doingitforbokuto - Tumblr blog

doingitforbokuto · 15 days

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spilled ink

sakusa kiyoomi x reader

you've spent the past few months mentally preparing to get the tattoo that means so much to you, conquering your intense fear of needles, and thankfully it'll be your bubbly bestie shouyo giving you this tattoo . . . right?

18+ (seriously please), banter city, grumpy-but-blushing kiyoomi & disaster-sunshine reader, fluff and semi hurt/comfort, mentions of needles/fear of them, allusions to sex (smut in later chapters)

a/n: so that sakusa x reader post i made over a year ago . . . not 3.5k. more than that. definitely more. anyway, here is chapter one of three ish??? much love, lav 💜💜

You catch the slight tremor in your hand once it’s on the door handle and give it a firm shake, as though you can wiggle the nerves right out of your body. This is fine, you force yourself to think as you push open the shop door. Everything is going exactly as planned. You’re on time for the appointment, Alisa is going to pick you up afterwards to get takeout and fall asleep watching movies on her couch, and Shouyo is going to be as kind and supportive as ever.

You can do this.

Inside, Black Jackal Tattoo & Piercing is quieter than the busy street outside, and the bustle of the sidewalk is swept away as the door closes behind you. The only sound is the click of a keyboard, the squeak of your shoes on the tiled floor, and a distant shrill sound that comes and goes as you make your way to the desk.

A head of ginger hair shoots up from behind the desk, fluffy like a dandelion head, and you manage some small relief when Shouyo grins at you from where he’s abandoned whatever paperwork he was typing up on the shop’s computer.

“You’re here!” He comes rushing out from behind the desk to hug you - Shouyo Hinata has always been, for better or worse, a hugger - and you let him bounce around you for a moment while he does his eager-puppy routine. “Alisa said you were so nervous you almost puked last night, so I didn’t know if you’d show!”

“Of course I was gonna show,” you say with a wobbly laugh, fighting down the urge to actually puke all over Shouyo’s shoes. “You went through all the trouble of getting me a slot between your appointments, it’s the least I could do.”

“Yeah,” Shouyo says, bright smile suddenly dimming and hand scratching the back of his neck. “For sure.” There’s a long pause while he watches you watch him, and you can already feel that bile rising -

“I can’t, um, actually do your appointment.”

“What the hell, dude?!”

“Ow!” Shouyo grimaces, rubbing his shoulder, but you think he’s just being dramatic - you didn’t whack him that hard. “Rude! It wasn’t my idea, okay, but Atsumu called in sick -”

“Naturally.”

“- and I’m the only one whose slots will cover his afternoon appointment. It’s, like, this super big addition to some guy’s sleeve, and everyone else has appointments by four. It’s an emergency!”

You sigh through your nose, arms crossed tight over your chest as Shouyo pleads for you to understand. The tremble has returned to your hands, you notice, and you hope keeping them pressed under your arms hides the worst of it.

“I’m so sorry, Y/N, I really thought I could help -”

“Sho, it’s fine, I’ll just - I’ll come back another day.”

“I mean, you can still do it. I actually, um, wouldn’t recommend skipping the appointment now,” he adds, mouth twisting in thought, “Sakusa would be pissed. He kinda hates having people make last minute cancellations like that.”

The name has you grimacing, and Shouyo definitely catches the recognition in your eyes, if his wince is anything to go by. A mental image of dark, piercing eyes and a permanent scowl flash through your head, and you let out a quiet sigh.

Shouyo continues, ��He’s, like, a total stickler for a schedule - not like Kita, but also not somebody you wanna piss off.”

“So . . . you’re saying I still have an appointment?”

“Yeah!”

“With a total stranger? Who’s an asshole?”

“Well, I mean . . . kind of?” Shouyo scrunches his face up, considering, and then nods again. “Yeah, pretty much.”

“And why would I want to not only not have my friend with me,” you say, making Shouyo whine another apology, “but switch to having some random asshole coworker of his stab tiny needles into me instead?”

“Y/N -”

“Because,” a low voice from the corner of the room says, “he isn’t some random asshole coworker of Hinata’s, but a competent and professional asshole coworker?”

The voice sends a chill down your spine that has nothing to do with the shop’s impressively strong air conditioning. You know you’re going to have to turn around now, but your feet seem to move in slow motion, heart hammering as your eyes meet a dark glare from across the room.

Sakusa, a.k.a. Shouyo’s competent and professional asshole coworker, is immediately too tall and too grouchy to be anything but intimidating. You can’t even gauge how tall he might be from across the room because you’re too busy trying not to stare directly into that deeply-etched frown, his brow furrowed so intently that you think the muscles might just freeze in that spot forever. He’s got his arms crossed, too, but you’re not sure what reason he has to be that guarded; after all, you’ll be the one being stabbed.

You’ve at least confirmed why the name Sakusa sounded so familiar: this is the same Sakusa you met when Shouyo was first brought on at Black Jackal, stiff and frowning back then, too. You remember the glare he sent you and Shouyo from above his black face mask, hovering by the door of his little studio room, itching to dart back inside and close the door behind him.

You also remember the delicate curl of the ivy on his shoulder, revealed by his sleeveless black shirt, trailing down the lightly freckled skin of his bicep. You remember the tilt of his head as he studied you up and down, the slight pinch of his brow as he crossed his arms, the feeling of his stare on the back of your head as you said hello to Atsumu and Bokuto. You remember the lingering coldness as he closed his studio door, like a chill wind sweeping through the hallway in his wake, something elemental about his presence.

Shit.

“I take it this is your friend,” Sakusa says, nodding in your direction as he turns back to Shouyo, like you’re not even in the room anymore - this just gets better and better. The idea of putting yourself in this guy’s hands for the next forty five minutes is making your insides twist around on themselves, and you can’t tell if it’s from anxiety or the prospect of being alone in his studio, as Alisa would probably say with a silly wink. “I thought you meant Yachi.”

“No, Yachi’s not - I mean, she wouldn’t really get a tattoo. This is Y/N.” Shouyo explains, although Sakusa’s face remains impassive. “I mean, I know this is last minute -”

“It’s fine.”

Clearly, it’s not. He’s glowering as though you’ve done him a personal slight by scheduling yourself on the day that Miya got sick; he’s got his hands shoved into the pockets of his black cargo pants now as he shifts off of the wall, but you’re sure they’re clenched.

“Seriously, Hinata,” Sakusa continues, lifting one shoulder in a deeply disgruntled shrug. “I don’t care. Just wish Miya had thought to get his fucking flu shot when I told him to, idiot.”

“Yeah,” Shouyo tries for a laugh, but he’s never been much of a liar. “Anyway, Y/N’s pretty nervous, so maybe they can just come back another day? I thought -”

“I looked at your design,” Sakusa interrupts, gaze locking with yours again. It’s intense, holding you in place while he speaks. “It’ll only take about thirty minutes, if that. Do you seriously need Hinata to do it? Because if you’re just going to cancel, I could’ve come in when I was supposed to.”

You press your lips together, trying to fish for a way to get out of this appointment - and trying to figure out if you even want to. Your stomach is still churning with nerves, that’s for sure, but the way Sakusa is watching you, pinning you in place with just his gaze as you scramble for an answer, is something you had only let yourself think about the night after you’d met him, assuming you’d hardly see Shouyo’s distant and rude coworker again.

“I . . .”

“Y/N, you can cancel.” Shouyo is also a bad whisperer - subtlety in general was never his strong suit. But he’s giving you a way out, probably having to deal with Sakusa after your hasty retreat, so you only feel a rush of gratitude as he offers you a smile. “It’s no big deal, no matter what this grinch has to say about it.” He hooks a thumb in his coworker’s direction, still giving you that knowing smile.

Sakusa sputters for a moment, the most human thing you’ve ever seen him do. “I’m not - Hinata, shut up.”

You can’t help it - you snort. There’s something about indignance on Sakusa’s face that is too funny not to get to you, and you only laugh more when he shoots you a sharp glare. He’s intimidating, sure, but if Shouyo can get under his skin, then he’s more than fallible.

You take a deep breath, sighing through your nose as you shrug. “It’s fine. I wouldn’t want to have wasted anyone’s time.”

Your gaze tilts to Sakusa, whose frown has finally smoothed into something resembling cordiality. “Is now okay to start? I wanna get this over with.”

Black Jackal is an odd maze of little hallways and dead ends, and you shuffle just behind Sakusa, trailing after him like a kid scared of getting lost in a mall.

“You know,” he says over his shoulder once you reach the back of the shop. “Tattoos are usually optional.”

“Yeah? And?”

“Well, you keep talking about this one like you don’t have a choice in the matter.”

The door of his studio is plain, save for a small sign that reads his name - Sakusa Kiyoomi, you read - and a little frowny face etched into the wood.

“Is that the kind of artistry I should be expecting?” You ask, reaching past him to tap on the carving, and Sakusa rolls his eyes.

“Fuckin’ Miya,” he mutters, and you nod in understanding.

“Ruffians,” you say, nodding sagely. “They’ll graffiti anything nowadays, nothing is safe.”

You think you see the ghost of a smile on his mouth as Sakusa lets you inside, following and closing the door behind both of you.

The inside isn’t nearly as plain as you’d suspected. The walls, a cool dove gray, are papered over with designs and photos, magazine spreads carefully tacked up alongside rough sketches and inked canvas, everything with its own place in the sprawling inspiration board that seems to be Sakusa’s studio. His supply cart is neat but plentiful, coloured ink shining under soft lights in a rainbow of options, and there’s a half finished takeout coffee and bagel on the small desk in the corner, clearly his effort at breakfast while he set up for the day.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Sakusa says from behind you, and you turn on your heel to face him. He’s got his arms crossed - again, oh my god - and even through his dark green pullover, his shoulders look ridiculously touchable. Meant to be grabbed, really, used as an anchor to pull yourself up and -

“Why are you acting like you’re being forced to get this tattoo?” His face scrunches slightly in displeasure. “You didn’t lose a bet or anything like that, right?”

“No!” You feel your face heat up, thinking about the insinuations, and remembering that he’s seen the design. You can’t help but let your gaze lower, dropping to rest on his shiny black docs. “It’s not like that at all. I just . . . I’ve been thinking about doing this for a long time, and Shoyou went through all the trouble to help me design it, but I . . .”

And here it comes, the lamest, most pathetic part of this whole ordeal. You swallow the nerves bundled in the back of your throat, clearing the way for your confession. It comes out quiet and sharp.

“I’m just really fucking scared of needles, alright? They freak me out, and this is a thousand of them going into me over a long period of time, and - and it’s freaky and fucked up, okay?”

You’re expecting Sakusa’s coldness, a scoff or an eye roll - hell, given his attitude so far, even a request not to waste his time. What you aren’t expecting is the undignified snort he lets out.

His mouth is pressed tight when your eyes dart back up to his face, like he’s holding in another little laugh, and his brows are raised, a little disbelieving.

“Don’t laugh at me, god!”

“I’m not.” Sakusa’s frown is morphing slowly into something resembling a smile, which rests in the apples of his cheeks more than his mouth, lifting his face until the gloom that hovered over him is evaporating. “It’s just that that’s so normal, and you’re so embarrassed . . . you really don’t have to be.” He snorts again, and you scowl. “No wonder you’re friends with Hinata, you’re just as fuckin’ dramatic.”

“Shut up,” you snap, but Sakusa’s halfway-smile is warming the chill in the studio too well for you to be annoyed. You find your shoulders relaxing a bit as he moves to his desk, taking a sip of his coffee while he rifles through some papers stacked neatly between binders. You take a seat on the rolling stool he nods to, waiting next to the desk for him to find what he needs; you try not to notice how he looms above you, but it’s difficult when you have a front-row seat to his broad hands shuffling around his papers.

“A lot of people get scared, especially once they actually get here and see the machine and everything,” he shrugs, handing you a few of the papers. Consent forms and the like, you realize as you scan the top one. Sakusa has a pen held out for you before you can even ask. “It’s not weird. I mean, you’re letting some random asshole stab tiny needles into you, right?”

You can’t help the cringe that passes over your face, and though he doesn’t laugh again, you can see the teasing glimmering in his eyes. “Sorry about . . . that.”

“It’s fine, I’ve been called worse.” He drums his fingertips on the desk, and the nervousness of the gesture warms you even further. The studio is thawing like a fresh spring day after a storm, and you find yourself breathing a bit deeper as you slowly fill out the paperwork. “Meian sometimes warns people ahead of time that I’m a bit blunt.”

“Blunt?” You echo him without meaning to, distracted by the process of the paperwork and easing ever so slightly under his teasing.

“Okay, he warns people that I’m a dick,” Sakusa says, and the rueful note in his voice catches your attention and draws you away from the form in your hand. “No filter, or whatever.”

“Oh, come on,” you say, tapping the pen on your thigh, squinting at him in your own turn of disbelief. “You’ve gotta know how scary you are when you walk around all mean and grouchy like that. You’re, like, seven foot fourteen and dressed like a bouncer at a goth rave, you can’t also be an asshole, you’re intimidating enough as it is!”

You really need to learn when to keep your mouth shut, you think, because Sakusa’s face drops, brow suddenly knitted tight again as he stares you down, and you’re reminded of how right you are about how intimidating he is when he glares like that.

“Do I really dress like I’m at a goth rave?”

“. . . what?”

“Do I,” he repeats slowly, “dress like I’m at a goth rave?”

And then you see it: the smallest twitch of his cheek, and your horror turns to annoyance in two seconds flat. “Maybe you do.”

“Hm. Seems a bit uncalled for.”

“Seems like you just proved my point exactly, actually,” you shoot back, holding out the paperwork for him to take. “And I didn’t say you were at a goth rave, I said you dress like a bouncer at one. You know, like you’re there to be all serious and break up fights and shit.”

“You’ve got a lot of experience with goth raves?” Sakusa asks as he files the paperwork away in a drawer and reaches across the desk to get a pump of hand sanitizer. The sterile smell permeates the small space, and you feel your insides twist, hands clutching the seat of the stool tight.

“No, I just -” you pause, searching for the words while trying not to throw up in Sakusa’s studio. He might be warming up now, but you doubt he’d love that. “I don’t know.” You made me nervous doesn’t feel like a great explanation, not with the next thirty minutes of being in his personal space about to begin.

He studies you for a long moment before jerking his chin, motioning for you to stand. “First, you’re going to sit there -” he points to the soft, leather chair that takes up so much space in the little studio, “and you’re also going to calm down for a minute, because I will cancel this appointment for you if you get sick in here.”

“Knew it,” you mumble, mostly to yourself, as you pull yourself up onto the table, the material soft and smooth beneath your bare thighs. Your legs swing off of it and you feel so exposed, though you haven’t changed your position much; you press your thighs together anyway, keeping your hands in your lap as though to cover up.

“Knew what?” Sakusa is rummaging around in his desk drawer again, and you move your gaze to the designs on the far wall. It’s a delicate series of ocean waves and marine life, and the broad expanse of coral reef you’re looking at is a bit better than looking at any of the equipment.

“Knew you’d hate puke,” you say lightly, trying for nonchalance and managing only to sound like you’re being strangled from the inside out. “You have the vibe.”

“Are there people who like it?”

“I mean, everyone’s got their own thing -”

“No, stop. No talking about that in here.”

You clamp your mouth shut, and don’t move a muscle until you feel something fuzzy on the back of your hand. When you look down, startled, a palm-sized ferret plush is sitting next to your hand on the table.

“What the fuck is that?”

Sakusa is glaring when you look back up at him, but there’s no real venom to it, so you only notice how the scowl makes his eyelashes stand out more, soft and shadowed beneath his pinched brow. Well, fuck.

“I’m not the best at - at being . . .”

“Nice?” You supply helpfully.

“. . . Comforting.” He purses his lips, and you try not to pay too much attention to them. “Bokuto got him for me to use when I started, so that he can make people feel better when I . . . don’t.”

“A ferret?” You ask, prying your fingers from the hem of your skirt to pick the critter up, holding him carefully in your lap.

“A weasel, actually,” Sakusa says, still scowling. “His name is Itachi.”

“Why does his tag say Omi-Omi, then?” You ask, pinching the fabric between your fingers and squinting at the messy handwriting.

“Because Atsumu fucking sucks.”

It surprises a laugh out of you, though a bit shaky, and Sakusa’s scowl eases back into that glimmering, knowing look, not quite a smile but on its way there. You press the weasel against your stomach, hoping to relax the knots it’s tied itself into, and look to Sakusa for direction.

“So, before we do anything - you’re absolutely sure you aren’t gonna throw up?”

“Promise.”

“Good,” and you try so hard not to notice how nice that sounds in Sakusa’s low, quiet voice. God, what is wrong with you? At this point you’re sure Alisa will see right through you when she comes to pick you up and finds you this . . . unsettled. You squish Itachi a bit tighter to ground yourself. “Then I’m going to ask you where you want this thing.” He holds up a piece of paper, Shoyou’s design splashed across it.

You tap your inner bicep, just above your elbow, and this time Sakusa manages a lopsided smile.

“Did you do your research for the least intense places to get one?”

Face burning, you give him an embarrassed nod, though you can’t tell if the problem is him catching you out so easily or the appearance of the very first smile you’ve ever seen Sakusa Kiyoomi wear.

“I like to be prepared,” you add with a huff, and he only seems to fight off another smile while tugging on a pair of black nitrile gloves.

“I’m sure you do.” And why the fuck does that line make your face even warmer? “Here - is it alright if I touch you?”

The gloves are smooth and impersonal as he guides your arm out, positioning it at a good clear angle to work on, and the disinfectant he sprays on the spot is cold enough to make you jump.

“Sorry,” he mutters, and you try to shrug it off without moving your arm too much. Your stomach is starting to feel wobbly again, and it gives a sudden lurch when Sakusa tugs his work trolley closer to him and pins Shoyou’s design to the side of it for reference, his fingertips starting to skim over the spread of inks available.

“You’re shaking, by the way,” he says, selecting a jet black ink that you can’t tell the difference from the others, rolling the glass between his fingers as he looks up at you from his seat. “You promised you wouldn’t throw up.”

“And I’m keeping my promise,” you grit out, nearly strangling Itachi in your iron grasp. “I’m not gonna throw up.”

“Even if I believed that - which I don’t know that I do,” you manage a scowl, though it’s aimed at the floor, “- I can’t exactly do my job on someone who’s shaking like a leaf.”

“I’m not,” you argue.

Sakusa slowly lifts your hand, and you both watch a shiver run through it. His hand is warm even through the glove, his grip soft on your inner wrist. Your face pinches in defeat and Sakusa just lets out a small sigh through his nose.

“Look, I don’t really do these kinds of appointments.”

“These kinds?” You echo, tilting your head in confusion, before you slowly nod. “Right, you’re part of the back of house escort service, I forgot. Would it be better if I undressed a little? Make you more comfortable?”

The baby pink flush this gives Sakusa is so stark of a change that it startles you, and you think the joke was worth your own burning embarrassment at making it. He clears his throat, brow furrowed, but you can clearly see the blush that warms his cheeks, and the uncertain twitch of his mouth, like his brain can’t decide whether to smile or frown.

“If you’re done interrupting me,” he says, “I meant nervous clients. Meian knows not to bother booking them with me, because it’s - well, it hasn’t gone that well in the past.”

And you already know this. Shouyo has explained his coworker’s early mishaps while starting at Black Jackal, including the delightful incident where someone did puke in Sakusa’s studio and he had to send them off to Bokuto while he cleaned it top to bottom. His reputation is exactly why Shouyo’s news sent you into a panic: his image in your mind was a looming, scowling asshole who barely spoke two words to you at every visit you’d ever paid your best friend at work (which was too many to count, thanks to Shouyo’s insistence on forgetting things at home.)

“I’ve heard,” is all you say, and Sakusa’s lips purse. He probably knows exactly what you’ve heard.

“I don’t know how to . . . make people calm down.” He releases your hand and it drops back down to the worn leather; the absence of his touch is cold, and you miss it immediately. “And I’m guessing me just telling you not to freak out hasn’t been helping?”

“How did you know?” You ask, voice flattened by the weight of your sarcasm. Sakusa manages another of his ghost smiles, but it fades from his eyes as he takes you in again. From the way he’s watching you, you must look as terrible as you feel right now.

“Look,” you start, steadying yourself with a small, uneven breath. “I want this tattoo, you don’t want to cancel this appointment, so it seems like the best thing is for us to just - just commit to the bit, you know? So just distract me and it’ll be fine.”

“Distract you?” This suggestion seems to strike Sakusa like an electric charge, jolting him into another startling blush, brow furrowed in frustration. “With what?”

You swallow a nervous laugh, eyeing his panic like a house cat eyes their pretend prey, and say, “You could take your shirt off or something,” because you’ve completely lost your mind and you want to draw that blush out of him as much as you can. It might be the only distraction you need.

Sakusa’s face goes bubblegum pink, from his forehead to his - remarkably sharp and pretty - jawline, and something about it makes his eyes even more piercing. He just stares at you as you cackle, your nerves making the laughter bubble up in your stomach like a shaken bottle of sparkling wine.

“I’m kidding, I swear,” you laugh, face warm and insides fizzing with a wild cocktail of anxiety and helpless endearment. “You can just, you know, talk at me or something. That’s usually how I get through shots and stuff.”

“Oh? This is a recurring issue?” Sakusa is still a little pink as he reaches for his supplies, but reaches out a gloved hand and gently turns your head to face the opposite wall when you look over. “Don’t look, idiot, just stare at the art or something.”

“Okay,” you nod, a bit breathless even when he finally releases your jaw. You train your gaze on the wave designs you noticed earlier, the detailed strokes a good visual distraction. “Yeah, I don’t like needles, obviously.”

“Obviously,” Sakusa echoes, voice flat. You’re trying to picture his expression, and when you chance a glance you see you nailed it: the scowl and single quirked eyebrow combo he’s used three different times on you today.

“Yeah, obviously. I know it’s not uncommon, but it’s still, like, embarrassing, you know?” Your fingers twist into Itachi the Weasel’s soft fur. “It’s like a little kid phobia.”

Sakusa just hums, barely audible, as he wipes a cold towelette across your inner arm, and you suppress a shiver.

“It’s not that embarrassing,” he says finally, though his words are a bit distant, out of focus, as he concentrates on whatever he’s rifling around with on his cart of supplies. They clink gently as he works, the only sound in the room aside from his quiet murmurs. “You’re doing pretty well. I appreciate that you still haven’t puked.”

“And I’m not going to,” you insist, pulling a quiet laugh from him.

“I would hope not.” His gloved hands are back on your arm, repositioning you slightly and then tracing something cool and soft along the skin. When you look down, he’s outlining the design; his movements are so delicate it’s as if he’s pushed all the concentration in his body to his hand. “Not when I’m being so nice, anyway. Now,” he reaches up with his free hand, tilts your chin up and guides your gaze back to the wall of art, “stop looking.”

You laugh, your stomach fluttering. “But what if you do it bad? I need to see the tracing!”

When Sakusa’s hand stills for a long moment and he goes quiet, you risk a look back down and see him glaring up at you, though his mouth is twisting away from a smile.

“I don’t know if you’ve heard,” he says quietly, leaning ever so slightly closer to you, coaxing you to lean forward and meet him, “but I’m really fucking good at what I do.”

And you don’t mean to say it, you really don’t, but the muttered, “Oh, I bet you are,” just slips out. Sakusa really walked into it, if you think about it.

And he responds with another deep pink blush, giving a slight cough as he leans back, eyes now glued to your arm as he reaches to continue the design. He nudges your chin up again with his knuckles before he gets back to work.

The studio is quiet after that, the pair of you letting the tension brew as Sakusa finishes the small tracing and starts sifting through his supplies again.

“Okay,” he breaks the silence, and there’s a note of concern that wasn’t in his voice before. “I’m going to get started now, but I think you should take a second to breathe. If you start hyperventilating,” he adds sternly, “I will not do this tattoo.”

“I won’t hyperventilate,” you assure him, sounding much more confident than your shaky lungs feel.

“You’ll be fine,” Sakusa concludes, and he seems to realize how much of a non-comfort this is, because he knocks his elbow against Itachi, where he’s pressed to your stomach. “Remember to squeeze the living shit out of him, alright? He won’t mind - I think.”

It’s only when that gets a smile out of you that Sakusa continues, and your head turns instinctively when he lifts something from the cart.

“Eyes on the wall,” he says without even looking up at you, fiddling with the tattoo gun in his hands. You obey, eyes shooting back to the wave designs, trying to trace the patterns instead of thinking about any impending stabbing. “Thank you.”

“Anytime,” and it comes out as more exhale than speech, but you are managing to get your breathing under control.

“I’m going to turn it on now, but -”

The moment the mechanism buzzes to life, you flinch so hard that you almost drop Itachi, and Sakusa gives a little sigh through his nose.

“- I won’t use it yet, because I figured you’d do that.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” you mutter, struggling to put up a teasing glare so he knows you’re joking. Sakusa’s dark eyes are narrowed in thought when you look over at him, averting your eyes from the tattoo gun in his hands.

“Are you done shaking now?” His fingertips graze your inner wrist, glancing down to study your arm like he’s looking for more tremors. “Because I genuinely can’t do this if you’re moving around, you know.”

“I know,” you say, a bit breathless at the contact as Sakusa’s hand travels up to rest on the crook of your elbow, steadying your arm. He’s still not looking at you, but you think he can probably feel your eyes on him. “. . . It’s fine. I’ll be fine.”

“The design is small, so it won’t take too long.” He presses on the skin of your inner bicep, shoulders hunching as he moves to get started. “Just say something if you need to take a break.”

You let out a shaky laugh. “And you say you’re bad with nervous clients.”

A beat of silence, broken by Sakusa clearing his throat. “Just repeating the stuff Bokuto always says.”

You give a sharp gasp when the needle finally touches your skin, the sting sudden and swift, and Sakusa doesn’t look up from where he’s carefully inking your skin when he says, “Yeah, it’s not pleasant.”

“I mean, I figured, but what the hell!” You hiss, face scrunching in displeasure. You suppress a shudder that tries to run through your body as he lifts the needle and then returns it to your skin.

“Eyes on the wall, Y/N,” he says, and your gaze moves before you realize you’re following his direction. When had you looked back down at him? “You don’t wanna watch me stab you.”

“I said I was sorry about that,” you mutter, and Sakusa just exhales the ghost of a laugh as he continues.

It’s not unbearable, the pain small but constant, and you focus on the feeling of Sakusa’s hands on you to distract yourself - whether this is really a good plan has yet to be decided. At least it steadies you, his grip sure as he works, and you wonder for a split second how this would be going with someone like Shouyo. You’ve seen your best friend give tattoos before, but the feeling of his distractible, fluttering hands on your arm seems like miles away from the solid reassurance in Sakusa’s hands. There’s something about his concentration, the small pinch returning to his brow whenever you flicker your gaze to him, and the warmth of his broad hands that has your stomach fluttering while your pounding heart eases slightly.

Maybe this mishap wasn’t the worst possible outcome.

“Nearly halfway,” Sakusa murmurs, and you catch it in surprise just over the buzz of the machine.

“Already?” You’re so focused on the feeling of Sakusa holding you that you didn’t even notice ten minutes flick by.

“Yeah, I told you, a design like this won’t take long.” His hand slides down your arm a bit, holding your inner forearm in place, and his fingers curl around you almost reflexively. You resist the urge to look down as hard as you can, and find yourself outright glaring at the ocean scenes on the opposite wall. “You’re doing really well.”

And now you’re glaring and flushing, the praise going straight to your hammering heart while you fight the warmth in your face and the twist and turn of your insides as you study his work. The brushstrokes of that middle scene, a huge tidal wave in a myriad of blues and grays and teals, are so delicate that it’s hard for you to pick them apart from across the tiny studio, and you think you want to see Sakusa’s hands do something that delicate. It’s only fair, if you can’t look at him as he so carefully and gently marks your arm when you want to chance a glance so badly.

“Nearly there,” he says, unreadable as he lifts the needle from your skin, adjusting your arm’s position slightly. “Need a moment?”

“I -“ You’re not sure if the break is really what you want: your plan was to just get the whole thing over with as quickly as possible, and now your torment is drawing to an end. But your brain is going hazy with Sakusa’s hands on you, and you want to ease into that feeling for a little longer. “. . . Sure, just for a second.”

“How about ten?” You hear him laugh, the sound low and warm. “And you know you can look wherever you want now, right?”

Your gaze darts down to meet his, and you catch the tail end of his smile before it sinks below the surface again, just the remnants of it left glimmering in his eyes.

“You wanna look, or wait until I’m finished?”

And Sakusa huffs out a laugh because he sees that you’re already sneaking a peek at your half-finished tattoo, the skin around it irritated but the inked lines and curls so entrancing that you want to touch them. Sakusa holds your hand back, placing it over Itachi where you had sat him down next to you on the table.

“You like it?” The permanent intensity of his gaze makes the question feel like you’re being interrogated, but you just smile.

“Yeah.” You glance back at the design, studying the parts of it that still need to be filled in. “How much longer, do you think?”

“If we keep going right now, I can probably get you out of here by three,” and you swallow your disappointment. Twenty minutes did not give you a lot of time to crack open more of Sakusa’s shell.

“Alright.”

He gets back to work and the studio falls quiet, save for the steady buzz of the gun and the creak of the table each time you shift your legs around. Sakusa’s silence is so complete that you find your gaze wandering down to him, despite your promises to keep your eyes away from the procedure at hand, and you study the crinkle in his forehead as he focuses, the curl that strays between his eyes. He pauses to brush that curl back into place, and the movement is hypnotizing; you can’t stop watching how smooth his motions are, every one deliberate and careful. When he does so his eyes slide over to meet yours, and you sink so deep into his gaze that you can’t even try and pretend like you weren’t staring.

“Almost done,” he says; his thumb traces the edges of the design, and the smallest sting is left behind on the irritated skin, a mark of his touch. You just nod, your brain moving honey-slow as you watch him.

“You’re doing fine,” he remarks, head cast down as he finishes his work. “Not nervous anymore?”

“No, I am,” you reply, a bit breathless, “but I’m - you’re - it’s not that bad.” The words clatter their way out of you, awkward and uncertain in your mesmerized haze. His hair catches the studio lights and the curls remind you of the brushstrokes in his art, each rivulet of the tidal wave rendered with individual care, smooth and inviting. You clench Itachi a bit tighter, keeping your hand where it is.

Sakusa breathes something like a laugh and a sigh, lifting the needle from your skin for the last time. “Well, good, because you’re done. Told you it wouldn’t take too long.”

He putters about his equipment for a moment, putting things back in their places, and you study his movements as your hand frees Itachi (much to his relief, you’re sure) and reaches for the stinging patch of skin on your inner arm.

“Don’t touch it,” Sakusa warns, barely glancing at you from where he’s slathering on another round of hand sanitizer. “Unless you want it to get infected.”

“No, I’m okay, actually.” Your hand drops into your lap as you wait for him to return, legs swinging with your nerves as he finally meets your eyes.

“You didn’t puke.” Sakusa is giving you that barely-there smile again, and you swear you see the beginnings of a dimple on his right cheek. The urge to run your hands through his curls only grows with this observation, which you really wish it wouldn’t, because talking to him is only getting harder.

“I didn’t.”

“Thank you for that,” he says, pulling on a fresh pair of gloves and motioning for your arm. “Hold your arm out straight for me.”

Warmth creeps up your throat as you do as asked, and Sakusa’s hands are warmer this time when he uses a cotton round to spread a thick layer of ointment onto the design. It shimmers in the light, and you turn your arm slightly to examine his work.

“I’d ask if it looks okay, but it’s a little late for that.”

“Maybe you should’ve let me look, then,” you try to glare up at him as he crowds into your space a bit, gently laying plastic wrap over the area. You can feel the warmth of him this close, and catch a note of his clean, summery scent, like one of those sweet-scented dryer sheets. “So I could tell you before it’s too late.”

“You would’ve freaked out. Besides, it definitely looks okay. I told you, I’m pretty good at this.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” you manage to roll your eyes, despite the flips your stomach is doing even as he backs away. He retreats to his desk to shuffle through the contents of a cramped drawer, and you watch the broad line of his shoulders stoop as he bends over the drawer. You feel the need to get ahold of yourself, but it’s a distant concern when your head is this floaty.

“Alright,” and when Sakusa turns back around, folded papers in hand and firm expression fixed on you, you let that concern fizz out entirely, “you’re finished. These are aftercare instructions.” He passes you the papers and waits for you to carefully tuck them into your purse. “Follow them - don’t skip steps or rush the healing process. Understand?”

“Got it,” you salute, warmth fluttering through you at his low tone. “I can follow instructions.”

Sakusa just nods, mouth flattened as you gently slide off the leather seat. “I’m sure you can, so I expect you to. I want to see that healed properly the next time you come to see Hinata.”

“So you’ll actually come say hi, instead of hiding back here?”

He quirks a brow and you squirm under his questioning gaze, embarrassment flooding you. Was that too obvious?

“. . . We’ll see. Depends on if you still want to see me after this.” Usually people don’t. The implication hangs between you both, and you yank it aside like you’re letting in fresh air.

“Well, maybe I do. Is that a problem? Gonna ruin your street cred?”

“I think you’re going to obliterate it, honestly.”

“You don’t sound opposed.” And that’s as much a question as it is a jibe; you stand prone in his little studio, waiting for Sakusa to stack up his many walls once more, back where they stood before you followed him into his sanctuary.

But he just stares back at you, the corner of his lips twitching as his gaze moves from your face to your new tattoo and back again. “Maybe I’m not.”

A knock at the door startles you out of the fuzzy, warm headspace you’ve sunk so deep into, and both of your heads whip to look at Shouyo, whose fluff of ginger hair is peering around the open door as he looks back at you both.

“Are you done already? My client’s just taking a break now, and I wanted to come check in . . .”

Taking a step away from Sakusa - when had you drifted so close to him? - you flash Shouyo a thumbs up and a wane smile. “Totally done! Completely finished!”

“Awesome!”

It’s quiet as you all head back to the front desk so you can pay, Shouyo seemingly oblivious to the tension brewing between every word you direct at him instead of Sakusa. You leave Black Jackal with a new tattoo and the feeling of Sakusa Kiyoomi’s eyes on your back as you step out the door, finding Alisa already waiting for you, leaning against the passenger door of her parked car.

“Hey! Lemme see, I bet it’s so cute . . . what’s wrong with you?” She squints at you, hands still on your arm to see the tattoo, and you shrug.

“Nothing, I’m all good.”

“So you didn’t freak out?” Alisa asks, pulling you along to the car. “No hyperventilating?”

“No,” you shake your head, sliding into the passenger seat. “I . . . I might go back, get another one. I’m not sure yet.”

“Wow.” Alisa gives you a once-over when she gets into the driver’s seat, turning on the ignition but not taking her eyes off of you. You don’t look over to see if she’s suspicious - you already know her too well for that. “It must’ve gone really well.”

“Yeah.” You nod slowly, fingers twisting in your lap. “It did.”

“So Hinata’s actually good at his job?”

“I, um - actually -” You fumble with your words, the last hour crashing through your brain at hyperspeed; there’s no turn of phrase that feels appropriate, not with the bright, too-hot feeling bubbling up inside of you, coaxing a wavering little smile out of you. “Shouyo couldn’t, um, actually he didn’t do it.”

“Oh?” Alisa pauses before pulling onto the road, her acrylics tapping thoughtfully on the steering wheel before she lets out an obnoxious, dramatic gasp. “Oh! Oh my god, wait, who?”

“Shut up,” you say instead of answering, burying your warm face in your hands.

“No way,” she argues, and you feel the car start moving, thank god. Soon you can be embarrassed in peace. “No way, you - it wasn’t Miya, was it? Please tell me it wasn’t.”

“No! No, it wasn’t - it actually was Miya’s fault that Shouyo couldn’t do it, so - I mean, um - it was . . . you know Sakusa?” His name trips off of your tongue, pretty and hushed, and the phantom feel of his hands on your skin makes you shiver.

When you finally look up at Alisa, she’s staring at you in mingled disbelief and delight. “No fucking way.”

“I’ll literally hop out of this moving car, right fucking now.”

“I didn’t say anything! I just - no way. No fucking way.”

“Yeah.” You murmur, head tipped back against the headrest, trying not to picture that almost-smile glimmering in his sharp gaze. “No way.”

#sakusa

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