#(I need to draw more of Blade + Gooey being cute too)

[desultory-novice]

I know I was the one who first put the idea forward, but as soon as you said that @galapathy a certain vision popped into my head...

I hold that Apologies would 100% be your standard "embittered guy beaten down by life sacrifices everything to protect the innocence of tiny girl-child whose heart is as pure as the driven snow..." except that Adeleine is a bit too SILLY to qualify for that last part XD

[mintyvan]

23 - inked

filling the request Van gets his first tattoo and reader is the tattoo artist

note I have been working and going to class and studying nonstop and my brain hurts so I am sorry if this is not up to par.

___________________

When he strutted into your shop for the first time, hand running through his hair nonchalantly, creamy white untouched skin clashing with the rest of the inked people in the shop, you knew he was going to be one of those. You had looked down at your arms and legs, chuckling to yourself about your first few tattoos. You’d gotten used to the pain since then. Obviously.

The new boy you’d hired to work the front desk was having trouble understanding the man’s accent, or understanding his tattoo idea, or was absolutely smitten with the cheekbones and the lips and the hair -- you could see his distress from your own work station at the back of the shop.

Van had glided into the shop that first day with a poorly written string of words the receptionist couldn’t decipher. Van said it was something he wrote when he was younger, and visibly so... The words were scrawled so that you could barely read what he had written. It was charming how meaningful he wanted his tattoo to be. It was a ripped section of a lined page, folded up and worn at the corners. You unfolded it after the receptionist handed Van over to you after not being to handle any more of his confusing ideas. You asked him “Do you want the lines to be part of the tattoo too, or?” in your guess that he was a writer and that these were lines of a poem he’d written.

“No, just the words.”

You couldn’t read all of them; you asked him why it had to be this exact handwriting and not in a pre-typed font.

“Handwritten is better,” he had said with a shrug of his shoulders. He seemed like he knew what he wanted, but his articulation wasn’t enough to clearly show his ideas.

“Okay then, can you write it again for me so I can at least know what it says?” you had asked.

He wrote it on the notepad next to your consultation desk, and you had read it to yourself. You looked up at him, and his expression was mildly uncomfortable, like he was showing a piece of himself he didn’t expect to reveal to a stranger.

*

“Hello, we spoke last time about this one?” he chipperly asked you today as he walked into the shop, smile wide and eyes bright, same as before. He seemed so familiar now. As he stood before you in the shop again, and he was more comfortable with the idea of you tattooing him, you showed him the version you’d drawn up; when he’d handwritten the phrase on the pad last time, you’d saved the paper and drafted a newer, less scrawled version. He loved it.

“You sure you want this one?” you asked. A nod. “What color do you want it?”

“Just black still, I’m a simple kind of guy.”

You smiled. All of your tattoos were black ink, too. You gestured to yourself in a way that said same.

“Where do you want it?”

“I’ve no idea love, I came in to ask you.”

“This is your first tattoo, right? Usually people think this through a bit more?”

“Yeah.” He waited for you to continue, like you hadn’t just told him he was completely clueless. It was cute how eager he was.

“Well, tattoos usually hurt worse if they’re on your ribs, hands, feet, or elbows. How’s your pain tolerance?”

“High.” He winked.

You could tell he thought you were badass from how covered you were in ink; it was a stereotype you were on the receiving end of quite frequently. Little did he know you were a big softie. It just so happened that you could take the pain of the needle well. For the sake of professionalism, you ignored his flirtation, tried not to blush, and continued.

“For men, thigh tattoos are a good place to start because you’ll probably never be asked to wear shorts to work. Your forearm is also a good place, but not easily concealable in the summer. You could also go for the shoulder blade or bicep, but since you want something handwritten and not an image, I’d suggest you go for a different body part, in my opinion.”

His eyebrows knitted in concentration, and he pinched himself in all the areas you mentioned, testing the pain of each body part, making you and a few other of the artists in the shop laugh. His liveliness was contagious.

“Mmmm….I think I’m gonna go with forearm. I usually wear long sleeves so the fans won’t really be able to tell I’ve got one unless we go back to Argentina.”

The cogs in your brain started turning, then it clicked in your mind where you’d seen him before he’d come in your shop. There was a music festival you’d gone to a few years ago. You remembered that he was good. Not much else.

Trying not to disclose your awe at tattooing your first semi-famous person, you asked him for all his payment information once he was sat on the other side of your desk. He drummed on his thigh, restless. He was picking up pencils to see the designs on them, and staring out the window at the people walking by, trying not to focus on what was to come.

“Alright Van, time to take a seat in the chair behind me and roll up your sleeve. I’ll ready everything. Sit tight,” you told him calmly. You knew it was best to take the process slow with first-timers. He stood from his place at your desk and did as you said.

You carefully transferred the tattoo stencil you’d prepared for the design onto his forearm after shaving the hair away from the area.

“So here’s the part where you try it on.. Go look in the mirror over there and see if you like it. Take a walk around the block if you need to. But you need to know if it’s exactly where you want it before I do this.” Tentatively, he stood, turning his arm this way and that way, viewing it from every angle.

You left him to his own devices as you met with another client for a quick check-up regarding the tattoo you gave them a week ago. When Van returned, he had a grin on his face.

“I love it.”

“I’m glad! See, bet you’re happy you came to me. I’m not going to give you anything you’re not going to like.”

He smirked at that last comment as he sat in the chair. You could tell he was holding back the flirting due to the fact that you were going to be poking him with a vibrating needle in a few minutes.

You readied everything and asked him to take a deep breath.

“I’m alright, let’s go for it, I’m ready!” He laughed, slinging his arm across his body in a faux-snap.

“Okay, here we go.”

You aimed the tattoo gun at the first purple stenciled line, and pressed the foot pedal. The needles moved up and down, scratching against his skin, letting the black ink soak into it.

“Christ!” He yelped in a high pitched voice, trying his best not to squirm. “Is it supposed to feel like this?!”  

“Yes, hon.” You laughed, dragging the needle over the next stencil line. You predicted from the first moment he walked into this parlor that he’d have low pain tolerance.

“How fuckin’ long’s this gonna take,” he sighed, eyebrows pulling together from the faint pain.

“Two hours,” you joked, but he didn’t catch it.

“Two?!”

“Kidding! Kidding, you’ve got 15 more minutes, max,” you said, eyes full of mirth. “I’d hold your hand, but…” you said into the skin of his forearm. Your head was bent low over his arm, and you were watching the needles with precision. He laughed and you had to hold his arm still for a moment as he finished chortling in his seat.

“How many needles in that thing?” he asked curiously, big blue eyes watching you work intently, probably to keep distracting himself.

“Nine.”

“Cool to think they’re all hammering away in there.” He trailed off as he focused on the pain again. He ran his other hand through his hair a few times. When he spoke next, it was a whirlwind of a memoir about his band, his test tube baby status, and his life mission. It poured out of him in what seemed like a well-practiced speech of about five minutes. You hadn’t asked, but you were happy to nod along as he chattered on.

You kept tracing the letters of the words in the gooey black ink, and he fell completely silent for awhile, gaze shifting from you to the needle, the cloth wiping away at the ink and blood, and back again.

“This is kind of hot,” he whispered when you were close to finishing the last letters. You let out all the air in your lungs in a huff, trying not to shake the needles as you smiled.

“How so?”

“You’re just diggin’ that thing in and lovin’ it, and I like watching you doing it. It’s mad,” he said, licking his lips. “Ain’t never done anything like this before.”

At that, your heart sped up to the pace of the needles, and a blush crept up on your cheeks before you could hide it. The sexy nature of that statement and the lip lick couldn’t be denied.

You were happy to stand up and away from him when you finished poking his skin. The general happiness and sexiness emanated from him, drawing you in, and you needed a breath of fresh air from the intimacy in your little corner of the shop. You thought he was attractive when he came in, but after seeing him a second time and being up close to those eyes was enough to send your heart reeling.

You wrapped his tattoo in plastic wrap and gave him a pamphlet on how to take care of a fresh tattoo. You also gave him a tube of the shop’s brand of moisturizing cream to use three times daily.

“I don’t usually give these out, but you’re a rookie and I figured we could spare one of these,” you said to him, handing the tube to him. Standing next to each other, you were so much shorter than him that it was almost comical. He also seemed to notice the height difference, and smiled.

He then examined his arm, pleased at the results. You beamed up at him, happy to see he was loving his first little ink job.

“In about a week, come back to the shop and one of us will make sure your after-care is going smoothly.”

“Ah -- I can’t, well I’m on tour right now, so I’m gonna be out of the country in a few days…”

“Oh, okay, um, maybe just step into a tattoo shop wherever you’re going and they can help you out? We can print out some documents for you so you have them.” You didn’t know why you felt sad about him leaving the country, but you did.

“That would be excellent. Thank you so much for this,” he pointed to his arm. He walked out of the shop, documents in hand, sunglasses perched on the bridge of his nose, and arm bundled in plastic wrap.

*

A quick finger tap on your shoulder made you jump and turn around.

He was standing there, arms out wide, asking for a hug. Gladly received.

“Van!” you said happily, “it’s been what, three months? How’s that tattoo looking?” He looked incredible, all black outfit standing in the middle of your parlor. He was absolutely fucking beautiful, more than you remembered.

He rolled up his sleeve, chuckling loudly, alerting the attention of the whole shop momentarily. “It’s amazing. I get complimented on it all the time,” he said.

“I’m glad I was able to help you out with your first tattoo. And how is touring?” Your eyes were locked on his, and his on yours. 

“Good. Always is.” He smiled a crooked grin, and your heart fluttered. He looked even better than the last time you saw him, and that in itself was a miracle. You didn’t think he could get more perfect.

“What brings you in here today? Ready for your second tat?”

“Actually, I was wondering what you were doing tonight for dinner.” He was calm. And forward. So forward. Heart: ablaze.

“Oh!” Internally, you squealed. Outwardly, you tried to play it cool. Probably failing. “I don’t have any plans tonight.”

“Excellent. Can I get your address? Pick you up at 6?” Once again. So. Direct.

“Yes, hell yes, that would be amazing.”

Life was good.