Chapter Text
Being in your twenties really sucked.
Fuck what people said about it being the best decade of your life. You had done everything according to the book; went to an excellent school, graduated summa cum laude, and landed a high-paying corporate job.
Now what?
You never allowed yourself to party much, nose glued to your books on the weekend trying to make the Dean’s honour's list, and for what? All of your friends were still in school, enjoying their years as students, drinking, fucking whomever left and right. It felt like you had missed out on the entire college experience that everyone always talked about. It left a bitter taste in your mouth.
Sure, you attended a few parties and had one failed situationship, but as soon as you settled into your adult life, you realized how dreadfully boring it was.
Wake up, go to work, get home, cook, watch Netflix, sleep. Repeat.
Occasional weekend outings with your best friend, Hannah, kept things not so mundane, but something was still amiss. You had reached every achievement you (or rather your parents) had set in front of you. But the sense of accomplishment was lacking; it left you feeling hollow.
“You’re out of your mind if you think your mom is letting you get a tattoo,” your friend deadpanned, looking at you while picking up the last fry from your plate.
“Okay, maybe you’re right, Hannah. But hear me out. He’s so talented I can’t miss out on his bookings,” you argued with her, frowning and shaking your head at your now empty plate.
Who steals the last fry? So rude.
“Talented or not, your mom is literally gonna murder you, and then me for letting you go through with it,” Hannah sighed as she took a sip of her drink, looking down at her phone, answering a text.
You met Hannah in school a few years ago. Her parents were as strict as yours (if not more), and you stuck together relating to one another. Four years of late nights spent studying at the library rather than partying. She never did anything out of line, and your mom loved her for that. Hannah always kept you in check.
“His bookings just opened, Han. They’ve been closed for a full year,” you tried to persuade her, although unsure why. As if getting her approval meant something more than it actually was. Or maybe it was as close to your mom’s approval as you would get.
“She’s gonna kill the both of us, and you know it,” Hannah said but didn’t press the matter further.
She flashed you a warning look, and you dropped the topic, for now. You both finished your drinks and began walking home on the busy streets.
It was a rather chilly night for September, and you were both still in your office skirts and blouses, clearly underdressed for the weather. A slight breeze kept permanent chills across your exposed skin. There was a comfortable silence between the two of you. Hannah was visibly occupied, answering work emails even though she technically stopped working hours ago.
Your mind drifted back to that tattoo artist and the tattoo you had in mind.
“I doubt he still has a spot left anyways,” you started, even though the topic was somewhat closed.
“Girl, I swear to God if you start talking about-,” your friend sounded exasperated at your rambling. You put up your hands defensively, begging her to hear you out.
“Tomorrow. Tomorrow I’ll go and see in person if he still has an availability,” you quickly cut her off, talking to yourself more than anything.
Your friend gave a vague answer in return, knowing better than to try and get between you and one of your ideas once your mind was set on it. She settled for hugging you begrudgingly as you reached the front of her building. Hannah greeted the doorman as she walked inside, and you waved at him before taking a left on the next street. Her apartment was much nicer than yours, but her parents always paid her rent.
You walked the short distance home alone and dropped your bag in the entryway. The dishes were still in the sink waiting to be done, but you couldn’t be bothered right now.
You peeled your work dress off your body and headed straight for the shower. The water pressure sucked in this building and the water was barely lukewarm, no matter how far you turned the stupid dial. You shut it off when the water started to get cold, grabbed whatever big shirt was on the clean pile of laundry, and slumped into your bed.
The thought of actually getting a tattoo both excited you and filled you with a sense of dread. You knew your parents were going to be angry, furious, or even worse disappointed. But Christ, it was just a tattoo, wasn’t it? It’s not like you had disappointed them in any other way ever.
You stared at your ceiling, listening to a fire truck's siren in the distance.
Fuck it.
He probably didn’t even have availability anyway.
༄˖°.❦.ೃ࿔*:❧･.
You were awoken by the couple next door fighting about who smoked whose weed. The usual.
You groggily got out of bed and headed for the kitchen to start the coffee machine. You stared outside on your balcony while the coffee poured. Leaves were a pretty golden orange colour at this time of the year, and the city was bustling with tourists snapping pictures in parks. There was a chill to the air, but there wasn’t a single cloud to be seen.
You got dressed while sipping your coffee: a black pleated midi skirt, a random blouse, and cute socks with strawberries on them—a new pair you had recently bought. You clipped your hair up, grabbed a scarf, and your favourite jacket before heading out. The train ride to the tattoo shop was somewhat short. It was an early Saturday morning, which meant the city was not quite yet awake. It made sense, considering everyone was probably up late last night—all still sleeping off their hangover. Not that you shared the feeling.
The parlour was situated in a nice neighbourhood, a red brick facade with a large window in the front. You could see some plants catching the morning rays, soaking it all up before the grey winter months.
This had to be it. You stood outside for a moment, the cold wind forcing you to enter after a few minutes of hesitation. You tried to open the door discreetly, but a bell rang upon opening it.
You winced. So much for being discreet.
The shop was empty except for those you presumed to be the artists. They were sketching on large wooden tables near the back window. There was music playing in the background from a band you recognized but couldn’t name. Probably from Hannah’s playlist at some point, she was the music nerd. One of the workers raised her head from whatever she was drawing and smiled at you.
“Hi, can I help you?” she asked nicely as you stumbled on the stairs leading to the shop and struggled to close the door behind you. Stupid wind.
She got up to greet you at the front desk, and goddamn was she tall and gorgeous. She was tattooed everywhere you could see, from her throat to her arms, down to the thigh peeking from her ripped, baggy jeans.
“I’m here for Choso?” you inquired nervously.
Taking in the studio space—it was so much nicer than you anticipated. Leather couches, a coffee table at the front, and, from what you could see, multiple tattoo chairs in the back. There was a complicated-looking coffee machine with funky, handmade-looking mugs next to it. The air inside smelled like leaves, leather, and spicy chai that exuded a sense of comfort. It was as if autumn itself had managed to find its way inside the shop.
“Oh, you’re the morning appointment? Cho! Your client is finally here, I thought they cancelled?” she loudly called over the man sketching on the table.
“Wait, no, I’m sorry. I don’t have an appointment. I'm here to make one because- “you explained in a panic, shaking your hands to emphasize your words.
“What are you here for then?” he asked, looking mildly annoyed with you, eyes running up and down your body, assessing your outfit. You started feeling self-conscious all of a sudden.
It was a good outfit, no?
“I wanted to make an appointment.” You started fidgeting with your fingers nervously under his gaze.
“My bookings are open on Instagram. I don't take them in person,” he said plainly, about to turn away.
The woman watched the exchange from the corner of her eye, pretending to sketch. She half expected you to walk out defeated, but to her surprise, you spoke again.
“I know, but I was wondering if I could take it in person, seeing as I really wanted to get a spot,” you insisted, scrunching your nose, unsure of how common it was for people to walk right in and beg for a booking spot.
He stared at you for what felt like an eternity without saying anything. You stared back at his face and, more precisely, the deep, raised scar across his nose. A nearly straight line—a light burgundy colour across his pale skin.
Ouch
His long black hair was up in two small spiky buns on the back of his head, messy strands over his forehead. You wondered if he was wearing eyeshadow or hadn't slept in the past decade.
He’s really handsome in his own weird way, you thought.
“I don’t do-” he started, but got interrupted by his colleague who seemed to have spawned back next to him.
“He just had a cancellation this morning; he can fit you in, I’m sure,” she beamed at you, winking from the other side of the desk.
“Yuki,” Choso said in a low warning tone, clearly unhappy with her intervention.
“Don’t mind him. He's always like this, by the way,” she laughed as she pushed him over to the side.
You watched incredulously as you realized the unlikely tattoo appointment just turned into a very real tattoo appointment.
“ Oh! Today like… today,” you repeated, more for yourself than Choso (and the woman named Yuki) as you tried to process this new information. Your parents were so murdering you.
Yuki laughed at you softly and handed you some forms to fill out, consent and all that.
“What did you want to get done?” she asked with genuine interest as you filled in the lines with your personal information. Choso had not gone back to his table, lingering right behind Yuki.
You quickly shuffled into your bag and handed over some pictures you printed out yesterday at the office. All of them aligned with Choso's usual work: free-handed, delicate line florals, and soft shading. She smiled at them, flipping through the pages while nodding.
“He’ll be able to do that for sure,” she reassured as she took the forms from you.
Choso was still staring at you in a hard-to-read way. Probably since you had just ruined his morning plans, you thought. Yuki handed him the printed pages, which he begrudgingly ripped from her hands and looked at for a solid minute.
“What size and where?” His tone was cold as he raised his eyes from the papers to take you in.
You were cute—in an annoying way, Choso thought. In an ‘ I’ve never actually done anything’ kind of way. Your knee-length skirt and your pink socks were peeking out from your black Mary Jane shoes. It stirred something in him, although he was unsure what it was. Your cheeks were this deep shade of red from the cold autumn air, and some strands of your hair had fallen out of your clip, and the sight was somehow infuriating to him.
Did you walk all the way here? He pondered.
“Thigh, about 10 inches,” you answered, pulling him away from his train of thought as he blinked and shook his head slightly.
He guided you to his chair in the back of the shop without saying anything else. His station was clean, with his different drawings and available flashes plastered on the wall. You stared at them in awe while he laid a paper cover on the tattoo bench.
“Have you had any other work done before?” he asked, looking down at his tablet as he took pictures of the printed pages you had brought.
You blinked an instant, not understanding what he meant. He quirked an eyebrow at you, waiting for an answer.
Oh.
“No, first time getting one,” you blurted out quickly, looking back at the wall, embarrassed.
He didn’t reply, but sighed audibly through his nose.
“Take off your skirt,” he said in a tone that absolutely did not make shivers run up your spine. You blinked at him, blushing deeply. What? He quickly noticed your confusion and almost let out a chuckle at your cluelessness.
“I can’t tattoo your thigh with your skirt on,” he stated, looking down at your skirt-covered legs. "Or you can hold it up the entire time—Up to you."
“Right,” you mumbled slowly, mentally facepalming yourself for your stupidity.
You quickly removed the clothing item, revealing the skin of your thigh. You thanked whatever god there was up there for making it a good underwear day.
Choso started freehanding some floral shapes on your thigh with a pen. His hands were so large, they almost spanned the entirety of your thigh. They were warm—A contrast between the cold air in the shop and the even colder air outside.
“I cannot believe I’m actually doing this,” you muttered incredulously under your breath, trying to convince yourself that this really was not that big of a deal. Your parents would understand, right? Maybe your mom would let you live and just amputate the leg.
Choso looked at you for a split second but didn’t comment or say anything else until he was done with the initial sketch.
“All done, go stand up to the mirror and check if everything is to your liking,” he said, taking a step to admire his work from afar. He gave you one last look before grabbing his jacket and stepping outside to light a cigarette.
You walked on trembling legs to the mirror and admired his work, smiling. The flowers were so dainty looking, and the size and flow of the piece matched the placement on your body perfectly. You watched him through the window as he finished up his smoke. The bell rang again as he reentered the shop
“Better than I could've imagined, it’s perfect.” You couldn’t wipe your smile from your face as you twisted and turned to admire how good it looked for just a freehanded sketch.
Choso averted your gaze and gestured to you with a nod to lie back down on the table. You were facing the ceiling as he got his materials ready. You heard the snap of gloves being put on and the buzzing of the tattoo gun being turned on.
“You ready?” he asked with a surprising hint of warmth in his voice. One of his hands was holding the skin of your thigh tightly, and you tried not to let him see the way blood rushed to your cheeks. You nodded, not trusting your voice at that moment as he started tattooing your skin.
It stung. But not in a terribly painful way, more in a kind of annoying way.
You let your thoughts wander to your parents and Hannah. They couldn’t kill you if they never saw it, right? You never snitched on Hannah when she got her first boyfriend and didn’t want her parents to know. She could keep this tattoo a secret; she owed you that at least.
Hannah dated a few guys back in university. Now that you thought about it, they all vaguely looked the same. Typical business major guys, brown hair, blue eyes, lean build. Nothing to do with the man focusing on inking your thigh. You couldn’t help but take in his features; he didn’t look that bad when he wasn’t sporting that annoyed, angry look on his face.
“You good there?” Choso’s deep voice stirred you from your thoughts, and you realized you had been staring at him this whole time.
You blushed again, embarrassed for some reason, as if you were caught red-handed with your hand in the cookie jar.
“Yeah, sorry. I was thinking about stuff there,” you muttered as an excuse.
He nodded while raising his eyebrows, clearly unconvinced by your pathetic excuse. You could see his back tattoo peeking from the back of his shirt as it wrapped around his shoulders. You realized as he further leaned in that the shop smelled like him. He was the one who smelled like everything good about autumn and minty cigarettes.
You tried very hard to pretend it didn’t make an unfamiliar heat simmer inside you.
“How long have you been doing this?” you asked to distract yourself. Maybe some conversation would make him forget about your creepy staring.
He paused for a second, the gun's incessant buzzing stopping as well, leaving a heavy silence behind. His dark eyes met yours, and your heart skipped a beat.
“6 years, plus the two years of apprenticeship,” he said, resuming his work after doing the quick mental math.
“So 8 years? That’s cool. And you like it, I presume,” you inquired, wanting to hear him talk more. His voice had a rich, deep tone that reverberated in your chest.
He paused again to look at you, brows furrowed. Your heart sank for a second there. What a stupid question to ask.
“Obviously,” he deadpanned while still looking at you.
You sucked at this casual conversation thing and should have shut up, but you couldn’t seem to stop words from tumbling out of your mouth.
“I’m sorry, I suck at this. I’ve never had a tattoo, and- are we not supposed to talk? I thought making conversation was the standard,” you started rambling nervously.
He sighed for what seemed like the hundredth time, and his eyes met yours again. Are his eyes black? Or dark brown?
“What do you do for a living?” he asked blandly, just to make you more comfortable and keep the conversation going.
You immediately felt half relieved and started talking about work and how you had just graduated. Not that he asked or cared, but for some reason, everything from how school always had been super stressful, but that you also kind of missed the excitement of a new semester and rambled about having graduated top of your class, which then just felt like you were bragging. You stopped yourself, almost out of breath from your own word vomit.
“Top of your class, huh?” Choso chipped in with half a grin.
“What's that supposed to mean?” you asked, almost offended, frowning at him, waiting for an explanation.
“You look the part,” he added, not looking at you, stretching his neck. “All prim and proper, too scared to disappoint anyone, am I wrong?” he paused, staring down at his work, wiping your skin with a paper towel.
“I don’t know whether or not I should be offended.” You turned your head to the side to look at him directly, a scowl across your face
“You’re wearing strawberry socks,” he stated, chuckling as if it strengthened his previous point. "It was kind of a given before you even opened your mouth."
You scoffed, half-insulted and decided to keep your mouth shut until further notice. Yuki walked over to Choso’s table, whistling with admiration at his work.
“He’s always so good at everything he does,” she started as she kneeled to be on eye level with you.
You took notice of the slight shake of the head Choso gave and the way his cheeks reddened. You nodded. agreeing as she continued to watch him work. She took a few pictures with your consent for their Instagram.
“I overheard your conversation earlier. You went to the same school as my brother,” Yuki said in a friendly tone. At least one of them was nice.
“Oh, really? What program was he in?” you asked, interested as she pulled a chair to sit next to both of you. Choso flashed her an annoyed look but didn’t say anything.
She started talking about her brother, who was studying to be an engineer, and how all he seemed to be doing was partying and drinking.
“Was the drinking as bad in your program? I’ve heard so many stories about frosh and the drinking games,” she inquired while sipping on a ridiculously too-small to be practical mug. Probably an espresso.
Embarrassment settled in as you stared at your own feet for a second. You wouldn’t have known; you barely went out during your school years. A weird sense of regret and shame sank in for not having the same experience as your peers. You couldn’t remember any crazy memories from your college years. What a sad life.
“Look at her, you really think she’s the type to party?” Choso pitched in suddenly, with a half grin spread across his face, looking at Yuki.
Blood rushed to your face, embarrassed. He was right, though. Yuki slapped the back of his head lightly, more as a warning than anything else. He let out a yelp and glared at her, not that she seemed to mind.
“You’re such a goddamn dick, Choso,” she said angrily at him, turning quickly to look at you with a forced smile.
She profusely apologized for his inappropriate comment before leaving quickly to answer her phone, which had been buzzing insistently in her pocket.
There was now an uncomfortable silence between Choso and you as he continued to work. You still felt that pit in your stomach.
“Are you almost done?” you asked with a shaky voice, refusing to look at him. You wanted to leave suddenly, get out of there. What a shame he was such a jerk with that talent.
He nodded lazily as he repositioned his hand on your thigh. Yuki came back from her phone call, staring at you with a glint in her eyes.
“Sorry for that, my brother called. You’re single, right?” she boldly asked all of a sudden as if those two statements were connected in any way.
What?
“Uh- yes,” you stammered, shocked at the question. You noticed Choso stopped working for a second to hear your response, still not looking at you, though.
“Great, because you’re totally my brother’s type, and we’re having a housewarming party at my new place. Tonight, and I want to invite you,” she smiled at you excitedly.
“Yuki, what ?” Choso blurted out, almost offended, brows furrowed in confusion, head snapping to his colleague, or friend, apparently.
“Oh yeah, technically Choso’s place as well but he never invites anyone to these things so,” she laughed, oblivious, as if that was the reason he was angry at her to begin with.
A party tonight? You didn’t even know these people. Yuki seemed nice and all, but this was so last-minute. Not that you had plans outside, scrolling on social media, and ordering takeout while ignoring once again the pile of laundry that desperately needed folding. You couldn’t possibly accept.
“I’m flattered, but I already have pl-“ you started to make excuses as to why you could not possibly go to this random housewarming party.
“Please! Just for an hour, if anything, I just really think my brother would like you. He’s trying to get over this ex, and I’m so tired of him bringing a different girl to our place every night and seeing him moping around,” she overshared.
You quickly took a glance at Choso, who was already staring at you awaiting your response. His face was unreadable, tight-lipped but brows relaxed. You took a deep breath in, pondering what to do. His scent made you dizzy for a second.
Screw him.
“What time?” you asked, turning back and smiling at Yuki.