Work Text:
you get out of your car with a bundle of nerves set in your stomach, eyes falling onto the tattoo shop set at the corner of a busy street. you finally got an appointment scheduled for this tattoo artist your friends recommended.
after stalking his instagram and realizing that he does the exact style you wanted, you made an appointment to get a half sleeve. so here you are now, walking towards the large black door.
a bell dings above your head as you step in, looking to the counter where nobody is. the whole shop is empty, metal music playing softly over the speakers. you nervously look around, second guessing if you somehow managed to come on the wrong day or something.
but then you hear shuffling, and beaded curtains separate around a tall man with long dark hair. it's him, the tattoo artist. his ears are stretched, tattoos coating his neck and his arms.
his tired eyes do wonders, a nice jawline and flattering black tee on his frame. his hair's pulled half up to keep his hair out of his face as he works, but it's generally flattering for him even otherwise.
wow. you see why your friends were so insistent on you coming here now. he's really handsome.
he pauses when he sees you, redirecting his attention from whatever he came out to do and shifting it onto you. "you here for an appointment?"
you nod, watching the way his a smirk tugs at his lips for a split second before he nods too.
"okay. come on back."
you follow him through the beaded curtains and into a smaller room. there's oddities scattered about, some animal skulls and artwork strung up on the walls, which are painted a forest green.
there's a chair placed neatly in the middle, and a table placed against the wall that's covered in ink and needles. you notice the piece you wanted is printed out onto a piece of paper in different sizes already.
"you can take a seat." he says, walking over to the table he's got set up. you saunter over to the leather chair and take a seat, sucking in a deep breath.
you watch closely as he puts on two black gloves, latex slapping against his skin as his eyes meet yours once more. "half sleeve, right?"
"yeah."
he steps closer to you, the sheet in his hands now. "alright, show me your arm."
your arm extends out, and he reaches for it without hesitation. his fingers are warm even through the gloves, hands directing your arm around while he figures out where to start the stencil.
"which size do you want?" he asks, showing you the different sizes and angles.
you point at the second largest one wordlessly, and he starts moving it around. once he finds an angle that's aesthetically pleasing, he presses it into your skin as he looks to you.
"you like it there?" he asks.
you swallow, trying to ignore how close he is. "yeah," you say, voice quieter than you meant it to be. "i like it."
"good." he sets the stencil aside and preps your arm, taking a razor to the spot before cleaning it off, then the stencil is placed into your skin. after a few minutes of silence, he pulls it off.
the purple lining of the design shows on you fully now, and you smile a little at the sight of it. "that's perfect."
he hums contentedly, tossing the transfer paper into a bin on the ground. he sits down on the small stool next to where you sit and pulls a small tray closer. after he adjusts to be close to your arm, he looks to you.
"you ready?"
you nod, swallowing thickly. the nerves are hitting you hard now, anticipating that stinging pain and hoping it won't be too long of a session.
"you nervous?"
you look at him, embarrassed that he noticed. "honestly, yeah."
"don't be. i'll take care of you." you don't know if you're imagining the hint of flirtation to his tone or not. the buzz of the tattoo gun rings out, and he presses it into your skin.
you hold back the flinch your body wants to have, a dull sting forming in your arm where he's following the linework that's been stamped onto you. you breathe steadily, eyes looking around the room.
he works carefully, one hand stretching your skin while the other guides the needle with practiced precision. his touch is firm, controlled. the sting sharpens when he hits a more sensitive spot near the inside of your arm, and your fingers twitch against the leather of the chair before you can stop yourself.
his eyes flick up to you as he moves the tattoo gun back. "you alright? need a break?" he offers.
you shake your head, flushing under his gaze as his head tilts back down. "i'm okay, sorry."
"no need to be sorry." his voice is a low rumble, a stark contrast to the high-pitched buzz of the needle. he doesn't look away from his work, but you can feel his focus shift, a new weight to his presence. "it's supposed to hurt. a little pain is part of the process."
you try to take his advice, focusing on your breathing, but it's difficult when his other hand, the one not holding the gun, is still on you. his thumb is pressed gently into the soft flesh of your inner arm, holding the skin taut.
it's a necessary part of the process, you know that, but it feels almost too intimate. his touch is grounding, a firm anchor in the sea of stinging sensation, and it's doing things to you that have nothing to do with pain.
his touch lingers a second longer than necessary when he wipes away a thin line of ink, thumb dragging slow over your skin before lifting. the buzz fills the room again. you focus on that. on the music.
“still with me?” he asks quietly.
“yeah,” you breathe out.
the low hum of the tattoo machine became a hypnotic backdrop to the physical tension coiling in your gut. every time the needle lifted, the silence felt heavy, charged with something you couldn't quite name.
"you're sitting remarkably still," suguru murmurs,his voice barely audible over the buzz. he wipes a smudge of excess ink away, his touch lingering on the underside of your bicep. "most people start twitching by the second hour. especially in this spot."
"i'm trying," you admit, your knuckles white where you grip the edge of the leather chair.
he lets out a short, huffed breath that might have been a laugh. "i noticed. you're doing so good for me."
your breath hitches. the words are simple, professional even, but the tone he uses is anything but. it's a low, private praise spoken just for you, and a fresh wave of heat washes over your face, this time having nothing to do with the tattoo.
you risk a glance down at him. his dark hair is slightly messy from where he's been leaning over. his brow is furrowed in concentration, but the corner of his mouth is tilted up in the faintest hint of a smile. he knows exactly what he's doing to you.
the air in the small, green-walled room feels like it’s thinning. every time the needle drags across your skin, the vibration seems to hum straight through your bones and settle low in your belly.
"almost done with the linework for today," duguru murmurs. he doesn't look up, but his thumb strokes the un-inked skin of your inner elbow to keep it taut.
he pauses, the buzzing silence of the machine suddenly deafening. he leans back just an inch, dipping a cotton swab into green soap to wipe away the excess ink and blood. his touch is firm. "you're shaking a little, sweetheart. deep breaths."
you swallow hard at the little nickname. sweetheart. you like that way more than you care to ever admit, not replying to his words at all and focus on getting your quick beating heart to chill out a little.
he pulls the needle away for a moment to wipe away the excess ink, and the cool swipe of the paper towel makes you shiver. his eyes lift to yours, dark and piercing. "cold?"
you can only manage a small shake of your head, your throat suddenly tight.
"good." he leans back in, the gun buzzing back to life. "just a little more on this inner part. it's sensitive. you've been such a good girl so far, stay still for me."
the air in the room feels like it's thickened into a heavy, sweet syrup. your heart is hammering against your ribs so hard you're almost certain he can feel the vibration through your skin.
the phrase echoes in your head, so potent and unexpected it makes your thighs clench. you're no longer thinking about the pain, only about the man next to you, his voice, his hands, the sheer magnetic pull of his presence.
the rest of the session passes in a blur of sensation and suppressed arousal. when he finally pulls the needle away for the last time and turns the gun off, the silence that rushes in is deafening.
he cleans the area with a slow, deliberate pressure, his eyes never leaving the fresh ink until he finally looks up, meeting your gaze with a look that is far too heavy for someone you just met.
"all done for today," he murmurs, his thumb tracing the edge of the bandage. "i'll see you next week to finish the shading."
the air seems to hold its breath with you as he tapes the bandage down, fingers lingering a fraction longer than necessary. you swallow, cheeks hot with embarrassment.
you stand slowly when he steps back, the room tilting just a little, and for a second you wonder if you've imagined the whole cadence of his voice. he meets your eyes again, steady and unreadable.
"take care of it," he says, voice soft. his thumb brushes the bandage once more, "see you next week."
you leave the shop with a tightness in your chest you weren't expecting to ever have around him. you're so perplexed with how he acted, that you decide to reach out to your friends to recuperate.
that evening, you're at dinner with the two girls. both of them are so excited to see how the tattoo looks so far, but the strange look on your face raises concern too.
"so, suguru geto," you start, trying to sound casual as you sip your drink. "is he always... like that? when he works?"
the two share a confused look to one another before facing you. "like what? quiet?" she asks, your other friend nodding along to her words.
"he really is quiet! i remember when i went to get my back tat done he let me take a nap, not that i was able to sleep very long."
your eyebrows furrow. "quiet? are we talking about the same man? the hot one with the long hair, looks like he'd be in a band?"
both of them nod, "yeah. totally hot, especially that quiet guy persona. so mysterious… but why are you so confused?"
you shake your head, baffled. "he flirted with me the whole session. like, calling me a good girl."
their eyes go wide, and you can tell neither of them expected that. “wait… what?” one of them laughs, nearly choking on her drink. “he called you a good girl? like, the tattoo artist?”
you nod, cheeks flaming. “yeah… multiple times. it was subtle, but - god, it was so hot. i couldn't stop thinking about it the whole time."
"wow, lucky. maybe he only acts that way with the hot girls." she teases.
you brush the comment off with a laugh, and the night continues with ease. each day after that leading up to the second session, you've been so caught up on what happened.
you'd be lying if you said you weren't into it though. the whole week drags by, though. you spend more time than you care to admit fantasizing about being called a good girl by suguru, and what other context there'd be so using that line.
every time you catch a glimpse of the black ink peeking out from under your sleeve, you feel the ghostly pressure of his thumb against your skin and hear that low, gravelly praise vibrating in your marrow.
when the day finally arrives, your hands are shaking so badly you can barely grip the steering wheel. you consider how this session's gonna go, and if it's going to be awkward or amazing.
the bell dings above your head as you push into the shop. the metal music is gone today, replaced by a slow lo-fi beat. suguru is already there, leaning against the counter with a cup of coffee.
his hair is completely down, a dark silk curtain framing his sharp face, and he’s wearing a tank top that leaves absolutely nothing of his own extensive ink to the imagination.
"you're right on time," he murmurs, his eyes traveling from your face down to your bandaged arm, then back up again. "how's it healing?"
"so far so good."
he leads you back to the room you were in last week, and you make sure to keep your breathing steady as you sit back down in the chair. you watch as he prepares everything again, but when he's done he sits down much closer to you than before.
"ready to finish this up?" he asks, pulling on his gloves.
you take a deep breath and decide to just go for it. "can i ask you something?"
he pauses, his hand hovering over his ink caps. his dark eyes find yours, patient and intrigued. "sure."
"my friends," you start, your voice a little shaky. "they all said you were... different. with them. they said you were really respectful. professional."
a slow, lazy smile spreads across his face. it's not a smirk; it's something more genuine, more dangerous. he leans in, resting his forearms on his knees, bringing himself closer to your level. the air between you crackles.
"oh?" he murmurs, his voice dropping to that low, confidential register from your first session. "and how was i with you?"
"flirty," you blurt out, your cheeks burning. "you were... you said things."
he lets out a soft, humorless laugh. "i only get like this for certain clients." his gaze holds yours, unflinching. you can take the hint of his tone; he's implying that it's only you.
the buzz of the gun starting up breaks the spell, and he gets to work. this time, the silence is charged. every touch of his gloved fingers, every pass of the needle feels loaded with the unspoken truth hanging between you. the pain is a familiar thrum, but it's secondary to the electric tension coiling in your gut.
you're hyper-aware of everything: the way his arm brushes against yours, the scent of his clean laundry mixed with ink, the way his breath hitches slightly when you have to shift your position.
when he finally wipes the last of the ink away and turns off the gun, the room feels impossibly small and quiet. he doesn't move to wrap your arm. he just sits there, looking at you, his expression unreadable.
"i've been thinking about this all week." he admits. he stays seated on his stool, hunched over slightly so his face is level with yours, his knees boxed in on either side of your thighs.
"thinking about what?" you whisper, your voice betraying you with a distinct tremble.
"thinking about how difficult it was to let you walk out that door last week without fucking you," he says. his voice is a low, granular crawl that settles right in the base of your spine.
"your friends were right," he murmurs, his dark eyes hooded, tracking the way your chest heaves with every shallow breath. "i am professional. i am respectful. i take a lot of pride in my professionalism."
he leans in closer, the scent of him filling your senses until you're lightheaded. "but you make it damn near impossible to be any of those things."
any inhibition and modesty you've retained is long gone now, a disgusting noise escaping your lips as you frantically push forward and kiss him deeply. he groans into your mouth, hands immediately reaching for your waist.
the kiss is frantic, a collision of built up tension and a week's worth of feverish thoughts. suguru doesn’t hesitate; his hands, still clad in those black latex gloves, pull you forward until you’re sliding off the edge of the leather chair and directly into his lap.
the stool creaks under the sudden weight, but he anchors you there with a strength that makes your head spin. he tastes like cool coffee, his tongue sweeping against yours with a possessive rhythm and his thumb digging into the soft dip of your waist.
he breaks the kiss just enough to trail his lips down the column of your throat, his breath hot and ragged against your pulse point.
"i knew you'd be like this," he growls, the vibration of his voice rumbling against your skin. "i could tell the second i put the stencil on you. you were vibrating under my hands, so desperate to be a good girl for me."
he moves quickly, pushing around until you're pressed into the leather chair you were sitting in before, shirt tossed off and forgotten about. he hovers over you, his hair falling around his face like a dark curtain.
"i've wanted to do this since the moment you walked in," he admits, his voice a low murmur as he dips his head to trail his lips down your neck. he nips at the sensitive skin where your neck meets your shoulder, and you cry out, your nails digging into the muscles of his back.
"that's it, scratch me up," he growls against your skin. he makes quick work of your shirt, his hands deft as he unbuttons it and pushes it open. his eyes roam over you, dark and hungry.
"fuck, look at these tits. been imagining them in my hands all week." he palms one, his thumb brushing over your nipple, watching it pebble under his touch. "so responsive. i knew you would be."
his mouth is on you then, his tongue swirling around the peak before he sucks it into his mouth, his other hand rolling and pinching the neglected bud. he's not gentle; he's possessive, his teeth scraping against the sensitive flesh. "you like that, don't you? like it a little rough. bet you're already soaking wet for me, aren't you?"
he doesn't wait for an answer, his hand sliding down your stomach to cup you through your jeans. he presses the heel of his hand against your core, and you buck your hips, a desperate moan escaping your lips. "oh yeah," he chuckles, a low, dark sound. "soaked. this tight little pussy is crying for me, isn't it? begging to be filled."
he makes quick work of your jeans and underwear, practically ripping them from your body. he spreads your legs wide, his gaze hot and heavy as he stares at your glistening folds.
"fucking perfect," he breathes. "all spread out for me. look at you, dripping on my chair." he sinks to his knees, his hands gripping your thighs, holding you open for him. "don't move."
he leans in, and the first swipe of his tongue is pure electricity. he eats you out like a man starved, his tongue delving into your folds, lapping up your arousal. "taste even better than i imagined," he groans, his voice muffled against you.
"so fucking sweet." he sucks your clit into his mouth, his tongue flicking against the sensitive bundle of nerves. he pushes two fingers inside you, curling them to find that spot that makes you see stars. "right there, isn't it? feel that? that's where i'm gonna put my cock. gonna stretch this little pussy out until it's molded to my shape."
the pressure builds, a tight coil in your stomach. "that's it, get closer," he urges, his fingers pumping in and out of you, his thumb rubbing tight circles on your clit. "wanna feel you cum on my tongue. wanna feel this tight little cunt clench around my fingers. come on, be a good girl and give it to me."
his words are your undoing. your orgasm crashes over you, a powerful wave that leaves you trembling and breathless. he works you through it, his tongue and fingers prolonging your pleasure until you're a whimpering, oversensitive mess.
he rises to his feet, his chin glistening with your arousal. "on your feet," he orders, his voice leaving no room for argument. your legs feel like jelly, but you obey, swaying slightly. he spins you around to face the leather chair, his hands coming to rest on your hips, pressing you forward.
"bend over," he murmurs, a hand pressing firmly on the small of your back, guiding you down until your forearms are resting on the cool, worn leather of the chair seat. the position is submissive, exposing, and a fresh wave of heat floods your cheeks. you're completely on display for him, your jeans and panties still tangled around your ankles.
you hear the distinct sound of his belt buckle, then the rough slide of denim and boxers being shoved down. you can't see him, but you can feel his presence behind you, a towering heat source. then, you feel the blunt, wet head of his cock nudging against your slick folds, sliding through your mess.
"see what you do to me? been hard for you since you walked in here today." he growls, his voice a low rumble that you feel vibrate through your back. "gonna fuck you now. gonna ruin you."
he pushes into you in one slow, deep thrust, stretching you deliciously. you both groan at the sensation. he stills for a moment, his hips flush against your ass, his hands gripping your waist.
"fuck, you're tight. squeezing me so good. feel that? feel how deep i am?" the question is rhetorical, a filthy taunt. you can feel every thick inch of him buried inside you, his tip pressing against a place so deep it makes you tremble.
then he starts to move. his pace is punishing, his hips snapping against yours with a force that rocks the chair and pushes you further into the leather. the sound of skin slapping against skin echoes in the small room, mingling with his ragged breaths and your helpless moans.
"that's it, take it. take every fucking inch," he grunts, his voice rough with exertion. "this pussy was made for me. made to take my cock." one of his hands leaves your hip, and you feel his fingers delve between your legs, his thumb finding your swollen clit and rubbing tight, fast circles that make your vision blur.
"you're gonna cum again for me. gonna cum all over my cock this time."
the dual stimulation is almost too much. the deep, relentless pounding from behind and the circling pressure on your clit build a pleasure so intense it's almost painful. you're babbling now, pleas falling from your lips as you push back against him, meeting his brutal rhythm.
"look at you," he pants, his rhythm never faltering. "so fucking desperate for it. arch your back more." you comply, pressing deeper into the chair, changing the angle and making him hit that spot inside you that makes stars explode behind your eyes.
he fists your hair into his hands, tugging on it with each thrust. "that's it, right there," he growls, his voice a raw, primal sound. "i can feel you getting tighter. you're close, aren't you? go on, then. cum for me. squeeze my cock. milk me dry."
with a cry, you shatter, your cunt clamping down around him as your orgasm washes over you. the feeling of you coming undone around him is his tipping point.
"fuck, fuck, fuck," he chants, his grip on your hips bruising.
with a final, deep thrust, he buries himself inside you, his own release tearing through him. he collapses against you, his body heavy and spent, his face buried in the crook of your neck.
he stays there for a moment before he lifts off of you, stepping around the room. "stay there."
you do as he says, and eventually you feel him cleaning you off. when he reaches your arm, his touch becomes even lighter. he finishes the aftercare, sealing the fresh ink with a practiced hand.
once you’re wrapped and dressed, he pulls you into his space, his hands sliding up to cup your face. "you were so good for me today," he whispers, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. "better than i imagined."
you share another kiss, soft but still full of a want that's not going away anytime soon. "go home and rest, sweetheart. i'll check in on you tonight."
he gives your hip a final, firm squeeze before letting you go. a knowing smirk forms on his lips as he watches you walk toward the door, your legs still a little shaky from him.