#literally gonna be here for the rest of the evening

[cei1ne]

—MHA men reaction to you asking them to step out so you can change!

დ .*”Summary: You ask your husband/boyfriends/fiancé to step out so you can change and their reactions are to say... quite funny.

༒ღ༻Pairing: Shoto Todoroki ; f!reader x Enji Todoroki x f!reader ; Aizawa Shouta x f!reader ; Takami Keigo x f!reader

༺˚₊➳ Tags: Cute; Funny; Prank; irritation; MHA; Couple

࿔₊•＊*Word-count: 8k?

*•̩̩͙✩˚A/N: Okay guys here’s part two! You ask and you shall receive or whatever. Anyways I’m half asleep already so you better enjoy cause I forced myself to stay awake. Yeahh enjoy babes xx

Part 1!!

⑅୨୧⑅*⑅୨୧⑅*⑅୨୧⑅*⑅୨୧⑅*⑅୨୧⑅*⑅୨୧⑅*

Shoto Todoroki — “You Want Me to Leave?”

You didn’t usually mess with Shoto.

Not because you couldn’t — he was your boyfriend, not a porcelain doll — but because he was usually the one leaving you flustered with his bluntness, quiet observations, and tendency to walk around shirtless after morning showers like it was no big deal.

But today? You were going to get him back.

The apartment was quiet, filled with soft sunlight. Shoto was sitting on the edge of the bed, one socked foot on the ground, the other resting across his knee as he scrolled through messages from the agency. His white-and-red hair was still slightly tousled from his post-shower routine, and the edge of a smile played at his lips as he absentmindedly read through the group chat he barely replied to.

You stood in front of the dresser, digging for comfy clothes, clad in just his oversized shirt and a pair of shorts that were hidden by the hem.

It was the perfect setup.

You turned, keeping your tone even. “Sho? Can you step out for a second? I’m gonna change.”

He didn’t even look up. “I don’t mind.”

You blinked. “I know, but I do. Just for now. Please?”

That got his attention.

His phone lowered slowly. His two-toned eyes flicked to your face, then down to your outfit, and back up again with clear confusion.

“…You want me to leave the room?”

You nodded, biting your lip to keep a straight face. “Just while I change.”

His brows furrowed slightly. “But… I’ve seen you change a hundred times.”

You shrugged. “Still. I want privacy.”

There was a beat of silence.

Shoto blinked. Once.

Then again.

“…Are you mad at me?”

You had to fight every urge to not crack right then. “No! I just… want to change alone.”

Now he looked genuinely concerned. “Did I do something?”

“No. It’s not about you.”

“Then why—”

You sighed dramatically. “Sho, just please step out for a second.”

He stood slowly, frowning, clearly puzzled. “If you’re upset, I’d rather talk about it.”

“I’m not.”

“You’ve never been shy before. You’ve literally sat on my lap while in nothing but a thong.”

“Well, maybe I changed.”

A beat.

“You’re lying.”

You froze, staring at him with mock offense. “What?”

He tilted his head just slightly, watching you like a puzzle he was trying to solve. “You’re messing with me.”

“I am not.”

“You are. Your eyes twitch when you lie.”

You smothered a laugh behind your hand.

“I knew it.” He stepped closer, arms crossed loosely. “You’re pulling something.”

“Damn it,” you muttered, grinning.

He smiled faintly, proud of himself for catching on. “You forget I live with you.”

“So you’re not going to fall for it?”

“I didn’t say that.” He raised an eyebrow, voice smooth. “I just want to know why you felt the need to prank me. I’ve been very good today.”

“You left wet towels on the bathroom floor.”

“…That was a strategic oversight.”

You giggled, but he stepped closer, tilting his head with curiosity.

“Was it payback for when I accidentally walked in on you last week?”

“You didn’t even flinch. You just said ‘nice’ and walked out.”

“It was nice,” he said, deadpan.

You laughed, cheeks heating.

He stopped in front of you now, arms resting gently on either side of your waist, his touch warm even through the shirt.

“You’re really cute when you lie,” he murmured. “But not very convincing.”

“I had you going for a second.”

“Two seconds. Maybe.”

His thumbs traced slow, absent-minded circles at your hips. “But… for the record…”

You looked up, caught off guard by the faint blush rising to his ears.

“If you ever did want me to leave… I’d probably just wait outside the door. Quietly. Staring at the floor.”

You blinked. “That’s… weirdly adorable.”

“I don’t like the idea of you hiding from me.”

“It wouldn’t be hiding.”

“It would feel like it.”

You softened. “Sho…”

“I know it’s stupid,” he added quickly, letting out a quiet breath. “But I like knowing I can be close to you. That you trust me. That you want me there.”

Your hand found his cheek gently, brushing his bangs aside.

“I do,” you said. “I always do.”

“Then don’t prank me again,” he mumbled, almost pouty now. “You looked serious. I thought I messed up.”

You wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him close. “I’m sorry.”

He hummed. “You can make it up to me.”

“Oh? How?”

He leaned down, his mouth brushing your ear.

“Let me help you change.”

Your face burned. “Shoto—!”

He smiled, just a little smug now. “What? It’s the least you can do.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m yours.”

“Fine. But I pick the music this time.”

He nodded, leading you toward the closet. “As long as it’s not the glitter song.”

“Sho—”

“No glitter song.”

Enji Todoroki — “You want me to… what?”

The hum of fire from the kitchen had faded.

That meant he’d finished dinner.

You stretched on the couch, glancing at the clock. It was already late, and Enji was sticking to his off-duty promise — no agency calls, no patrols, just one quiet evening together. He had cooked for you (like always), showered (like always), and now he was probably in the bedroom, folding towels unnecessarily (like always).

He was still Endeavor — sharp, structured, proud — but the man who lived in your home wasn’t the firestorm on TV. With you, he was quieter. Slower. Awkward, sometimes. Like he wasn’t used to being wanted for anything soft.

That’s why tonight felt like the perfect time to mess with him just a little.

You padded into the bedroom, towel slung around your shoulders, robe tight around your waist. He was at the edge of the bed, reading glasses pushed up on his nose, quietly browsing his tablet. Shirtless, of course — his skin still warm from the shower, hair damp and pushed back.

You stood by the closet, holding a change of clothes in your hand, pretending to look thoughtful.

“Hey, babe?”

His head tilted toward you, one thick brow lifting in silent acknowledgment. He didn’t speak — just waited. That’s how Enji was. No wasted words unless necessary.

“I’m gonna change now,” you said lightly, facing him, playing it casual. “Can you, um… step out for a sec?”

He blinked.

“…Why?”

There it was — the first crack. You bit back a smile.

“I just need to change,” you repeated, hiding your grin behind your voice. “Alone.”

He didn’t move. His jaw flexed, and you could see the gears turning in that sharp, structured brain of his. He wasn’t the type to jump to conclusions, but he was the type to assume he’d messed up.

A long silence. He stared at you, unreadable. And then, finally:

“I’ve seen you naked. Multiple times.”

You turned slightly away, shrugging like it was no big deal. “Yeah, but still. I don’t know. Could you just… wait outside for a minute?”

Now he looked genuinely puzzled. His frown deepened, not out of annoyance, but confusion — as if he were running the scenario through his brain and couldn’t find the logic in it.

“You’re uncomfortable changing in front of me now?” he asked slowly. “…Did something happen?”

You almost broke.

“No! I mean, nothing bad.” You waved your hand, trying to be breezy. “I just… feel like it. I don’t know.”

Enji’s gaze dropped to the floor for a moment, jaw flexing. You could see his brain working overtime. And it was adorable.

“…If I’ve done something to upset you,” he said, voice quieter, “you can tell me. You don’t have to—”

“Oh my god, Enji—no,” you interrupted quickly, walking over to put your hand on his arm. “I’m not upset. I swear. Just… could you step out for a sec?”

Now he was really confused. Like, genuinely stuck.

He looked at the door. Then back at you. Then at the bed. Then back at the closet.

“…You’re not… testing me, are you?” he asked, clearly suspicious now.

You laughed — you had to. “Testing you? What?”

“You’ve never asked me to leave before. I don’t understand.”

That was true. Enji was normally the one who’d politely look away or give you space — until the relationship deepened and boundaries blurred. But now that you were well past that stage, this sudden request threw him completely off balance.

He stepped back slightly. “If this is some kind of… relationship boundary reset, I’ll respect it. I just don’t—” He broke off again. “Are you mad at me?”

That did it. You absolutely couldn’t keep it together anymore. You burst into laughter, doubling over a bit, and Enji looked even more alarmed.

“I’m pranking you, you dummy!”

He blinked.

“You… what?”

“I’m pranking you,” you repeated through laughter. “It’s a trend — telling your husband to leave so you can change, even though it makes no sense. I wanted to see what you’d do.”

He just stared at you.

For a very long time.

“…You’re joking.”

“I just said it’s a prank!”

Enji exhaled, half-relieved and half-exasperated. “You’re playing games now?”

“I had to! You’re so serious all the time.” You grabbed his hand, eyes still sparkling. “You were about to spiral.”

“I was not about to spiral.”

“You were definitely spiraling. You thought I was mad at you!”

He grunted and looked away, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. You caught the faintest pink at the tops of his ears.

“…You caught me off guard,” he muttered. “That’s all.”

You grinned, still holding his hand. “You really thought I didn’t want you in the room anymore?”

“I wasn’t sure,” he admitted, eyes softening slightly. “You’ve never asked me that. It felt… abrupt.”

That was his way of saying it unsettled him. Which, okay, made you feel a tiny bit bad. But he also looked so flushed and confused that you couldn’t help but tease him more.

“Aww, poor flamey,” you said, bumping his hip. “Didn’t know what to do with himself.”

Enji gave you a flat look, but you saw the amused twitch in his mouth. You knew that look.

“I could’ve just taken my shirt off right in front of you and ended the prank,” he said casually.

You blinked. “You wouldn’t.”

He leaned a little closer.

“Wouldn’t I?”

Your stomach fluttered — which was not part of the plan. “Enji…”

“I’m still confused,” he continued smoothly. “But I think I know one way to get over it.”

You raised a brow. “Which is?”

“Take your shirt off and make it up to me.”

You stared at him.

He stared right back, face completely serious.

“…That’s not how pranks work, babe.”

He hummed. “You’ve pranked me. That means I win the next move.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re making that up.”

Enji took a slow step closer. “Am I?”

You backed up — just slightly — laughing. “Oh, you’re so full of it!”

“You said I’m too serious,” he said, voice low and amused. “Maybe I should start pranking you back.”

“You wouldn’t survive the chaos.”

“I think I’d manage.”

You watched him with warmth in your chest. He really was trying, even now — adapting to your energy, playing along, letting himself soften for you.

“You’re kind of adorable when you’re confused, you know that?” you said softly, pulling him in by the collar of his shirt.

He sighed, resting his forehead gently against yours. “I hate how much that worked on me.”

“You love it.”

“…Maybe.”

Silence fell again — but this time, it was warm, content. His arms wrapped around your waist, and you leaned into the heat of him. The earlier awkwardness had melted into something tender, familiar.

You buried your face into his chest.

“Still love me, even if I prank you sometimes?” you asked

He held you tighter.

“Always.”

Aizawa Shouta — “You Want Me to Leave? …Why?”

Living with Aizawa was kind of like living with a grumpy cat that secretly loved you.

He never said “I love you” first, never really smiled unless you were half asleep on his chest or struggling to button your coat in the morning. But he’d fix your collar for you, wordlessly. He’d bring coffee without asking. He’d drag himself out of bed at 3am just to warm up the house because you kicked off the blanket in your sleep and now your toes were cold.

Subtle. Careful. Quiet.

So naturally… he was the perfect target for a harmless little prank.

You were in the bedroom, fresh out of the shower in your robe, rifling through the dresser for clean clothes while Aizawa sat on the bed reading some training reports for his class. His hair was loose — his “I’m off the clock, don’t ask me to move” look — and his posture was relaxed, shoulders slouched, one hand resting absently on his thigh.

Perfect.

You cleared your throat. “Hey, babe?”

He didn’t look up. “Hm?”

“…Can you leave the room for a sec? I’m gonna change.”

There was a pause.

He turned a page, deadpan. “Why?”

You shrugged casually, not looking at him. “Just want to change in private.”

His face was deadpan.

“…We’re married,” he said slowly.

You held back your grin. “Still.”

Another long pause. He blinked once.

“You’re shy now?”

You shrugged. “Just not feeling it right now.”

He leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms, clearly trying to process the situation.

“We’ve literally showered together.”

You spun around with mock-seriousness. “Shouta.”

“Yes?”

“Could you please leave?” you asked with dramatic politeness.

He looked up now, slowly.

“…Are we fighting?”

You held back a grin. “Nope.”

“Did I do something?”

“Not that I can think of.”

His eyes narrowed slightly, and he closed the file in his lap.

“I’ve seen you change a hundred times. You’ve changed in front of me without realizing it.”

You gave a shrug and didn’t meet his eyes. “I just want to be alone while I do it this time.”

The silence stretched.

“…Did Hizashi put you up to this?”

Your lips twitched. “No.”

“Do I need to remind you,” he said, voice low and dry, “that I’ve stitched you into your hero costume while you were half-naked in lingerie because we were late to patrol because of how hard of sex we had the night before?”

You snorted.

“I’ve bandaged your ribs. Rubbed medicine on your back. You fall asleep next to me without undergarments.”

“This is a prank.”

“I’m serious.”

“You’re lying.” He didn’t even blink. “I’ve interrogated villains more convincing than this.”

You bit your cheek to stop yourself from laughing.

Aizawa stood, stretching with a quiet sigh. “Alright, fine.”

You blinked. “Wait—what?”

“I’ll go.”

Now you were thrown. “Seriously?”

He strolled toward the door. “If you’re gonna play games, I’ll go nap on the couch. Let me know when the dramatics are over.”

“No! Wait—Shouta!”

You caught his sleeve as he passed and burst out laughing, tugging him back.

He didn’t resist, but his unimpressed look spoke volumes.

“You’re the worst liar alive,” he said. “You can’t even keep a straight face.”

“I didn’t think you’d actually get up!”

“You pushed it too far.” He raised a brow. “Telling me to leave our room. Like I’m some random guy you barely tolerate.”

You grinned. “You tolerate me.”

“I more than tolerate you,” he muttered under his breath.

You paused.

“…What was that?”

“Nothing.”

You leaned into him. “Say it again.”

He exhaled sharply. “You heard me.”

“No, I need you to say it like you mean it.”

He deadpanned, “You’re annoying.”

You kissed his cheek. “I know. But you love it.”

He grunted, grabbing your waist and pulling you in lazily. “You’re lucky I like difficult women.”

“I thought you didn’t like anyone?”

“You’re the exception.”

Your heart skipped a little at the easy way he said it — so casually, so Aizawa.

You looked up at him and grinned. “So you weren’t mad?”

“I wasn’t mad. I was considering revenge.”

“Revenge?!”

“Hm.” He tugged your robe loose at the collar with a finger. “Something along the lines of making sure you ask me to leave next time. Loudly. Desperately.”

Your breath hitched. “Shouta.”

He shrugged, eyes half-lidded. “You started it.”

You narrowed your eyes. “That’s not fair.”

“It’s completely fair.”

“You play dirty.”

“You like it.”

Damn him.

You turned away quickly, trying to hide your smile — but he reached past you for your clothes from the dresser.

“I’ve seen you wear this shirt three days in a row.”

“It’s comfy.”

“It’s mine.”

You smirked. “So? I like it.”

He handed it to you. “Then keep it.”

You blinked. “What?”

He met your eyes. “It’s yours. You wear it more than I do anyway.”

A pause.

“…You’re giving me your favorite shirt?”

“It’s just a shirt.”

“To you that’s practically a marriage proposal.”

He rolled his eyes but stepped closer, brushing a damp strand of hair behind your ear. “Do you want a real one?”

You blinked. “Wait—what?”

“I’m kidding,” he said flatly — but the flicker in his gaze said maybe he wasn’t.

Your breath caught. “Say it again.”

“No.”

“Shouta—”

“Don’t prank me again,” he muttered. “You’ll give me a complex.”

You grinned, heart fluttering.

“Okay,” you whispered. “Deal.”

Keigo Takami — “You want me to leave? Excuse you?”

Living with Hawks was… exhausting. In a good way.

He was a human golden retriever with wings — constantly hovering, teasing, touching, kissing. If he wasn’t flying off for hero work, he was lounging around shirtless, plucking feathers from his wings with a grin and flicking them at you like darts. He was affectionate to a fault, smug on a normal day, and just a little too proud of himself when he made you flustered.

A thought sparked in your head, mischievous and immediate. You glanced at Keigo, who was distracted checking his phone — probably looking at memes or celebrity hero gossip. Now was your moment.

He was lounging on your shared bed when you stepped out of the bathroom, hair damp, towel slung around your shoulders, and robe pulled tight. You padded over to the closet, pretending not to notice the way his eyes followed your every move.

His wings twitched lazily behind him.

“You’re lucky I’m tired,” he mumbled, “or I’d be over there helping you out of that robe.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re always tired.”

“Yeah, but I’m never too tired for you, baby.”

“Mmhm. Can you do me a favor, actually?”

“Anything,” he said, spreading his arms dramatically. “Want me to fly to the moon? Steal Endeavor’s stash of instant ramen? Fight crime shirtless?”

You snorted. “No, just… can you leave the room for a minute?”

His smile froze. “…What?”

“I’m gonna change.”

The silence was immediate.

His brows rose, golden eyes blinking in confusion. “You… want me to leave? So you can change?”

“Yeah.”

You were biting the inside of your cheek now, doing everything in your power not to lose it.

His wings twitched. “You want me… the man you have licked frosting off of his goddamned dick of to leave. So you can change.”

“…Babe.”

You looked at him innocently.

He sat up slowly. “Is this a test? Did I miss a date? Did I say something dumb while I was half-asleep again?”

“Nope.”

“You’re… actually kicking me out of the room?” His wings flared slightly. “Do you have a secret boyfriend you’re changing for? Is that it? Did Dabi put you up to this?!”

You cracked. A laugh bubbled out before you could stop it, and his eyes narrowed instantly.

Keigo stared at you like you had just told him he was being drafted into the military. He pointed to the couch. “This couch. That I bought. In the apartment where I pay the rent. Where we sleep next to each other. Naked, might I add.”

Keigo threw his head back and groaned, pacing away from you like he was physically in pain.

"This is a test," he muttered. "You're testing me.

You're trying to kill me. Oh my god."

You turned away just enough to grab your shirt from the basket and hold it to your chest.

"Could you? Just for a sec?"

He froze. "You're serious."

You shrugged.

Suddenly, he was kneeling in front of you with one hand over his heart and the other stretched dramatically into the air.

"Oh, cruel temptress!" he wailed. "You wound me!"

You lost it. Burst out laughing, hiding your face in the clean laundry pile.

"I've been exiled," he continued, standing up and spinning in a circle like a tragic Broadway character. "Banished from the bedroom I so lovingly vacuumed crumbs out of last night.

Tossed aside like a common pervert."

"Kei-stop-" you gasped between laughs.

"No! I'll go!" he declared, already walking backwards toward the hallway with his wings flaring slightly. "'ll stand outside the door like a chaste fool and wait for the sound of a zipper like some kind of shameful husband-in-waiting”

"We're not married," you reminded him, still giggling.

"Oh, but I could be!" he shouted, dramatically flopping onto the bed behind you. "If only I hadn't betrayed your trust by looking at you!"

He peeked up at you from the covers, grinning.

You snorted and tossed a balled-up sock at him.

"You're such a menace."

"Admit it," he said, voice low and cocky now. "You wanted me to react like this."

“Ah-ha.” He pointed at you, grinning. “There it is. You’re messing with me.”

“I almost had you.”

“You had me worried we were breaking up!”

You rolled your eyes, walking over and pushing his shoulder gently. “You’re so dramatic.”

“I am dramatic. But only when I care.” He caught your wrist, tugging you gently between his legs. “You can’t just say stuff like that. You change in front of me all the time. You literally walked around naked last week with your ass-cheeks hanging out while eating ice cream. You said clothes were a ‘societal burden.’”

You rolled your eyes. “You are the worst.”

“Correction,” he said, walking over and kissing your forehead with zero warning. “I’m the worst best husband.”

He wasn’t your husband — yet. But he loved using the title, and you never had the heart to stop him.

He stepped closer. “The room where I’ve seen you change so many times I could recite a time-lapse of your entire wardrobe evolution.”

You cleared your throat, still playing it cool. “Yes.”

You gave him a wide-eyed, innocent smile. “Exactly.”

You smirked. “I wanted to see how fast you’d crumble.”

Keigo leaned back, folding his arms behind his head. “Joke’s on you. I always crumble for you.”

That actually got you a little flustered. He smirked, clearly noticing.

You tugged on your clean shirt and turned to him, arms crossed. “Alright, drama king. You can stay.”

He rolled over to you in half a second, pulling you into his lap. “Only because I passed the test, right?”

“You absolutely failed the test,” you laughed.

“Nah. I redefined the test,” he said smugly. “And then I got extra credit.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t move away from him. His hands were warm on your waist, and he kissed the side of your neck gently — less playful now, more genuine.

“I like watching you change,” he murmured. “Not just because you’re hot — which, duh — but because it reminds me I get to see all the parts of you nobody else does.”

Your heart fluttered a little at that. He could be bold and ridiculous, sure — but this was Keigo at his most real.

“I didn’t mean to mess with you too hard,” you said softly.

He smiled, brushing your hair behind your ear. “Mess with me all you want, baby bird. I can take it.”

“…Husband,” you teased quietly, nudging his chest.

His whole body stilled for a second — and then a smirk broke across his lips.

“You trying to really kill me today, huh?”

[itsrlymine]

Bruh I'm so dumb I totally forgot to tell what exactly I manifested 😭

Okay so my list was like 200 things but I'll just say the most important things:

1. Having a little over 300k in my bank account. I love not having to worry about money anymore.

2. My desired body. I basically replaced most of the fat in my body with muscle so I'm kinda jacked now even though I dont really lift weights that much 😭. My skin is also really soft and smooth now and I have no hyperpigmentation.

3. Perfect hearing and 25/20 vision in both eyes. I wanted to still wear glasses because I love how they look on me but without my vision being really bad.

4. My carrrr. Idk if you remember this but like last year I told you that I wanted to manifest a Toyota RAV4 and I got itttt. I revised that my parents bought me the car in my senior year of hs as a graduation gift and then I literally woke up and I saw the keys to the car in my bag !!! Girl I literally screamed like I couldn't believe all the things that were happening to me all at one time (even though I knew it was gonna happen that way but still)

5. My apartment aaaaaaa!!! It's such a beautiful place and I love it so much. I feel so free and comfortable and at peace here and that's all I've ever wanted. Like I'm gonna start crying again but I tried so hard for so long and it feels like I can rest now. Everything just feels so light and easy now like this is the life I've been wanting to live and I'm finally living it.

6. Full ride scholarship to my university. I didn't want to worry about paying tuition anymore and now I don't have to. Basically I manifested all of my financial struggles away because not having money to be able to do things literally sucks.

7. My sisters not going to the same college as me. My mom had this whole twisted plan of making me and my sisters all go to the same college so we would never have any reason to move out and be our own people. I'm the oldest sister and even though I like my college, my little sisters are wayyy too smart to be going to my university when they could be attending Ivy Leagues 😭 anyways when my middle sister (youngest is still in high school rn) was applying to college, my mom made her apply to my college as well as the ones she wanted to go to. My sister really wanted to go out of state and I wanted that for her too so I literally manifested her getting into every school she applied too except for the ones in our state lmaooooo. My mom was so confused but anyways. Now she's going to a fancy pants college out of state (full ride ofc 😌) and she's been binge watching dorm tour tiktoks and I'm so happy for her. She took way too many AP classes for her to not get into an amazing university. Again I absolutely love my university and it's perfect for me but my sister belongs somewhere else. My youngest sister is probs gonna go out of state too and I'll manifest that for her when the time comes.

8. Hanging out with my friends wayyy more often. I even revised going to the after party of my senior prom because I really wanted to go but I assumed my parents would say and and I never even asked them (really screwed myself over with that one but anyways) and now I'm almost always with my friends even if it's just us chilling in my apartment.

9. Being completely healthy and having a military grade immune system. I used to get so sick literally at any time of year it was crazy. But now I feel completely fine and I know I'll be okay when winter gets here.

Okay that's all of the really important things that I manifested. Sorry for the super long post but yeah 😛. There were other things like getting more compliments, more insta followers and getting free food occasionally but those were lower on the totem pole of importance. I can't even believe I'm making this post right now because for so long I've just been dreaming about living this life but now I'm actually LIVING it. Like this is insane to me I'm gonna start crying because holy fuck like I went from being suicidal and having no hope to being so at peace and living the life I've watched others live for so long.

I also wanted to say thanks again so everything. You have no idea how much you've impacted my life and my mindset because your page was really the kick in the ass I needed to realize that my life was fully in my control and I could give myself everything I've ever wanted so thank you so much. I wish you nothing but the best in life because you really deserve it <3333

omg hello my igbo sister, how are you babes?!!! ugh omg babes this makes me so happy like you don't even know!!!!! that bank account BETTER stay fatttt I know that! and I do remember you talking about wanting to manifest that car ugh omgg the law is too simpleee. I'm debating on whether I want to clear my vision but I'm glad you did! an apartment and a full ride?! you better workkkkk. I don't mind super long posts especially when they are amazing success stories like these!!! yall better come and look. I love you so much babes and I'm happy my page has been able to help a lil but you did it my love!!!

[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.

[yourlocallgothamite]

Can’t Help Crushing (On You)

Jason Todd x Outlaw!Reader Series

Chapter 9: Snippets of Life (With Love In The Margins)

⸻

previous chapter - next chapter

⸻

 A few weeks later, you’re sitting on the kitchen counter, eating dry cereal straight from the box, when your phone buzzes.

Jason: [Spotify link] this song’s kinda cool. idk why it reminded me of you tho lol

You choke.

You scramble with your phone to hit the link.

The song starts with a soft, steady rhythm—almost gentle—and then the lyrics hit:

“I’d burn it all down just to keep you safe / I’d kill for you, lie for you / love you so hard it hurts.”

Your soul promptly evacuates your body.

You stare at the screen like it’s cursed. Like the words might bite you.

Your heart skips at least three beats. Maybe four.

Jason… sent you… this?

He thinks of you when he hears this?

He what? Why would this remind him of you? Why would he send it? Is this a confession? A subtle one? A test?

You replay it three times. Then five. Then seven.

You spend the next three days spiraling—walking on eggshells, cheeks warm anytime he walks into a room. Every glance he gives you feels like a secret. Every time he walks into a room, you stop breathing. Every brush of his hand or shoulder makes your brain flatline. Convinced he’s about to confess. Convinced your life is about to change.

Jason, meanwhile, is slowly losing his mind, convinced he’s ruined everything.

You’re avoiding eye contact. You’re acting weird. You’re laughing too hard at Roy’s dumb jokes. You won’t even roast his playlist anymore.

God.

You probably think he’s creepy. And you keep sitting next to Roy.

Jason, internally: ‘She hates me. She knows I like her and she’s in love with Roy. I’m gonna eat drywall. Then I’m going to fling myself off the roof.’

When he sends you another song—this one slower, sadder, with a chorus that makes your ribs ache—he mumbles, “Reminded me of you.”

You freeze.

Wait.

Wait wait wait—

He’s in love with you.

Is he?

You look up, eyes wide, just about ready to speak—

And he panics.

“I mean—not like that. Just… like… vibes.”

You die.

“Right,” you say softly. “Vibes.”

Jason, immediately combusting, goes: “I mean, unless—uh—whatever.”

You both suffer in silence for the rest of the night.

Roy walks in once, takes one look at you both avoiding eye contact like it’s poison, and mutters under his breath:

“I would literally rather walk barefoot on fucking Legos than be here right now.”

⸻

On a random Tuesday, you’re sitting cross-legged on the couch, hair messy, sunlight pouring in just right, when you snap a picture.

It’s a good one. Not in a try-hard way. Just… soft. Warm. You look like yourself.

You tilt the phone toward Jason.

“Should I post this?”

He looks at it. Really looks.

You see his eyes flicker with something unreadable for a second before he clears his throat.

“Sure,” he says. “Yeah. You look… good.”

You squint at him. “That’s not helpful.”

Jason shrugs. “Then post it.”

So you do.

A few minutes later, Jason disappears into his room.

You don’t think anything of it—until your phone buzzes ten minutes later.

user55988086 commented on your post: You look very pretty in this picture.

You stare at the screen.

You stare hard.

The profile picture is blank. The username looks like someone smashed numbers into the keyboard. But the display name? Jason Todd.

You scream.

Loudly.

Roy actually drops a spoon in the kitchen.

You frantically click the comment.

Jason does NOT have Instagram.

He made a whole new Instagram account. Just to comment that. On a public post. Your public post. With his whole name.

Why would he say that? He doesn’t mean that. He’s probably just trying to be nice. Right? Right? Why would he make a new account for this? WHY WOULD HE SAY THAT??

Meanwhile, in his room, Jason is pacing the floor like a man awaiting execution.

He saw you wanted to post it. He didn’t even think—just made the account, commented, and then immediately realized what he’d done.

Jason, internally: ‘I should’ve deleted it. She’s seen it. She hasn’t replied. Oh god, she thinks it’s creepy. She’s probably texting Roy right now. She likes Roy. I’m going to die in this room.’

You haven’t said anything. You liked a comment from someone else. But not his.

He is spiraling.

And you? You’ve read the comment fifteen times. You’re holding your phone like it might explode. Your heart is doing cardio. And your brain has completely exited the building.

⸻

Another day, you're in the middle of paperwork hell at the kitchen table—sore, tired, and covered in mission grime—and you ask, “Hey, anyone got a pen?”

Jason pulls one from behind his ear, flips it toward you without a word, and goes back to whatever he’s brooding over.

You thank him. Scribble your notes. Then, because the world is chaos and your brain is soup, you walk off with it.

Jason notices. But doesn’t say anything.

The next day, you’re sitting on the couch, tongue sticking out a little as you fill out a supply form. You're still using the same pen.

His pen.

And Jason? He just stares.

Not at you. At the pen.

Every time you click it. Every time you chew the end without thinking. Every time you spin it between your fingers. He watches like you just announced you’re carrying his child.

The pen has become sacred.

Roy catches him staring and raises an eyebrow. “Dude. What’s with the obsession?”

Jason doesn’t look away. “She has my pen.”

Roy blinks. “...And?”

Jason crosses his arms. They’re whispering now. “She keeps using it. She took it. That means something.”

Roy: “It’s literally from a hotel, Jason. Like. It has a hotel logo.”

Jason, dead serious: “It means something.”

Roy, sighing into his drink: “You need therapy.”

Jason, quietly: “I’d rather die.”

Meanwhile, you don’t even realize you’ve stolen it. You’re just chilling in your room two nights later, clicking away as you doodle your name in the margins of an old notebook.

You don’t know why you keep using this pen. It’s nothing special.

But it feels nice. Weighted. Familiar. Warm.

Somehow… safe.

You don’t know that Jason notices every time. That he lets you keep it.

Because in his deeply feral, emotionally-stunted brain— You have his pen.

And to him?

That’s practically a vow.

You guys are basically married.

⸻

Another time, you’re lying on the floor in the safehouse living room one night, thumbing through a well-worn paperback. Jason walks by, glances over, and asks, “What’s that?”

“It’s this fantasy series I used to love,” you say. “Totally cheesy. But the couple in it? Ugh. They ruined me.”

Jason raises a brow. “Ruined you how?”

You grin, hugging the book to your chest. “Like… emotionally. I wanted someone like the guy in this so bad. He’s this broody knife-wielding protector type with a tragic past who pretends not to care but secretly worships the ground she walks on. You know. Classic.”

Jason: “Huh.” Jason, internally: Knife-wielding. Broody. Tragic. Pretends not to care. Got it.

The next day, you find the first book from the series missing from your nightstand.

You don’t realize Jason has taken it. And read the entire thing. In one night.

Cut to two days later—Jason suddenly starts wearing his knife on the outside of his thigh holster instead of tucked in his boot.

He starts leaning against doorways a lot more. Brooding. Using one-word answers. He’s never smiled less. Or tried harder.

He also starts randomly saying things like: “I’d protect you. If it ever came to it.” And: “Some people are worth bleeding for.”

You think it’s a coincidence. You think maybe you’re projecting.

You mention something about how the love interest in book two always touches the girl’s wrist whenever he’s worried about her.

The next morning, Jason brushes your wrist when you hand him a mug. You barely register it. But he does. His eyes track the moment like it’s the most important thing he’s ever done.

Meanwhile, Kori and Roy are watching this slow-moving fanfiction unfold in real time.

Roy and kori are whispering in the corner: Roy: “He’s literally method acting as her fictional crush.” Kori: “He has the emotional subtlety of a brick.” Roy: “I’m gonna lock them in a room with the audiobook and see what happens.”

Jason, meanwhile, keeps trying just hard enough to think he’s being subtle.

You, oblivious and smitten: “Huh. Jason’s been kinda different lately.” Roy, snapping a pencil in half, and all he wants to do is yell: “BECAUSE HE’S ROLE-PLAYING YOUR BOOK BOYFRIEND, GENIUS.” … but he doesn’t do that, because he values his life.

⸻

next chapter

[rias-sanctuary]

🌕

Moonlight Sonata (J.C)

I'm gonna be so honest originally this was a self indulgent fic but my friend was like 'you should post this!!' so. Here we are. Ignore any spelling errors I was fixing it up and it's like 5 am rn and I did NOT expect for this to see the light of day.

(I saw this fanfic on why the greasers call Johnny ‘Johnnycakes’ which I thought was pretty silly so I decided to add it 🙏🏾)

Synopsis: in which your efforts aren't in vain, and a late night stroll ends up with you taking care of and bandaging up Johnny.

Pairing: Johnny Cade x reader (🫵🏾)

cw: (possibly) poor grammar, reader is whipped and yearning HARD, literally just bandaging up Johnny + brief mentions of his parents

wc: 1,280

(creds to @aquazero for the header!)

Walking down the sidewalk, gravel crunches beneath your shoes as you trek onwards. Keeping your hands in your jacket's pockets, one of them holds onto a first-aid kit. Whenever going on any sort of walk, there was always an off chance that you'd see Johnny, bruised and resembling a kicked puppy. You knew him prior to when you got assigned to partner with Ponyboy for a project- you’ve always thought that he was kinda cute. Starting as a hallway crush, you feel as if things are changing now that you're acquaintances. You (personally) like to think that you two are friends.

You desperately hope that he thinks the same.

(Thank God for that assignment and Ponyboy inviting you over to his place to work on it.)

A gust of wind brushed by, making your eyes water slightly. It was awfully chilly out. At the sight of a familiar figure sitting on the edge of a curb, you let out a sigh, a slight white cloud forming in front of your mouth because of it. You stand still for a moment, trying to hype yourself up before attempting to go over to him. ‘It's just Johnny. Check if he's okay, see if he needs anything, and walk away.’ You nod your head before backtracking, taking a step forward before taking another one back. ‘It's Johnny, ohmygosh.’

Before you could quickly do a u-turn, you accidentally stumble after stepping on a rock– regretfully yelping out of fear of falling. Quickly looking up, you see Johnny snap his head back, his hand going to his pocket before settling when he saw it was you.

Oh, this was going to be so embarrassing.

“(Name)? What're you doin' here?” His words were slurred slightly. You couldn't tell whether it was his greaser-lingo or if he was about to sleep before noticing you. “Just out on a walk, Johnny. What're you doing out here?” sitting down next to him, you make sure to leave a small amount of distance. You didn't want to make him uncomfortable, after all. The only time you two talked was when you were over at Ponyboys' house to work on the project, and that was about it. “Parents were arguing again. Dad started getting violent, had to get out of there.” You gulp for a moment, licking your (awfully chapped) lips. Johnny was never this open with anyone, except for the greasers. Especially Ponyboy.

“Are you hurt anywhere?” He looked at you from the corner of his eye, and you can't help but sit up straighter. “I bring, like, my medkit when I go on walks this late. Just in case.” ‘Just in case I see you, that's for sure.’ He looks at his hands, forearms resting on his knees. “Nah, I'm good. Nothin' I can't handle.” You can't help but frown at his words. “Please be honest, Johnny. I don't mind putting this to good use. I barely get injured anyway, so it'd be a waste not to use it. Please?”

‘I literally stocked up on bandages and antiseptic for you. Please just accept my help.’

Johnny was quiet for a moment, as he usually was. Lost in thought and thinking hard about different things that nobody could ever figure out. This time, you could easily tell what he was pondering over. And you can't help but smile slightly. Johnny Cade was finally (hopefully) accepting help, from someone who wasn't even a greaser, no less. “....Only if ya don't mind.”

SCORE!!

“Why would I mind? I offered to give you help. Do you want me to bandage you up or do you wanna do it yourself?” You pull out the first aid kit and unzip it, holding it out for him to take. “I can do it, thanks.” He takes the first aid kid with a shaky hand, making you squint your eyes to see due to the late hour. There was a cut, and it was obvious why his hand was shaking. “Do you want help?”

“I'm alright.”

“I don't mind.”

Either he was too tired to bother or he just gave up, Johnny handed over the kit. “Thank you. Can I have your hand?” You scooch over to him, not wanting for him to strain himself. He holds his hand out, and you guide his arm near your lap so it didn't strain- or if he got tired. You hold onto his hand gently, before spraying it with antiseptic. “Sorry,” you say after feeling him jolt. Grabbing some sort of cloth-padding, you place it on the cut before wrapping it with gauze to hold it in place. While attending to his wounds, you can't help but ask him something.

“Why do the others call you Johnnycake?” You gulp when noticing him look at the wrapping, getting some more bandages before continuing. It was so quiet. Even attempting a conversation would help. “Genuine question. I tried to think of ways that someone could come up with that, but I couldn't.” Johnny turns his head slightly. Did you offend him? “Sorry- was I being rude?” “What? No, man, you weren't. When me and the others met, Two-Bit misheard me say 'Cake' instead of Cade.... It's embarrassing.”

“You're joking.”

“Wish I was.”

Mindless chatter filled the air as you both talked. From school topics, to how much grease he put in his hair. “....nd Pony thinks Darry is against him- he doesn't know that he does it 'cause he's worried. Must be nice. my folks wouldn't show me care if their lives depended on it.” You hum under your breath, ripping off a piece of tape and sticking it onto the wrap. You didn't exactly know what to say to that. How to comfort him. “‘least I have the others.” Biting the inside of your cheek slightly while struggling to peel open a tiny bandages packaging, you finally manage to pull the flimsy pieces of paper apart. “You got me as well, Johnny.” You try not to smile, noticing his eyes widen, gaze lifting upwards. “Really?”

You raise your brow at him. “Would I be doing all of this for someone I didn't care about, Mr. Cade?” “I mean...maybe you would. For a soc, or somethin.” You can't help but frown slightly at his words. “You gotta have more confidence in yourself, man. A lot of people care in some way.” You place the bandage on his neck, before going to find the next one. Johnny stayed silent, not knowing what to say. “Especially me, Johnny.”

You look at him while gently placing the bandaid on his cheek, using your thumbs to smooth it over. “I care.” The moon hit his face, the bandaid on it momentarily blending in, and the brown in his eyes showing slightly like the sun peaking through black curtains.

“All done! Is there any other wound I didn't get?” You notice Johnny gulp, but pass it off as his throat being dry. “Nah, you got 'em all.” Smiling at his words, you zip up the medkit. “Alright, sweet!” You place the kit on your lap before looking at the sky. The stars appeared brighter than usual, and the moon bigger. “You're gonna go to Ponys' place, right?”

“I think I'm gonna just-”

“Right?”

“....yeah. I'll head on over there now. Need me to walk you to your place?” You look at him as he gets up, and grab the hand he offered. “Up to you, but I'd prefer if you went to Ponys' place now, just so I know you won't come back here after.” Johnny sighed in response. “I'll see ya later, then ”

“See you, Johnny!”

Nearly lost it cause the moment I hit publish suddenly the entire work was gone and all that was left was the author's note. Anywhosies shout out to the max 5 people who skimmed over this hope y'all enjoyed 🫶🏾

(Also fun fact! Whenever I'm writing little drabbles I often use emojis to name the document, hence the current name.)

[goobstars]

hiiii!!!! this if basically my first time actually asking something because tumblr always eats my asks for some reason, but can you make a Sebastian x reader with endometriosis (basically a period comfort because im in agony right now)

sorry if this sounds weird i just need comfort

ALSO TAKE YOUR TIME!!! I’m not gonna rush you or anything i promise ❤️

𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐎𝐃

summary : sebastian comforts while you're on your period.

tags : profanity, mentions of blood & pills, and comfort.

note : i know you're not rushing me, but i'm rushing myself because I WANNA GIVE YOU COMFORT !! enjoy !

what did you do to deserve this?

be born with a uterus, apparently.

your feet trudged against the ground while you kept an arm wrapped around your abdomen, and the other held your flashlight as you attempted to navigate through the dark room. angler had decided to pay you a visit earlier, so now you were stuck in this dark room until you could find the next door.

you felt like you had been in here for hours, when in reality, it was probably only a few minutes.

irritation started to bubble in your mind as you shifted your flashlight around the room, and finally, you were met with the sight of a door.

the number fifty could be made out on the sign next to the door, and you let out a sigh of relief before taking a step towards it.

you clicked your flashlight off once the door shifted open, and you reached your arm behind you so you could slide the flashlight into the side pockets of your backpack.

at the action, your abdomen tightened, and you placed the flashlight into the pocket before wrapping your other arm around your waist.

you despised that you had to deal with this. periods were hard enough, but now that you added running away from monsters to that, you felt like you were in hell.

and if things couldn't get any worse, you had only been sent with two pads. two. it didn't matter if you preferred tampons, a period cup, or literally anything else. you were sent with two pads, and according to hq, that's how it was for every expendable.

you were aware that you weren't expected to return, but the least they could do was give you more hygiene products, or at least something to ease the cramps.

but no, they gave you two pads and shoved you into a submarine.

the urge to break the crystal just to spite them was insane.

you held your breath for a moment before releasing it, and you peered into the room ahead of you. as you took a step forward, you watched as a vent cover shot across the room.

your movements paused before your attention flickered to the hole in the wall, and you heard a voice echo through it.

"i got something for you..."

unless it was a heating pad or a baseball bat so you could knock yourself out, you didn't want it.

you stared at the vent for a moment before deciding to make your way towards it, and you only decided to visit sebastian's shop because you were hoping he would have painkillers.

you walked over to the vent as you slowly kneeled down, and you kept one arm wrapped around your waist while you used your other hand to shift your way into the vent.

the metal creaked around you while you slowly moved through the vent, and when you poked your head out of the exit, you noticed sebastian staring at you. that familiar smile rested on his face, but as soon as his eyes met yours, it faltered.

"welcome..." his words trailed off as you crawled out of the vent, and you stood up with a slouched posture while your arm remained on your abdomen. your arm wasn't even helping your cramps, for it was truly just there for emotional support.

sebastian's eyes flickered up and down your form for a second before he spoke.

"you look like shit."

"and you smell like it." your snappy words made sebastian tilt his head in confusion, and you could only assume it was because you've never really remarked on his insults. you just ignored them as you got whatever you needed from his shop.

a quiet chuckle rang out from him while you frowned, but he didn't seem to care about your expression as he clasped his hands together. "someone seems upset. what, did a scary monster hit you and give you a little tummy ache? you poor soul..."

his hand moved to gesture to your position, for he was referring to the way one of your arms was wrapped around your abdomen. if you were being honest, you wished that a monster had hit you because that pain would be far better than what you were currently dealing with.

"shut up," you shortly replied as you walked over to his tail, and while your gaze rested on the items he had, his eyes remained on you. he observed the way you were slightly hunched over, and the way you furrowed your eyebrows made it evident that you were uncomfortable. but why? a monster hadn't hurt you, for you made that fairly clear, but if it wasn't a monster that had caused you pain, then what was it?

maybe you had run into something? you couldn't have scraped yourself, for your jumpsuit was still intact, but it was possible you hit a corner of a table. yet, if that was the case, you wouldn't be acting like this. a little hit from a table wouldn't have resulted in this much pain.

he narrowed his eyes at you once you placed a hand on his tail, but before he could say anything, he heard you mumble curses under your breath.

and along those strings of profanity, he heard a few key words: blood, cramps, and for some reason, dweller chunk.

he was concerned about the last bit, but the first two words gave away what was going on completely.

"are you on your period?"

his question made your head snap up as you stared at him, "...what?"

"shark week, monthly, your menstruation cycle—do i need to list more?"

you narrowed your eyes at him, yet he didn't care. he just stared back at you before questioning, "do i actually need to—"

"yes, i'm on my period, sebastian." you answered hastily, but a part of you regretted that because you were curious as to what other nicknames he had for a period. "and now that you know that information, can i please get the medkit?"

"how is that going to help you?" was he just full of questions? all you wanted him to do was give you a nod so you could pay him, and then leave so you could get this run over with. but no, he decided that now was the perfect time to ask you obvious questions.

"because i need painkillers." at your response, sebastian went quiet for a second before speaking. "didn't urbanshade send you with some? you're really going to buy a whole medkit for some pills you should already have?"

what was he going on about? why would urbanshade send you with pills? they barely sent you with any materials, so why would they give you medicine?

"no?" you spoke, "they only sent me down here with two pads. according to them, that's how it is for every expendable, so i didn't bother asking them about medicine."

you didn't notice the way his eye twitched as you explained your situation, or the way he appeared to be thinking fairly hard.

urbanshade sent you with two pads and called it a day? he was aware they didn't care much about the prisoners—they were called expendables for a reason—but this was just inhumane.

did it really matter what he thought? no, and in reality, he shouldn't really even be thinking about this. he should just shrug off this conversation and send you on your way, but something was preventing him from doing so.

and unfortunately, it was pity.

the last thing sebastian wanted to feel towards an expendable was pity, but here he was, listening to you as he considered helping you. that idea went against everything he stood for because to him, you were only here to give him the research you find, and in return, he would give you his wares—not his pity.

maybe he would charge you for that later.

a low sigh left sebastian's nose as he stared at you, and you blinked at him a few times before speaking. "so, i'll just take the medkit and leave."

"you're not leaving."

you fell quiet at sebastian's words, and that was only because you were making sure that you had heard him right. since when was he against you leaving? usually, he was the type to usher you out if you stayed too long without buying anything.

you couldn't even ask him why you weren't allowed to leave, for you were too curious as you watched him grab at his pouches. they were removed from his tail while he placed them to the side, and once his tail was bare, he grabbed the medkit out of the pouches beside him.

the case was placed on the table that held a few documents, and it clicked open before sebastian pulled out a bottle. pills rattled in the bottle as sebastian pressed down on the lid, and he twisted it open before shaking some medicine onto his palm.

he clenched his hand so the pills wouldn't fall out of his grasp as he closed the bottle, and he tossed the medicine back into the medkit before facing you.

you watched as he held out his palm, and you took the pills from him. they were fairly small, so you figured you didn't need a drink as you popped them into your mouth. you swallowed them, and as you were doing that, sebastian picked up a hand-cranked flashlight that was nearby him. he started to quickly crank the flashlight as it whirred, and at first, you were puzzled. why was he cranking the flashlight?

but then you recalled all the times you've bought it, and you remembered how hot the item got whenever it was cranked too much.

was he giving you a heating pad alternative?

"sit." sebastian motioned towards his tail, and you hesitantly stepped closer to his tail. were you dreaming or something? sebastian was one to despise when people touched him, so the fact that he was letting you lean against his tail was questionable.

though, you would take it over standing up. he was the one who offered, after all.

you slowly sat down, and as soon as you did, sebastian leaned over to place the flashlight against your abdomen. heat passed through your jumpsuit and onto your skin, and sebastian kept his hand hovering over the flashlight while he looked at you.

he didn't even have to speak for you to know that he was questioning if it was okay, and when you gave him a nod, he straightened his back while his tail slowly moved over to wrap around your body.

your legs were covered while his tail held the flashlight against you, and light pressure was applied. the cramps you felt lightened up after a moment, and you were left with a dull ache resting in your abdomen while you placed your head against sebastian's tail.

"the painkillers should kick in soon. urbanshade only used the quick type, so it should help..." his words were slightly mumbled as he closed the medkit, and he left it on the table. his shoulders slumped as he let out a long breath, and you observed as sebastian just seemingly went back to his usual activities.

he picked up a document from the balcony near his head as he opened it, and only the sound of your combined breaths could be heard. it was odd, to say the least. sebastian's shop was usually never quiet, and sebastian himself usually wasn't this kind.

it made you wonder why he was doing all of this. did he expect payment out of you? he seemed fairly obsessed with the idea of getting research from expendables, so it wouldn't shock you.

but if that was the reason, then why didn't he just give you the medkit earlier when you asked for it? he denied you before giving you the painkillers himself, and that confused you.

should you ask him? you pondered it, and the only reason you went through with the idea was because the silence was starting to bother you.

"why are you helping me?" you asked, and without missing a beat, sebastian responded.

"i took care of my mom and sister when they were on their period," he explained as he didn't even bother to look up from the document in his hand. "they taught me what to do and how to help, so i guess it's just habit..."

you had never heard him talk about his family before, and you didn't wish to ruin it by making a comment. so, you just nodded at his words.

"they taught me that getting rest helps a bit, so you should probably do that."

he was more or likely saying that so he didn't have to deal with you talking to break the silence, but couldn't care. the idea of sleeping was one you adored.

"thank you, sebastian." you shifted against his tail a bit, and you heard him let out a hum of response while you stared up at the ceiling.

though, before you went so sleep, you had to ask sebastian something.

"am i getting charged for this?"

"go to sleep."

you took that as a yes.

you slightly smiled at his words before closing your eyes, and he glanced at you as he watched your body relax.

his tail slightly tightened around you, but not enough to make you uncomfortable. it was just enough to apply more pressure against the flashlight so it'd help your cramps a bit more.

as the quietness filled the room, he thought back to your words. was he going to charge you for this?

as he eyed your content form, he decided he wouldn't.

but just this once.

[loomiseater]

“Ow! Babe!” I whined as he slapped my ass as I was bent over getting a water out the fridge. “Come here! Im horny” he said with a laugh as I moved back to the kitchen island. I was about to open my water as he started humping me from the back as I tried to move him but he pinned both of my hands behind. “You gonna let daddy fuck this tight pussy?” He asked while whispering in my ear as I pushed my butt back on him and he groaned. “Mhhm” I hummed nodding my head. He pulled my panties to the side and soon pulled his underwear down. “Put it in” he said lowly. I grabbed his dick from behind and started teasing my folds with it as he started groaning. I finally put it at my entrance as he shoved himself in all the way which made me let out a moan.

He pulled back out but quickly went back in and he started thrusting. “Fuck!” I moaned as he started thrusting even faster. “So fucking wet!” He groaned in my ear. “You fuck me so good, baby!” I screamed as all you could hear was the wetness from my pussy. He angled his thrusts upwards as I leaned my head back. “TIM!” I whined as my legs started shaking. “Turn around” he instructed as I did as told. He picked me up and I wrapped my legs around his waist as he brought to our bedroom. He placed me on the bed on my back and pulled my panties all the way off. He started sucking on my clit as I tried to push him away but he gripped my thighs. “You gonna let me eat this pussy or keep moving?” He asked from beneath me as I threw my head back in pleasure.

He literally started making out with my pussy. “taste so good baby” he said as the vibrations felt so good. He started sucking on one of my lips and it made my thighs squeeze around his head. “YESSS!” I screamed as my juices started getting all over his face and he started lapping up all of my juices. It was dripping all on his chin as he moved his mouth away and started rubbing my clit. “Cum again, I wanna see you squirt” he said while smirking.

He started rubbing me even faster as I started squirting all over his face. He lifted his head and slid down his shorts. I started moaning as I was trying to come down from my high but he immediately shoved himself inside of me as it caught me off guard. As he was thrusting my legs were wrapped around him. “Tim!” I moaned as he was grunting in my ear. “So fucking tight” he grunted as he closed his eyes. He did one powerful thrust as I digged my nails into his back. “YOUR DICK IS SO GOOD” I yelled as he let out a chuckle. “Cum on this dick, mama” he said lowly while thrusting into me slowly. I tried to look everywhere but his face but he grabbed my chin forcing me to look at him.

“Look at me when I’m fucking you” he said as he was pounding into me. I tried to moan but nothing came out as he started placing kisses all on my neck. “I love this fucking pussy so much” he said while slapping it as I tried to close my legs but he opened them back up forcibly pounding into me quickly. “Too much!” I whined pushing on his abs as he hit my hands. “Fuck! I’m about nut” he groaned. I felt my orgasm coming as his tip was poking my g-spot. 

“I’M CUMMING I’M CUMMINGGG!” I yelled and I came and a mix of my juices came out as he came inside of me at the same time. He was still thrusting as I came a little more. “Oh my goodness!” I said out of breath as he rested his head in between my boobs. “Why do you always do that?” I asked in a giggle. “Because they’re comfortable” Tim said it like it was the most normal thing ever.

A/N: this was a little something I found in my notes when I first became obsessed with the rookie back in 2023. I kinda hate it..but it needed to get outta my notes.

[apomaro-mellow]

Okay so here's a PSA about A.I music that basically just boils down to we need to be more discerning about what we're listening to. If you don't feel like reading all this, just take that message and go.

I'm gonna talk about three instances where I encountered A.I music and hopefully this will help out people and they'll know what to look for. I think a lot of people have heard of that one fake band on Spotify but not every liar is gonna get blasted on your local tumblr.

My first encounter with A.I music should have been more obvious simply because I could tell they were using generated art work in the video. So there's a protip right there. If they're willing to cut corners in one area, it's probably being used for the rest too.

This channel styles itself like they find rare vintage songs from off the beaten path and upload them. I listened, thinking some were pretty catchy. But when I tried to find the artists and more songs by them, nothing. Not too unexpected for "rare vintage" but there had to be some record somewhere. And yet I couldn't find anything. So I look into the channel. The description starts with "Waking up at the crack of noon to cook up hilarious tunes."

Huh, so they produce all these tracks? No. They don't. They're quite literally cooking them up.

OH Tangent because I just remembered I fell victim to this specific brand not once but TWICE because as I was looking for the article that confirmed my suspicions I realized it was a completely different channel

Here is a link to the article. It's an interview with the person behind this channel, who is an actual artist and does the cover art, lyrics, and instrumentation but doesn't see an issue in using A.I. generated voices to do the singing. Make it make sense.

Anyway, this section is just to say if you like a song you should WANT to look up the artist and find more and if there's suspiciously little, well there's your first clue. Hard Archive is also just over a year old, which also tipped me off. Obscurest Vinyl is older, but they're not even trying to hide the fact that they use generated music.

The next section is music I did not even suspect to be A.I. until a video pointed it out to me. Here is the link to that video. In essence, anytime you see a video with a title like "cute music to vibe to" it doesn't hurt at all to actually look at the tracks and see where they come from. If an artist isn't listed, your next step should be to check out the channel. After all, musicians post their stuff to youtube everyday. But if one channel is pumping out hours long mixes quickly, there's probably something afoot. Don't get caught up thinking you just want something in the background. As tiring as it can sound, we really gotta be vigilant.

The last instance is something that cut me deeply because it happened to one of my favorite genres - citypop.

I innocently clicked the video because it's been a minute since I listened to a citypop mix and they've NEVER let me down before. But as I'm listening to the first track, I take a look at the cover art and realize it's got that strange blur effect that some A.I pictures have. And then I really listen to the song (keep in mind I only know English) but there's definitely something off about the song that I can't quite pinpoint. So I look at the chapters to see what the song is. There's song titles, but not a single artist listed. And when I go to the channel

"Yeah I'll take a Japanese lady standing in front of a Mazdayota"

Yall......there's literally endless songs in citypop. There's endless beautiful cover art in citypop. This one really cut me deep because how lazy and uninspired. And it's going to keep happening. As an aside, the anime Carole & Tuesday came out in 2019 and is set the distant future where most music is made by A.I. and it's a novelty when not and yall... I don't wanna live in that future.

So please, be mindful of what you're giving attention to. Even if it's something in the background because views are power. Don't let youtube or spotify or whoever just put something on and you let it play. Find out who it is and if they're real. I was fooled so many times before learning this lesson and now I'm passing the knowledge to you.

[shoe-the-dude]

thought/word vomit rant about st cast and byler?

shout out to @beaneske 's post in byler nation because now i'm thinking really hard about this but yeah! i think it's gonna be such a big relief when the cast gets to talk about all the theories they had to hide, especially when it comes to byler. i really do want to know when everyone started theorizing if they were gonna do something romantically with mike and will/when they told everyone that it was gonna become a thing.

i wanna say that most of the older cast (like david, winona, charlie, natalia, joe, maya) + finn and noah probably knew about byler at the start of st3. i think the lip glances were very intentional, and will and mike had lots of romantic tension that could only be displayed if noah and finn were intentionally acting as such. i also want to say that the byler rain fight + mike biking all the to will's house, paralleled to the "he'll come crawling back..." line from max is also really telling. oh and don't forget that s3 is the season that introduced "blue + yellow" which was definitely intentional too. (every single time i think about how intentional it is i just remember finn not knowing the russian code at all but only remembering "when blue meets yellow in the west" 💀) even if the duffers didn't tell anyone during s3 production, the older cast, finn, and noah probably picked up on it, considering how finn is a literal director and if we picked up on it the people acting it out probably did too. but the whole cast definitely knew at the start or during production of st4.

i feel like the rest of the cast wasn't informed about byler during st3 for a lot of reasons. sadie, gaten, and caleb never talked about byler during the promo before or after st3. (lmk if i'm correct i've only watched a few interviews from that time) it's also that their characters aren't too involved in byler during st3 and st4, so they don't know about it just yet. they probably have theorized it though. after st4, caleb also compares lumax and mileven, and he says that mileven isn't "real love". here's the interview (it's from @urlocalbylershipper in 2022, the interview i'm talking about is the first video, but they have some awesome byler proofs there too): https://www.tumblr.com/urlocalbylershipper/684709683911704576/byler-season-4-byler-proofs

this might be a hot take, but i don't think millie was informed of byler until st4 either. before the st4 promo started, millie seemed to like mileven. ill give you an example. i can't find the specific interview on youtube except for this really funny meme this person made, but here it is! for some context, millie's talking about how mike and el see each other romantically and that in their head they're "basically already married": https://www.youtube.com/shorts/Rs42Ldh3MYk

during st4 promo (pre-st4 and post-st4) she takes the stance that she wants whatever's best for el and she wants to see el be happy in the end, which is definitely more vague than "i want el to be happy with mike" or something like that. she definitely started to recognize that her character wasn't happy in her relationship but also didn't know if byler was the right way to solve it. when talking about byler she took the stance that she wants both characters to be happy. however her perspective definitely has changed. in this interview she's asked if she ships byler and she says yes!: https://www.youtube.com/shorts/dxaDsId__Fs

what i'm saying is, if the cast, who knows how the show is going to end, and has interacted and actively played the characters involved ships byler, we have no need for byler doubt! thanks again to @beaneske for giving me some food for thought lol.

[a-god-in-ruins-rises]

gonna respond to @odd-maid3n's reply here for posterity's sake.

this is a response to this question.

okay so i think the comparison between pandora vs adam and eve is apt, but mostly in order to contrast them. i think their similarities are pretty superficial and the "deeper" insights reveal a lot of the differences between jewish and greek/indo-european thought.

but before i get into the comparison, let me address the original point. so yeah, i agree that in the story of adam and eve the point is as you say: god forbade them from eating the fruit and they were expected to unquestioningly obey this divine command. they didn't. and he punished them for this act of disobedience. but my original point remains, how is this just? if adam and eve were ignorant of right and wrong (because they hadn't eaten the fruit yet) how could they be so harshly punished for acting innocently, out of ignorance? as i said elsewhere in the replies of that post, it would be like telling a child not to touch a hot stove and then, when they do, you brutally punish them by torturing them for the rest of their life. it just....doesn't seem just to me? like a more compassionate and benevolent god (and we are to believe god is benevolent, right?) would have shown them mercy and kindness and corrected them gently. if a human parent can show their own children more benevolence than god, how benevolent is god really?

anyway, now i want to highlight the differences between pandora's myth and adam and eve's myth and why i don't think they're the same thing.

so with adam and eve we have an extremely moralistic tale that emphasizes absolute obedience to divine command. and not just any morality. but slave morality. rules imposed from outside (god), transgression leads to punishment. suffering is retribution. woman blamed as temptress (eve). tree of knowledge is forbidden, and gaining awareness is morally bad, a crime against god. it's sinful, evil. the consequence? toil, death....but framed as punishment for disobedience. it is a myth that instills guilt, values obedience, and promotes an anti-life sentiment. pure ressentiment theology. god says "no," man internalizes "i am bad."

pandora on the other hand? not moralizing at all. and the "evil" she releases into the world is framed as a necessary consequence of the gift of fire that prometheus gave humanity. in a sense, it was necessary to restore harmony, to balance the blessing with a curse. hesiod literally refers to pandora as a "beautiful misfortune" which hephaestus created (at the behest of zeus) "in exchange" for the "good fortune/blessing" of the gift of fire. there is a sense of reciprocity, exchange, balance, debt, etc. in some translations she is referred to as a "price" to be paid.

and importantly, pandora isn't sinning by opening her box. she's not committing a crime against god. on the contrary, she's doing what she was designed to! there is no transgression at all. by obeying her nature she is obeying the divine! she is realizing her fate as designed by the gods!

and on a more esoteric level, i made a point yesterday about the mormons being the only ones with a "coherent" take on the story of adam and eve because mormons believe that god did intentionally set them up for failure and wanted them to "fall" on purpose that enabled humanity to progress and achieve eternal life, allowing for agency, procreation, and the experience of both joy and sorrow. it was seen as ultimately necessary and beneficial.

and i lowkey think the same about pandora. i think zeus secretly saw things the same way. that even the "evils" (i don't like this translation but whatever) released by pandora were actually gifts in disguise. i mean, pandora is repeatedly referred to as a gift herself. i mean, here name literally means the "all-gift." i think the tale of pandora is kind of a tragic, nietzschean life-affirming myth. "evil" and suffering aren't seen as punishments brought against us for crimes against the gods. they're just....necessary, inherent parts of life. which also have the hidden blessing of giving our life meaning through the opportunity to struggle and strive and to experience of both joy and sorrow.

[cowboycid]

My favourite corner of the property so far...

[rosykims]

can you fucking imagine if instead of the mourn watch or lords of fortune factions we'd instead had an inquisition and agents of fen'harel faction . personally i have not stopped thinking about it once since finishing veilguard but maybe thats just me

[jaeminvore]

Another person is added to my shit list: my younger brother’s friend 😑

[wackywatchdotcom]

i will say im not super invested in the idea of the show giving us too much information on c&a. like itll be super cool if we find out about it! and im sure itll be relevant information if we do but i think the information we get is going to be not super indepth, because im not sure itd match the tone of the show? its less about mystery and like The Lore and more about the characters and examining how different characters respond and have been responding to the environment set up by the show

(it WOULD be fun to learn more details about c&a and i AM curious i just dont think itd actually enhance much abt the show itself, and as such, i dont think its super important writing wise for the audience to learn about it either)

that SAID i do ascribe to the idea that ALL of the cast members worked for c&a before the ended up in the circus, no exceptions. i dont really know how say gangle or zooble wouldve ended up there, but i feel like they all ended up there one way or another. and i think most of the cast doesnt talk about their life in the real world bc its gone and theres no reason to dredge it up (or theyve forgotten it or most aspects of it), but it does make it fascinating that not even pomni, who has the least reason to avoid these topics at least early on, broached the subject of what in the WORLD is c&a UP to. it literally is never brought up ever as of ep 4. which makes me think the company was probably always super shady in some way to the pt that its employees were kinda desensitized to the idea that its c&as fault that horrible things happen

[measureyourlifeincake]

someone in the comments of the new iwtv teaser said "Sam is not beating the allegations of being possessed by Lestat" and like. have you heard of a thing called "acting"

[rolandkaros]

my god that man is so foul