Chapter Text
The club is a suffocating press of heat and neon, the lights bleeding over your skin as the frantic rhythm of the music vibrates through your entire body.
You’ve probably had a lot more to drink than you can take at this point.
How many shots has it been?
5….6 maybe
You lost track of the amount.
You go over the bar and ask the bartender at the counter for a vodka soda.
You lean against the cool counter, waiting for your vodka soda.
When
You notice him
A man with long black spiky hair tied loosely at the nape of his neck.
He’s wearing a black dress shirt and black pants; his sleeves are rolled up to reveal his forearms.
He has a few tattoos littered across his forearm.
One in particular catches your attention…
There’s one shaped like what appears to be a fox mask.
It has big black eyes and a scar on the right side of it.
You wonder if there’s a story behind it, or if it’s just a random tattoo without any real meaning.
It blends perfectly with the rest of the blurry images scattered over his arm.
He isn’t dancing or talking to anyone; he’s not even paying attention to the crowd behind him.
He looks completely displeased with his surroundings.
He’s slumped slightly over a glass of whiskey, his dark, messy bangs fanning his face from being completely in view.
You watch as he takes a slow sip of his drink, his throat bobbing as he swallows.
He looks lonely, or maybe just bored with the whole scene, but the way he fills out that black dress shirt and the way his forearms flex as he grabs his drink make your breath hitch.
He pauses for a moment, staring at the glass in his hand, before chugging the entire thing in one big sip.
He slams the glass back onto the coaster with a heavy thud his movemwnt way too slow and uncoordinated to be sober.
You expect him to call out to the bartender to ask for another drink, but instead, he shifts on the stool, his gaze drifting towards you. You finally get a good look at his eyes now
They’re a pretty shade of dark blue clouded by all the whiskey he’s been drinking.
Something about them looks so majestic as the club lights shine over them.
“You’re staring,” he says, his voice is a low rumble with a hint of annoyance.
You flinch for a moment, taken aback by his forwardness
Maybe it’s the six shots you downed taking effect, but the edge in his voice only makes you want to step closer.
“Hard not to,” you hum while checking him out
Taking all of him in.
The bartender finally hands you your vodka soda, you reach over to take it from her without breaking eye contact with the man in front of you.
You gesture vaguely towards his arm, “The tattoos caught my eye.”
He looks down at his own forearm as if he’d forgotten the black ink was there, his thumb tracing over the lines and shapes on his skin, the annoyance on his expression seems to be gone and softens into something less guarded.
“They’re nothing special,” he mutters under his breath, though the way he says it is far from dismissive.
He looks back up at you, his heavy, half-lidded eyes travel from your eyes down to your lips and back up again.
He’s actively engaging in whatever this is now
“I’m getting one next week, actually,” you say, a playful smirk tugging at your mouth.
He scoffs softly, the sound vibrating in his chest. “Hope your artist has a steadier hand than I do right now.”
You let out a soft laugh, the sound nearly lost to the loud music and people in the club, but his eyes track the movement of your throat as you do.
“I’m willing to take my chances.” You whisper seductively, leaning in close enough that the scent of his whiskey and something sharp like cedar, sandalwood, and maybe iris fills your senses.
The man doesn’t pull away; if anything, he leans in to close the space between the two of you, his lips just inches away from yours.
His hand slides from the smooth counter onto your waist. Despite his earlier warning, they look incredibly steady.
“Is that so?” he murmurs, the tone in his voice is deep and filled with desire, “You’re either very brave, or just very drunk.”
“Maybe both.” You challenge your heart, hammering against your ribs.
He goes quiet for a moment, his gaze landing on your lips again; this time, he doesn’t look away.
The air between you is thick, and the sexual tension is undeniable at this point.
He slowly gets up from the stool, his height towering over you, while his hands find the small of your back again.
You feel a searing heat between your legs.
“Come on,” he rasps, his voice dropping an octave. “Let’s get you out of this place.”
The cool night air hits you like a physical weight as you both leave the club. He called an Uber to take the two of you over to his place.
The ride back is a blur of streetlights and the low hum of the heater. Neither of you speaks, but the silence is loud, charged with the promise of what’s coming.
His tattooed arm brushes over your thigh while you both sit in the backseat of the Uber.
By the time you reach his door, the “bravery” you claimed at the bar has turned into a frantic, pulsing need. He barely gets the key into the lock before he’s turning you around, pinning you against the wall with the heavy weight of his body.
“Last chance,” he rasps, his nose brushing against yours, his hands framing your face with a tenderness that surprises you. “If we start this… I’m not stopping.”
The door hadn’t even fully clicked shut before his mouth was back on yours, his hands roaming over your body.
He tasted like expensive whiskey and a lingering coolness that made your head spin faster than the tequila ever could.
You let out a shaky breath against his lips, your fingers tangling into the dark, messy silk of his hair, tugging just enough to hear the low, guttural growl that vibrated deep in his chest.
“You’re too quiet,” you whispered, your heart thundering against your ribs as he trailed his lips down the column of your throat.
He paused, his forehead resting against your collarbone for a second, his breathing heavy. “I’m just… taking you in,” he rasped.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, those deep blue eyes roaming over your face with a terrifyingly sharp focus.
The drunken haze was still there, but it was being overtaken by a raw, primal need to see every inch of you.
His hands moved with precision. As he began to undress you, his thumb brushed against your skin, tracing the lines of your collarbone as if he were sketching it into memory.
Every touch was deliberate, every graze of his knuckles against your skin felt like a brand. You found yourself tracing the fox mask on his forearm again, your skin buzzing wherever his skin touched yours.
“I told you,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a dangerously low vibration as he leaned back in to capture your lips again, “if we start this, I’m not stopping.”
The air felt thick, and your head kept spinning as he guided you to his bedroom.
It wasn’t long before your back hit the covers of his bed.
He didn’t waste a second. He was down on his knees before you could even catch your breath, his large, calloused hands sliding up your thighs with a possessive grip that left heat in their wake.
His heavy, half-lidded gaze was dark with hunger as he looked up at you one last time before burying his face between your thighs.
The sensation of his hot breath against your sensitive folds made your toes curl into the sheets.
His tongue was unyielding and rhythmic, tracing your clit with the same painstaking precision while his fingers dove inside you.
You felt the slight ridges of his long fingers stretching your entrance, the friction of his rough hands against your slick walls sending jolts of electricity straight to your core.
you gasped, your fingers tangling in his dark hair as you arched your back.
He didn’t stop until you were shaking, and only then did he rise to look over you. He stripped himself of his shirt, revealing his broad chest decorated with bold black-and-grey tattoos that trailed down his torso.
He was built, but not in the “flashy gym goer” way.
Nothing about him is quite exaggerated.
He stands at the edge of the bed, his chest heaving as he fumbles with the button of his black jeans.
You watch, breathless, as he shoves them down with a frantic, clumsy urgency, the fabric pooling at his ankles before he kicks them away.
When he hooks his thumbs into the elastic of his boxers and slides them down, your breath hitches. Seeing him completely bare for the first time sends a jolt of pure, unadulterated heat straight to your core.
He is beautifully, intimidatingly built. Your eyes trail down his stomach to the dark, unruly patch of pubic hair that nests around his base, a deep, black that matches the hair on his head, looking soft yet slightly coarse against his pale skin.
The sight of his manhood makes your stomach do a somersault of primal craving.
He is thick and heavy, the skin a warm shade of tan that looks slightly darker than the rest of his body, while his tip is a muted pink.
A prominent vein maps its way along the side of his length.
He’s already hard, a bead of pre-cum glistening at his tip in the dim light.
He doesn’t give you long to stare. With a low, needy groan, he crawls back over you, the sheer heat radiating from his thighs making your skin tense.
He pins your wrists above your head with one hand, his large palm anchoring you to the pillows while his other hand goes straight for your tits.
As he guides your hand down to him, the feel of him is overwhelming. The skin is incredibly soft, like heated silk, but the core beneath is rock hard and unyielding. The contrast of the cool night air and his warm skin makes you whimper.
“God… you’re so fucking beautiful,” he rasps, his voice breaking into a needy whimper as he lowers his head to catch your nipple between his lips, sucking and swirling his tongue until you’re left sobbing.
He lets out a sharp, guttural moan as he finally positions himself at your entrance, his thumb roughly circling your clit while he begins to sink his manhood between your wet folds.
You can feel the intricate lines of the ink on his hand and forearm grazing your inner thighs, a textured, abrasive sensation that heightens every nerve ending.
He drives into you with a relentless pace, his breath hitching into high-pitched whimpers every time you wrap your legs tighter around his waist. “Please,” he chokes out, his composure entirely gone as he buries his face in the crook of your neck, “just like that… don’t stop…”
The friction is becoming unbearable, a heavy spark that threatens to consume the last of your sanity.
He senses it the way your muscles seize around him, the way your breath hitches into a high-pitched, broken whine. It’s the final push he needs.
His pace turns frantic, his hips slamming against yours with a bruising, desperate force that makes the headboard rattle against the wall.
He’s no longer the quiet man from the bar; he’s a mess of grunts and jagged whimpers, his fingers digging so deep into your hips that you know they’ll leave marks.
“I’m- I’m close,” he chokes out, his voice cracking. “God, stay with me… right there…”
He lets out a final, animalistic groan, his back arching as he buries himself into you one last time. You feel the scorching heat of him as he spills his cum deep inside you, his entire body shuddering with the force of it.
He collapses against your chest, his heavy, sweat-slicked weight pinning you to the mattress as he gasps for air, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your own.
For a long minute, the only sound in the room is the tangle of your shared, ragged breathing.
He doesn’t move, his face still hidden in the crook of your neck, his lips grazing your skin in a series of mindless, drunken kisses.
“Don’t go,” he mutters, his voice slurring into a sleepy, barely audible whisper.
But as his breathing slows and his grip on your waist loosens, you realize the alcohol has finally won. Within minutes, his weight becomes dead and heavy, sleep finally taking over.
You lie there in the dark, staring at the ceiling as the adrenaline begins to fade. Your eyes drift to his arm, his tattoos barely visible in the moonlight, a silent witness to a night you aren’t sure you’re supposed to remember.
The heavy sunlight comes in through the heavy dark curtains of his room. He lies next to you, his breathing deep and rhythmic, with his arm slung over your waist.
You carefully lift his arm, the skin-to-skin contact sending a ghost of a shiver through you as you remember the way those fingers felt inside you just a few hours ago.
You move through his room slowly, gathering your discarded clothing from scattered across the floor of his bedroom.
You quickly dress yourself carefull of not to make noise, so the man doesn’t wake up.
You look back at him one last time. He looks younger like this, his messy black hair fanned across the pillow, the sharp line of his jaw softened by sleep.
You don’t know his name. You don’t know who he is. You slip out the door and into the cool morning air, you’re certain you’ll never see the man again.
So there really isn’t anything to feel guilty about; it was just a drunken hook-up, either of you will probably forget within a week or two.
image
The irony of your own thoughts lasted until you pushed open the glass door of the tattoo shop.
You’d heard it was the best in the city, so you had scheduled your appointment with whoever the lady on the phone said was best for your piece.
You walk inside, taking the place in. The shop was spotless, smelling of green soap and rubbing alcohol.
“Checking in for an appointment?” The receptionist didn’t even look up from her computer. “Name?”
“Y/N,” you murmured, your voice feeling small in the quiet space.
“Right. You’re with Tomioka. He’s just finishing up his station. You can head back to the third booth on the left.”
You nod, clutching your bag a bit nervously because you hadn’t actually taken the time to link into your artist when you booked the appointment.
You’d been told he was the best for fine-line work, so you had high hopes.
You walk over to the booth expecting to be greeted by a total stranger; instead, you’re met with a familiar head of long, black, messy hair and a fox mask tattoo.
He was standing with his back to you, pulling on a pair of black nitrile gloves. The snap of the latex against his wrist sounded like a gunshot in the quiet room.
His hair was tied back in a neat, practical knot, not the messy silk you’d tangled your fingers in a week ago.
He takes a quick glance at you before dingaling to the seat in front of him. “Take a seat, please”.
You feel your breath hitch at the familiar sound of his voice, the same voice that was a mess of grunts and whimpers while begging you not to stop just a week ago.
He looked at you, and for a split second, the air in the shop felt thin. His eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, a flash of recognition burning through the professional frost.
Then, as quickly as it appeared, it was gone. He looked down at his clipboard, his expression flat and unreadable.
“You’re here for the forearm piece,” he stated. It wasn’t a question.
He didn’t ask if you’d made it home. He didn’t mention the way you’d looked under him just one week ago. “I’m Giyuu Tomioka. I’ll be your artist today, you must be y/n.”
He played the stranger act so well that you almost started questioning whether you had imagined the whole night yourself.
“Yeah, I am,” you said softly, trying not to make it too obvious that you were probably thinking the same thing he was right now.
You climb onto the hydraulic chair the leather feels cold against your skin as you sit down.
“Nice to meet you, Giyuu.”
Giyuu
The name felt heavy on your tongue, like a secret you were never meant to know.
It was unmistakably Japanese, which makes the fox mask and the flow of black script you’d seen inked onto his skin a week ago make more sense than they did that night.
“Have you eaten today?” he asked, his gaze fixed on the ink caps he was filling.
“A little.”
“Drink some water,” he commanded, sliding a bottled water toward you without looking up. “I don’t need you passing out in my chair.”
If he recognizes you, he doesn’t make it apparent; he tediously works on the stencil he was prepping.
“I’m going to start the outline now,” he said, his voice flat and clinical. “Stay still, please .”
The high-pitched buzz of that tattoo machine is the only thing that can be heard filling the void where any conversation or small talk should have been.
Part of you wanted to question him right then and there, but you knew it wouldn’t be wise to catch him off guard while he was permanently tattooing something onto your skin.
You decide to just relax and make yourself as comfortable as you can, since there is still a long way to go before he is anywhere near done with your forearm.
“Doing okay?” he asked after a long stretch of silence. He still hadn’t looked at your face.
“Yeah,” you whispered, your voice sounding thin and foreign. “It’s not as bad as I thought it would be.”
“Good,” he muttered, his grip on your arm tightening just a fraction. “We’ve still got a long way to go.”
The buzz of the needle remained the only noise that could be heard in the room. Giyuu’s focus was terrifying. He leaned in close, his chest nearly brushing your elbow, his eyes narrowed as he followed the curve of the stencil.
His scent was different today, the smell of whiskey replaced by the sterile sting of green soap and the faint smell of cedar, a scent you remembered all too well.
“You’re tensing up,” he murmured, his voice barely audible over the machine. He didn’t look up, but his grip tightened not enough to hurt, but just enough to ground you. “Breathe.”
“It’s really hard not to, this hurts.” You tried to make your voice sound as steady as possible.
The buzzing of the needle came to a sudden stop
The sudden silence was deafening, filling the small booth until it felt like the walls were closing in. Giyuu slowly lifted his gaze.
His eyes scan your face, then your body, his expression unreadable.
“Is it?” he asked, though there was a small hint of softness in his voice.
He dipped the needle into the ink cap again. “I told you once before… I don’t stop once I start. That applies to my work, too.”
He looks back up at you again, making eye contact
“Are you going to run out the door the moment I’m finished today, too?”
Shit
So he did remember.
The silence that followed was heavy; he continued working on your forearm as if nothing had happened.
“I’ll admit…” he finally broke the silence
“I didn’t recognize you at first,” his voice flat, not mean but more like he was just stating a fact.
He paused for a moment, trying to find the right words, “You… Look different with clothes on,” he says finally.
You scoff
“Hold still,” he commanded
“You’re a bleeder,” he notes, wiping away a stray drop of blood with a piece of paper towel.
Just seven days ago, those same hands were tracing every curve of your body with desperate hunger.
“Is this how you treat all your clients?” You ask, your voice tight
“I don’t usually sleep with my clients,” Giyuu says, his eyes never leaving the stencil. “So, no. This is a first.”
He takes a deep breath, and you can hear the sheer frustration in it
“I also don’t usually sleep with random women I meet at the club,” He says after a moment.
His words sit heavy between the two of you; it’s the first time he’s cracked this entire time.
He doesn’t look at you, focusing on the dark ink painted across your forearm, and you can see the way his jaw tenses just slightly.
“Is this your way of saying you regret it?” You ask finally
He pauses for a second while wiping away a fresh bead of blood from your skin.
“I didn’t say that, but-” he continues, “I’m also not the one who left as soon as the sun came up.”
“I don’t regret it,” he mutters under his breath as he dips his needle back into the cap.
“I said it was a first; there’s a difference.”
The weight of his words settles in the small booth.
In truth, he was right
You did leave
But you also don’t see any reason as to why you should have stayed
You didn’t even know him
You didn’t even know his name until today; he was practically just a stranger you met at the club.
“I didn’t think a post-hook-up breakfast was your thing,” you admit earnestly.
“I figured my stay expired at sunrise,” you continue.
He continues working on your forearm, but something within him shifts slightly, as his gloved hand rests firmly on your wrist.
“Intimacy isn’t something I share with anyone,” he says finally
You scoff, “I’m some random girl, you met at the club while drunk, I know how your type operates, Giyuu Tomioka.”
“I’m not a fool, Y/n,” he says, his voice dropping to a low, jagged rumble. “I know we were strangers.”
He doesn’t say anything else after that, just continues silently working on your forearm.
Finally, the machine falls silent. Giyuu cleans the area with a practiced touch, the cool slide of the green soap a relief against the stinging heat of the fresh ink.
He applies the protective film with clinical precision, his fingers lingering just a second too long on your skin before he stands.
“All done,” he mumbles. “Follow me please, so I can ring you up”
You follow him to the front of the shop, and the silence is heavy. You notice the way his shoulders tense; he doesn’t look back to see if you’re following.
He knows you are
He steps behind the marbled counter and begins tapping at a tablet, his fingers stiff but steady.
“It’ll be $300,” He says, his voice flat, he doesn’t look up, just continues tapping at the screen.
“I gave you a small discount,” He says simply.
“A small discount?” you repeat softly, leaning against the marbled counter. “Is that a courtesy, or a ‘thank you’ for last week?”
Giyuu’s fingers go still against the tablet. For a long moment, the only sound is the distant hum of another machine in the back of the shop.
He finally looks up, his dark blue eyes searching yours with a raw, grounding intensity that makes the stranger act from earlier finally crumble.
“I’m not a fool, Y/N,” he says, his voice dropping to a low, jagged rumble. “I know we were strangers. I know it was a drunken hookup that never should have happened.”
Driven by a sudden surge of the same bravery you had at the bar, you grab the pen.
You scribble your name and ten digits in quick, messy handwriting. Before he can move away, you slide the note across the marble counter, pinning it right under his hand.
“In case you decide you’re tired of being a stranger,” you murmur.
Giyuu freezes. He looks down at the bright yellow paper, his hand trembling almost imperceptibly as he curls his fingers around it, crushing the paper into his palm as if he’s afraid it’ll disappear if he doesn’t hold on tight.
You’re halfway through the heavy glass door when his voice calls out one last time, no longer the professional tattoo artist, but the man from the club.
“Y/n”
There’s a slight hint of hesitation as he says it.
You look back over your shoulder.
“I’ll call.”