#sip tools

[curiousquill1]

Discover how mutual fund portfolio analysis plays a key role in calculating the average rate of return in SIP investments. Learn how expert portfolio management helps maximize returns.

[serpentsurgency]

...

[truemindcapital]

Financial Planning Tools

The landscape of financial planning tools is diverse, catering to various needs and levels of financial sophistication. Here are some key categories:

Budgeting Apps and Software: These tools help you track your income and expenses, categorize spending, and identify areas for potential savings. Many offer features like bank account linking, automatic transaction categorization, and goal setting.

Investment Management Platforms: These platforms allow you to manage your investment accounts, track performance, research investment options, and sometimes even automate investing.

Retirement Planning Calculators: These tools help you estimate how much you need to save for retirement based on your current age, income, desired retirement age, and lifestyle. They often allow you to factor in inflation and investment growth. (Many financial institutions and websites offer these.)

Goal-Based Planning Tools: These tools allow you to set specific financial goals (e.g., buying a house, paying off debt, saving for education) and track your progress towards achieving them. They often help you break down large goals into smaller, manageable steps. (Often integrated into budgeting apps or offered by financial advisors.)

Net Worth Trackers: These tools help you calculate and monitor your net worth (your assets minus your liabilities) over time, providing a clear picture of your overall financial health. (Often a feature in budgeting and investment management platforms.)

Financial Advisor Platforms: Some digital tools connect you with human financial advisors who can provide personalized guidance and create comprehensive financial plans. (Examples: Betterment, Personal Capital (with advisor services))

Truemind Capital highlights that financial planning is an ongoing process that requires regular monitoring and adjustments to stay on track towards financial goals. They position themselves as trusted advisors who prioritize their clients' interests.

In essence, Truemind Capital provides both digital tools like calculators and personalized advisory services that function as financial planning tools to help individuals navigate their financial landscape effectively.

[indianfinance]

Plan Your Investments Smarter with This SIP Calculator

If you’ve ever wondered how much your monthly SIP (Systematic Investment Plan) could grow over time, you’re not alone. Most new investors jump into mutual funds without having a clear projection of their returns.

That’s where an SIP calculator can help.

📊 It’s a simple tool that shows you:

How much your total investment will be

How much wealth you can potentially create

A complete breakdown of your returns over time

After trying a bunch of tools, I came across one that’s both clean and super easy to use: 👉 https://www.finowings.com/Mutual-Fund/sip-calculator

No ads, no sign-ups — just plug in your monthly amount, interest rate, and duration, and boom 💥 — you get instant results.

Why Use an SIP Calculator?

✅ Helps you plan for long-term goals (like a house, education, retirement)

✅ Shows the power of compounding in action

✅ Lets you adjust and tweak your plan anytime

🔗 Whether you're starting your first SIP or just reviewing your investments, this tool can give you the clarity you need.

Check it out and let me know what you think!

[theabstruseone]

I slept in and just woke up, so here's what I've been able to figure out while sipping coffee:

Twitter has officially rebranded to X just a day or two after the move was announced.

The official branding is that a tweet is now called "an X", for which there are too many jokes to make.

The official account is still @twitter because someone else owns @X and they didn't reclaim the username first.

The logo is 𝕏 which is the Unicode character Unicode U+1D54F so the logo cannot be copyrighted and it is highly likely that it cannot be protected as a trademark.

Outside the visual logo, the trademark for the use of the name "X" in social media is held by Meta/Facebook, while the trademark for "X" in finance/commerce is owned by Microsoft.

The rebranding has been stopped in Japan as the term "X Japan" is trademarked by the band X JAPAN.

Elon had workers taking down the "Twitter" name from the side of the building. He did not have any permits to do this. The building owner called the cops who stopped the crew midway through so the sign just says "er".

He still plans to call his streaming and media hosting branch of the company as "Xvideo". Nobody tell him.

This man wants you to give him control over all of your financial information.

Edit to add further developments:

Yes, this is all real. Check the notes and people have pictures. I understand the skepticism because it feels like a joke, but to the best of my knowledge, everything in the above is accurate.

Microsoft also owns the trademark on X for chatting and gaming because, y'know, X-box.

The logo came from a random podcaster who tweeted it at Musk.

The act of sending a tweet is now known as "Xeet". They even added a guide for how to Xeet.

The branding change is inconsistent. Some icons have changed, some have not, and the words "tweet" and "Twitter" are still all over the place on the site.

TweetDeck is currently unaffected and I hope it's because they forgot that it exists again. The complete negligence toward that tool and just leaving it the hell alone is the only thing that makes the site usable (and some of us are stuck on there for work).

This is likely because Musk was forced out of PayPal due to a failed credit line project and because he wanted to rename the site to "X-Paypal" and eventually just to "X".

This became a big deal behind the scenes as Musk paid over $1 million for the domain X.com and wanted to rebrand the company that already had the brand awareness people were using it as a verb to "pay online" (as in "I'll paypal you the money")

X.com is not currently owned by Musk. It is held by a domain registrar (I believe GoDaddy but I'm not entirely sure). Meaning as long as he's hung onto this idea of making X Corp a thing, he couldn't be arsed to pay the $15/year domain renewal.

Bloomberg estimates the rebranding wiped between $4 to $20 billion from the valuation of Twitter due to the loss of brand awareness.

The company was already worth less than half of the $44 billion Musk paid for it in the first place, meaning this may end up a worse deal than when Yahoo bought Tumblr.

One estimation (though this is with a grain of salt) said that Twitter is three months from defaulting on its loans taken out to buy the site. Those loans were secured with Tesla stock. Meaning the bank will seize that stock and, since it won't be enough to pay the debt (since it's worth around 50-75% of what it was at the time of the loan), they can start seizing personal assets of Elon Musk including the Twitter company itself and his interest in SpaceX.

Sesame Street's official accounts mocked the rebranding.

[readwritealldayallnight]

The men working on his crew today are too loud, too boisterous, too young, too content to stand around blabbering, taking the piss instead of doing their actual jobs

Getting into construction work following retirement from the SAS wasn’t exactly the idyllic image of sipping a daiquiri on the beach that his thick stack of discharge papers had painted in his head

But it kept his hands occupied and his mind busy, his daily stressors having shifted from cleaning blood out of his gear and patching broken bones every other day, to instead complaining about the rising price of lumber and pulling splinters out on occasion

Trading in his AR for a nail gun, swapping his tac vest for a tool belt, even turning in his skull mask for a hard hat, was surprisingly an easier adjustment than he’d predicted, the long hours and physical work meant he was too exhausted by the time he got home to spend much time doing anything other than preparing for the next day, a never ending cycle that kept him from being still for too long

It might have been some time since Simon Riley was on a battlefield, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t still play the hero every once in a while

He’s stood at the top of a ladder, wiping the sweat off his brow as his other hand pats agains this tool belt, searching for the one tool he’s certain he forgot to bring up with him

“Pass me the claw head hammer will y-” Simon cuts himself off from asking the lad stood below him, when he notices he’s only talking to himself. Squinting through the glare of the afternoon sun shining in his eyes, he glances around the job site until he spots most of his crew gathered near the front gates

He rolls his eyes to himself as he begins making his way back down to solid ground, having spotted what had the men so distracted : a pretty bird stood on the other side of the fence

Simon can admit to himself, even he likes to partake in the occasional bird watching, he is just a man at the end of the day, but not when there’s work to be done, and they’re already more than a week behind on this job

“Alright you tossers, back to it!” He shouts to be heard over the group of men, a chorus of groans and grumbles echoing out before they’re slowly dispersing

“Ach, we were jus’ helpin ‘er out, sir!” A man who sounds like he’s been smoking all his life croaks out as he walks by

“Here, miss. He’s the one that might be able to give you an answer.” One of the younger men on the crew says, pointing a gloved hand in Simon’s direction

He follows the younger man’s gaze, expecting to find another curious bystander peeking at the work, perhaps a nosy neighbour who wants to know why such a mess is being made, hell maybe even one of the hens from the nearby college stopping by for a quick flirt

He’s prepared to offer a professional nod, maybe even a begrudging ‘Alright?’ if it appeases them, before he’ll be excusing himself back to the job, uninterested in getting home any later tonight than he already has to just to entertain some stranger

But of course, he doesn’t end up doing so, does he? Not when his hand comes up to block out the sun, his gaze peering through the chain link fence, and it’s you that his eyes land on

You, with your wide eyes fighting to appear confident, though the controlled panic running through them is clear to see from where Simon stands a few feet away from you

Your body tense as you push a small pram in place back and forth, back and forth, your attention jumping between the men and whoever must be tucked up under a pile of blankets in the stroller, presumably also the reason for your enticingly large cleavage, he allows himself think for a split second before averting his gaze

Simon sends the younger man away with a quick jut of his chin, before he’s taking a careful step towards you

“Wha’ can I help you with?” He tries in vain to mask the usual harshness in his tone, but with such a quick switch in his emotions it doesn’t come out sounding quite how he’d hoped, yet you don’t flinch away from him either

“I know-” you let out a frustrated breath, readjusting your grip on the pram’s handle as you steady yourself, locking eyes with his once again with a new vigour behind them this time around. “I know this is so silly of me, and I’m sure you’ve had lots of people botherin’ you, so uh, sorry for bein’ one of ‘em, but here I am.”

You let out a small chuckle to yourself, more self deprecating than anything else, but Simon finds himself offering the slightest bit of a smile in return, if only to ease your nerves

“Anyways, I can imagine you’re probably not allowed to tell but, uh, people have been saying this might be a daycare you’re building here.”

He knew what your question was going to be long before you’d opened your pretty mouth- everyone and their mother had been asking about the project

Limited childcare in the area meant that as soon as the first whispers of a new daycare being built had started to spread, parents and even parents to be had been poking their noses before shovels had even hit the ground

Opening his mouth to give you the same answer he’d given everyone before you, Simon finds the words dying on his tongue as the unmistakable sound of an upset baby comes from the pram, and a very small baby at that

“Shh, shh darling. It’s okay, baby. You’re alright, shh.” He can’t find it in himself not to step closer until he’s practically got his nose poking through the fence to get nearer to you both, eyes glued to the way your lips formed the sweet soothing words, peering towards the increasingly squirming bundle tucked away in the pram

“Tha’s a tiny one.” Simon practically whispers to himself, though he knows you’ve heard him when your eyes glance up to meet his. “Can’t be very old.” He remembers how small his nephew had been when he’d been born, and recognized that distinct newborn cry instantly.

“Just turned eight weeks.” You answer with a ghost of a proud smile dancing across your lips quickly as you gaze at your bundle of joy, a tidbit of information you would expect a new parent would be all too happy to talk about, though the elation quickly disappears from your face. “Unfortunately my job is uh, I have to go back to work soon, I’ve just really been needing to find a spot for her somewhere.”

“Have you told your boss to sod off?” He asks, biceps bulging as he crosses his arms and leans a shoulder against the fence. He doesn’t like that. Doesn’t like the idea of a pretty little bird being all worked up and stressed about finding her new little baby bird somewhere to stay because her job is trying to force her to come back so soon

He also recognizes the fact that he doesn’t know you, that you’ve been a stranger to him up until about 60 seconds ago, and that he shouldn’t go involving himself in things that don’t regard him, but there’s something about this, something about you, that has him asking more questions that he should

Simon hardly realizes the corners of his mouth trying to smile along when you let out a small chuckle at his question, before your answer has him set back into his usual scowl. “No, I wish it were that simple.” you try to laugh again, though the sound doesn’t quite reach your eyes as you push some hair out of your eyes, Simon’s fingers twitching at his side

“No, they’re not forcing me to come back, it’s more of a- I need to work again. Money doesn’t exactly make itself, and it’s just me and her so…” you trail off, offering a meek shrug before you avert your gaze from his and go to fiddle with the baby blankets. “There- there just aren’t any daycare spots anywhere, and the waiting lists are months if not years long. And she and I just don’t pass through this neighbourhood often, so I’m worried that once that sign goes up announcing this is a daycare, that the spots are going to be taken up before I even have a chance to-”

“S’alrigh, s’alright.” Simon interrupts your rambling, a hand raised slightly in the air as though you were a spooked animal he hoped to calm. having heard everything he needed to hear. You look up at him with such sincerity in your eyes, he can tell you would do anything for that baby, that you likely aren’t above begging and pleading at this point, alone with a baby and short on options, he knows what he’ll do. Had pretty much made up his mind soon as he saw you, but now he’s decided.

“Just you and her, you said?” He asks quietly, absentmindedly nodding along with you when you confirm his question. “Well, I mean, I can tell ye that yes, this is meant to be a daycare ‘ere.” He speaks hesitantly, watching as the hope builds in your eyes at his words. He brings a sweaty palm up to rub the back of his neck as he breaks the news to you.

“But I couldn’t tell ye anythin’ about who we’re buildin’ for, love.” He continues, the term of endearment slipping past his lips unconsciously. “They just give us the blueprints and we do our part. Don’t know nothin’ ‘bout what or who’s takin ownership.” He watches that same sliver of hope that had started to grow quickly be snuffed out as you take in what he means.

“Oh. Well, I guess it makes sense.” You reply, evidently disappointed but too kind to push, too used to the recent defeats to expect anything else. “Thank you anyways, really. I appreciate you-”

“I’ll find out.” Simon says quickly, preventing you from bidding him whatever goodbye you were about to give him, keeping you here just a little longer.

“W-what?”

“I’ll find out. Who we’re building for. I’ll find you a name.��

“I- I- I don’t even- you really don’t have to do that!”

“Doesn’t matter what I have to do. I want to. So I will.”

He watches your face carefully now, seeing how you glance up at him with a different sort of apprehension in your gaze, almost like you’re truly taking him in for the first time, discovering something you weren’t expecting to find in him.

“Well, thank you. Truly.” You tell him, a smile so genuine gracing your lips that Simon finds himself choosing to smile back at you. The moment doesn’t last long however, when the baby starts to fuss again, your attention being drawn back to her. “I know baby, I know. I’ve got to feed you soon.”

Simon can’t help the deep blush that creeps up his neck and across his cheeks, unsure if it’s the way he enjoyed hearing you say ‘I know baby, I know’ a little too much or the idea of his own lips helping to ease that heavy ache in your swollen breasts that has him momentarily flustered.

“Maybe I could-” he clears his throat, pointedly avoiding looking at your chest and maintaining eye contact instead. “Maybe I could get your number or email or somethin’, to get back to you that is.”

“Oh! Yes of course! Here,” you say, digging through your pockets until you fish out a wadded up receipt. Simon pulls the pencil that’d been resting over his ear down and gently slips it through the fence over to you, watching with rapt attention as you bring the tip to the paper and write down what might be the most important numbers Simon ever learns. “There’s my number.”

He takes the pencil back from you and carefully accepts the paper you hand him, looking down at the name and smiley face you’ve left as well, whispering your name to himself before meeting your eyes once more. Before he can change his mind, Simon is tearing off the end of the receipt that’s still blank, and begins writing down his own name and number on it.

“If I don’t get back to you by the end of the week, you use tha’ to knock some sense into me, alrigh’?” He asks, slipping you the paper. He knows there isn’t a chance in hell he would forget about reaching out to you, about following through on this, but again, there’s something about you he can’t quite put his finger on.

“Thank you, Simon.” You answer, reading the name off the note he’s just given you, a small chill running down his spine at the sound of his name leaving your lips, the way you say it like it’s a name worth knowing. “Seriously, I can’t even tell you wha-”

The both of you can’t help but chuckle together when the baby’s cries cut you off again, you offering a sheepish smile in apology along with a small shrug of ‘what can you do?’.

“I’ll let you go, someone needs you more.”

“Well, we’re both very grateful to you, Simon.”

He stands there longer than he really should, watching the two of you walk off until you’re out of sight. The note you slipped him though? Well, that he holds onto until he’s clocking out, and maybe on the drive home as well, and maybe it’s the first thing to ever be hung up on his fridge in his flat, that little smiley face reminding him why a little bird watching isn’t so bad after all

I dunno ladies is this something???

Edit : you all decided this was something so here’s part 2

[thedacian]

SIP Calculator – Systematic Investment Planning Tool

A SIP Calculator tool helps you to find real-time calculations based on Country, Bank, Currency, Monthly Investment, Annual Investment rate(%), and Investment Period (Years).

Calculate now: SIP Calculator

Country:         Select Country         India         USA         UK         Europe     Bank:         Select Bank     Currency: Monthly Investment: Annual Interest Rate (%): Investment Period (years): Calculate

SIP Calculator Tool: Your Ultimate Guide to Systematic Investment Planning

Introduction

Investing is a crucial aspect of financial planning, and one of the most effective methods is through a Systematic Investment Plan (SIP). An SIP allows you to invest a fixed amount regularly in mutual funds, paving the way for wealth creation over time. To assist investors in making informed decisions, we’ve developed an intuitive and easy-to-use SIP Calculator tool. This tool will help you estimate the future value of your investments, making financial planning more straightforward and efficient.

What is a SIP Calculator?

A SIP Calculator is a financial tool designed to help investors calculate the potential returns on their investments through a Systematic Investment Plan. By inputting the monthly investment amount, the expected annual rate of return, and the investment duration, users can quickly determine the maturity amount of their SIP.

Features of Our SIP Calculator Tool

User-Friendly Interface: The SIP calculator is designed with simplicity in mind. Its clean and intuitive interface ensures that even first-time users can navigate it with ease.

Currency Selection: Our tool supports multiple currencies, including INR, USD, EUR, and GBP, allowing users to calculate returns in their preferred currency.

Country and Bank Selection: Depending on the selected country, users can choose from a list of popular banks, adding another layer of customization to their calculations.

Responsive Design: Whether you are accessing the tool from a desktop, tablet, or mobile device, the SIP calculator is fully responsive and provides a seamless user experience.

Calculate now: SIP Calculator

SIP Calculator tool

Using our SIP Calculator is simple and straightforward. Follow these steps to calculate the maturity amount of your SIP:

Select Your Country: Choose your country from the dropdown menu. This will automatically update the available banks and the currency used for calculations.

Choose Your Bank: Select your preferred bank from the list provided.

Enter the Monthly Investment Amount: Input the amount you plan to invest every month.

Input the Annual Interest Rate: Enter the expected annual rate of return on your investment.

Specify the Investment Period: Provide the duration of your investment in years.

Calculate: Click the “Calculate” button to see the estimated maturity amount of your SIP.

Benefits of Using a SIP Calculator

Financial Planning: The SIP calculator helps you plan your investments by providing a clear picture of the potential returns, making it easier to set realistic financial goals.

Time-Saving: Manual calculations can be time-consuming and prone to errors. Our SIP calculator automates the process, delivering accurate results in seconds.

Investment Comparison: By adjusting the input values, you can compare different investment scenarios and choose the one that best suits your financial objectives.

Educational Tool: For new investors, the SIP calculator serves as an educational resource, demonstrating the power of compounding and systematic investing.

Why Choose Our SIP Calculator?

Accuracy: Our tool uses precise algorithms to ensure accurate calculations, giving you confidence in your investment decisions.

Customizability: The ability to select your country, bank, and currency makes our SIP calculator uniquely customizable to your specific needs.

Accessibility: With a responsive design, our SIP calculator is accessible from any device, making it convenient for users on the go.

Comprehensive: The inclusion of various input parameters allows for a detailed and comprehensive analysis of your SIP investments.

Understanding SIP and Its Advantages

A Systematic Investment Plan (SIP) is a disciplined way of investing in mutual funds. Here are some of the key advantages of SIP:

Disciplined Saving: SIP instills a habit of regular saving, which is essential for wealth creation.

Rupee Cost Averaging: By investing a fixed amount at regular intervals, you purchase more units when prices are low and fewer units when prices are high, averaging out the cost over time.

Compounding Returns: SIP benefits from the power of compounding, where the returns generated on your investments are reinvested to generate further returns.

Flexibility: SIP offers flexibility in terms of investment amount and duration, allowing you to adjust your investments as per your financial goals.

Convenience: SIP is a hassle-free way of investing, with automatic debits from your bank account, ensuring timely investments without any effort.

Calculate now: SIP Calculator

Conclusion

Investing through a Systematic Investment Plan (SIP) is a smart and efficient way to achieve your financial goals. Our SIP Calculator tool is designed to make this process even more accessible and straightforward. With features like currency selection, country and bank-specific options, and real-time calculations, our tool stands out as a comprehensive solution for all your SIP calculation needs.

Start planning your investments today with our SIP Calculator and take the first step towards a secure financial future. Whether you’re a seasoned investor or just starting, our tool provides the insights you need to make informed and confident investment decisions.

[vindaloo-softtech]

With PimentoPhone Transform your handheld devices and desktops into powerful VoIP softphones. Say goodbye to expensive IP phones and enjoy features

[curiousquill1]

Maximizing Your SIP Potential: The Science Behind Calculating Returns

Understanding the average rate of return in SIP investments can appear daunting for first-time buyers. Systematic Investment Plans provide a disciplined technique to wealth creation, but their effectiveness largely depends on their performance metrics. When comparing those investment motors, knowing how returns are calculated gives critical insight into your financial future.

Role of Portfolio Management in SIP Analysis

Portfolio management offerings have revolutionized how buyers approach mutual fund portfolio analysis through employing state-of-the-art mutual fund portfolio analysis techniques. These methodologies cross beyond basic variety-crunching to provide a comprehensive view of ways investments perform through the years.

Average Rate of Return in SIP: A Deeper Insight

The average rate of return in SIP investments is not just a static determination—it represents the potential growth trajectory of your hard-earned money. While most investors focus totally on past performance, professional analysts compare a couple of elements along with marketplace volatility, fund manager knowledge, and quarter allocation to expect future returns more accurately.

Cyclical Market Evaluation and Its Impact

When examining a mutual fund's historic overall performance, portfolio control specialists analyze styles throughout one-of-a-kind marketplace cycles. This approach permits a more nuanced knowledge of ways a specific fund may perform at some stage in monetary shifts. Investment portfolio management techniques typically include this cyclical evaluation to determine if the common price of return in SIP investments will continue to be constant for the duration of market downturns.

How Professional Analysis Improves Outcomes

Research suggests that traders who utilize expert mutual fund portfolio evaluation offerings frequently acquire returns that outperform self-directed buyers by way of 2-3% annually. This difference becomes enormous while compounded over standard investment horizons of 10-15 years.

Consideration Stage: Making Smart Comparisons

For buyers inside the attention section, know-how those technical components of mutual fund portfolio analysis turn into crucial while comparing reputedly comparable investment alternatives. Two finances may show equal average charges of return in SIP codecs; however, professional analysis ought to reveal that one finished those returns with notably lower volatility—making it the superior preference for chance-conscious buyers.

Strategic Decision-Making Through Expertise

The selection-making technique turns into something substantially clearer when complete funding portfolio management standards are carried out. Professional portfolio managers combine technical evaluation with fundamental research to discover budgets with sustainable aggressive advantages instead of the ones experiencing temporary overall performance spikes.

Real-World Variables in Return Calculation

Financial advisors regularly emphasize that the published common fee of return in SIP investments occasionally fails to account for realistic factors like expense ratios and tax implications. Mutual fund portfolio evaluation from specialized offerings carries these real-international variables to offer an extra correct picture of anticipated returns.

Why Portfolio Services Offer a Strategic Edge

As investment alternatives hold multiplying, expert portfolio management services have become increasingly valuable. They leverage institutional-degree research abilities to pick out emerging marketplace traits before they end up apparent to retail investors. This proactive method enables optimizing the average fee of return in SIP investments through timely rebalancing and strategic allocation shifts.

Simplifying Wealth Creation Through Expert Guidance

Investors who leverage expert investment portfolio control for his or her SIPs gain from specialized understanding without needing to become economic professionals themselves. The complete mutual fund portfolio evaluation these offerings provide goes a ways past what free online equipment or simple screeners can offer.

Conclusion: Smarter SIP Management for Long-Term Growth

For serious traders looking to maximize long-term wealth creation through systematic investment plans, partnering with portfolio management services represents a strategic gain.The monetary journey from cognizance to implementation becomes significantly smoother with expert steerage that combines superior analytical strategies with customized investment strategies—in the end supporting investors in achieving their monetary goals with extra self-belief and precision.

[holeforzenin]

𝜗𝜚˚⋆ NEW DEAL (ROOMMATE TOJI)

You were crouched in front of the fridge, staring into the abyss of expired condiments and half-empty containers when Toji came home. The sound of his boots hitting the floor was heavy and lazy— like he’d been dragging his whole body through the day. He didn’t say anything at first; he just dropped his tool belt with a tired grunt and kicked the door shut behind him.

You turned around just in time to catch the way he rubbed his neck, his hoodie clinging to his shoulders, still dusted with sawdust and sweat from a 12-hour day on site. He looked exhausted— face shadowed, hair messily tied back and eyes half-lidded with the weight of pure, bone-deep fatigue.

“You eat?” he asked without looking at you, already peeling off his shirt and tossing it over a kitchen chair.

You shook your head. “No groceries. Just sad ketchup packets and some old rice”.

He muttered a curse and leaned his hands on the marble counter, head hanging between his arms. Then after a long moment, he looked up at you.

“Alright,” he said, voice low and worn. “New deal”.

You blinked. “Huh?”

“I cover rent,” he said, standing up straight, his voice a bit more steady now, even though the bags under his eyes said he was one bad day away from crumbling. “All of it. Every month”.

Your mouth dropped open. “What? Are you serious?”

He nodded once, grabbing a can of beer from the fridge and popping it open with the edge of his calloused palm. “Dead serious. But in return, you cook and you do my laundry”.

You stared at him in pure disbelief. “So basically, you want me to be your housewife?”

“Don’t flatter yourself, sweetheart,” he snorted, taking a long sip. “I just come home dead on my feet every damn night. My back’s shot, my knees feel like gravel and the last thing I wanna do is scrub my socks or figure out dinner. You’re home all day. You got time”.

You frowned, clearly offended. “I have classes”.

“And I’m not asking for a five-star meal,” he said, already walking toward his room, peeling off his undershirt as he went. “Just make sure there’s food when I get home. And maybe fold my shirts so I’m not digging through a mountain every morning”.

He paused in the doorway, glancing over his shoulder. “I’m not saying this to be an asshole,” he added, voice lower and more gentle now. “I trust you. And I don’t… I don’t ask for help unless I need it”.

That part hit different.

You watched him disappear down the hall, the faint sound of his bedroom door creaking shut behind him. The fridge still hung open, light casting a glow on your face as you stood there, completely stunned.

Cooking and laundry in exchange for free rent. It wasn’t exactly a romantic fairy tale but with Toji but something about it felt so raw because of how genuine and needy he seemed, and it was him trusting you to take care of him in the only way he’d allow.

And hell, if it meant coming home to the gruff warmth of his voice and the quiet pride he had in every dish you made, even if he only said, “Not bad, kid”— you figured it was more than a fair trade.

———

I’d be his housewife + from now on, in all the upcoming roommate toji dabbles he’s the one paying rent!!

[serpentsurgency]

Fuck- Phone. Ow.

[truemindcapital]

Financial Freedom Calculator

In today’s fast-paced world, making smart financial decisions is more important than ever. Whether you're saving for a goal, planning your retirement, or evaluating an investment, the right financial planning tools can make a big difference. Fortunately, there are several free financial tools and online financial calculators available that can help simplify your planning process and ensure you stay on track.

Why Use Financial Tools?

Financial tools take the guesswork out of your planning. They help you:

Set clear, achievable financial goals

Calculate returns, EMIs, and future savings

Optimize investment strategies

Plan tax-saving efficiently

Top Online Financial Calculators You Should Be Using

Goal Planning Calculator Estimate how much you need to save monthly to reach your future financial goals like buying a house, funding education, or planning a vacation.

SIP Calculator Determine how much wealth you can accumulate over time by investing regularly in mutual funds through Systematic Investment Plans.

Retirement Calculator Plan how much you need to retire comfortably based on your lifestyle, inflation, and expected rate of return.

EMI Calculator Quickly compute monthly EMIs for your loans and decide on the ideal loan tenure or repayment structure.

Tax Saving Calculator Understand how much tax you can save by investing in eligible instruments under Section 80C and others.

What Makes These the Best Financial Calculators?

User-Friendly Interface: Easy to use, even for beginners.

Accurate Estimates: Based on real-time data and realistic assumptions.

No Cost Involved: These tools are completely free and accessible online.

Data Privacy: No login or personal data required in most cases.

Conclusion

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[leyavo]

Simon x Cat x Neighbour!reader

Part two > (previous part)

Simon Riley was a lot like his cat, dropping by your flat whenever he wanted. Thanking you for looking after Cat in small little ways.

Bringing you home little trinkets from his work travels. “Got it from some market, can’t tell you where though. Would have to kill ya and I really don’t want that.” Little things that line every inch of your windowsill, crystals he’s found because he knows you like them.

Thankfully it wasn’t a mouse, Simon hunting one down after Cat delivered one to you. And as you watched him pause, head angled to listen for the squeaks or little scurries. You couldn’t help but think he was a cat too. For a big guy, he was light on his feet and everything he did quiet.

“Dinner?” You asked, trying not to look at the mouse dangling between Simon’s finger and thumb by its tail. “Not a huge fan of rodent.”

He invites you into his flat for the first time, promising that it’s rodent free. “Woah your place is real big,” you say, opening your arms in the space as if you expected to touch wall to wall. Simon’s thinking of all the activities he could do with you, but decides dinners a good start.

Dinner turns into grabbing a morning coffee after a run and even going on evening runs, which angers him because before him you never would have done so alone. Sitting on the bench in the park to stretch or take a rest as you sip your water bottle, stickers decorating the outside.

When the pipe under your sink was dripping water for months, he fixed it and you didn’t find out till you went to check if the bucket was full of water again. No, no bucket under the sink. There was a small tool box in its place, stuff you had no idea what to do with.

Cat was drinking from the bucket under the sink, that’s how Simon discovered it. He’s even got a picture of it on his phone as well as a load of pictures you’d sent him with Cat. Sometimes he looks through them in his room back at the base. A few videos of your soft voice calling Cat.

So you sent him a picture of said toolbox and messaged him. “Did the fairies visit me?” He didn’t respond till the next day, “big bloody fairy.” promising to show you what they were for and sending you a video of basic plumbing if you wanted to learn yourself whilst you waited for his return.

Cue Simon teaching you how to fix the plumbing in your flat. The two of you squeezed into the little box of a bathroom as he listened to you explain about the low pressure of the shower and the tap on the sink you wanted to swap with something pretty.

The eroded shower hose snapping and spraying the both of you with water. Simon’s hoody drenched, sticking to every curve and dip of his muscles. Your back leant against the wall as his arm reached above you to turn the water off.

“I really wanna kiss ya,” he said, head inching closer to yours, gaze flitting to your lips. “Kiss me.”

You use his place for sex and make sure Cat is in your flat, “don’t want the kid to see,” is what Simon says.

Whenever Simon sees you’ve run out of anything, he’ll pick it up when he’s doing his weekly food shop. The coffee sachets refilled when you go to the kettle and when you ask, Simon shrugs “the fairies,” he says, sipping his cup of tea with the morning paper.

Even when you are officially dating you were still going between the two flats. Joking that cat had the studio and you could stay with Simon.

[dakusan]

S h u t U p a n d S i t S t i l l

Tattoo Artist!Kim Seungmin x Reader | He tattoos like a surgeon and fucks like a sadist. You showed up for ink. He gave you obsession.

🔞synopsis: Tattoo Artist AU. you walked into NO SAINT INK for a rib tattoo—left with trembling thighs, his hoodie around your neck, and a cock you can't stop dreaming about. Seungmin is quiet, sharp-tongued, and mean in the best ways: he bends you over the bench, fucks you until you cry, then wipes you down and feeds you strawberries like you're his favourite masterpiece. It starts with your seventh tattoo. Ends with you moaning his name every night, in his bed, in his hoodie, with his fingers under your panties. This isn’t just art. It’s obsession. And now he’s your boyfriend too—lucky you.

💌a/n: i literally don’t remember who requested tattoo artist seungmin first. either way. you got it. the man who fucks you stupid then wipes you down like he’s cleaning his favourite mug. HE’S HERE. AND HE’S IN LOVE (but would rather die than admit it out loud) 🫶🍓🖤. also? 🔔 THE MINI SERIES ORDER HAS BEEN DECREED 🔔 next up: JEONGIN. after that: ⟡ MINHO ⟡ CHANGBIN ⟡ FELIX and then finally—drumroll, throat clear, studio lights flickering— BANG CHRISTOPHER FUCKING CHAN. the cherry on top. the tattoo daddy. the final boss of soft filth and filthy softness. pray for me. p.s. if you liked it, if you screamed, if your thighs clenched even ONCE—REBLOG IT. LIKE?? yes. COMMENT?? also yes. p.p.s. if i catch you in the notes saying “need him biblically,” “he wiped me down like a canvas,” or “not the strawberries 😭”—just know i love you. violently 💋 p.p.s. see u next Tethered Tuesday with Jeonginnie~

⚠️ warnings: 18+ | MINORS DNI | Bench sex / semi-public (studio after hours) | Mean dom!Seungmin | Praise kink, brat taming, overstimulation | Spit play, creampie, multiple orgasms | Oral (m receiving), fingering, unprotected sex | Aftercare king behaviour | Reader is shameless and mildly unhinged | Seungmin is quiet, dangerous, and obsessed

📌 Please read responsibly. Hydrate. Stretch. You are the CEO of your own coochie.

📍credits: dividers by @cafekitsune

🎧 » Charmer — Stray Kids « 0:58 ─〇───── 3:09 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

Seoul, South Korea. Tuesday, 3:12 PM.

You push the door open with your hip, bells jingling overhead as warm incense curls toward the ceiling — sandalwood, patchouli, something citrusy beneath it all. It’s always like this at NO SAINT INK. Chill beats humming low, Felix probably somewhere in the back rearranging his piercing tools like he’s Marie Kondo with a needle fetish, and—

“Fuck,” a voice mutters from behind a half-drawn curtain. You grin. Found him.

Kim Seungmin.

The reason you have six tattoos—and the reason you keep coming back for more.

You strut past the front desk like you own the place, setting down your tray of iced americanos and pastries with the confidence of someone deeply annoying. Your seventh session. Four healed pieces, one still peeling, and the newest one inked just last month. And of all the artists here, you keep picking the same one. On purpose.

Seungmin doesn’t look up at first. He’s sketching something at his desk—lined in ruler-straight precision, every pen stroke exact, no wasted ink. Hair slightly tousled. Sleeves rolled. Black gloves already on like he’s been prepping to ruin someone’s day.

He finally lifts his eyes—and groans.

“Why are you here again?”

“Hi to you too, sunshine,” you chirp, sipping your iced coffee with maximum slurp.

“I told Felix to screen your bookings.”

“I bribed him with matcha cake. Also, he says hi.” You swing the drink tray toward him with flair. “Got you your usual. Thought you could use the energy. You looked a little pale last time.”

He stares. “You’re lucky I don’t stab clients.”

“You already do,” you smile sweetly, plopping into the client chair. “It’s called tattooing.”

You met him through Felix, of course—NO SAINT INK’s glittery menace and certified piercing god. You came in on a whim two years ago for a constellation of helix piercings and left with a phone background of Felix’s stupid peace sign and a mouth full of swear words after he showed you Seungmin’s tattoo portfolio. Clean lines. Razor-sharp contrast. Occasional anatomical sketches paired with poetry in tiny, deliberate script.

When you told Felix you wanted something specific for your first tattoo—a geometric wolf across your ribcage—he nodded once and said, “Seungmin’s your guy.”

You’ve hated him ever since.

He’s impossible. Quiet, dry, sarcastic in a way that feels like a dare. Doesn’t flirt. Doesn’t smile. He just tattoos like he’s building something permanent—measured, focused, untouchable. But when you’re the one under his needle? His fingers linger a little too long on your waist. His voice drops when he tells you to hold still. And you—being the insufferable brat you are—live to poke at the ice until it cracks.

Which is why you’re here today. For tattoo number seven.

From him. Again.

“Let me guess,” he says, sipping the coffee despite himself. “Some half-baked Pinterest inspo you expect me to redesign overnight?”

“I’m hurt,” you pout dramatically. “I actually brought a reference this time. Plus, I figured you missed me.”

“I miss peace and quiet.”

“Then why’d you pick a career where girls beg to get pinned under you?”

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move. Just says, “Get on the table before I change my mind.”

You smirk. There it is. That little twitch in his jaw. That flick of his tongue against the inside of his cheek when you say something just annoying enough to rattle the cage.

You pull out your sketch. “I want it here,” you say, lifting your shirt to gesture just below your sternum, to the space between your breasts and your ribs. “Delicate linework. Abstract. Your specialty.”

Seungmin stares. Then sighs. “You do realize I’ll have to touch you for placement.”

“Oh no,” you gasp, faux-innocent. “That would be terrible.”

He drops the clipboard with a snap.

“You’re unbearable.”

“You’re obsessed.”

Seungmin mutters something under his breath—probably a curse, probably in two languages—as he snatches your sketch and jerks his head toward the back hallway.

You follow with a smug little skip in your step.

The private rooms at NO SAINT INK are all artist-personalized. Seungmin's? It’s all dark wood, clean steel, framed minimalist pieces, and surgical-grade tidiness.

Cedar diffuses from a sleek black humidifier in the corner. The light is warm-toned and angled perfectly. His iPad sits on a tidy desk, stylus already beside it like it was placed there with a ruler. And on the windowsill—three succulents. Perfectly spaced. You teased him about it once and he deadpan replied, “One for every time you’ve wasted my time.”

He drops your paper sketch on his desk and sits, spinning the iPad toward him with a sigh. “You’ve got five minutes to explain what the hell this is.”

You plop down in the rolling stool beside him, leaning your chin on your hand. “It’s art. Use your imagination.”

He gives you a long, deeply unimpressed look.

“Fine,” you huff. “It’s… inspired by sacred geometry. Like a mandala, but cracked open. Fragmented. I want it to feel like breaking and healing at the same time. Like symmetry trying to reassemble itself.”

Seungmin blinks. Then blinks again.

“…You pulled that out of your ass just now.”

“I did not.”

“Did too.”

“Seungmin.”

He groans and starts sketching.

You watch, quiet now—because this is the part you actually love. The way his fingers move when he draws. Controlled, calculated. Not robotic. Not sterile. There’s warmth there, if you know where to look. And you do.

He sips the coffee you brought like it’s medicine. Then grabs a croissant and bites it with grim resolve, like chewing it too quickly might register as gratitude.

“I still think you bribed Felix with blackmail.”

“He was emotionally weak. I seized the moment.”

“You’re a menace.”

“And you’re drawing me the prettiest trauma-symbol I’ve ever seen, so who really wins here?”

He doesn’t answer. But his pen slows. His strokes get sharper. He’s in his element now. You recognize the shift—the way he leans in closer to the iPad, slightly squints, drags his stylus with deliberate precision.

The design blooms under his hand: a fractured mandala, circular symmetry interrupted by jagged arcs and broken segments. Clean dotwork in the center, a few splashes of abstract floral curls breaking out near the bottom edge. Like order blooming from chaos. Like something whole again.

“You’re disgusting,” you whisper, stunned. “That’s perfect.”

“I know.”

“Arrogant.”

“You begged me for it.”

“I said please once and you moaned like I kicked your dog.”

He flicks his eyes to you, slow. “Say please again.”

You blink.

Then smirk. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

But he’s already reaching for the print button.

“Let’s stencil this,” he says coolly, rising from his chair and heading towards the printer to print the design out. “I’d like to be rid of you before sundown.”

“Careful,” you say, trailing him out of the room. “One day you’ll miss me when I’m gone.”

“Promise?”

“Never.”

While he is busy with the printer, you kick your shoes off and climb onto the bed like it’s yours.

Technically, it’s a client bench. Adjustable, padded, wrapped in fresh black vinyl. But in your mind? It’s a throne. A stage. A perfect little altar for the games you play with Kim Seungmin.

You wiggle into place, tugging your top over your head in one smooth motion. You’re down to your bralette now—delicate black lace with scalloped trim, something clearly chosen on purpose. Not slutty. Not overt. But just enough to see Seungmin’s jaw tighten when he walks back in.

He’s still fiddling with the stencil printer—cutting the sheet, prepping it with solution. Focused. Professional. Cold, as ever.

You lounge, arms folded behind your head, watching him from the bed like you’re sunbathing and he’s just lucky to be in your light.

“You gonna stare the whole time?” he murmurs without looking up.

“Am I bothering you?”

“Always.”

You grin.

Just then—click—the door swings open, and Felix’s voice rings through the room.

“Hey, demon duo—just letting you know I’m locking up soon. Jisung dipped early, and Chan-hyung’s out all day, so it’s just you two in the studio for the rest of the afternoon.” He wiggles his brows. “Try not to kill each other. Or fuck. Or both.”

Seungmin doesn’t look up. “Go away, Felix.”

“Don’t be rude. I brought you into this world.”

“I was here first.”

“Emotionally? Never.” Felix flicks his brows toward you. “Good luck, baby girl. If he’s mean, just call me and I’ll stab his tires.”

You salute him. “Noted. Drive safe.”

With a wink, Felix is gone. The click of the studio door locking behind him feels final. Loud.

Seungmin exhales slowly. Then turns.

You’re still lying there on the bed, head propped, shirt discarded, body sprawled like a damn invitation.

His gaze flickers once. Down. Then away. Then back again, like it physically pains him to give you that much attention.

He lifts the stencil paper, holds it up to the light. “You know this placement is gonna be tricky.”

“Delicate linework on soft skin,” you echo sweetly. “Your specialty.”

He levels you with a look. Flat. Dangerous. Amused.

“…You’re going to be impossible today.”

“I’m always impossible.”

“No,” he says, slipping on gloves with a soft snap, “today it’s worse. Today you want something.”

You blink, feigning wide-eyed innocence. “Me? Never.”

He steps forward, slow and deliberate, stencil sheet in one hand, alcohol wipe in the other.

“Sit up,” he says, voice low. Commanding. “And lift your arms. I need a clean canvas.”

You obey—grinning like a menace—arms up, ribs exposed, breath catching slightly as the cold wipe grazes under the swell of your breast. He’s careful. Professional. Completely murderous about it.

The tension is a wire, pulled tight between you.

He smooths the stencil paper across your skin, presses down, then peels it back slowly, eyes trained on the imprint left behind.

It’s beautiful.

Nestled between your ribs, spanning just above your solar plexus: the fractured mandala blooms in fine linework, cracked yet radiant. His style. His hand. His art.

And now—it’s on you.

Seungmin looks at it for a beat too long.

Then: “Lie back.”

You do.

He adjusts the overhead lamp. Tilts your chin slightly. Brushes a single finger along your sternum, just below the stencil line.

You shiver.

He smirks.

“Try not to squirm this time,” he says. “You’ll fuck up the symmetry.”

Finally, Seungmin moves again. Gloves snap into place—tight, black latex stretched over knuckles and the fine lines of his fingers. You watch him through lowered lashes as he pours ink into the caps—his shade of black. You’ve learned that by now. Not too warm. Not too blue. Just sharp enough to slice through skin and stay.

The hum of the machine starts soft. Like a warning. Like a purr with teeth.

He looks at you once.

Just once.

And you know he’s not going to go easy.

“You good?” he asks, voice flat.

You nod, smug. “You always ask like you care.”

“I do care,” he mutters, tilting your chin again with a gloved hand. “Would be a shame if my art got fucked up because someone couldn’t keep still.”

Your eyes narrow. “Someone?”

He dips the needle, tests the line on a pad, and leans forward—right into your space. His breath ghosts over your lips.

“You.”

You roll your eyes and shift slightly, arms up, chest rising.

“God, you’re such a dick.”

His smirk could slice bone.

“And you’re still here. What does that say about you?”

You go to reply—but the first sting of the needle hits, and the breath punches from your lungs.

“F-fuck—!”

“Oh?” Seungmin says innocently, hand steady as he traces the mandala’s outer ring. “Is it too much already?”

You grit your teeth, exhale through your nose.

“No. Just... colder than I remembered.”

He hums like he doesn’t believe you. Like he knows what you’re really reacting to.

The first lines burn clean and sharp—stretching out beneath your skin, each pass as exact as a scalpel. Seungmin works in slow, confident strokes, one hand guiding your body where he needs it.

His fingers splay across your ribcage for tension. Firm. Possessive. Cruel.

He doesn’t speak at first. Just tattoos. Focused. Controlled.

But then—

“You know,” he murmurs, “most people don’t come back after their first rib piece.”

You hiss, fingers curling into the vinyl under you. “Most people don’t have your charming personality to keep them coming.”

He chuckles. Actually chuckles. Which should be illegal.

“You’re getting off on this, aren’t you?” he says.

The needle lifts for a second. He wipes gently with a cloth—soft at first, then firm, dragging over raw skin like he’s making a point.

You arch just slightly into his touch.

“I’m getting off on annoying you,” you counter, breath shaky.

His next line is faster. Harsher. He presses your side firmly, keeping you in place.

“Yeah?” he murmurs, low against your neck. “Then try really hard not to flinch right here.”

You flinch.

He clicks his tongue. “You’re so fucking bad at taking orders.”

“And you’re so—��

The machine stops.

He raises a brow. Wipes again. Slow this time.

“I’m so what?”

You glance down. Past his gloved hand on your ribs. Past the half-finished mandala. Past the slight smear of ink on your sternum.

You swallow.

“…focused.”

He smirks. Dangerous. “Damn right.”

And then he leans in—his next line beginning right where your breath catches worst. Right under your breast. Right on the spot where your heartbeat flutters like it’s begging him to notice.

You think he does.

Because his voice dips—deeper, smugger.

“Still think I missed you?”

You bite your lip.

Lying here. Under his hands. Wrapped in tension and black ink and the sharp, brutal pressure of a boy who tattoos like he’s angry at your skin for hiding itself from him—

You can’t lie.

Not to Seungmin.

“…yeah,” you say quietly.

His eyes flick up when you say it.

Yeah.

One syllable, quiet as breath, but loaded—the way confession always is. He doesn’t reply, not out loud. But the corner of his mouth lifts. Not a smirk. Something more dangerous. Something knowing.

He tilts your body slightly to one side, guiding you into the perfect angle, and you let him. Of course you let him.

“Still breathing okay?” he murmurs, even though he knows damn well what your breathing sounds like right now—shallow, choked, tight.

“Mhm,” you manage.

He presses back down with the needle. His strokes are smoother now, filling in the fractured petals of the mandala. He works just beneath the undercurve of your breast, just along the swell of sensitive skin—close enough to tease, close enough to make you ache.

You twitch. Barely. But enough.

He doesn’t say anything.

Doesn’t have to.

Because when he lifts the needle to switch angles, he uses his other hand to press firmly along your waist, holding you in place. His fingers curl just slightly into your side. Possessive. Grounding. A little cruel.

You shudder.

“Still can’t take orders,” he mutters.

You glare. “Still a fucking sadist.”

He hums. “Takes one to keep coming back.”

That earns him a punch to the shoulder—gentle, a flick of your knuckles—but he’s already grinning as he dips the needle again.

Your skin burns.

And still—still—you want him closer.

The ink trails down now, toward the bottom of the design. He’s practically tattooing over your stomach, your diaphragm pulsing with every breath. He’s leaning in lower too—head bent, nose just inches from your sternum. If he angled left, he’d be mouth-to-skin. If you arched just slightly, you’d be brushing right into him.

The tension hums in the air—hot, oppressive, close.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low again. This time it’s not mocking. It’s… loaded.

You nod once. “Are you?”

He glances up.

“Been better,” he mutters. Then, deliberate: “You squirm too much.”

You lift your eyes to his—taunting, daring. “You tattoo too slow.”

That gets you a sharp tap against your side.

“Careful.”

“Make me.”

The machine goes quiet.

You blink.

Seungmin sits back, gaze steady. Gloved fingers still resting against your stomach.

“You always this mouthy when someone’s on top of you?” he asks, like he doesn’t already know.

Your heart stutters.

You open your mouth—then close it.

He watches you for a second longer—until you shift just slightly under his stare. And only then does he lean back in, restart the machine, and murmur:

“Thought so.”

The final line burns sweeter than the rest.

Your breath hitches again—not from the pain, not really. You’ve gotten used to the sting. You chase it now. Crave it. Especially when it’s from him.

Seungmin finishes with a few last passes, the machine humming low and steady, until finally—he stops.

The silence after feels too quiet.

You blink up at the ceiling. It’s over. And suddenly your whole body is aware of how tense it’s been—your spine bowed slightly, your legs tight, your hands fisted in the sheets beneath you like you’ve been trying not to moan the whole time.

(You kind of have.)

He switches the machine off. The room exhales.

You stay lying down for a beat too long.

Then you hear the snap of his gloves being pulled off. The rustle of the rolling stool as he pushes back. The low clink of metal—his tools being set aside, wiped, lined up again with military precision. He always cleans up like he’s scrubbing evidence.

You sit up slowly, your ribs feel warm, raw—but not in a bad way.

He’s already tossed the gloves into the bin and is reaching for the mirror. You swing your legs over the side of the bed, biting your lip as you peek down.

The mandala gleams—inky black and flawless, nestled beneath the swell of your breasts like it belongs there.

Your breath catches.

“…fuck,” you whisper.

Seungmin glances over.

“Yeah,” he says. “I know.”

You shoot him a look. “Cocky much?”

He shrugs, reaching for his disinfectant spray like it’s nothing. “Not my fault I’m better than everyone else.”

You laugh—quiet, low, still slightly winded. “I should stop feeding your ego.”

“You should stop showing up half-naked and asking me to touch you for two hours.”

You freeze.

He doesn’t even blink.

You’re perched on the edge of the bed now, ribcage still bare. And he’s standing barely a foot away, still wiping his tools, still calm—but his jaw is tight again. His fingers grip the disinfectant bottle like he’s trying to decide whether to clean your table or ruin your day.

The air shifts.

Slowly, you stand—stepping forward. His eyes flick downward. Just once. Then he meets your gaze.

“…Seungmin.”

He raises a brow.

You step closer. Bold. A little breathless. “You never said thank you.”

He tilts his head. “For what?”

“The coffee. The pastries. My continued emotional support and aesthetic contribution to your client portfolio.”

He snorts. “Oh, right. How could I forget.”

“You could show some gratitude,” you say, smile growing. “Like, I dunno…”

A beat.

You lean in.

“…a kiss, maybe?”

He stares at you—flat, unreadable.

Then, finally, finally—his hands stop moving. The rag drops from his fingers. His jaw twitches once.

And he says, voice low: “Lay back down first.”

Your breath stops. “W-What—”

“For the aftercare,” he says—completely serious. But his eyes are glinting, the ghost of a smirk tugging at the corners. “Unless you want it to get infected.”

You huff, but you obey—because of course you do.

You lie back down, ribs lifting with every inhale, the crisp air of the studio brushing across your skin. Seungmin moves slowly—methodical, precise. He reaches for the healing balm and the bandage roll with the same focus he uses when prepping a tattoo needle.

And then—

Then he steps into your space again.

You feel his gaze before his hands. That lingering look, dragging from the ink across your sternum to the fine lace of your bra. To the soft dip between your breasts. You’re not stupid—you know how you look. You know how he’s looking.

But he doesn’t say anything.

Just kneels beside you on the tattoo bed, bracing one arm by your head, and starts applying the balm.

It’s… soft. Softer than it should be.

His gloved fingers glide gently across your skin, cool gel easing the sting of the fresh lines, but what you feel isn’t clinical. It’s heat. A low, blooming throb of something far more dangerous. Especially when his thumb grazes the edge of your bra. Not on purpose, not exactly—but he doesn’t move it away either.

You exhale. Carefully. Slowly.

His voice comes quieter this time, rough around the edges.

“You really wore this just to fuck with me, didn’t you?”

You blink up at him. “Excuse me?”

“This,” he murmurs, brushing the bandage wrapper open, eyes never leaving yours. “The lace. The black. The fact that it’s barely covering anything while I have to touch you like a fucking monk.”

You smirk. “What, don’t like being teased?”

His eyes narrow. “You’re not teasing.”

“No?”

“You’re begging.”

Your stomach flips.

He leans down slightly. Applies the bandage. His fingers skim the top edge of your sternum, then press lightly under your breast to make it stick. You jolt a little—not enough to be a flinch, but just enough for him to notice.

His lips twitch. “Thought so.”

You swallow.

“You could’ve said something,” you murmur.

“I did,” he says. “When I told you to stop showing up half-naked and flirty like I wouldn’t do anything about it.”

“And yet—” you gesture around, breathless, “—you haven’t.”

He finishes pressing the bandage into place. Carefully. Slowly. But his eyes—his eyes are anything but.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he says softly.

And then he leans in. Close. Close enough that his breath grazes your cheek, close enough that the heat of his body curls over yours like smoke.

“I’m just not done punishing you yet.”

You barely have time to gasp.

Because his hands are suddenly on your waist, fingers splayed wide, warm. He leans over you, lips brushing your ear as he speaks, voice like smoke curling from a lit match.

“You really think I’d let you keep pushing me forever?” he murmurs, his tone dark velvet, laced with something wicked. “Waltzing in here every time with that mouth—wearing shit like this—knowing damn well I’d eventually snap.”

You can’t speak.

Not with the way his hand is sliding up—up—fingertips skating the edge of your ribcage, the outline of your bra, the warm silk of your skin. Every inch he touches makes your back arch, breath stutter, pulse thunder.

“I—I didn’t—” you start.

“You did.” He cuts you off with a growl of a whisper, lips ghosting just beneath your jaw. “You knew exactly what you were doing. And you knew exactly who you were doing it to.”

His hand finds the clasp of your bra—flicks it once, expertly. Loose. Deliberate.

Lace falls.

You whimper.

He exhales sharply through his nose—his palm sliding up to cup you fully, thumb brushing across a nipple already sensitive from all that adrenaline and ink and restraint. The tension coils tighter—like it’s been waiting weeks to snap.

“You’ve been needing this,” he mutters against your skin. “Coming in again and again—acting like a brat. Begging for attention. Flashing me those looks like I wouldn’t fuck you into the goddamn wall the second I got the chance.”

A pause.

“Is this what you wanted?” he asks, mouthing down your throat, sucking once—hard. “You wanna be my canvas off-hours too?”

You nod. Frantic. Breathless. Your fingers clutch at the hem of his shirt, tugging, anchoring, pleading.

“Say it.”

“I wanted you,” you pant. “I want you. I’ve always—fuck—Seungmin—”

He snarls.

And that’s it.

His mouth finds your breast with zero pretense, tongue hot and teeth grazing—biting, not cruel, but enough to leave a mark. His other hand slides down, past your waistband, finding the thin lace of your underwear—

Already soaked.

You feel him smirk against your skin.

“Such a fucking mess,” he growls. “You come from the needle or from me?”

You writhe.

“Seungmin—”

“Yeah?” His fingers slip beneath the lace. “Lie to me again. See what happens.”

And then—

Then he presses in. Two fingers, all at once, knowing exactly where and how to touch you. Because he’s studied you. Memorized you. Sketched you in his mind over six tattoos and hours of tension, and now he finally gets to wreck you.

His fingers curl.

You break.

Your head falls back. Your thighs tremble. He’s still got one arm braced next to your head, and the other is fucking you open while his mouth maps every inch of your chest like it’s sacred.

“You’re mine now,” he mutters into your skin. “You wanted this? You earned this. So take it.”

You moan—high, wrecked, nearly slurred. His fingers don’t relent. Curling deep. Unforgiving. He’s fucking you with them like he’s trying to carve his name inside you, and maybe he is.

But just when it starts to crest—when you feel it, the rush, the crash, the electric burn starting in your spine—

He stops.

You jolt. “No—!”

He pulls out slow. Cruel. Slick fingers dragging free. You clench around nothing, hips chasing him, tears prickling your lashes.

He tsks.

“Thought you were smarter than that.”

You blink, dazed. “Wh-What—?”

“You think you get to cum already?” He leans down, lips brushing your ear again. “After walking in here like that? After tormenting me for months?”

His hand finds your throat—light pressure, just enough to pin you back against the vinyl bed. Your mouth falls open. Instinct.

“I spent hours sketching that design,” he whispers. “Tattooed it on your fucking ribs. You came in here dripping and smug and bratty. And you think you get to finish first?”

You whimper.

He lets go.

“Get on your knees.”

You blink. “W-What?”

“You heard me.”

He stands, undoing his belt in one smooth motion—his eyes never leaving yours. You follow his gaze down, down, as he pushes his jeans low and his boxers lower, cock flushed and leaking and so fucking hard.

You drop to your knees, onto the soft rug in his private studio, beneath the overhead lamp and the echo of the bed creaking behind you.

“Open,” he says tapping the tip of his cock against your pretty lips.

You blink up at him, lips parted, brain still catching up to the command. Seungmin doesn’t flinch, doesn’t repeat himself—he just stares down, eyes half-lidded, cock heavy in his hand, tapping the head once more—twice—against your bottom lip like a test.

You obey.

Mouth open. Knees aching. Head swimming.

"Good," he murmurs, voice like low thunder.

One hand tangles in your hair—possessive—guiding, not forcing. His hips roll forward, slow and controlled, and the first brush of him on your tongue makes you whimper. Your thighs press together instinctively.

Because he tastes like every fantasy you’ve denied yourself. And he’s watching you the whole time—jaw tight, chest rising, his gaze flicking between your mouth and your eyes like he's trying to brand the moment into memory.

“You always run your mouth,” he mutters, stroking your cheek with his thumb as you take him deeper, “but you’re so fucking quiet now, huh?”

You hum around him, tongue flattening, jaw straining, eyes locked on his like it’s the only anchor you have. He groans—quiet, raw, like it slips out before he can stop it.

Your hands steady on his thighs, you suck deeper. Hollow your cheeks. Let him feel everything.

“Fuck,” he hisses. “You really—shit—you’re good at this, huh?”

You moan, just to be a brat. The vibration makes him jerk.

His fingers twitch in your hair. The other hand finds the back of your neck, thumb pressed right where your pulse jumps.

“Greedy,” he mutters, breath stuttering as you pull back slow—spit-slick, lips flushed—then take his cock again, deeper this time, choking a little and loving it. “You want all of it, don’t you?”

You blink up at him, teary-eyed and burning, and nod.

And that’s all it takes.

His grip tightens. His hips roll. Controlled at first, almost gentle—but the moment you relax your throat and let him in further, something cracks.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

The next thrust punches straight down your throat.

You choke—once, loud and messy—but you don’t pull away.

You don’t dare.

Not when Seungmin’s hand tightens in your hair like a leash. Not when his cock sinks deep, hot and throbbing and slick with your spit. Not when his groan scrapes straight from his chest, raw and filthy, as he watches your throat swallow around him.

“Fuck—” he snarls, voice strained. “You were made for this. Look at you.”

You try—your eyes flicking up through the blur of tears, spit dripping from your lips, mascara smudged beneath your lashes. You can barely see, but you feel everything—his fingers curled at the base of your skull, his cock throbbing on your tongue, the harsh stretch of your jaw.

“You’re a fucking mess,” he pants. “Spit everywhere—shit—drooling on me.”

You are—slick and soaked, saliva trailing from the corners of your mouth to your chin, coating his cock in glistening sheen. You gag again when he presses deeper, but he doesn’t let up.

“Take it,” he mutters, more to himself than you. “Take it. You fucking wanted this.”

He rolls his hips again—harder this time. Meaner. The tip of his cock bruises the back of your throat, and you sob around it, spit bubbling at the seams.

Seungmin hisses. “Yeah. That’s it.”

His hand tilts your head—just slightly—enough for him to watch you from above. “Look at you. Fucking crying for it.”

You blink up, lashes clumped and wet, mouth stretched open and obscene.

“Don’t stop,” he growls. “Wanna see you ruined.”

He fucks into your mouth like it’s a punishment. Like every gag, every wet choke is a penance you owe for teasing him for months. For bratty texts. For lace bralettes and stolen glances. For every look that said take me without saying a word.

Your throat tightens—and he moans.

“God—your throat—shit, I can feel it. Fucking clenching like your pussy would.”

You twitch.

He laughs—low and cruel. “What, you liked that? Want me to fuck both ends until you can’t walk or talk?”

You whimper around him. Loud.

Precum spills onto your tongue—hot and bitter—and he curses. Your hands claw at his hips, digging for purchase as he starts to lose it—thrusts jerking harder, messier. Your throat is raw, face soaked, and still—still—you stay open for him.

His voice shatters through your haze, ragged and mean.

“You look fucking perfect like this. Broken. Beautiful. Mine.”

One more thrust. Deep. Sharp.

You gag—again. Loud.

And Seungmin snaps. He jerks back suddenly—his cock pulling free with a slick pop, strings of spit connecting you still. You gasp—cough—spit dripping from your tongue.

“Open wider,” Seungmin rasps.

You do. Tongue out. Strings of drool glistening in the studio light. He grabs his cock—slick, flushed, twitching—and strokes once, twice—then spits. Right into your mouth. Then again. Then again.

You moan. Loud. Shameless.

“Filthy little thing,” he pants. “Look at you. Covered in spit and tears and fucking loving it.”

You nod. Once. Hard.

He leans down, cupping your jaw—thumb swiping through the mess on your chin, dragging it across your lips like warpaint. Seungmin's eyes watch you for a beat longer until he finally helps you up onto your feet.

You gasp, legs wobbling, mouth still slick and open as he turns you around and places a hand between your shoulder blades, coaxing you down on the bench.

“Hands flat,” he orders.

You obey.

He kicks your legs apart with his knee—rough. You gasp. Then moan, throat raw and spit-slick, head swimming from the sudden repositioning. His hands working quick, pulling down your pants and panties in one go. Seungmin hums in satisfaction at the sight of your wet cunt dripping. Fucking dripping.

“Better,” he mutters. “Stay like that.”

You squirm—but not far. Not really. Just enough to test him.

He growls.

And then—CRACK.

His hand lands sharp across your ass, a loud sting that echoes through the studio like an accusation.

You cry out.

“Still a brat,” he mutters. “Still fucking pushing me.”

His hands drag down—gripping your hips, pulling your ass back against him like he’s lining up a weapon.

“You think I won’t fuck you right here? Bent over the same bench I tattooed you on?” he says low, cruel. “You think I won’t use you just like this—all messy, full of spit, dripping down your thighs like a fucking reward?”

You whimper. “Then do it.”

A beat.

And then—he does.

He thrusts in all at once—deep, unforgiving, stretching you full in a single brutal push that knocks the air clean from your lungs. The bench creaks. Your nails scrape against the vinyl. You’re already soaked, still fluttering from his fingers.

Now you’re split open around him.

“Fuck—” he hisses. “Tight little thing—gripping me like you were made for this.”

You were. You want to scream it. But all that comes out is a cracked moan, spine arching as he pulls back—

Then slams in again.

Hard.

Rhythmic.

Cruel.

The bench jerks with every thrust. His hips slap into your ass, cock punching deep and devastating with every motion. The angle hits something brutal—low, mean, a spot that makes your vision spark.

“Louder,” he growls. “Wanna hear you.”

You whine—broken, gasping, drooling against the bench.

He leans over you now—chest to your back, breath in your ear, one hand fisted in your hair while the other snakes under your stomach to lift your hips just right.

His cock drags so deep, your thighs shake from the pressure, and the stretch is perfect—like he’s carving himself into you on purpose.

“This pussy’s been waiting for me,” he mutters, voice guttural. “So fucking wet—so ready to be used.”

You cry out as he pounds harder—faster—gripping your hips with both hands now, dragging you back onto his cock with every brutal snap of his waist.

“You hear that?” he pants.

Slap slap slap. Wet. Filthy. Perfect.

“That’s you,” he growls. “Fucking dripping down my cock—making a mess all over my bench like a desperate little toy.”

You moan—loud. The vinyl squeaks beneath you. Your toes curl, your back arches—and you know it’s close. That heat low in your stomach coiling tight.

“Wanna cum?” he grunts, snapping his hips even harder. “Gonna let me make you cum on my cock this time?”

You nod frantically. “Please—please, Seungmin—”

“Beg properly.”

“I need it—I need you—I’m gonna—fuck—please—!”

He slams in one final time—

And you break.

You cum hard—clenching around him, gasping his name like a prayer, back bowed and thighs trembling, your body nothing but nerve endings and his. It hits like lightning—violent, hot, devastating.

Seungmin moans through his teeth.

“God—fuck—you feel so good when you cum—” he grits, voice cracking with restraint. “So tight, so—shit—don’t stop. Don’t fucking stop squeezing me like that—”

He doesn’t slow. Not even a little. Seungmin just keeps going—thrusts deeper, harder, dragging your spent cunt right through the sensitivity like he wants to fuck you into a second orgasm.

You whine. Loud. High-pitched. Borderline sobbing.

“Too much—” you gasp, but your body says otherwise—clenching, fluttering, soaking him.

He groans, hips snapping into you again.

“I know,” he pants, voice wrecked. “I know it’s too much—but you’re taking it anyway, aren’t you?”

You nod. Shaking. Barely holding yourself upright over the bench as his cock slams into your soaked pussy again, again, again.

“You look so fucking wrecked,” he snarls. “Bent over this bench, fucked-out and dripping—mine.”

“Yours,” you echo—half-breath, half-moan. “Yours, Seungmin, fuck—!”

And that—

That does it.

He growls, deep in his chest, and thrusts one final time, burying himself to the fucking hilt—and you feel it.

His cock jerks once. Twice. Then—heat. Hot, thick, flooding you.

Seungmin’s cum spills inside you in brutal waves, pulse after pulse, spilling past your already-fucked entrance, dripping down your thighs with every twitch of his hips.

He groans—loud, broken—grinding in deeper as his release coats your insides.

You both stay like that for a beat.

Panting. Shaking. Silent except for the slow drip of your combined mess hitting the studio floor. His hands are still on your hips, fingers bruising, cock still buried deep inside you like he can’t bear to pull out just yet.

Finally—

“…fuck,” he mutters. “Look what you do to me.”

You whimper. “You started it.”

He smirks. Breathless. Still inside you.

“You came first,” he says, voice hoarse. “That makes it your fault.”

You roll your eyes. Weakly. Legs trembling.

But when he finally pulls out—slow, careful—you both groan at the mess. His cum leaks from you instantly, hot and obscene, slicking down your thighs in thick globs.

Seungmin watches. Just watches. Then hums.

“Pretty,” he says quietly. “All ruined. Just like I wanted.”

You’re bent over the ink bench, gasping. Barely conscious of your own limbs. There’s cum dripping down your thighs, breath fogging the vinyl, your body throbbing in time with your pulse.

And behind you—

Seungmin exhales. Low. Spent. Quiet.

Then: zip.

The sound of his jeans being pulled back up, the belt loosely fastened with one hand as the other brushes through his hair. You hear it—the shift. The snap back to reality. To composure. To Seungmin-afterglow, where all that bite turns to balm.

You expect him to vanish, to go grab wipes or complain about the mess—

Instead, you feel his hands. Gentle. Soft on your waist. Carefully guiding.

He straightens you. Not rough. Not impatient. Just… careful. Like you’re something fragile now.

You blink as he eases you to sit on the edge of the bench again, his hands steady on your hips until your legs stop shaking.

“Still with me?” he murmurs.

You nod. Slowly. “Barely.”

He huffs a breath of a laugh—tired, wrecked, softer than before.

Then he brushes sweaty strands of hair from your forehead and mutters, “Good girl.”

You melt. Right there. Ruined part two.

He disappears for a moment—only to return with a full box of wipes, a towel, and a silver water bottle you know is his personal one.

“Open,” he says gently, uncapping it and holding it to your lips.

You sip.

He waits. Watches to make sure you don’t choke. Then: another sip. A wipe to your neck. Another for your thighs.

He doesn’t comment on the mess—doesn’t smirk, doesn’t tease. Just… cleans you.

Tender. Focused. A little too quiet.

He wipes the insides of your thighs slowly, scooping up the slick and cum and sweat and ink-tainted heat with barely-there touches. When you flinch, he pauses. When you shiver, he murmurs something under his breath you don’t quite catch—but you feel it. Like a balm.

“You’re doing fine,” he says eventually. “I’m almost done.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to.”

That shuts you up.

Once he’s cleaned every inch of you he marked, he helps dress you up again, pants and panties up but then he grabs his spare hoodie—crumpled on the back of his chair—and slips it over your head with no warning.

It’s oversized. Smells like cedar and ink and him.

He tugs the hood over your messy hair, then pauses to kiss the top of your head.

And that’s what finally ruins you.

Your eyes sting. But you blink fast. No way you’re crying in this hoodie.

“…Seungmin?”

He hums.

“You okay?”

His gaze lifts to yours. Tired. Sweet. Still a little dazed. Another soft hum in response. And then he's back in motion. Efficient again. Packing up the mess, tossing used wipes, wiping down the vinyl. He moves like he needs something to do with his hands or he’ll grab you again.

Once the bench is clean, he turns to you—really turns.

And in a voice way too soft for someone who just fucked the breath out of you against workplace furniture: “Wanna come back to mine?”

You laugh—hoarse, soft, still ruined. “Like this?”

He smirks. “I have more hoodies.”

You blink up at him.

“…And strawberries?”

He smiles.

"And strawberries."

You end up at his place that night. Still wearing his hoodie. Still barely walking.

He gives you a fresh towel and the softest pair of sweatpants he owns, sets you in the bathtub like you’re made of porcelain, and kneels beside it the whole time—washing your hair with slow fingers and kissing your shoulder between rinses.

You eat strawberries straight from the bowl while wrapped in his towel. He lets you finish the last bite before tugging you onto his lap and kissing you breathless all over again.

No sex that night. Not because he doesn’t want to—But because he already has you.

And maybe, he just wants to hold what he’s wrecked.

He lets you fall asleep on his chest. Hoodie, thigh over his lap, lips parted against his collarbone. He doesn’t sleep. Just watches. Fingers curled around your wrist like a habit he never wants to break.

And the next morning? He wakes you up with coffee. And a second round (Messier than before.).

And ever since that day? You just… kept coming back. Not for tattoos, though that’s still a bonus. No—now you show up for him. Your boyfriend. Your soft-spoken menace. Your chaos control. Your personal ink-stained sadist.

You still strut into NO SAINT INK like you own it—drink tray in hand, smug little smirk on your face, eyes locked on the back room like a predator in love.

You still flirt just to watch him clench his jaw. Still wear lace under oversized hoodies and whisper “miss me?” every time you lean against his worktable.

He still rolls his eyes and mutters “unbearable” without looking up.

But when the clock hits closing time?

And everyone is gone. The lights dim. The blinds are drawn. The door locks with a click.

Seungmin doesn’t pretend.

He pulls you into the back with one hand around your neck and the other already working at your zipper. He lays you across the vinyl like it’s a fucking altar. And he fucks you like he’s trying to tattoo his name inside your soul.

You moan like you were made for it.

And when it’s over—when you’re sore and sticky and boneless all over again—

He picks you up. Wipes you down. And kisses your forehead like you hung the moon. A ritual really. Because from annoying menace client, you are now his favourite annoying menace girlfriend.

Who still pisses him off about random designs and bullies him into doing them. And he still ends up doing them for you, except they are ten times better and equipped with all the loving bullying just for you.

Just for his favourite menace girlfriend.