a/n: Well, this got out of hand whoops. Yes Aury, start another multific bc you don't already have three other ones to tend to. I blame aloosh-s for their absolutely perfect tattooist au and my unrelenting need to have it written out because its based entirely on it. Not entirely sure how many chapters this will end up having, but be prepared for I am trash and accept this wholeheartedly.
Katsuki isn't fond of the way people stare at him when he walks the streets of Hosu, but a part of him doesn't care what they think to begin with and he keeps trudging on, ignoring the way he can see in their eyes their thoughts of him as if they'd said it aloud and to his face. This kid is a thug, a delinquent, amounts to nothing in the end. They know little to nothing about him, his life and his aspirations and maybe, just maybe if they did it'd change their minds. He won't tell them; they don't deserve to know. They're all wrong, always will be wrong but it doesn't stop them from judging and doesn't drive him to suddenly change in hopes their opinions would too.
He is a work of art, like anyone else with attributes that equate to masterpieces or blunders and he'll be damned if he forces himself to be anything but Katsuki for the whims of some close minded fuck. As he looks through the glass door, his reflection staring back at him, he decides quickly that all opinions of him except his own don't matter, because they will never have what he has—an escape. Katsuki walks into his and he is at peace, surrounded by the soft hum of a powered needle and the distinct smell of ink and peroxide. Fuck, it's good to be home.
His station is near the back corner, closest the office whose door remains locked and closest to the array of colored inks and sterilized tools; his sanctuary of sorts. Katsuki tosses his pack onto his stool, rummaging its confines until he finds his latest creation; a red and gold dragon, whose body would soon trace the divots and curves of the arm of the customer who decides yeah, that's the one. He slides it into the plastic sleeve of his portfolio, careful and meticulous, ignoring just how intently gold eyes watch his every move. "Something you want to say, Pinkie?"
"Good morning to you too, hard ass." Her tone is light, playful, full of just enough sass and anarchy that it brings the smallest grin to his face. "Just finish that one?" Her eyes are trained on the drawing beneath his hand and he can see the wheels turning in her head; he glances at her arm, bare and tinted with the faintest hue of pink and then back at the portrait. Too small, he muses, it'd never fit. "Last night, what of it?" He hears her mumble beneath her breath and thinks for a second he heard her wrong. When he looks to her, brow raised and curiosity piqued, he notices immediately how she flushes and he finds way too much enjoyment out of her embarrassment. "What was that, Pinkie?"
She knows he heard her; she can see it in the shit eating grin that's morphed onto his face the longer he waits. "You heard me, ass," she turns back to her desk and rummages through the appointment list, "I said Eijirou would like that." It's not at all what she said and he briefly wonders if he should let her off the hook and salvage what's left of her pride. Katsuki turns to prep his equipment. "Don't worry, I'll be sure to let shitty hair know you think it'll look realgood on him."
"You wouldn't dare!"
She is mortified; he can feel it rolling off of her in waves and knows if he were to meet her glare (of which he was certain was directed at his back even now) it would be twisted into something akin to the terror in her voice. "Wouldn't I?"
He wouldn't, but she didn't need to know that.
"Whatever; you have a full day today." Katsuki glances at the schedule she places on his counter; there are some names he recognizes and some he doesn't, regulars he's worked on more times than he can count and projects he's very keen to continue. "Any of them here yet?" He calls over his shoulder, reaching for a few bottles of ink he knows he'll be using for the day—black, green, a few shades of red. Colors he rarely uses catch his eye, a deep shade of pink in particular but he doesn't reach for them, placing each color with a design of his own making and a mental note to make them come to life later. "Your first two just walked in."
When he peeks around the division he sees first an arm covered entirely in scripted words arranged in every way except normal and with amorphous dots of black weaved in between, spilled from a design he has yet to finish; a ink bottle outlined in black. "About time you brought your ass back in here, Jirou." Behind her is a customer he doesn't recognize, his body without a trace of ink to be seen. Time to change that, he thinks as Mina sits him down, clipboard in hand.
"Yeah, it's been awhile. Sorry about that." She sits on his table, removing her jacket and tossing it on the counter. "I've gotten so many compliments on it that I forgot it wasn't finished." Katsuki doesn't stop the grin that finds its way onto his face, always proud when his work is admired because in a wayhe is admired through it.I amount to more than you fucks give me credit for.
They'd see that, if only they look beyond his surface—his masks and veil of ink.
"You better have, look who designed that shit after all." His confidence is bone deep and justifiably so, having stumbled upon the craft when the world decided to continue on without him and flourished despite everything that threatened to keep him down. It was one long, painful and incredibly exhausting year, but from a blank canvas an empire was set in ink. "So, you ready to finish what you started?" She's as eager to feel the vibration of the needle driving into her skin as he is to feel it hum against his hand, bouncing in her seat like a child whose being taunted with a present.
Katsuki reaches for the closest bottle of ink, deciding it as good a color as any to start and prepares the paint. "I was born ready." With the press of a button the gun comes to life, an hour and a half passing by in the blink of an eye as he loses himself in blends of shaded colors, the sound of his machine like music to his ears.
xXx
There's a bell that sounds each time someone walks through the door, a small tune that Katsuki hardly notices when he's layering ink atop skin, or when he's doing anything for that matter—there's very little that can rip his attention away from his trade (whether his ignorance is selective or justified no one knows for sure). "Oh, hottie at 12 o'clock." He doesn't understand how off all things Mina says to him on any given occasion, this is the one he hears as he's drawing out his next client's piece. He understands even less why he decides to look up mid-line and understands least of all why his pencil veers off course when he's never had an issue drawing blindly before. "You alright there, killer?" He can hear the smug undertone and when Katsuki meets her curious glance with a raised brow of his own, he knows she saw everything and then some.
He throws his pencil at her because he fucking can. "Shut up and go find out what she wants; she looks lost as hell." The longer he stares, the more he realizes how much of an understatement it truly is. From his view well across the shop, he can see just how nervous she is and realizes quickly she's never gotten a tattoo before, let alone stepped foot into a shop. Katsuki reaches for another pencil, staring daggers at the skewed line before erasing it and finishes his sketch.
And when Mina asks him why he glanced upward every so often, he denies it with his last breath.
"Sure, sure." She spares him his ego and he silently thanks her for it. "Well, she's a walk in. You were dead on when you said she was lost, too." Mina takes a seat on his table, looking over her notes. "Girl is a walking mess of nerves and scared of needles to boot." Katsuki glances past Mina and watches how she twiddles her thumbs in her lap, leg twitching rapidly in her wait. "What the fuck is she doing here then?" He mutters it under the cover of his breath, but Mina hears it. "No idea, but I figure you can find out when you consult with her." Every part of him hates the mischievous glint that resides in her eyes and he once again loses his pencil in favor of throwing it at her. "Fuck off, I'm busy."
"Hey Ochako, come here a second." She's all too happy to call her over and enjoys too much how he squirms in his seat. "God damn it Pinkie, I said I was busy!" She tosses him a look that shuts down every rebuttal he could have hoped to muster up in the time it takes her to reach his station and when he opens his mouth to try one last time, he's shut down again becausetoo fucking bad, you're doing it anyway. "This is Bakugou, our lead artist and he's veryhappy to help." So that's how she wants to play it, huh?
Maybe he would tell Eijirou just what she said after all.
"I'm sorry to be a bother, I know you're busy and I don't have an appointment and—" The words fall from her lips in a hurry, jumbled and nervous and fuck, why is that cute? "Don't sweat it." He puts to the side his next client's sketch and replaces it with a blank page, reaching for a third pencil. "What's up?" She's weightless as she hops onto his table, her legs swinging to and fro in the height of her unease. "I've never done anything like this before and I'm not exactly sure what I want to get; something small definitely. What do you think?"
It's a decision she has to make, he decides, because it's her body—her canvas and hers alone. "Tell you what; start naming off ideas you've got and we'll come up with some shit together." It's the best he can offer and she seems to agree. So she does.
Katsuki's hand moves on its own accord as he listens to her; his mind filters through every piece he's ever inked, every idea he's ever had and combines them with the ideas she comes up with. When he finally looks over his sketches he sees potential in some, others he would rather save for something else and one that nearly sends him off his seat in unabashed laughter. In his opinion, no tattoo fit better for this situation than the baby's face center his paper, with tear stricken eyes and puffy red cheeks.
He should feel bad, he really should, but he doesn't and she doesn't seem to mind.
"Cute, but I think you missed the snot coming out of her nose." Interesting. He looks it over once, imagining the addition and draws it. Well, she's not wrong and he enjoys the laughter that comes from her when she sees it. Katsuki watches how her shoulders once full of tension ease slightly, her legs swinging a little less frantically than before. He reaches behind him for a drawer, rummaging through it until he has what he wants; he places the gun in front of her and watches how she tenses again.
"Pinkie," he calls to her absentmindedly, pulling his stool to sit in front of Ochako, placing the tip to her skin, "clear my day or give it to whats his face." He doesn't need to look in her direction to know her eyes are on him, questioning. Katsuki wagers even that if he were to look (and god knows he didn't want to), he'd see the same mischievous grin that got him into this mess in the first place. It takes everything he has not to cave under the intensity and he hates how he buckles anyway. "Fuck, just do it already." He'd deal with her when he was done dealing with this.
"For someone who's clearly scared shitless of needles," she opens her mouth with some form of denial he's sure, and one brow raised stops her in her tracks, "why the hell are you getting a tattoo anyway?" More like how did someone as soft as her grow the balls to go through with it, but semantics. Ochako chuckles, her free hand reaching to conceal her embarrassment, pitifully in the end. "I was dared by a few friends and well, here I am I guess."
When he says nothing she peeks between her fingers, not sure what she would find but not at all expecting the lack of expression that was there. "You're clearly uncomfortable." She tilts her head to the side and he sighs, pressing the tattoo gun to her skin a second time; she cringes and his point is made. "It's just a stupid game. You don't have to follow such ridiculous shit to this extent for your 'friends'." She knows this, but its not the point. "It's complicated."
"Simplify it."
Ochako sighs. "If I don't go through with it, I'll be at the mercy of their teasing; they'll say I'm weak, that I'm fragile. That's why they gave me this dare and I want so badly to prove them wrong." Katsuki watches the fire light in her eyes, the determination trumping her forced unease but still, it doesn't erase the fact that it's there and for an endeavor like this, permanent and absolute, it shouldn't be. "Doesn't that fucked up situation remove them from your friends list?" When she doesn't answer, he doesn't press; it's not his business anyway. "Whatever, it's your decision. I wouldn't keep those fuckers close if I were you."
He drops the matter right after and when she remains silent, he changes the subject. "Have you decided what you want?" Ochako fidgets in her seat and he watches how the gears turn in her head. Her lips purse and her brows scrunch. "Yeah, no... I have no idea." His face falls, should've saw that one coming. "Uhmm, what comes to mind when you look at my face?"
"Puffy donuts." He doesn't miss a beat, saying it without so much as a second thought and when her head snaps towards him, a look of something similar to disgust mixed with mirth, he knows he's going to enjoy this a little too much. "No way."
"Fluffy clouds, marshmallows, balloons and teddy bears all pinks and yellows." With every outlandish suggestion comes a new warped expression and he wonders just how many she can make before he runs out of comedic gold. "Oh, how about a big ass ba—"
"For the love of all things sane, stop joking!"
Ochako swats at him with an open palm and misses, tumbling forward in hysterics. She's distracted, her unease melting away and when Katsuki grabs the tattoo gun and places it to her skin, she doesn't flinch. There we go. She feels the cooled metal against her arm and her laughter stops; her first instinct is to shy away, but she doesn't. In his hand, the idea of a needle seems just a bit less terrifying and she muses, maybe I can do this after all. She smiles, genuine and unrestrained because she's comfortable in the presence of her fear because he makes her comfortable. She smiles, reaching her ears with ease and it blinds him; the twinkle in her eye, the crease of her lips and yeah, that's what we're doing.
"Do you know where you want this thing?" He assumes she doesn't and isn't disappointed when she shakes her head. He looks her over once and makes the decision for her. "Unbutton your shirt." Katsuki is reminded of the pink ink that sits on his shelf untouched when she wraps her arms around herself, cheeks flush and eyes wide. Ochako panics. "Hey, chill out Round Face, I didn't tell you to strip! Just unbutton the first couple of buttons." He feels the heat travel to his own cheeks; not even fucking close to what I meant.
When she's calm, he's given a view of her collar bone, the space in mind perfect for what he has planned. "It'll look beautiful here," he breathes, lost in his design and not at all conscious of that fact that she hears him or how she trembles beneath his touch when his fingers trail against her skin. He leaves her as he rounds up his gear, grabbing a few inks (pink included) and returns to his seat. He shows her every tool he plans to use as he pieces it together, describes every sensation she may feel when he starts his process (he's worked hard to get her where she is now and he'll be damned if he has to start from the beginning). With a press of a button, the gun hums to life and he readies his grip.
It's now or never.
"Wait." He's inches from his starting point when she stops him and he idly wonders if she's going to back down. "Could you… could you keep talking? Your voice is really calming and I'm still way too nervous and—" She's rambling again, thinly veiled confidence shattering the closer the needle gets to her. He rolls his eyes, because it's with little effort she convinces him to soothe her woes and when he glances back towards Mina (who he's sure has been watching the whole damn time) he can see just how much she's enjoyed him in and out of his comfort zone. He ignores her and focuses solely on Ochako.
Katsuki doesn't tell her how she's so very wrong in her assumption that he is calming, how outside of these four walls he's everything but—explosive, volatile, a shell of anger and resentment who hides behind every mask he can create because the world doesn't deserve him at his rawest. What Ochako needs is what he is in his element and it's what he gives to her as he marks her canvas in bold lines and splashes of color.
Instead he tells her stories of past tattoo sessions, of how women took to the needle better than some grown men and when she laughs, he rips the gun away because damn it if you make me mess up, I swear to god you'll get that stupid baby face instead. When she asks questions about the trade and how he fell into it, he answers and when she tries to barrel through his walls and find out more, he reinforces them. When it's over, he lets her look at it in a nearby mirror and when she beams, he grins.
Ochako pays at the counter and calls back her thanks. She leaves with the promise of coming back, because it's not so bad after all and I might want another one one day. She swears to him that she'll wear it with pride when she saunters up to her friends, the proof of her strength and the squashing of their doubt raw against her skin, bright with pinks and purples and blues blended inside an array of stars.
When she finally leaves, the bell sounding above her, he finds himself cornered by Mina immediately with more questions than he cares to deal with. "Fuck off Pinkie, it was just another session." He swears by this through grit teeth, even as he tucks her paper of ideas away in his desk. "Is that so?" He doesn't like the sound of her tone, accusing and all knowing and likes even less the goddamn twinkle that seems stuck in her eye. "Seems more like Mr. Hard Ass was getting realsoft on his walk in hottie."
Katsuki reaches for his pencil out of practiced habit, prepared to launch it at her with every hope that for once he fucking hits her but is met with the tightening of his fist and lack of projectile. He looks over in abject horror when the realization smacks him dead in the face.
He was starting to run out of pencils to throw at her.