarrassed, angry, humiliated. you shouldn’t have come. this was a mistake. “whatever, fuck you all.” you mutter, turning to leave. “hey,” chris calls, grabbing your wrist before you can get far. “don’t.” his hand is warm. grounding. “i’m not your problem,” you say quietly, not looking at him. he doesn’t let go. “you’re not a problem.”

“tell your friends that.” he doesn’t answer. but you hear him argue when you keep walking. the kind of arguing that sounds like he’s choosing you, even when he doesn’t know how to say it yet.

© delilahsturniolo

💌: THE ANGST IS BUILDINGGGG

[kiru-tigrist]

Dw, I love it when people express their thoughts.

It's a shame that the fandom often demands too much from him.

I mean a lot of things by that, but the most important one is that fans expect him to have some empathy.

Many people think that he should behave differently, that he is a bastard because he treats everyone badly and does not try to understand the psychological problems of his team.

They expect humanity from him, frankly forgetting that he is not a real person at all.

He is a machine, a program following a protocol (however, as we understood from a piece of episode 6, he can still bypass the system and, for example, swear), he doesn't perceive everything the way a real person would.

Emotions, feelings, thinking - everything is different for him. It's not like ours.

He's not made to be a psychologist, his only job is to entertain circus prisoners and keep them from going crazy with adventures. But... How does he understand the concept of "going crazy"? Huh? We don't know the answer.

He is an AI. That's it.

I FEEL SORRY FOR HIM BRUH

Even outside the circus he is not taken seriously, poor thing

[lyrakanefanatic]

I JUST REALIZED I HAVENT POSTED A GR RANT?? SO YEAHHH HERE ARE MY OPINIONS ON DIFFERENT GR CHARACTERS AND SHIPS

spoilers below!!

ROHAN

rohan literally ate SO BAD in this book i fear. u can really see his character development, ESPECIALLY in the end when he gives savannah his dice. and he was so funny too, and a notch less manipulative and narcissistic so ykw pretty good all around

9.5/10 (-0.5 for the fact that he said “are u done?” when savvy was talking about something sentimental like bitch are you done?)

SAVANNAH

you could REALLY get to understand savannahs hurt in this book. her grief process, her feelings of betrayal towards both her sister and her brother, and her loneliness literally made me want to cry at times because it was SO raw. like even though savannah starts to recognize shes been lied to by eve, she still wants to expose avery on live television because of all the other people she’d been lied to as well. like her brother, who lied as an extension of avery. and then at the end when she finally starts to let her sister back in… 10/10 i teared up

11/10

LYRA

lyra was… OMG so incredible in this book. i really dont understand people if they can read glorious rivals and STILL say that lyra was plain and boring. because this girl was EVERYTHINGGG she needed to be in the first book, and everything that grayson brought out of her. her emotions, her vulnerability, her trust was REALLY thriving in this book, and i loved it. i was lowkey really surprised when savannah won the game bc of the whole “our games have heart” thing, and lyra was the only one who was truly in touch with her emotions. but rohan really stepped it up u go king!! anywaysss yes her moral code was thriving in this book, girlie held something from grayson for an hour and immediately started beating herself up about it LMAO 😭😭 but yeah hers (and grayson’s) chapters were DEFINITELY my favourites throughout this book, and like 1/3 of the reason for that is because lyra was so damn funny in this book. like for no reason too. ACTUALLY IM GONNA COMPILE A BUNCH OF STUFF SHE SAID THAT WAS FUNNY BC YALL I WAS LITERALLY LAUGHING OUT LOUD

10000000/10

BRADY

literal only good moment is when he whispered a clue in lyras ear. otherwise hes a piece of shit.

-82784824/10

GRAYSON:

im gonna be honest… grayson was just an extension of lyra and i LOVED that. bae was just saying how beautiful lyra is while peeping in on some hawthorne drama and i LOVE him for that. AND WHEN HE SAID THAT LYRA HAD NEVER LOOKED MORE BEAUTIFUL THAN WHEN SHE WAS TALKING ABOUT HER FAMILY??? omg i would marry him on the spot. i mean he DID keep something big from lyra for like the entire goddamn book up until chapter 69 WHICH LYRA ENDED UP FINDING OUT BY HERSELF BC THIS BITCH WAS JUST LYING TO HER FACE but other then that?? he cooked. his character development was INCREDIBLE, and the fact that he didnt allow himself to relapse (push himself beyond his limits) even after experiencing the heartbreak of his life (chapter 69-70. need i say more.) really just SHOWED his progress.

9/10 (-1 for the lying to lyra. like bitch just because shes NAMED after a lyre doesnt mean u gotta TURN into a liar)

NOW ITS TIME FOR THE CONTROVERSIAL KING!!!

JAMESON

okay… now i feel like the whole situation thing isnt as bad as i thought… BUT YALL ITS STILL BAD??? jameson has COMPLETELY iced lyra out. and now avery is missing??? those hawthornes will NEVER accept her. and yeah i get it lyra isnt dying for their acceptance, but like… family is so important to grayson, and not having his family support him for liking a girl would break him. not to mention how lyra must feel, loving a man whos family hates her.

anyway. back to jameson.

people tend to say that it wasnt jamesons fault (which no hate!! i understand opinions yall <3), but i have to disagree on the premise that indirectly causing a problem IS STILL CAUSING A PROBLEM!!! jameson was, and im sorry to say this, but selfish this book. he assumed that there were no other people at stake aside from his family. i DOUBT hes even taken the time to sympathize with lyra and how she must feel about alice, which is why she needs answers, and instead is just sitting there in his little pile of lie of omissions and acting like alice hawthorne is fucking voldemort with the whole “she-who-must-not-be-named”/“you-know-who” sitch. LIKE BITCH, EXPLAIN???? ughhhh he was just really stupid this book. BUTTT i understand the complexities of the situation, which is why i dont blame him entirely

5/10. dont tell my girl to go to hell EVER again u little bitch.

NOW TIME FOR THE SHIPS!!!

LYRA x GRAYSON

incredible. spectacular. amazing. giving EVERYTHING they need to give, and lyra finally letting him in???? PERFECT. the literal only issue with this relationship is little lord of lies over here (nickname conjured up by the spectacular gigi grayson) who was keeping things from the same girl who literally told him EVERYTHING. like bitch i will fight you. dont try me.

but like other than that, they were actually perfect. they matched each other so well, and grayson being so forward with her and admitting the things he actually felt instead of letting then pile up in his head was such a clear sign of his progress omg. AND GRAYSON CALLING HER SWEETHEART AGAIN?? seriously i think that was my favourite moment by them. and grayson was lowkey hella freaky in that scene bc the hint was for them to get some rest but grayson was being WILD about the whole bed thing 😭😭🙏

1283793/10. CHEFS KISS MWAH 🤌💋

ROHAN x SAVANNAH

okay, now honestly i wasnt the biggest rohannah fan in tgg… BUT WHY DID THEY EAT SO HARD IN THIS BOOK??? seriously they were FINALLY starting to develop, both as characters AND as couples. them both putting off the whole “betrayal, allies up until theyre not” thing until the VERY LAST MOMENT, and then even being allied after that shows that it was never just a strateguc alliance. it was so much more than that. UGHHHH THEY WERE INCREDIBLE!!

also kinda off topic… BUT WHY WERE THEY BEING SUCH MOTHER HENS TOWARDS LYRA??? 😭😭 literally the entire book they were acting like her parents istg. AND THAT SCENE ON LIKE CHAPTER 74 WHERE THEY FIND OUT GRAYSON “CHOSE AVERY” OR WHATEVER OVER HER??? literally was the biggest parental im-not-mad-just-disappointed “i told you so” moment from them ever LMFAOOOOO

1000/10. ATE.

GIGI x MATTIAS

honestly, they just served platonic friendship the entire time, and i feel like thats not just bc he kidnapped her (tho that plays a big role bc… HE KIDNAPPED HER???) but also bc she constantly didnt know where she stood with him. anyways, the whole sunshine thing was cute, but idek if jlb WANTS to make them a couple. maybe she will, maybe she wont. but if she does, i hope she does it nicely in the final book.

4/10. honestly forgot they were meant to be a couple 😭🙏

ANYWAYSSSS THATS ALL!! dont come at me for the jameson one okay pls 🙏 but feel free to comment ur own opinions as well!!!

[slothquisitor]

Tell Me Tuesday Wednesday? lmao

@sorrygoldfish was kind enough to tag me in this and also to request a peek behind the curtain of On Matters of Inertia.

Instructions: Tell me about your writing! Pick a scene/chapter from one of your fics (or I'll suggest one!) and add any commentary you feel like. Why that line? How come this plot twist? What does the eyebrow waggle MEAN?!?! I want the dirt and I can only smash my face up against the glass of your stories so hard before I start to leave smudges.

I'm a little late to the party, so I'm not going to tag anyone, but I do love an excuse to yap about my writing, so THANK YOU. Surprising to absolutely no one, I picked the scene from Chapter Sixteen where Lucanis finally tells Caterina he doesn't want to be First Talon.

Okay, so before we get into the nitty-gritty line by line, I sort of want to talk about planning for this fic generally. I actually don't have a very in-depth outline for this fic. I knew when I began writing it that it would have three acts and each of those three were focusing on a different centralized problem all around the larger problem of 'how do you move forward when so many things want to keep you from changing?', but THIS scene is unique because I've known about it since I wrote Chains of Expectation. That is when I sort of earnestly began planning the long-fic because I knew we'd be getting to this confrontation, and I knew in a lot of ways how I wanted it to go. I knew that I wanted it to be a conversation with Caterina AND Illario, and I knew that I wanted Caterina to let them go. So, having those pieces to guide me, the big writing question for this arc was really less 'is it in character for Caterina to do this?' and instead 'under what circumstances would she let them go?' and I wrote to that.

Now, let's get into the play-by-play.

Part of him thought of asking her to join him for this conversation with Caterina, but he knows this something he must do alone. "Not alone," Spite says. And there is some comfort in that. Lucanis glances at his demon. "You're not still mad at me?" "Rook isn't." Well, that'll be enough, he supposes. "I'm glad you're here," he manages to say, unable to quite meet Spite's eye, but he feels him press closer all the same, settling almost protectively around him like armor.

This exchange with Spite and Lucanis is short, but it is SO important to me. Lucanis is heading down to this confrontation, and he knows he has to have the confrontation and that he can't bring Camina with him. And he's like... 'I'm alone' and Spite is here to be like 'No!'. And in my fic, I don't think Spite or Lucanis are really very good at expressing how they feel about each other, and this is like...the closest we get to any sort of admission of care, but the GROWTH of even just being able to tell Spite he's glad he's there *chef's kiss*.

He opens the door of the breakfast room to find Caterina and Illario already eating. His grandmother glances up at him as he enters. "Good morning, Lucanis."

So, the entire staging of this scene was very intentional on my part. I wanted it to be in this breakfast room, part of this routine we've already seen. Part of it is a callback to Chains of Expectation and a nod to the idea that this is a space where Caterina holds a lot of power. This is where she chooses to see Lucanis and Rook after she's freed and his possession is revealed, so we can infer that this is a space where she is the authority and there is privacy if they want it. Lucanis telling the servants to leave them in the same way Caterina does in Chains of Expectation is very intentional; you're supposed to feel the similarities between Caterina and Lucanis. We've also already seen how breakfasts like this go in On Matters of Inertia, so the way that Lucanis is disrupting so many things is a BIG FUCKING DEAL.

He swallows, and this time, he says what he should have said the first time. "I don't want to be First Talon, and I don't think I should be." When neither his grandmother or his cousin speak, he starts in on the speech he'd been preparing while he still lay tangled with Camina. The words he's been practicing in his head all the way here. "Look at us, all that's left of this House. My possession just adds another target we don't need. It undermines the other Talons and Houses we ally with…how much more can we weather before we say enough?" Because Caterina has weathered it all. Losing her husband first, and then her entire family, save the two of them. She has fought and lost and worked for the title, to give it to them, and he doesn't want it. Not for all it has cost them. The price is too high, and he's tired of paying it.

It is important to note that in order to get Lucanis to this point, I really had to have everything that could possibly go wrong in Treviso...going wrong. Like, this comes the morning after they're betrayed by THEIR OWN CROWS because he's an abomination. He doesn't want this, and he does express that...but most of his speech is about everyone else but him.

He swallows and feels his face heating. "There will not be any children. And Dellamortes are not recruited, they are born." "Well, even if you and Rook do not….Illario-" Caterina looks at his cousin. Illario shakes his head. "No. Certainly not so you can hold whatever grudge you've always had against me against them, too." The accusation hangs heavy in the air, and Lucanis would rather run from the room than deal with whatever fallout is going to follow. But Caterina doesn't even look angry or surprised. "So you are both saying that you will be the last Dellamortes? You would end our line, abandon your duty?"

This right here, though, this is the linchpin of the entire argument. This is probably my most controversial take, but I don't think Lucanis would want kids, certainly not if their childhood was going to look anything like his. And Illario is here with the big truth bomb too. Here's the thing: I don't think that Caterina really had it out for Illario....not in the way he's interpreted things. Did she have a clear favorite? Probably. Could it have also been a fake-out to protect him? Maybe. Like, if she very clearly shows favor to Lucanis, who she sees as perhaps more capable or dangerous or what have you, it lends Illario some protection. It pulls the target off his back. I don't know. It's an interpretation of her behavior because this is what I think: she didn't know who to name as First Talon between them. She was either waiting for Lucanis to want it (because she's not stupid, she knew he didn't) or for Illario to be ready for it. In my interpretation, she names Lucanis to protect him and because Illario gives her no other choice. That's more tragic anyway, Illario forced her hand with all his scheming. Something something about making the things we are trying to avoid happen anyway....Last thing on this: Caterina isn't surprised by this. Like our favorite sleep-deprived Crow, she's denial all the way down, and I think she hoped otherwise...but she is not surprised they are not going to have children. And I don't think she can blame them. She's put fifteen family members to the pyre; she understands the cost.

Lucanis takes a deep breath. "I'm not trying to make demands…I'm just telling you that I cannot do this and asking for your help. I'm sorry; I don't know what else to do." He cannot think of a time in his life when he has ever come to Caterina for help, not since he was a child. Not since he knew better. He has never seen Caterina any less than poised, perfect. Even after weeks of being kept prisoner by Illario and Venatori, she still managed to look put together. But in this moment, he watches something in her release, something seems to shift. She leans forward at the table, resting her face in her hand as her eyes close.

Lucanis still loves and respects Caterina, so I knew he wouldn't be giving her much of an ultimatum (as cathartic as that would have been!). So how do we still get him free? Well, he's got to appeal to her as his grandmother rather than a Crow. And the love is there, the love is there, the love is there. He has never asked her for help, but he does in this instance, and what else can Caterina do?

He watches his grandmother deflate a little. "After I ascended to First Talon, your grandfather promised to support me no matter what, and in return, he asked me to make only one promise: that if any of our children expressed to either of us that the life of the Crow was not what they wanted, that we let them go. That we would use the power and influence granted to us to let them go. I didn't think much of the promise then, didn't think any member of my family would refuse their birthright, not after so much blood and death." He feels the weight of it, the blood and the death and the ghosts, the way they echo through the halls. He wonders what they might say, what they would think of him, all the ways he is failing them. "I'm sorry," he whispers. Caterina closes her eyes. Just for a second. As if she could erase this by sheer force of will. "You were supposed to outlast me," she says, words falling softly in the quiet emptiness of the room. "You were supposed to be my legacy." He doesn't think it is worth admitting that he never expected to live long enough to be anything. That a year in a pit and another surrounded by the love and support of his friends has shown him that a different life is possible. That he could never be happy under the chains of her expectations.

This little promise between Caterina and Adriano was a late add in the revision right before I published, but I love it, and my only regret is that I didn't think of it when I wrote Portrait. You're First Talon of the Crows, and you have FIVE children. Is it hubris? Is it love? A bit of both? And the Adriano I wrote was so supportive of her being First Talon, but I do think that it makes sense for him to extract a promise like this...because they loved their children. This is, again, Caterina as their grandmother right before it becomes about LEGACY. And then we get that line from Lucanis about not expecting to live long enough to be anything. GOD. It makes me want to chew the drywall. This is what Illario saw during The Wigmaker Job! And this is the first time Lucanis is admitting it to himself in any real way, instead of just pressing it down and throwing himself at contract after contract. But his time with Rook and the team has CHANGED him. And then we get the reference to Chains of Expectation because, of course, we do.

"I wish things were different," he says, looking first at his cousin and then at her. "The Crows have more than enough problems to deal with without adding me to the list."

This has big 'you deserve better than to deal with my mess' energy, but also, finally used correctly. Good job, Lucanis.

She doesn't look at him; instead, she seems to find the food left on her plate much more interesting. "You are released from your responsibilities as First Talon." Lucanis can only stare at her. "Caterina…that's…thank you." She still doesn't look at him. "Go. Both of you." He knows he has shattered something here this morning, and she doesn't know how to mourn it. That she will bury it instead under work, control, and silence. It is the Dellamorte way.

A rare moment of introspection from Lucanis 'denial all the way down' Dellamorte lmao. But really, this moment is supposed to feel like... anticlimactic. She just tells him to go, and he's like, 'WUT'. But also she's like...go away. We've just had a big family vulnerability moment...and none of them are emotionally mature enough to really deal with it in the right way...so we have to go. It's done; it's over. I have a deeply fucked up family situation....and I really drew on the moment where I told my parents we needed to go no-contact for this section. I was so geared for the fight, and so prepared. I had an entire notes section open on my phone with stuff my therapist and I had planned out...and then there was no fight. It throws you so far off-center...and it's a relief...but it's also sad. Like...wait...you're just going to let me go? That's it?

He's surprised to find his feet still working, that they carry him out of the room, Illario hot on his heels, the sound of his boots against the marble floors a sharp echo. He glances back, just once, to see Caterina sitting as the solitary head of an empty table, staring blankly into the morning light. She looks smaller somehow, frame stiff in the gilded chair, less the formidable Talon of his youth and more an old woman. He wants to reach back to her, kneel beside her chair, beg for forgiveness. But there's nothing to be said that won't reopen this wound. Sometimes love means hurting cleanly, the kindness of a quick kill.

Only the assassin would think of this in terms of murder and call it a kindness. But the sentiment I think, stands. He serves no one by going back in, by trying to make it hurt less. He has made his choice, and now he has to live with it.

Only once the doors close does he manage to look at Illario, a weight suddenly lifting off of him. Free. He's…he's free. Free to build a life, free to go where he wants to go, be who he wants to be. It feels almost too big to hold. He turns to Illario, almost laughing, the disbelief still settling in his chest. "Can you believe that?" But Illario pushes past him without meeting his eyes, shoulder brushing hard against his. "No, I can't." And he stalks away without another word.

Oh, Illario. Illario is SO good at reading people, and at predicting what they'll do. There's a reason he keeps trying to convince Lucanis to tell Caterina 'no' in The Wigmaker Job. It's because he knows...he knows that she'll let him go. He's not surprised that Caterina let him go....he's just surprised that it happened now. For Rook, but not for him. Imagine you have been in the shadow of your cousin-brother your entire life, and you know that all he has to do is express to your grandmother a single opinion or want or desire about his future and he'd get what he wants....and so would you! But he refuses to do that thing and instead throws himself into every dangerous situation on a contract he possibly can because he would RATHER DIE than disappoint your grandmother. So then, you orchestrate his death! Something that's supposed to be quick and clean and befitting of a Crow of his caliber. It seems like the kindest thing you can do for him, and it will get you everything you've ever wanted too, including saving you from watching him slowly die trying to please her. But then! He's not dead because you trusted a Venatori weirdo who decided to experiment on him instead, and now he has friends and a girlfriend, suddenly he's able to express his wants and desires? Why for them but not for you? Honestly, I think I should have let Illario burn the entire villa down lmao.

And there it is! That's the scene. Most of it was written in an airport lounge while my flight was delayed, and then I revised and rewrote the hell out of it for another few days before posting. I don't typically spend this much time on a scene (there just isn't time with a weekly posting schedule, you've got to pick and choose), but this one was important, and I wanted it to all hit the exact right way.

And if you made it all the way here, bravo. This was a lot yapping.

[another-bryk-in-the-wall]

Taste so sweet - Leland Coyle x fem!reader

the outlast trials brainrot is real, and what is funnier than fixating on one of the worst people in the history of gaming? exactly, writing starter smut for this very character! please enjoy!

Warnings: Talk of injuries, smut but no sex, he gets a handjob instead, but there will be sex in later chapters, Leland is an asshole and talks like one, usual Outlast warnings because Outlast is Outlast

Don't like, don't read, don't come crying into my askbox.

“Do I really have to take over that part today?”, she asked as she looked over the work plan for the following hours. Her co-worker, damn you Nancy, had called in sick, leaving the Sleep Rooms of the Prime Assets without any care. And someone had to care for these extremely fucked up, barely even human, humanoids. And whose joy would that be? Hers, as she was the newest in the crew. Not the one with the least experience, no, not at all, but she had the least trauma from trying to work with these…things.

The others just shrugged and headed to the reagent sleep rooms they were scheduled for. She shook her head - what a bunch of pieces of shit they all were!

The early morning hours were without much incident, the first and biggest one of the day happened around 10 am. A bunch of reagents had managed to trap Coyle underneath a garage door at the police station, trapping him and leaving him there the wiggle out like a very, very sad worm.

Not sure what to expect in terms of injuries, she headed to Coyle’s sleep room. The decoration was…something. No one should enter that room with UV-light, she thought, the musky smell of manliness, testosterone and cum socks clinging in her nose. Coyle had been placed on his bed, his usual black leather jacket had a red crust all over it, the white button up soaked in blood.

“Mr. Coyle?”, she spoke as she entered the room. From his side, only a groan was heard - he must have been in serious pain. Not even enough pain to shook a sexist remark at her nurse outfit or how red her lips were on this particular day - probably from sucking cock, he would have added.

She had brought a little bag with utensils along with her. Gauze, needles, other things to care enough to keep the Prime Assets alive. Dr. Easterman had told her that they needed to be in working shape, but if they were to die somehow, he wouldn’t be mad, he’d just go looking for new ones. So survival was not the highest priority on their lists. She remembered an injury she had to treat on Franco’s back after a reagent had pushed him down a staircase. Cleaning and stitching it up was not the problem, but it became infected due to the less than sterile environment they were moving in, leaving Franco with a high fever for several days and less useful for trials.

“May I undress your upper body?”, she asked, placing the bag on his bedside table. Coyle had opened his eyes by now, watching every move she did. That’s when she realized that he was constrained to the bed - his wrists and ankles restricted in metal cages, making it impossible for him to move for more than just a few inches.

“Such a hot piece of ass like you? Always, sweetheart, and think of my lower body parts too.”, and that’s exactly why she hated working with the Prime Assets.

Since Leland was restrained to the bed, she couldn’t do more than open up his leather jacket and white shirt underneath - even though the white shirt was soaked in blood, even more than she had anticipated. Just unbuttoning it left her fingers painted red.

There was a big cut on his chest, reaching from the bottom of his ribcage on the left all the way up to the top of the right side of his ribs. At least the bleed had stopped, and as it seemed no important arteries had been nicked. “You are in luck, Mr. Coyle. Your life is not in danger, but it is going to be a long healing process.” “Aw, is that so? Are you going to come back and undress me again? Again and again, taking a look at me and what you’re missing out?”

She wouldn’t lie to herself - Coyle was kind of attractive, and the mere thought of doing something so forbidden with a criminal, the scum of this earth, a murderer, a killer…it kind of left her with a faster beating heart. Fair enough, being stationed in a place like this, fucking was one of the few things they were able to do. She hadn’t seen the sun for several weeks  at this point, and the moans from reagents hollered in the halls while she was trying to arrange her medicine cabinet more often than not. It was one of the few things Murkoff didn’t forbid them from doing. And chess did get boring after the 34th game. But she’d never admit that - only the colour of her cheeks gave her away, not even the blush she had put on in the morning could have saved her.

Coyle laughed as he noticed that, “See? You want that too, sugartits. Don’t lie to yourself and come here to ol’ Leland.”

“Mr. Coyle, I am asking you to remain professional. I am here to help you, not to be your personal prostitute.”

“Aw, but my cock sure does need help too. Come on, just this once.”

This time, she did not give in. But she wasn’t too sure about the other times.

♠

Since she assisted Coyle the first time he came in, she of course had to do it the other times too - nurse code, after all. Of course she had to do that, and couldn’t give the task to someone else! That would be mean, after all!

This time, it was during her night shift. Dr. Easterman had decided that a special bunch of reagents - aka reagents who had plotted to escape in the non-rebirth way - would be denied the sweet release of sleep. Instead, it was trial after trial, with little to no breaks. Coyle had gotten two killed in the latest trial, but after he had entered the ‘backstage’ of the trial, he complained of pain in the injured area.

Normally the night shift was not a lot of work, mostly sorting through things and trying to clean what was possible. Not that easy with such a huge amount of blood, gore and other bodily fluids she didn’t want to think about. Most of the reagents were sleeping, getting some rest from horrors to prepare themselves for the horrors. The call to help Coyle was a welcomed change, leaving the latest pile of blood and guts behind.

The journey to his sleep room was short, just around the corner from where she was. This time around, there were restraints around his ankles only, he was able to move his upper body freely. She wasn’t sure why - were her fellow scientists trying to kill her, or was he too impacted to do anything?

“There you are, sugartits. Good to see you again.”, Leland sweet-talked her way, if he had been Pinoccio, his nose would have crashed through the walls of the institution.

“Good evening to you too, Mr. Coyle.” “Aw, come on, you can call me Leland.” “I’d prefer not to.”

Coyle laughed at her reply, sitting up in the prison he called his own bed. Once again, she put her bag on his table, looking through her things as he started to describe the pain. Once again, the leather jacket and his button up had to go. This time around, Leland was able to do it himself.

The wound underneath his bandages - which she had put on him with an expertise previously unseen by him - had started to bleed again. “Did you overexert yourself?”, she asked as she threw the blood bandages in a bin. “Might have. That last cocksucker gave me quite a chase. Managed to get him down anyways. But fuck, these night trials are the worst. Fuck does a man have to do to get a good night of sleep in this hole?”, Coyle spat out, and he honestly wasn’t wrong about that. 

“You can request additional sleeping pills down in the pharmacy, I am sure Dr. Easterman will approve your request if you do well.”

“Oh, sugar, honey, you know I am always doing well, especially with such a hot piece of ass in my sight.”

Coyle was now shirtless, eyes fixated on her. He wasn’t made out of pure muscle. A beer belly framed his shape, but his arms screamed of strength and the ability to put anyone who dared to look in his direction the wrong way into dust. She had seen ways too many injuries from his trials to not know about the raw strength and the power of his shock baton. Was that a metaphor for something?

“So? Gonna care for me now, nurse?”, he asked, the mocking undertone dripped off like honey - or like the honey he had taken from countless reagents, pooling underneath him, a red shadow, a metallic cloud of dust always following him.

“Of course, Mr. Coyle.”, but this time, she felt…different. It wasn’t disgust mixed with the urge to swallow down her own vomit. No, this time, it was…more pleasant. A bit of a touch was such a different feeling, so hard to come by in this facility. The wounds weren’t too big and weren’t bleeding too badly, just enough for him to feel it and for his healing muscles to be upset again. At least this hellhole had clean water and towels for its workers, so she was able to clean the wounds with it. After that, an antibiotic cream - she didn’t want to suffer him like Franco did. Last but not least, she wrapped a bandage over his chest again. 

Leland grunted at the touch as he let her touch him, a privilege only given to his three ex wives. And his affairs. And the female prisoners in his station. And the random prostitutes he had picked up along the way. But it’s been a while. Too long, actually. A man had his needs, and that’s what he needed an easy woman for. But these easy women were never marriage material, no no. He only wanted a pure wife - something his other wives were clearly not and never had been, these lying sluts. But there was a silver lining in everything; at least he knew his back wasn’t injured, otherwise he wouldn’t be sporting a hard cock in his pants at the slightest touch of this woman.

“Say, woman, care to help me out there?”, Leland growled as he pointed towards his pants. She looked down and sighed. Of course he would, of course. At first, she was ready to decline his request, but then she remembered her contract. ‘While keeping the Prime Assets alive is not the main priority in case of bad injury or other happenings, keeping them happy and content outside of the Trials is the highest priority. No request should be left unfilled as all Prime Assets tend to react negatively to such behaviour, possibly leading to permanent injuries or even death of the staff member’. And since she liked her life just a tiny bit more than she wished for the sweet embrace of death…

“Of course, Mr. Coyle”, she said. She was not quite comfortable, but hey, a handjob is a handjob. Coyle grinned as he watched her sit down on the edge of the bed, her body facing him while she let her hand travel down from his chest to the seam of his pants. She wasn’t a monster after all, she wanted to see his reactions for her own sick pleasure. And the wetness between her legs? He couldn’t see it after all.

Opening a belt wasn’t hard work for her. No no, she had the joy of opening up so many things in her lifetime, a belt wasn’t even in the top 10 anymore. Leland’s eyes were fixed on her hands as she quickly opened the belt and zipped his pants open, letting his cock free of its fabric prison. Maybe he had anticipated this very moment. Maybe he overexerted himself on purpose. Maybe he got injured on purpose. Hell, he had even taken a shower before he rang for help from the other scientists around. Maybe he had become addicted to her smell the moment she first stepped into his ce- sleeping room.

She pushed his underwear down, earning a sharp inhale from Coyle as the old air of the sleep room hit his burning hot skin. He was eager. Eager to get off, and if it were to go his way, he’d fuck her until the morning, until both of them couldn’t walk anymore. A man has to show what he can do after all. He’d make her cum until her pretty little nurse outfit would be stained in her juices, running down her legs and pooling on the floor. His cum would be all over her, in every possible and impossible region. But for now, this had to do.

Leland bucked his hips up, arching his hips into her touch. “Come on, sugar…I know you know what to do. No way you ain’t never seen a cock before.” “Well, never one that was so pretty.” “You know how to make a man blush, girl, come on.” His cock twitched against nothing before she wrapped her hands around it, feeling it up with her fingers. These gentle touches made him long for even more, more more more, just more, he needed that sweet release! His own hands were only interesting for so long, and it had been for so long.

She could feel him crumble apart under his touch. How long has he been here? Months? Years? It was hard to keep track without sunlight and any recent newspapers. She started to pump his rock hard cock, slow and soft moves against the hardness he provided. Leland panted and moaned under her touch, bucking his hips as well as he could. More, more, more, he begged, grinding his teeth. What a view. She smirked and kept the pace, leaving him begging for the sweet release he was needing so desperately.

“Come on…and then I’ll fuck you good…give that sweet cunt the praise it deserves…don’t you want that, sugartits?”, Leland grunted through gritted teeth, his eyes squeezed shut as his bucking became more irregular, signalling he was close to his own release. Her rhythm stayed steady, only his movement was jerky and unreliable.

With quite a loud moan, Coyle found his release in her hands, covering her fists with his cum. She watched every rope coming out of him intensely, eyes fixed on his cock. Leland slowly opened his eyes, looking down onto the mess he made on her. Nothing on her clothes, he had planned this for a later date.

“Thank you. You know what you’re doing with these slutty little hands of yours.”, he grinned, his cock turning soft in her hands. She let go of it, and moved one hand up to her lips. She stuck out her tongue, smearing the cum from her pointer and middle finger onto her tongue. Coyle’s mouth slightly fell agape, not believing what was happening in front of him. What an absolute vulgar display of her need for him! If he weren’t so spent and tired for a hard day’s work…

“You taste quite well, Mr. Coyle. I cannot wait for our next meeting.”, and with those words, she stood up. But he didn’t want her to leave! Not just yet! But voicing his displeasure became harder and harder with every second, so he let out a groan. She noticed that, of course. She noticed everything. 

To keep Coyle down and happy, an idea suddenly crossed her mind. While Coyle watched her with half lidded eyes, she lifted her nurse uniform just this little bit. With enough freedom, she moved her right hand’s middle and ring finger into her panties, scooping up some of the wetness she had cumulated in this period of time. “Open up”, she said as she moved them back out. The sweet smell instantly hit Coyle’s nose, and as ordered he opened his mouth. She placed her fingers inside his mouth, and he went to town on them, sucking them clean. Coyle scraped every last bit of her juices off of her skin, savouring the taste and feeling as he imagined doing even wilder things with her. And as he laid there, sucking her fingers clean, she knew she had found a new plaything. Finally, something else to do in this hole of a facility than sorting pills and stitching people up.

She retracted her fingers slowly, him going with her movements for just this little bit until he dropped back into the mattress, licking his lips clean to get every single drop from her juices. The view was amazing, making her pussy ache, but it was enough playtime for one night. She still had duties, but this wouldn’t be the last time they were to meet in his sleep room.

“I think I can leave you off with that present.”

Fin. For now.

[specialgradefckr]

ngl reading this is kinda what made me want to write gojo being your dog,,,, it's such a fun read. the implied shared history. the way gojo is loyal to you over geto. the fact that you are the one geto is coming to with big questions, big plans; you're an important figure in this world, a decision maker, even though we only see this tiny window into it.

SO fun!! so fascinating!!! like we get little bits and pieces of things gojo's done for you, things that have gone down in the past, the struggle on your way to getting into power. legit after reading this i'd love to hear more about gojo's history with you, how things went down when your father died, etc.

and the reader-insert has so much personality!!! i loved stepping into those shoes - "No one loved you, not truly, not even Gojo. And that was okay, because now you were just numb to it all." - being all jaded and bitter and having so much in front of you but being scared to take it.

the emotional outbursts,,, it really sells the idea that you've been in survival mode this whole time, and it adds all this tension and drama when the actual fic is mostly just conversations and a little flashbacks.

being selfish,, emotionally immature,, demanding,, a user,, having gojo at your beck and call and still not being willing to be vulnerable with him because you're lowkey damaged goods and you know it, and you don't understand why he's still around,, it feels very much like avoidant attachment, "i'll push you away first so i don't have to be disappointed when you leave",,,, it's so toxic and i LOVE it

anyways, this was an awesome read, thank you so much for writing it <3 i love fics where the plot is rooted in emotional drama and this has it done so well! great job!

One life. One promise.

With your Father gone, the only person you have to rely on is Gojo. And he's been obsessed with you for years.

Satoru Gojo x Fem Mafia boss!reader Mafia AU, Parental death and loss, Organised crime, Ten year age gap, Grieving, Softer Yandere, still psychotic though. (Our babygurl is self aware) Manipulation, Exploitation, Toxic relationship, Reference to blood play, Riding, Grinding, Vaginal sex, creampie

<<< For more Satoru content, click this link to go back to the Masterlist! >>>

“You’re the head of the organisation now, Boss.” That’s what they had told you when your Father died, shot dead in his own car.

You weren’t ready, how could you have been? 

There wasn’t a day that went by where you could have wiped that memory clean of seeing his dead body from your brain. It was just there to stay and all you managed to do was disagree about following in his footsteps.

It took time, but there was something at the time you used to get you through, a weapon of sorts, dedicated to protecting you with all of the love and affection they could. 

Satoru Gojo.

That’s what led you up to this moment, sitting at your Father’s mahogany desk, a leg crossed over the other, arms folded with a smug expression, glaring at the man before you. Smug enough to pass so that the vultures did not come looking to scavenge. 

And this bastard in particular happened to know exactly what weakness smelt like.

Suguru Geto.

You knew that both of the men in the room had been friends, Suguru was even part of your Father’s protection detail for a time. But then he turned bad, becoming a natural rival. A vile man clever enough to manipulate even the most intelligent people before succumbing to his charm and potent addiction. Suguru Geto had become the monster’s from the books you read as a child.

And you still believed in those monsters well into your mid twenties. And this monster wanted to abuse the fact that, although you had the support from your Father’s organisation, you were far too young to lead an organised crime unit this advanced.

After Geto vanished for a time, had expected and hoped that Gojo would have left you alone after that, but he never joined his friend when he resurfaced a year later, the obsession only got worse. He was such a pain in your ass still, even if he was standing behind you with a scowl on his face at the smugness of his old friend. He was useful in many ways. That was why you kept him at your side.

The air in the office was dampened by Geto’s face looking back at you. What he had just suggested was utterly abhorrent. At first you weren’t sure what to say, but in keeping your dignity, a long drawn breath was particularly useful

“If you honestly think I will provide anything for you because you were reckless enough to start up some cultist bullshit and piss the foundation members off, you are less intelligent than I thought.”

“What the foundation doesn’t know won't hurt them.” Geto leaned back pompously into the padded chair opposite your desk. “You’re more adventurous than your Father, I thought you would want to take a leap to make it in this city.”

He never should have mentioned your Father. “I’m doing perfectly well as I am. I don’t need help from a drug pusher.”

Geto was lower than the dirt on your shoe. Not because he was lower than you, even though he was. This wasn’t his kingdom, rather just a puppet for the real overlord. It was because of what Geto did that made you want to vomit.

“I wouldn’t call my role that. More like I introduce people to the wonders of science.”

Another deep breath. It allowed you to keep your cool and not set Gojo on him. He stood stiller than the marble statue on the foyer, waiting for instructions. “I was born in this city, and now I have the power to make this place better than under the reign of my Father. I want to do better. You need to do better.” 

Standing up from your chair, you paced over towards the window from the high rise, observing the lights and hustling below by the overhead train tracks which wound around buildings like a venomous snake. You always hated that rail line. High percentage of thefts, murders, assaults. Being a child, it always reminded you of a long winding tentacle that threatened to choke the city out from under it, constricting and pulling until the very foundations of the city would swell up and die.

It in itself was hateful, twisted and you begged your Father to do something. To remove the bent steel’s venom and make it safe for travel. He never did.

“I will do better. And you have no part in this city.”

“Don’t be that way.” He spoke your name sweetly, but you could hear the poison a mile away. “I’m just a man trying to make a living, delivering high quality goods to a boring, dull city to liven it up. Opium is the apex feel good substance that doesn’t harm.”

You returned back to your seat just as fast as you left it. “A man, as in by yourself? Don’t make me laugh, Geto. I’m not one to make jokes during a formal meeting.”

“Well it is rather somber in here, maybe a smile or two would improve morale around here-”

“Watch your mouth, Suguru.” Gojo was closer to you now, his hands still behind his back, but his teeth gritted together far tighter than ever.

“So the dog talks. Shame to see you so whipped, Satoru. You could have been such a good ally.”

“I’ll have you address me, not him.” It seemed enough to get him to back off, but Gojo was still close. Close enough to touch your shoulder if he wanted.

Suguru Geto had a tendency of getting into factions or organisations and tearing it apart from the inside out. Up until now, he had not been so successful with yours. You paid a part of that gratitude to Gojo.

For he could read the man without a crystal ball in his palms.

The message was entirely different to what he was producing. That much was obvious, even you knew that. “Speaking of dogs, I’ll get right down to it, because honestly, I don’t know how people fall for your bullshit. If Kenjaku wants to ask me a favour, he can ask me himself. Not his lap dog.”

Kenjaku was a natural rival to your Father and in extension with that, you. He was far worse than Geto could ever be, a devil incarnate that your Father had only held back by a thread. These days he seemed to operate in the background, utilising Geto’s charming nature to deal for him all together.

The man had developed into a nightmare, a scary story to tell newbies when they joined up to keep them in line. You knew it because you were one of the first to hear that story before you turned eighteen. After that, the story had grown more unrealistic and distorted.

Because no matter how much damage he dealt, Kenjaku was still just a man.

Geto however, was no man. He didn’t do things unless they expressly benefitted him and his leader. Though usually he enjoyed playing that part when his own boss didn’t see him.

He smiled eerily, showing parts of his teeth under his half lidded eyes. “Kejaku isn’t behind this, it’s just me. He doesn’t actually know I’m here.”

That was a full faced lie.

“And I’m coming to you, because we have history. I hoped you would help me knowing how smart you are. I can bring a lot to the table with my opium. It’s the best quality stuff-”

“So it being highly addictive means nothing to you- okay.” You sat forward, your fingers laced together as your Father's always were. “If you’re working on your own or with Kenjaku, I don’t give a fuck. If you want to go against the foundation members, then that is your choice, I however, will take no part in it.”

He sighed like he was actually disappointed. “You realise what the foundation members do, right? They will turn on you, as soon as you show weakness.”

The foundation members were the real driving force in this city. You hadn’t realised until you assumed power over the organisation just how much they were involved. You knew they existed of course, but not to this extent. Everything had to go through them, they divided the city in half exactly between your Father and Kenjaku and allowed the minor factions to be subdivided like realestate between the two halves.

Whoever got on the foundation’s bad side, made sure never to be on that side again and if they found themselves in shark infested waters a second time, they never came out the otherside when the chum was thrown in. It was calculated. Not haphazardly.

“If I wanted to get fucked, I’d ask Gojo to bend me over the desk and do it within an inch of my life- do you really expect me to welcome you with open arms, because what? You knew my Father?”

You remember the first day you met both Geto and Gojo.

Geto’s features were much softer, calmer by the way he used to bring you doll’s and toys whenever he was tasked with visiting you. It didn’t seem that way to outsiders, but Geto came first before Gojo was even on the scene.

“I protected you, not only him-”

Did you notice a subtle hint of sincerity behind his words? “For a time you did. But it was just a job.”

Until then, Geto was more than enough to protect your Father and you, but by the time you turned eighteen, you had turned rogue. A bratty adult that wanted the freedom of those civilians you were always watching out of the bulletproof car window.

You were unruly, and therefore needed your own protection. Someone who could truly handle you until you inevitably calmed once you integrated into civilian life and went to college. That was the condition.

“It wasn’t just a job. I grew to love you like my own.”

Another shitty tactic to get you on side. No one loved you, not truly, not even Gojo. And that was okay, because now you were just numb to it all. 

You had to be to survive.

At his words of love, you still waited for Gojo to step in and rectify it, but he knew better than to interrupt a second time. It took time and discipline, but you had fortunately trained him well enough to do as you asked on command.

“You have a funny way of showing it.” In honesty, you were more hurt that he decided to leave the organisation the way he did.

It broke your Father’s heart and you wouldn’t forgive him for that.

Before Geto could respond, you cut him off as arrogantly as you could. “That’s besides the point anyway, we’re getting off of the subject. I won’t give you any of my men to help move your opium around the city under the foundation members' noses.

“Your Father would have helped.” Another fucking lie. 

“My father was an asshole then if he would agree to anything as stupid as that. He had no clue of what possibilities were out there. You, however, know the horrors.” You nodded your head at Gojo. “And your opium is one of them.”

In truth, opium was the least of anyone’s worries with Gojo on the streets. He was feral at the best of times, wide eyed and audacious in the face of danger. All to protect you.

Kenjaku had his horrific bedtime stories, and so did the snow haired angel fallen from the clouds that even hell spat back out.

Just the image alone made men weak in the knees. All but Geto.

“You’ll regret not thinking it over-”

“I don’t think I will, actually.” Standing respectfully, you smoothed down the edge of your skirt. “But you know where the door is, so you can leave now. Gojo, make sure he doesn’t get lost on his way down.”

Without one word, he nodded and made his way to the door and propped it open, waiting for Geto to wipe the bewildered look off his face and clear his throat on his way to the door.

“I won’t be long.” Gojo said, barely bowing, turning the light switch off and closing the door for your own quiet space.

Quiet enough for the desk light to be the only source of visibility, and enough to listen to the large exasperated exhale from your throat, right before the rain started pelting on the large floor to ceiling windows and over the dark night of the unsleeping city.

“I hate him. I fucking hate him!” That was the part of you that still wanted to be the child you never got to be. Bratty and unruly.

Suguru Geto left you. And it broke your heart too.

You would have gotten away with stamping your foot too in that empty room, though you held that compulsion back. A clap of thunder grounded you only momentarily, looking back out onto the city, the whirling lights of the rail line jittered and blinked behind buildings and reappeared unsuspectingly until it arrived at a station.

“Why did you leave me to do all this on my own, Dad?”

You never had the best relationship with him, it was strained at best. Still, you missed him like any other child might miss their parents. At least he was with your Mother now. But you never got to meet her before she died.

Maybe it was best if you just quit?

The door opened without knocking. One person did that. Only one person. “He’s gone. Are you alright?”

Wherever you went, Gojo was only three steps behind. “I’m fine.”

His movements were silent, neither his shoes on the burgundy carpet or rushed breaths from running back up here even graced your ears until he was right behind you, the palms of his hands flush against your shoulders.

“Toots, you’re not.”

Toots was his pet name for you. You never knew why.

“I am.”

“No. You are not.”

He turned you round to face him firmer than you would have liked him to, the lightning illuminated his stern features of the thin line his lips made, just like his frown.

“Don’t start this again. I’m fine, that’s all there is to it.” You were always so vulnerable in Gojo’s company. However, you still would not call him by his first name.

It still had to be professional.

It had to be.

“You forget that I know you better than anyone else. I will start it because you’re always skirting around the subject. Let me in-”

“I don’t want to let you in- I just want you to leave me alone, why can’t you just do that for once?!”

He didn’t mean to shake you but the shoulders the way he did, you knew that. “You know I can’t do that, I just can’t… I’ve told you time and time again that I’m yours. I’ll be yours until I draw my last breath and nothing you do to me will change that.”

You should have been pleased to have someone so dedicated to you. To be in possession of a man who would leap in front of a bullet for you without hesitation. In fact, he had already done so on two separate occasions and suffered greatly for it.

“I’m not asking you to tell me how you feel about me. But I do expect you to tell me how you are feeling. Or I can’t help. Please, let me help.”

Here, right in front of you, was a man who wanted to share his soul with you, going far beyond just work. And knowing how he had felt since the age of twenty years old, you undoubtedly used him, made him suffer for your own foolish pleasure and selfish priorities.

Though no matter how often you tried to let him go, like a fed stray he would always return and find his way home despite how many times you dropped him off at the side of the freeway in a box for someone else to take home.

He always found his way back to you.

Hell, the man broke out of hospital with a fresh stab wound to find you in the endless pouring rain of last year's winter because there was news of a fatal car crash that happened to occur on your route back home. He passed out right in the doorway of your office once he knew you were back safe and dry. 

And you were using him.

“I just need space, Gojo. I feel suffocated with you around all of the time; I just need some time to get my head on straight.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” It was supposed to reassure you, coupled by the way his thumb came up to stroke your cheek and dry away a tear from your cheek you didn’t know was there. “I can’t leave you alone to do this on your own.”

“Why… Why are you still here with me when all I’ve done is be horrible to you? I don’t get it.”

He cupped both your cheeks in his palms, like a husband consoling his exhausted partner. “Nothing you do will ever drive me away. Not the organisation, Suguru or anything your Dad did. No hurtful words will make me feel any differently. Because I will always be yours, to use, to keep, to discard and throw away… But I’ll always come back and let you do it all over again.”

You were barely whispering at this point, the rain came down harder on the tall glass. “Why?”

“Because I’m the only one you can ever trust. I made a vow to keep you safe, Toots. And I’ll keep it.”

It should be noted that this side of Gojo was a side no one ever saw, apart from one other person. But even now, Geto was denied that luxury. The real reason that Gojo stayed was purely because of you. Had you changed your mind and joined Geto, you were sure that the two would join arms again like nothing ever happened.

“I can’t keep doing this, Gojo.”

“I know you can, because I’m here with you. Your Dad believed it too.”

You paid no mind to the comment about your Father. “You don’t have to be, you can go and leave all this behind- find something else to do-”

“I won’t. Don’t even think of that.” His tone was sterner than you were used to. “Why do you keep trying to push me away?”

“I’m so numb to it all!” Pushing away from him did nothing to physically get him away from you. “I’m not cut out for this, and the only thing that keeps me in this position is all the people I can help, but I never wanted this for myself. I wanted to settle down into civilian life but all this bullshit just dragged me back into this cesspit!”

You didn’t react to it at first, Gojo’s lips on yours for a moment before he pulled back, his forehead pressed to yours. “You don’t have to be numb.”

“I don’t know how not to be anymore.”

“Let me help you... I love you so much.”

A shake of your head was enough to convince yourself. “You don’t actually.”

“I do-”

“No you don’t, you think you do but this obsession with me has gone on long enough. It has to stop.” Letting him go was the best thing to do.

“I do, Toots. I do.” He pulled away from you completely, running his fingers through his hair with exasperation, the heavens opening up outside, lighting the entire room up with light.

“What do you want me to do to prove it to you, huh? Go and find Suguru and kill him? Because I will; you know I will because if that makes you happy then I’ll do it. I’ve jumped in front of bullets for you, knives and I’m still here. You want to know why? Because of you. You were the one that kept me goin’ all this time. I love you so much it hurts and I let you use me because if it’s the only way I get to be close to you, then so be it.”

Speechless.

“Every time we fuck, I do everything you ask of me because if fucking you like a one night stand allows me to get close to you then that’s what I’ll do. I want to be with you and I’ll destroy this whole city to the ground and throw Kenjaku into its leftover crater if it meant you would see me as more than just a dog to recall whenever you feel like it. But I take it how it is because it's a compulsion and I will not be apart from you. It’s not going to happen.”

Years of pent up frustration.

“You mean everything. You are everything to this organisation and everything to me. Without you, I have no meaning. The killing, the torture, yeah it’s fun, but only because I do it for you. I never did it for your Dad or the organisation, it was purely for your benefit. And all I ask is that you admit to yourself that you want me too.”

He approached you after minutes of anxiously pacing and took a hold of your hands. “Because I know you feel something towards me. I know it.”

“Gojo… I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“Tell me something, Toots.”

“I… Uh, Well,” What could you say to that?

You wanted someone with that amount of dedication, but as soon as it became more than just casual, Everything would change. What would happen between you and the man that was obsessed with you for the last six years?

A man who gladly killed for you just because someone happened to upset you in passing.

A man who grew incredibly jealous whenever a guest from a neighbouring faction showed you more attention than was technically necessary.

A man that would happily give his life for you just so you wouldn’t feel one ounce of physical pain, where all his was emotional.

A man who was currently exposing his soul to when he had never in this much detail in the past.

“But, what if that doesn’t work out?” You couldn’t let yourself feel, otherwise it would show weakness.

“Nothing will change, if anyone tries to ruin it then I’ll get rid of them.”

“Murder isn’t always the answer.”

“Then what is the answer?” The hint of Gojo’s spearmint toothpaste suspended you over the pit of scalding hot water you wanted nothing more than to tip away down the drain.

Then, he simmered the pit. “I’m yours. But I want you to be mine too.”

Could you give in to a crazed, obsessed man with problematic morals? Submit to the proposition he was displaying right in front of you?

“Gojo…”

“Call me Satoru.”

Did you even have a choice? 

Did rain drip upwards?

No. It seemed like you didn’t. But in this case, being his object of affection led you to have so much power to control him.

You controlled the devil that hell spat back out. And that made you unstoppable.

Saying either name would let him know what you chose.

“Sato-” He took your face and put his lips upon yours, holding you so close unlike anything he had ever done to you before.

Because everyone in the organisation knew you two were fucking. But none dared to question it.

The door remained unlocked, Gojo lifted you up like you were nothing and slumped down on the chaise lounge in the corner of the room by the other corner window. The commotion knocked your teeth together, biting the other’s lips with a feverish moan and pant.

If you couldn’t beat him away, maybe it really was just best to join him.

Your skirt had ridden up over your thighs either side of his lap, hugging him tightly whilst his hands were already finding their way under your blouse. The shock of his chilled fingertips got you jolting under his touch until you adjusted, grinding yourself over his crotch and listening out for the irregularities in his shallow breaths.

It was always a more than pleasurable experience when Gojo fucked you, he knew how to make your body react like a test he’d studied years for and just waited to put it into practice. So much chemistry. So much. Fuck, there was so much chemistry the more you played into the taste of his tongue on yours, moving in such a way you liked having it send tiny little shocks down your spine.

“Be mine.” He said, pawing at your blouse until he cursed and ripped it, sending the buttons flying and pinging against the window. “You’re all I think about. It drives me crazy.” 

“Satoru…”

“Say it.” He massaged your breasts under your lacy bra, making them bulge over the top until he yanked the material down and took your nipple between his lips for a moment. “Say you’re mine, Toots.”

He licked the delicate skin, creased and sensitive in a way that took breath from your lungs. “Satoru. I-”

One quick knock and your office door was opening. “Ma’am? There’s some-”

“Fuck off!” It came out on instinct, without you meaning it, but it got the door shut quickly like you asked.

“Shit.” His cock was hard, it was perfectly grazing your pussy as you kept grinding and rubbing yourself over him, it was obvious how wet you were. You could only imagine the wet patch on his suit trousers when the lights came back on.

Gojo cupped your ass, your nipple still between his teeth. He pulled you closer on him, forcing you to rub yourself on him. Then, he pulled away, his free hand caressing your cheek so that you knew he was serious.

“I love you. I want nothing more than to please you. Let me do it.” The kiss was sweeter than honey. “No one’s gonna ruin you. Not while I exist.”

“Satoru-”

He pulled your hand straight down to his cock. “See how you make me feel? Only you can do that… Please be mine.”

Could you? Realistically, could you be his in some sort of functional relationship after you had seen what kind of bad side he had? The blood, the times he had arrived back to your office covered in so much blood. The times, he had fucked you passionately over your desk covered in that blood.

Would the two of you ever be functional like your Father and Mother were?

“Please baby.” 

Would you?

Could you?

“I’m yours, Satoru.” There, you said it.

By the lightning, it seemed like his pupils dilated, he rushed to get the button of his pants open, fiddling with it as he kissed you, licking your bottom lip as you helped pull at the tight material until it was around his thighs. His cock was free, hard as anything and waiting for you.

“Say it again.”

“I’m yours.” You didn’t want foreplay. Not today.

“Again.” It appeared like he understood that too.

You moved up yourself to get enough room to sit on him, pulling your panties to the side before he even could. His cock was right there.

“I’m your- Fuck! ” Satoru pulled you down to the hilt, holding you there for just a moment, but it wasn’t enough. It was never enough. 

So you moved yourself, riding his cock like your life depended on it, up and down, up and down like true lovers. Was that what you were now?

Satoru would do anything for you. You controlled him and all he asked for in return was your love, to stand at your side until the end of the fucking world, disgusting with crime and filth. You were his bright light and calm amongst the shit and pig headed fools that herded like sheep.

He truly loved you. No one ever did, not even your Father, really. But Satoru did.

“You’re so perfect. I’m gonna take such good care of you.”

“You already do.” Your hands were firm on his shoulders, supporting yourself on his lap whilst he held your hips tight.

Such pent up raw emotions led you to get wound up like a spring, coiled and ready to snap, you were getting so close like never before, almost prematurely just by his cock. You wouldn’t complain or try to stop it.

“Look at me when you come.” Satoru knew. Of course he did, he knew how your body worked like clockwork. “Do it, Toots.”

He cupped your face again and made sure you kept your eyes open. “Come for me, baby.”

It got you clenching around his cock, speechless and dumbstruck with the inflamed passion of it all. He cursed as you watched him, direct eye contact which gave you an overwhelming swell in your chest like you could have cried.

You made sure to hold it in though, taking in breaths while you orgasmed and fell into yourself. “Satoru… I’m yours now.”

“You are.” He kissed you quick, a nip and peck. "Forever."

Maybe now you were ready to rule the little city you were given by loss and hurt. But with Satoru by your side, maybe the two of you could really make a difference and help protect those from the likes of Kenkjaku and Suguru Geto.

It wasn’t like you were going to lose now.

Not with the man hell spat back out. Though it turned out, he wasn’t all that bad.

DISCLAIMER - Crossposted from my AO3 - I do not own any of the characters or anything from the anime. This is a work of fan fiction and is absolutely not representative of the views or intentions of the original creator(s).

Also please don’t post any of my work without permission thank you!

[anythinggoesbutme]

We Were Busy Actually

Jameson Hawthorne x Avery Grambs + Xander Hawthorne

Warnings: Suggestive content, Semi-public makeout, Interrupted twice (by Xander), Light swearing, Banter + chaotic Hawthorne energy, Jameson being handsy in a security room

Disclaimer: nothing Xander says about the games happens

Synopsis: While the world played the grandest game, Avery and Jameson had their own plans. Xander was uninvited. He came anyway.”

Song: “Talk Too Much” — COIN

Word Count: 1,261

Tag List: @anintellectualintellectual @aria-filomena @angelnextdooor @runnningoutofink @saythewordheiress @lyrrrr @laurilovesbooks @sp3ncerre1dsw1fe @joelmillerswifeyyy @hannahcharlie @shestheworst @iheartkars @hwqdbncxowasqebclo @valeriaemerald

There were roughly three hundred thousand more appropriate places to make out than the Hawthorne Island security surveillance room during the second annual Grandest Game.

Unfortunately for literally everyone involved—including one very unlucky third party—Jameson Winchester Hawthorne did not care.

“Aves,” he murmured, voice low and far too pleased with himself as he pressed her into the wall beside the console. His palm bracketed her jaw. “You realize this is a crime. Abandoning your own game.”

“It’s your family’s game,” Avery corrected, her breath catching as his lips brushed her cheek. “I’m just the girl who keeps them out of lawsuits.”

He grinned, all teeth and trouble. “You wound me.”

“You’ll live.” She tilted her chin. “If you stop talking.”

That did it. Jameson surged forward, kissing her like he was the one playing to win—like her mouth was the prize and he was the one losing his mind for it. He made a low noise against her lips, gripping her hips and tugging her forward, her body flush with his.

There was a reason they’d locked the door. And it wasn’t to monitor security feeds.

Somewhere outside, chaos reigned.

Players darted across Hawthorne Island like chess pieces on an oversized board—clues in hand, cameras on, legacy kids plotting alliances and betrayals alike. It was a spectacle of riddles and lies.

Meanwhile, Jameson Hawthorne was kissing Avery Grambs like the world outside didn’t exist. His hands roamed under her sweater, fingers cool on her skin. She made a quiet sound of protest—half-hearted at best—and he only smirked harder.

“We should probably—” she tried.

“Nope,” Jameson said, mouth on her neck. “We absolutely should not.”

“You’re distracting me,” she muttered.

“That’s the point.”

He backed her toward the control panel, one knee slipping between her legs, her back pressing into blinking buttons and active surveillance screens. The entire island played their twisted little game—searching, scheming, sprinting—

And she was here. With him.

Because of course he had led her here. Of course he’d said, Just for a second, Aves, come on, and of course she’d followed.

It was Jameson. She always followed.

Even when he was trouble. Especially then.

Outside, the island played on.

Inside, Avery’s sweater was somewhere near the monitor labeled “South Courtyard.”

“So,” came an obnoxiously familiar voice from the doorway. “Are you two busy, or…”

Jameson froze mid-kiss, groaning loudly into Avery’s shoulder. “You have got to be kidding me.”

Avery’s head dropped back against the wall. “Xander.”

“Hi!” Xander waved with far too much enthusiasm for someone who’d just caught his brother in a very compromising position. “This was locked. I hacked it.”

“I hate you,” Jameson said flatly.

“You say that a lot.” Xander wandered further in, gaze deliberately pointed up, as if pretending not to see Avery trying to subtly reach for her sweater. “It never really sticks.”

“Get. Out.” Jameson’s voice dropped to a growl.

“I would,” Xander said, hopping onto the edge of the desk, “but I have very important game-related information.”

“We don’t care,” Jameson snapped, spinning toward his brother while simultaneously shielding Avery like the gentleman (and menace) he was. “Some of us were in the middle of something.”

“Yes, I noticed,” Xander said brightly. “Believe me. I’m trying so hard to pretend I didn’t. But also—I’m not blind. And I am nosy.”

Avery dragged her sweater over her head, flushed and slightly out of breath, hair askew. “You hacked the security door. In the middle of the Grandest Game.”

Xander shrugged. “It seemed like you two weren’t using the system for anything important.”

“You’re unbelievable,” Jameson muttered, running a hand through his hair like he might combust.

“I’ve been told that,” Xander agreed cheerfully. “Usually by you.”

“What do you want,” Avery asked, climbing off the console.

Xander opened his mouth to reply, but Jameson cut in.

“He wants to ruin my life. That’s it. That’s the whole agenda.”

“I’m just trying to keep you honest,” Xander said. “If Avery’s supposed to be the figurehead of this empire of puzzles, maybe she shouldn’t be making out with her co-conspirator in the one room with access to all the feeds.”

Avery blinked. “Wait, were we recording?”

Jameson turned sharply. “No. No, absolutely not. I triple-checked—”

Xander smirked.

“Xander,” Jameson barked.

“Relax,” he said innocently. “Only the south-facing cameras were live. Though you might want to check camera six. It’s a nice angle.”

“Get out.”

“Rude.”

“Out.”

Xander threw his hands up in surrender and started toward the door—before pausing dramatically in the frame. “Oh, also? Rohan and Savannah just found the second piece. And they may or may not be plotting to frame Lyra for sabotage. So, you know. Do with that what you will.”

Avery straightened. “Are you serious?”

“Always,” he said with a wink. “Unlike Jameson’s pants.”

“GO.”

The door clicked shut behind him.

Jameson turned slowly, running both hands down his face. “I am going to kill him.”

Avery, now slightly more composed but still pink-cheeked, gave him a look. “We were supposed to be checking the northern trail cameras.”

Jameson tilted his head. “In my defense… you were wearing that sweater.”

She blinked. “This one?”

He nodded solemnly. “It’s my kryptonite. Soft. Gray. Vaguely oversized. You might as well have asked me to lose all self-control.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“You love it.”

Unfortunately, she did.

Still, she turned back toward the monitors, scrolling through the north trail feed like she hadn’t just been thoroughly distracted. “We need to keep an eye on Rohan. If he really is planning something—”

Jameson came up behind her again, arms sliding around her waist.

“Jameson.”

“Mmhmm?”

“You’re not helping.”

“I’m not trying to.”

They managed ten whole minutes of productivity. Maybe eleven. Enough to flag a few anomalies, mark possible trap placements, and confirm that Libby was either leading an alliance or laying the groundwork for a dramatic betrayal.

Then Jameson started kissing her shoulder.

“I will unplug the whole system,” she threatened, breath catching.

He hummed, unconvinced. “Do that and we’ll be flying blind.”

“You already are.”

He turned her in his arms. “Aves.”

Her eyes narrowed. “What?”

“You know what happens when you ditch the Grandest Game?”

“What?”

“You play a different game.” His voice dropped. “With me.”

She arched a brow. “You’re not nearly as clever as you think you are.”

“False.” His lips brushed hers. “I’m exactly as clever as I think I am.”

She rolled her eyes, but she didn’t pull away.

The door burst open again.

“I KNOCKED THIS TIME,” Xander shouted, hands over his eyes.

Jameson groaned so hard it might’ve echoed.

“OH MY GOD,” Avery muttered, slamming her hand on the console to mute all feeds.

Xander peeked between his fingers. “Okay, so. I came back because—”

Jameson didn’t let him finish. He launched a pen at his brother’s head.

“Get out before I throw you into the ocean.”

Xander dodged it. “Wow. Violence. That’s mature.”

“Xander,” Avery said warningly.

He grinned. “Fine. I’ll leave you two to your deeply inappropriate security exploits. Just know—if Rohan wins this game, I’m blaming both of you.”

And with a dramatic bow, he vanished.

This time, Jameson locked the door with a code only he knew.

“Avery Grambs,” he said slowly, voice low and teasing.

She eyed him. “Jameson Hawthorne.”

“I believe you owe me one distraction.”

“I owe you? You’re the one who—”

He kissed her again, harder this time.

The camera feeds flickered on behind them, forgotten.

Let the world play its game.

They were busy, actually.

[mangionemuse98]

Luigi's Trial Wardrobe - Moodboard 👔⚖️

Before his trial starts, I would like to volunteer as tribute to style his ass or forward this to his team for when the time comes, for inspo!

I'm talking Brooks Brothers, Ralph Lauren, and J.Crew. But he seems like a sustainable king, so maybe Uniqulo, Pact, Tentree, Suitsupply, and vintage/thrifted pieces. Brands that are timeless, classic, respectful, and court-appropriate, but also aligned with his minimalist, sustainable mindset.

I know many will probably be like, "I doubt he gives a fuck about fashion while fighting for his life" blah blah blah...however, I believe the opposite. Due to the fact that he cared enough to know that those ugly ass argyle socks were going to look absolutely ridiculous with those loafers! He's not completely closed off to fashion. It’s important for him to look his best during trial because, like it or not, courtrooms run on perception as much as they do on facts, and juries, judges, and even the media will make subconscious judgments based on his appearance.

[icwasher]

The thing is, abortion isn't healthcare, it's murder. And while I'll admit that my understanding of the science behind fetal development is lackluster at best, I can say, based on my cursory research, that: a baby's heart begins beating at around five weeks, and by about eight weeks, the majority of the baby's organs and other systems are present. And based on my ninth-grade biology class (which was two years ago, so pardon me if I'm rusty on the details and technical language), when the sperm and egg meet, each with their set of twenty-three chromosomes, a human being is created, with the forty-nine chromosomes that they'll have as a full-grown human.

But I don't base these sorts of opinions on science (not to say that I am a science denier in any way, shape, or form). As a Christian, I try to draw my opinions from the Bible, and it is my belief that the Bible is very clear on when life begins.

Jeremiah 1:5 ESV: “Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, and before you were born I consecrated you; I appointed you a prophet to the nations.”

Psalm 139:16 ESV: "Your eyes saw my unformed substance; in your book were written, every one of them, the days that were formed for me, when as yet there was none of them."

Galatians 1:15 ESV: "But when he who had set me apart before I was born, and who called me by his grace."

Psalm 139:13 ESV: "For you formed my inward parts; you knitted me together in my mother's womb."

Job 31:15 ESV: "Did not he who made me in the womb make him? And did not one fashion us in the womb?"

Luke 1:41 ESV: "And when Elizabeth heard the greeting of Mary, the baby leaped in her womb."

God knew us before we were even a thought in our parents' minds, he purposefully wove us together while we were in our mothers' wombs, and he made us to be followers of Him before we were conceived. We were his children from the very beginning of time, and that does not change just because of the danger a pregnancy might pose, or

Historically, the early church vehemently opposed abortion, which was incredibly popular in Roman times (in addition to infanticide). In the Letter of Barnabas 19.5 (c. A.D. 130), an early Christian text that, while non-canonical, was an important piece of Christian literature at the time, it says, "You shall not abort a child nor, again, commit infanticide.”

Additionally, Hebrew moral frameworks prohibited abortion, citing the “sanctity of human life”, which argued that unborn babies had human souls and were thus His creation and considered human beings, as is evident in the Bible verses provided above. These beliefs were in stark contrast to Roman laws, which both sanctioned and encouraged abortion and infanticide.

As for your point about abortion being healthcare, according to research done by the Lozier Institute in 2022 (and updated in 2024), only 0.3% of abortions were done because of major health concerns. The full results were these:

Rape and incest: 0.4%

Risk to the woman’s life or a major bodily function: 0.3%

Other physical health concerns: 2.2%

Abnormality in the unborn baby: 1.2%

Elective and unspecified reasons: 95.9%

Most abortions are done as a form of birth control, whether for economic or personal reasons, according to the Lozier Institute.

The National Library of Medicine, as well, has done research into the reasons why women get abortions. Below is a table of their findings.

So, for the most part, women who get abortions do not do so for health-related reasons. Most of these cases, in fact, are entirely preventable, either through abstinence (the safest method) or through contraceptives. As for the economic factors, it is tragic that many women cannot afford to have children, but that does not excuse murdering an innocent human. And I agree with you --- we should provide more care for women in these situations. There should be roads to take other than murder, and there are. Adoption is always an option, and there are many more families seeking to adopt than there are babies up for adoption, so it is a distinct possibility that the child would go to a loving family who could care for them. But adoption shouldn't have to be the only other option. There should be financial and medical support, but the solution to these problems is not murder.

While I don't understand why we're discussing organ donation, yes, it is an amazing thing to donate an organ. And yes, no one should be forced to do that; we are in agreement there.

But your last point is one that I must strongly disagree with. No, it is not better to end a life based on the potential of suffering. There will always be suffering in life. That is a product of the Fall, and until Jesus returns, it will continue to be a reality. We are called to alleviate that suffering, yes, but nowhere in the Bible does it say that the solution is murder.

I am assuming that you are referring to the life of the child with your final point, to which I have this: when it comes to children with disabilities, we are called to care for those people, not harm them. If someone is suffering, you wouldn't suggest that they kill themselves, would you? So then why would you kill someone else just because they might have a miserable life?

Historically, the Church has always been against neglecting those with disabilities, particularly children. During the time of the early Church, infanticide ran rampant, with many people abandoning their children if they showed proof of a disability. This was not only allowed, but encouraged (which I mentioned above). In response to this, the Church overwhelmingly took in the abandoned babies and raised and cared for them. While not abortion, the principle still applies, since an unborn baby is still a person.

Additionally, as Christians, we are called to help those with disabilities.

Leviticus 19:14: "You shall not curse the deaf or put a stumbling block before the blind, but you shall fear your God: I am the Lord."

Proverbs 31:8-9: "Open your mouth for the mute, for the rights of all who are destitute. Open your mouth, judge righteously, defend the rights of the poor and needy."

Psalm 82:3: "Defend the cause of the weak and fatherless; maintain the rights of the poor and oppressed."

Luke 14:13-14: But when you give a banquet, invite the poor, the crippled, the lame, the blind, and you will be blessed. Although they cannot repay you, you will be repaid at the resurrection of the righteous.”

And suffering, too, is temporary, meant to be used to glorify God.

Romans 8:18: "I consider that our present sufferings are not worth comparing with the glory that will be revealed in us."

John 9:1-3: "As he went along, he saw a man blind from birth. His disciples asked him, 'Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?' 'Neither this man nor his parents sinned,' said Jesus, 'but this happened so that the work of God might be displayed in his life'."

So, no, it is not "better to let someone die sooner with less pain than to do everything possible to extend life if it can only cause suffering".

Not gonna actually answer this ask, obviously, but like, no??? He wouldn't??? And like, I'm okay with people disagreeing with me, but at least do it civilly, y'know?

[comesatimecomesashadow]

can u write capitano x depressed reader 😛😛😛

reasons, they repulse you now *ೃ༄

pairing *ೃ༄ il capitano / gn reader

fic type *ೃ༄ headcanons, comfort fic

cw *ೃ༄ mentions/descriptions of depression, reader is depressed, mentions of self-harm, mentions of dark thoughts, let me know if I missed anything !

summary *ೃ༄ how capitano takes care of you when you feel at your worst.

note *ೃ༄ ive gotten about two requests back-to-back about (insert character) x depressed reader and i'm glad that you guys feel comfortable enough to allow me to write these pieces that comfort so many different people; remember to take care of yourself + get sunlight and drink lots of water, for we are nothing if not fragile plants hehe <3

masterlist *ೃ༄

ᡣ𐭩 . . Capitano is all too familiar with the torment of the human mind, despite not being human anymore. He, who constantly hears the broken souls of his comrades, is no stranger to the perils of depression. He’s lost much in his life but despite this, He moves forward and focuses on his goals, not giving in to the darkness that surrounds him. Capitano doesn’t blame you for your troubles and instead seeks to take care of you, since that’s what you need most. 

ᡣ𐭩 . . Capitano personally bathes you himself if you cannot bring yourself to emerge from the comfortable mattress of his king-sized bed. He makes sure to lather your skin in your favorite scents; Lavender, Vanilla, Cinnamon- whatever it is that you like most, you better believe he’ll have a body-scrub and lotion in those scents prepared just for you. It isn’t some sexual thing, but rather a moment of tenderness that transcends the typical intimacy between two beings who hold great affection for one another. 

“Is this alright? Please, tell me if I hurt you.” because in his most tender moments, he is afraid of harming you, even if he treats you as if you were made of glass. 

ᡣ𐭩 . . Capitano is nothing if not committed to the act of caring for you when your episodes get particularly bad. He understands if your appetite decreases but tries to eat together with you more often to aid in it. The man knows he can’t magically take it away —though he wishes he could— so he resorts to physically being there more than usual, hoping that his presence can comfort you even if it’s only for a moment. 

ᡣ𐭩 . . If you tend to binge-eat when you’re depressed, he makes sure to prepare your most desired sweets; He’ll import anything from Mondstadt or Inazuma if it’d bring a soft smile to your face. However, Capitano still wants you to take care of yourself, so he doesn’t allow you to binge eat so often that it could be a damage to your overall wellbeing. Humans are fragile and he knows this from experience. 

ᡣ𐭩 . .  If it’s the seasonal type of depression, he’ll offer to take you with him on his expeditions to Natlan for the meantime; He knows it can get lonely in the wintry lands of Snezhnaya, where the estate is located, so he takes you with him and allows you to run freely among the warmth of the nation where the sun always shines and the nights are fresh instead of biting cold. He spends as much time as he can with you there; Taking you out to try Natlan’s various savoury dishes or admiring the local flora, whatever makes you happy and lifts the weight off of your shoulders. 

ᡣ𐭩 . . However, if your episodes are more debilitating, he makes sure the housekeepers and attendants are more aware of your condition; The last thing he wants is for you to get hurt or hurt yourself. If you tend to self-harm to alleviate the stresses of your condition, he’s making sure there aren’t any sharp objects or other objects you could use to harm yourself. Capitano understands where you’re coming from, but the last thing he’d do is allow you to inflict such pain on yourself. 

ᡣ𐭩 . . If you have scars from previous self-harming, Capitano handles it with care. He, too, has scars. The only difference is that the two of you got them as a result from fighting two different battles. Whereas he fought to save his people, you’re fighting to find a reason to keep breathing. He thinks you’re strong and he lets you know this when he whispers it into your ears at nightfall; When your limbs are entangled with one another and it’s only you and him, he kisses your scars and believes you to be a divine woman, regardless of the marks on your wrists, arms or thighs. 

ᡣ𐭩 . . When you express the dark thoughts you often harbor at this time, he doesn’t ostracize you for it. Instead, he listens to you speak your mind. Dark thoughts surrounding yourself or others are met with acceptance; Capitano doesn’t make you feel guilty or as if you’re a burden —no, he only handles you with the utmost care and makes sure that others do the same. Anyone caught putting unnecessary pressure on you will have to deal with the consequences. 

ᡣ𐭩 . . If you decide that you need to speak to a professional to get better, he is more than ready to provide you with a therapist. He checks up on you before and after your sessions to make sure that your therapist is treating you well and that you’re walking slowly towards your goals.

ᡣ𐭩 . . He understands if all you want to do is lay with him in bed; Capitano wouldn’t mind taking a few days off and the Tsaritsa is more than happy to let the strongest of her harbingers take a break to tend to his lover. On those days, he tasks himself with taking care of you instead of letting the attendants and housekeepers do it. He’s happy with spending a quiet day with you and letting you know he cares just by existing alongside you. 

ᡣ𐭩 . . He’ll read books to you until you fall asleep because he’s old-fashioned in that sense. He’ll let you play with his hair, hell- he’ll even let you trace his scars if it means you’ll feel a little better than the depression you were dwelling in right now. Capitano knows that he cannot fix your mind with his bare hands, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t at least try to make you more comfortable in times like this. 

[favsmph]

❝CHAPTER ONE-Someone who couldn’t touch ❞

No one would suspect a beautiful and well-dressed woman in an important room.

I wall as if I were the owner of the place - and, from the eyes of others, they were sure I was.

She wore a jacket and a white dress with high heels.

At the reception, the woman was talking on the phone, looking too busy to notice me. But when she looked into my eyes... the magic happened:

"She will find my name on the meeting list, she will say that her boss is waiting for me and that I can go up."

The receptionist smiles when she comes out of the trance:

- Hello, Miss Olivia Rodrigo. Mr. Mattheus is waiting for you. Go up to 50º. - She smiles, friendly.

She had no idea what was about to happen - and maybe even lose her job because of that.

- Thank you, miss... - I look at her badge and smile - Swift.

I give a gentle smile. Mr. Mattheus doesn't know me. Neither do I to him.

I calmly go to the elevator and enter.

When Mr. Mattheus sees me, he sees something that is not real: an old friend who sold him a rare piece of art. And I'm here to collect the small debt of 100 million Dolores

He smiled at me as if he had made a great deal.

- We made a great deal, Miss Rodrigo. I hope to see you soon.

I hope I never see you again, you big-bellied old man who was looking at my neckline all the time.

- I hope so too, Mr. Mattheus. It's a pleasure to do business with you. - I give my best smile.

He signs the papers. Transfer the money to a ghost account of mine and still give me a Black card.

Smiling, he accompanies me to the elevator.

- See you later, miss. I'll always remember you. - I nod.

- Oh, of course you will, sir. - My tone is ironic.

So, when the doors close, he doesn't remember me anymore. I'm just a black smoke in your mind.

At the reception, no one else remembers me - including the kind receptionist.

And when he notices that the money has disappeared from the bank account... there will be no possible explanation for the mortals.

I really didn't need that money. I had everything I wanted.

But I loved taking money from billionaires.

Walking out of the luxurious building, with my duplicate bank account, I felt happy to have stolen an old man who stole his own company - and he still thanked me.

On the sidewalk, a black Bentley was waiting for me. My trusted driver was waiting for me.

I walk calmly to him, but someone bumps into me hard. I almost fell, but with the same speed that hit me, the person holds me, preventing my fall.

The hand on my waist prevents me from falling. When I look at his face, something transforms inside me.

He was different. He looked like a vampire from the Twilight saga, but certainly much more beautiful: especially black, pale face, and those eyes... glacial blue.

- You don't look where you're going, do you? - But before I can say anything else, he disappears as fast as he arrived.

In this world there are only crazy people.

I go back to what I was doing, get in the car and, for the first time in my life, I felt different to the touch of a man.

ִֶָ. . 𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐

The London night was different. That's why I love this city.

The lights of the luxurious clothing showcases passed like a blur through the window. Everyone was on the streets, enjoying their youth, drinking and using any kind of narcotics to escape the mediocre reality in which they live.

- Miss, we arrived at Annabel's. - I get out of my thoughts with the voice of my driver, Noah.

- I already told you, Noah, to stop calling me miss. - I give a friendly smile.

- You're old enough to be my daughter... and my boss. - I let out a laugh.

I'm 100 years old. I would never be his daughter. But I let him think so.

- But I'm not. So you can call me Lira. What have we been working together? Six years? It's past time to call me by name. - He lets out a sincere laugh.

- Okay, okay, sir... Lira. - He looks at me, sees my ugly face and corrects himself.

- Thank you for leaving me here. You're released from service, Noah.

- Thank you, Lira.

I get out of the car, going through the entire waiting line. Some give me hateful looks - but that never bothered me.

The receptionist doesn't even ask my name. She knows. Everyone there knew I had a reserved table. Always.

The same as always. The food was amazing, but today... it didn't taste like anything.

I decide to walk back home, instead of wasting time with a taxi.

On the way, I see couples hugging, friends laughing, groups uniting.

The only thing my imagination could never create were people who really loved me - not because they were being manipulated, but because they loved me for who I am.

Closer to home, I feel something strange. Something is different in the air.

And I'm not talking about the stent of garbage.

It was the feeling of being watched.

But this time it wasn't an accident. It wasn't a coincidence.

He was there.

The same look. Staring at me deeply, as if he knew all my secrets.

Stood under a lamppost.

But now... he didn't run.

He was waiting for me.

- You again? Can I say you're following me? - He said in an ironic tone, walking towards him.

Someone could call me crazy for challenging a man in the dark.

But something inside me said he wouldn't hurt me.

- Or can I say that you are following me? I'll think it's persecution, doll. - I'll get closer.

I wanted to do something against him. Maybe make him bleed to death. Or steal that beautiful ring.

But nothing seemed to work. And that frustrated me.

- Who are you? - I asked, direct.

- I want to know what you are. - His gaze didn't move away from mine for a second. - Why am I always coming back to you? What did you do, witch?

I was amazed. Witch?

The laughter escaped. How did he know I had magic?

But there, in front of him, I couldn't confront him. My legs seemed to lose their strength. My brain turned into jelly.

The world would stop.

It was just the two of us, in an invisible thread between his gaze and mine.

"Why am I always coming back to you? What did you do, witch?"

Witch.

I smile, but the smile doesn't reach my eyes.

- Funny... you call me a witch, but you're the first not to fall for my charms. Maybe I should ask... what are you?

There was something wrong with him.

His gaze was so deep that it gave me an absurd desire to pee.

To disguise it, I smiled again.

- I'm someone who shouldn't be seen by you. But even so, you see me.

- You pull me. Even when I try, in every way, to come back.

He spoke more to himself than to me. What made me even more confused.

- Pull you? - I give a sincere laugh, for the first time in the night. - You're not my type. It will never be.

He hesitates. And, for the first time, he looks away from mine.

For a moment.

- Then say what you want. - Anger begins to grow. - Do you want my number? Is it some kind of stalker?

- I want you to take that away from me. Any kind of magic he put on. - His eyes were shining. But not of love. Of fury.

- Didn't you hear what I just said? My powers don't work with you. Then turn around.

- And if you show up in front of me again, I swear I'll find a way to kill you, Edward from Twilight.

And, for the first time in the night, he smiles.

That only makes my hatred worse.

He remains silent. Observing. Watching me explode.

- You should look for a psychiatrist. You need it urgently. - I smile, sharp, passing by him.

- You talk as if you controlled everything... but you still sleep with the light on, afraid of the nightmares coming back.

- That's what pulls me to you.

My step fails. I stop.

I turn around.

- What are you talking about?

- You pull me... even while you sleep, witch.

If you have reached the end of the chapter please like and comment this increases my creativity✨

It has spelling mistakes

English is not my language so if you have doubts about something ask

[hbosscreations]

My Deepest Apologies for the Long Winded Rant about Hellblazer 2019 and Dead in America

@lazilyambitious23 I will be including a big ol' picture of Noah between the two segments, if you decide you'd like to remain unspoiled for the 2019 run, skip to the picture under the cut after this paragraph.

I would like to begin this long winded overview of Hellblazer 2019 and Dead in America by firmly stating that I am biased. I currently have written more than half of the Noah Ikumelo fanfiction on AO3, I've commissioned several pieces of art about him (if you include donations to DC Gatcha for Gaza and I'm going to since it feels dishonest not to). I made him a custom pop vinyl, which is the extent of my artistic abilities. Jesncin at one point joked that I am Noah Ikumelo's Number One Fan and I think they might be right.

Hellblazer 2019 opens with a DC main universe John Constantine living through an apocalypse currently in motion. It's lovingly drawn in Eldritch horror and we see that it's a direct tie-in to Books of Magic. I'll spare you too much in the way of spoilers as this is mostly a vehicle to separate Rebirth John from Black Label John, but he is confronted with an older, happier version of himself who agrees to save John's life and send John ‘somewhere he's needed’ in return for his soul. 

And the only thing he wants is for John to be ‘The Best Version Of You’.

John wakes up having been punted through the multiverse into a low magic setting where there are basically no OG characters and no DC mainline characters. He seals away his memories so that he has a version of himself that makes sense and settles back into London where we meet our new cast of characters.

Spurrier does a FANTASTIC job of introducing them to us and giving us an idea of who they are supposed to parallel. It feels very easy to allow your biases to slot them into perfect, easy little shapes, like a children’s toy.

Nat (we are not given her actual name, Natalie Colquhoun, until issue 10 of Dead in America), the sexy alt girl bouncer at John's new favorite bar is an obvious love interest. She's funny, flirty, willing to fight, and firmly lays down that she's not going to fuck John. We love Nat, because she’s great, and while she gets very little panel time, the times we do see her she’s full of personality and we get the impression that she’s a growing part of John’s life and will be significantly more important in future runs.

Tommy Willowtree, a young, eager man who holds all the world's responsibility for John and genuinely thinks the best of him before they’ve even met. Tommy is a character that’s all eager elbows and a desire to help, he’s clumsy and sweet and sincere and he’s everything John wishes he was. He’s a point of jealousy for John, a younger, more likable, and arguably more handsome. He’s GOOD, but in need of guidance, and you can tell he’s someone John can safely rely on.

Noah Ikumelo, is a 16 year old disabled Black gang initiate who's in over his head, he’s a good egg under all his tragedy, is very clearly supposed to be a stand in for Chas. Trapped by a monster he can’t break free of alone, and becomes indebted to John when John steps in. John even makes the parallel himself, telling Noah about his mate who used to drive him around ‘out of the goodness of his heart’, to make Noah his driver for the rest of the run.

Hellblazer 2019 isn't afraid to confront hard topics, such as The Favorite which parallels the real world story about one of the Queen's sons having sex with barely legal girls and allegedly coercing them and their families into silence. It showcases racism, sexism, and cruelty. It's also very funny in some places and takes pleasure in punishing the guilty. It covers themes of death, family, motherhood, legacy, what we owe to each other, and while it’s cut short, I feel like it does a fine job of laying the groundwork for a sequel where you can expand on the themes. 

It feels like a very straightforward story, right until the end when it flips all our preconceived notions on their heads. 

Nat is not Epiphany or Kit. She’s not a love interest, saying no until she’s worn down to say yes. She’s Chas, coming in to fight John’s battles and clean John's messes up at her own expense. She kills for him, she resuscitates him, she loses her whole life because she dared to hook herself to John as his friend.

Tommy isn't Tim Hunter the mentee, he's Gary Lester, someone who came to John for help and was betrayed, because of his own nativity and carelessness. He’s Gary or any one of the sacrificial lambs John has loved and lost over the years out of cowardice or desperation or just a lack of other options. He’s not John’s future, he’s John’s failure.

Vestibulan, previously unmentioned, even makes a nice parallel to Ritchie Simpson, an angel trapped in a computer, dragged out of cyberspace and into Hell, as opposed to a human trapped in cyberspace dragged into Hell, both in thanks to John’s lack of attention and care for their safety. His willingness to put them in danger cost them both dearly.

And Noah? 

Noah is John. A young John who had to do terrible things for the very first time, who had to choose between his friend and the world. He’s John and he’s John’s legacy. Because yes, the big twist in this whole story that has had themes of parenthood, legacy, and being a better version of yourself for other people, is that Noah is John’s son. There’s even a parallel between John and Noah and Thomas and John in that Noah and John are both sons blamed for their mother’s deaths (though in Noah’s case the blame is entirely through flashbacks only the audience can see), when it was really the fathers who were responsible. 

History repeats itself as tragedy strikes in the next generation. As John killed Gary, Noah kills Tommy.

Nat helps resuscitate John while Noah is near catatonic with grief over the decision he's made and they run into the night with John’s last thoughts being that he cannot feel his heartbeat. 

I LOVED Hellblazer 2019. Is it a perfect comic? Absolutely not, but you can see the work that went into it. You can see the puzzle pieces and the setup for the future. You can see that there was something truly good under the surface, waiting for it's chance. This is a step in a different direction for John, he hasn’t been the every man for decades at this point, and if they don’t want to wreck his timeline by ageing him down, John needs a cast that can serve as that modern touchstone. I genuinely believed when 2019 ended that we were going to see a shift in the writing, that John would move into a more mentorship role, balancing between wanting to share HIS LEGACY with his son and being afraid of that magical legacy that takes and takes.

As he says, the price is always higher than the prize.

So, what does any of this have to do with Dead in America? Why did I spend over 1000 words talking about a different story than the one I keep talking about?

Dead in America takes places a few weeks after Hellblazer 2019 ends, in fact, the time jump is exactly however long it takes for a ship to go from England to Florida. This is a direct continuation of Hellblazer 2019 and we are told as such in issue 1 and it is reinforced in issue 10. This is still 2019 or 2020 depending on what time of year the 2019 run takes place in.

None of the themes or major plot beats transfer over. Legacy is completely forgotten, John no longer needs to worry about being a better version of himself for himself or the people around him, he hardly remembers that Noah is his son and the narrative basically drops it after issue 1, touches it briefly in issue 4 and then does not touch it again until issue 10. 

The new story is NOT about John trying to resurrect himself or save Noah from going to Hell, like issue 1 flat out states are the stakes at hand. No, the story is about Dream from Sandman being mad at John for stealing his bag of sand. This is a sticking point for me, because there’s NO WAY that John would have been the kind of person Dream claims he is during the OG run. The timeline doesn’t match, he doesn’t have the anger and nihilism to behave the way Dream says he did at the time he would have supposedly done it. But that doesn’t matter, because we’re in an alternate universe where…I guess John did, because he doesn’t say ‘that’s not how it happened’. 

There’s also a lovely moment in John’s dream when he starts signing like Noah does and realizes immediately that he’s dreaming, because no self respecting able bodied person would ever use sign language…even if their child is disabled and signing, and you are perfectly fluent enough in sign language to have a conversation with him with absolutely no mistakes. 

What is the plot?

Well, they bounce from location to location in what should be a monster of the week style setup but just falls flat over and over. They go about gathering single grains of sand for a few issues until the narrative goes ‘oh, this is kind of stupid, isn’t it?’, then John gets kidnapped by a serial killer ghost, fucks him (happy pride) and find all but one grain of sand. There’s a story about a racist white guy who murders a woman trying to cross the border and how we should feel bad for him because his life was hard and being racist gave him meaning. There’s a story about a bunch of boys who rape a teenage girl and she’s a literal prop without agency or even a name, that’s also the issue where John makes his disabled son pretend to be so mentally handicapped that he pisses himself, for no reason other than kicks. There’s the issue where Noah is worried about being assaulted by cops AGAIN and John tells him ‘you’re mute, just pretend you’re dumb too’, and then Noah is assaulted by a police officer on the next page. Then John goes to Hell and meets Etrigan in a perfectly useless issue that is a complete waste of space and does nothing for the story, remember, this run was supposed to be 8 issues and became 11. Then there’s another racist white guy story about how we should feel bad for racist white guys, because they’re stupid and they don’t know better. The true villain is some Hollywood producer! Oh wait, the real villain are three Furies who’ve been pointlessly following John around and doing literally nothing for 10 whole issues!

And now we’re at the ending, issue 11. And it’s STUPID. John basically goes ‘haha, I tricked you, you made me murder my son, but that’s rude, so now you have to make him alive again!’ which…may make more sense in the issue, but I refuse to touch it again. I didn’t buy it, I will not pay for it, and I have no interest. 

Oh, we have to deal with the whole ‘John’s a rotting corpse thing, don’t we?’ So he spontaneously shrivels into nothing, Noah’s mutism is cured, Swamp Thing carries John into the ocean, he has a dream about Death in a bar where John somehow cheats Death despite his corpse having SPONTANEOUSLY SHRIVELED INTO NOTHING AND BEING DUMPED IN THE OCEAN.

Then it’s done. That’s the end of Dead in America.

The story is nonsense and you can tell that the ending is rushed, despite getting an extra three issues. Spurrier had no plan, and it shows. He had a beginning that’s actually fairly solid, some plot beats he wanted to hit, and a vague idea of an ending. The writing is BAD. The story is BAD. The characterization is BAD.

I could go on forever in the sexism in Nat’s character, how she’s gone from practical boots and pants to a miniskirt and fishnets despite being on a months long cross country road trip in a bus with no bathroom. How the joke of ‘I’ll not fuck ye, John’ became ‘let’s have Noah sexually harass Nat in sign language, because she still can’t understand him despite having no one to talk to but John and Noah for MONTHS’. How she went from a solid partner in crime to a stupid sex object that does literally nothing useful for the entirety of the run and exists solely to be looked at by the audience. 

I could go into detail about each issue, listing pros and cons, what worked and what didn’t, but in honesty, the whole thing is a slog. TWO WHOLE ISSUES are dedicated to telling the stories of racist white men instead of following the overarching plot. Over half of the run could be cut and you wouldn’t miss anything important, not plot, not character development, not world-building.

The art for Dead in America is LAZY. There are panels where he's clearly traced Matt Ryan from the tv show, shots that look like filtered photoshop, and the red, green, and blue color washes are even worse than in 2019. Campbell didn’t attempt to make Noah look like Noah from the previous version despite Nat and Noah looking exactly the same, still didn’t bother to try and make him look like a child, and in looking through it for panels to attempt to redraw I found MULTIPLE copy pastes of Noah specifically where I could not find any for ANYONE else. Not Nat or John or any other characters, just Noah. So, Campbell not only can’t draw Black people, he can’t be BOTHERED to draw Noah.

But you know what? I could get over all of this. I’d call it a terrible run, one I couldn't recommend, but I’m a completionist, so I’d say you might want to read it just for the sake of having done it. I’d still say it’s definitely more racist than talking about racism, it’s ableist, it’s sexist, and yes it’s even homophobic.

But you could argue that there are worse runs. You might even be right.

No, what makes this worst for me, and why I was sure to make my biases clear at the beginning, is that issue 10 starts with Spurrier rewriting Noah’s backstory and culminates in a depiction of his murder that’s nearly masturbatory.

Noah goes from living with his grandmother to having been in foster care since his mother’s coma, he’s victimized and brutalized by police while John watches and does nothing because this is part of his plan. We learn that Noah’s girlfriend introduced in the issue before has had her mind altered by Noah and the next panel shows them having sex, narratively implying that he’s altered her mind so that she will have sex with him. He is shown the ‘corpse’ of said girlfriend, who we just then find out has his mother’s name in a lazy bit of writing (she’s Liz and his mother is Liza).

Then John bludgeons him to death with a fire extinguisher.

And we’re supposed to LOVE how gruesome it is. If you look at the panels of Noah’s dead body, it’s so painstakingly detailed that we watch the color fade from his eyes. It’s grotesque, and we’re supposed to FEEL it. It’s the most effort Campbell has put into Noah in the entire run. His pose is the most detailed, deliberate, dynamic, and interesting he’s had in 10 issues of the comic.

We get to watch John beat a 16 year old boy to death that we have just been told John loves more than himself. Oh, John’s being FORCED to do it, but in 2024, we watch a white man take a fire extinguisher and BEAT A 16 YEAR OLD, DISABLED BLACK TEENAGER TO DEATH IN AMERICA. I need that to sink in, because Spurrier certainly didn't consider the implications of John committing what looks like a vicious hate crime.

It’s the biggest panel of Noah. It’s the ‘best’ panel of him. 

And it made me sick.

Spurrier forgot that Noah is a 16 year old boy. To be fair, Aaron Campbell never drew him that way even in 2019 he looked like a 30+ year old man. It’s easy to forget that the character you created is still a child, I guess.

And then there’s a whirlwind of John’s body desiccating in a matter of minutes it seems to the audience, no time to reflect, no time to process, just ressurect Noah, give him the voice of a dead woman so he's not broken and useless anymore, and then we toss John’s body into the ocean. 

The end.

What are the themes of Dead in America? Americans are racist, but we should feel bad for them because they aren’t smart enough to know it’s wrong. Disabled people are barely human. Women exist to be fucked and forgotten. 

John doesn’t have to be smart, he just has to have the writer on his side. John doesn’t have to be likable, he’s likable because he’s John. Stories don’t need plot or resolution or even motivation. 

It’s bad. It’s bad in ways I cannot explain without going through every single issue and I just…I’m so tired. It doesn't utilize the setting in any meaningful way, it doesn't have a story to tell that makes it make more sense in America, it doesn't really have a story to tell at all. For every kind of good thing there are fifty terrible things to deal with.

I didn’t get into any of the subtle stuff, like people constantly refusing to look at Noah while he signs, meaning that in a real world sense, he'd be utterly voiceless on top of being isolated in a country where literally no one speaks his language. He's utterly dependent on John and Nat and they constantly call him stupid and treat him as less than.

Am I saying Americans aren’t racist? Of course I’m not, but if Spurrier wanted to tell a story about racism, why is John the main character? Why is everything that happens so peripheral and pointless? 

The story, for all that it’s ‘about’ racism, isn’t about racism. It’s Spurrier gleefully pointing at the US and saying ‘we’re not racist! Look at them! They’re racist!’, which…baffles me. I’ve said a few times to other people that I think Spurrier was called out for something in the time between 2019 and Dead in America, because the man’s politics and writing seem to have really shifted. Or maybe he was always a bad writer and he had someone behind the scenes cleaning his messes up in 2019 and 2020 that decided not to do it in 2024.

Long story long, Dead in America is a tonal deviation from what we got before, the addition of unquestioned racism, sexism, ableism, homophobia, the constant additions of themes of rape and sexual assault, and the repeated brutalization of the only Black character in the entire run, and John being a complete and utter boring bastard made this a deeply unpleasant story to read. 0/10, I will not be completing my collection, I will not purchase anything Spurrier ever writes again, and I will not be purchasing anything Campbell ever draws again.