Work Text:
ricky’s been obsessively researching tattoo shops for weeks.
he’s not the impulsive type—especially with something so permanent. this tattoo isn’t just a tattoo. it’s an accessory, a signature. something he’ll see in every photo and pair with every outfit. his pinterest board’s meticulously organized, notes app full of font comparisons, and there’s even a spreadsheet ranking every studio within 20 miles.
still, he keeps circling back to one shop: @inkmeup.
the sleek black-and-white aesthetic and clean tattoos catch his eye—but what really sells him are the posts from a newer artist, @gyupokes. he’s only got a few posts: a little cartoon dog on an arm, some script across a back, and a blurry shot of the artist tattooing that ricky zooms in on a completely normal amount of times.
he books the appointment that same night.
(only because @gyupokes— gyuvin —has the earliest availability and not because he’s extremely cute.)
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inkmeup is even better in person. concrete floors, matte black walls, merch displayed like a concept store.
and the best part?
fluffy brown hair, boba-like eyes, and a toothy grin that hits him straight in the chest.
“you must be ricky!” gyuvin beams, standing so fast he knocks over a cup of pens.
the ricky in question simply nods, unable to form words as his heart beats out of his chest. and suddenly he finally realizes he’s absolutely fucked.
gyuvin operates with the complete opposite of finesse.
it takes six tries to get the stencil right. the paper folds, smudges, and sticks to gyuvin’s gloves. as he sets up, the ink squirts everywhere. the tiny caps spill all over the tray before rolling off.
he drops his tattoo machine.
twice.
gyuvin reassures him throughout the entire process, even as he resanitizes and resets his equipment for the umpteenth time because he keeps dropping everything.
ricky should care. should be checking the stencil’s placement. should make sure the word being permanently etched into his skin is 100% perfect.
but now?
it might as well say “spaghetti” for all he cares. all he knows is that it’s gyuvin’s hands that placed it with his cute little gyuvin face and gyuvin mannerisms and gyuvin everything. he’s just so cute, even with a smudge of ink on his nose. so endearing, even when he knocks over the trash can after tripping over his own feet. overwhelmingly adorable, even when faint youtube audio plays in the background: “how to tattoo: a tutorial.”
ricky lies flat and perfectly still on the padded table, fists clenched just in front of his chest to hide the fact that his palms are sweating. gyuvin hovers above him, gloved fingers coming up to adjust ricky’s jaw again, cradling it with a careful touch that sends a horrifically slow and syrupy heat down his spine.
“alright,” he says. “ready?”
“mhm,” ricky hums, brain currently melting into a puddle of mush.
the first touch of the needle is sharp. it doesn’t hurt, not in a way he couldn’t handle, but it’s intense. unavoidable. and made a thousand times worse by the way gyuvin’s hands work so accurately and confidently, a complete 180 from the overgrown, clumsy puppy he’d met earlier. warmth crawls over his skin, and his mind fills with static. he can’t tell if the needle is too deep, or if the vibrations from the tattoo gun are just rattling his skull, or if he’s just deeply and embarrassingly enamored.
it doesn’t matter anyway.
not when gyuvin’s hand gently wraps around his throat, guiding his chin up. not when gyuvin’s voice dips as he mumbles “you’re doing great.” not when gyuvin finally leans back, turning off the machine with a satisfied hum.
“go check it out in the mirror!”
ricky stumbles over, vision blurry, heart still doing cartwheels. in the mirror, his neck is stained with leftover ink, his skin puffy and red but the word stands out bold and black in thick gothic lines.
rolemodel
through the haze of adrenaline and attraction, ricky thinks it’s perfect.
gyuvin beams, eyes sparkling, erasing almost every memory ricky has ever had in his life. he carefully wraps the tattoo with slow, practiced strokes, fingers dragging just a little too roughly along the raw skin on his neck. ricky swallows. hard. embarrassingly hard. keeping his jaw tight in fear he’ll say something insane.
he makes it to the lobby with his final shreds of composure, but stops dead in his tracks, catching his reflection in the mirror across from the front desk. the flush in his cheeks is real. the tattoo is raw and gleaming, just visible under the transparent bandage. and he looks…good.
like, really good.
so good he snaps a quick photo and posts it to his story. he’s sure to tag @inkmeup and after a second of hesitation…@gyupokes.
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zhang hao is already waiting for him as he steps through the door, eyes wild and socks half-on.
“are you out of your mind?!” he shouts, launching himself across the room, grabbing ricky’s face between both hands.
“what the hell are you—hey!” ricky flinches.
“shut up. tilt your head.” hao narrows his eyes, thumbs already prying at the edges of the bandage.
“it wasn’t the fucking angle,” he jabs at his neck again, “it says roelmodel, ricky. r-o-e-l-model.”
ricky blinks.
then scrambles for his phone, pulling up the camera and craning his neck. and there it is: bold, black, and confidently wrong.
“was this the tattoo artist you've been stalking?” hao asks.
“yeah.”
“didn’t you say he looks like a giant puppy in human form?”
“yeah.”
“did it ever occur to you that maybe puppies shouldn’t hold needles professionally?”
ricky groans, dragging both hands down his face. “but he’s really cute?”
“...you’re insane.”
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@sqrui_ricky
hey quick q what’s ur refund policy on ruining lives? no pressure lol
@gyupokes
I'M SO FUCKING SORRY
CAN I PLEASE TAKE YOU OUT TO MAKE UP FOR IT??????
@sqrui_ricky
r u fr shooting ur shot rn
@gyupokes
IS IT WORKING???????