Chapter Text
Y/N had stopped feeling. They suppose you could technically consider them dead.
They went to college, and got good grades, stayed in touch with their extended family. At first it was fine, fun even, they were doing the things they were “supposed” to do and enjoying it. At the time they believed they were winning. Until it they weren’t. For so long, Y/N had been going through the motions of the life they made, but it was becoming predictable, glaringly so. And, Y/N began craving something more, something that they couldn’t articulate. They wanted to hear their blood pumping in their ears, their heart pounding in their chest, and goosebumps on their skin…Y/N wanted to feel alive.
So, that brings us to Y/N’s current location, the sidewalk was dark and wet from the afternoon thunderstorm. The soaked concrete reflected the flickering neon sign in the window of the local shop they were idling in front of. The words ‘141 Ink’ were mocking them as they continued to procrastinate walking into the shop. Y/N had told themselves that today was the day and that slowly, but surely, turned into 'tonight is the night' (they still haven’t figured out how to slow down time). In Y/N’s mind, this was the most realistic way to feel alive. Sure, they did consider skydiving, but that was ruled out by their immense fear of heights. Trying some illicit drugs was always an option, but the idea of getting hooked for life and possibly losing all of their teeth crossed that off the list. It became clear, after starting at the ceiling fan for far too long, that they needed to get out of the house. So, Y/N slipped on their boots, tugged on their coat, and slipped a hat on top of their head. Yes, they were looking to be reckless, but they would not be cold and/or wet.
They glanced at the sign again and sighed. It was now or never. They would not go home until they successfully had a new hole in their body or some ink on their sink. With one last desperate plea to just head back home from the farthest part of their brain, they pushed their glasses up the bridge of their nose and pulled the door open which 'dinged’ as they stepped over the threshold. To Y/N’s surprise and maybe luck, no one was waiting at the front desk. They had the faint thought that they may have been closed, but Y/N’s fretting was soothed when they looked over their shoulder at the still flickering ‘open’ sign hanging in the window; coupled with the rustling sounds from deeper into the shop.
Y/N began rocking on the balls of their feet. The music was set at a s volume just a touch over quiet, they were able to make out the lyrics and feel the beat. If they really thought, Y/N swore they heard the faint humming of a tattoo gun too (it could have been nerves though). Their eyes trailed up the black and gray walls lined with framed sketches, rough drafts, flash images, and one long wooden shelf packed with nick-nacks. It was endearing in a way, the overhead lights had a calming warmth and each picture and figurine had the perfect little spot. There was even a, dare Y/N say, flourishing Monstera plant sitting in the front window of the shop. While caught up taking in the sights of the tattoo parlor, Y/N failed to hear someone trying to get their attention.
A deep voice called out again, “Excuse me?” The voice sounded far too close, so much so Y/N jumped out of their stupor with a small squeak, “Oh!”
“Can I help you?” The voice came from a man dressed in a thick black crew neck; it was just a hair too big—comfy. Swirls of dark ink licked their way up to his jaw. The rest of the lower half of his face was a mystery, hidden behind the thin fabric of a black surgical face mask. Y/N’s eyes glanced up and spared a fleeting look at their brown eyes. The rest of him was hidden away by the black-knit beanie on top of his head. They briefly noted the small roll of his eyes before he spoke again, “Listen if you're just gonna stand there, leave.”
“No! Um, right—sorry. I am looking to get a tattoo or maybe a piercing?” Y/N said with as much fake confidence as they could muster up (it wasn’t a lot). They could already feel their face heating with embarrassment; positive their cheeks would look like two ripe tomatoes.
“No.” He looked at them once. And that’s all he said before turning on his heel to leave into whatever part of the shop he came from.
Y/N was slightly speechless. On the outside, they looked stunned. On the inside their mind was racing a thousand miles a second. What the fuck? He can’t just say no. That’s not….professional or productive!
“Hey wait!” They called out. The man stopped in his tracks. He didn’t turn around or move to look behind him. Just frozen, silent. Uh oh. They didn’t think this through. Now what? Were they going to beg the massive man who was already ignoring their presence to draw on their skin? Absolutely not.
“You can’t just do that .” Y/N blurted out to fill the growing silence.
This made him turn around. He looked thoroughly unimpressed—his arms crossed, head tilted slightly to the side with fake amusement. “I can’t do what ?” His eyes never leave Y/N’s. It’s obvious, however, that they are desperately trying not to look into his pretty eyes.
Y/N sighs and crosses their arms, “Look, I just want to get a tattoo.”
“Yeah, you said that, along with a piercing too.” He counters. If Y/N had to guess, the look on the man’s face was pure disinterest. This was turning out to be more of a pain in the ass than they were anticipating, They felt their cheeks flush again. It was true Y/N didn’t know what they wanted, but he didn’t have to go and point it out like that.
“Whatever, just forget it.” They murmur, letting their shoulders slouch as they turn to head out the door. This was so stupid. What was I thinking? I should’ve just taken a cold shower.
“Wait,” the man calls gently. He had moved to stand at the front counter when they had their head turned. They knew he was tall from the moment they first saw him, but with him up closer, Y/N realized just how large this man was. His shoulders were broad and they bet his arms were massive if the size of his hands were anything to go off of.
“Come back on Wednesday, ask for Soap.” Without a second glance, he turned on his heel and started walking towards the back of the building.
What kind of name is Soap?
Simon unclenched his fists once he was in the privacy of the back office. The small lamp he thrifted when he first bought the place emanates a soft orange glow around the smaller room tucked into the back of the shop. The man releases a breath he didn’t even realize he was holding. Why did he do that? He wonders. Simon was not known for offering advice or giving a helping hand to strangers (little old ladies do not count). He slides into the old worn leather loveseat and closes his eyes.
Johnny's gonna have a field day when he hears about his next appointment. Simon can already hear him, “Going soft on us are you ghostie?” God, that thought almost made him want to not mention it at all. And no, he’s not going soft. He just couldn’t handle looking at their pitiful form, standing in the middle of his shop for a second longer. The way their shoulders drooped with disappointment made Simon want to squirm. There was something about them; standing all bundled up and braving the rain trying to convince themselves that this was what they wanted.
It was clear that they were absolutely out of their element the moment they opened the door. The bell chimed and Simon got up from his desk that he was busy sketching at. His shoulders popped when he stretched them over his head and walked to the front desk. And there they were—standing quietly, eyes drinking in the room, and completely out of place. When he finally broke them out of their daze, it was then that he really took them in.
Their cheeks were flushed the most perfect shade of rouge and Simon was sure if he looked close enough the tops of their ears would be glowing the same shade of red. It was adorably charming and frustrating, especially when said stranger managed to blurt out some sort of statement that did nothing to make Simon think they knew what they were doing.
“You can’t just do that ” they had said with an almost cartoonish furrow of their brows. Simon almost laughed. Almost. Typically the people who questioned him were entitled college students who spent most of their time passed out drunk on the floor of a frat house. And this stranger certainly wasn’t that—dressed in bright yellow rain boots, a large forest green coat that had probably seen better days, and an olive green beanie pulled over their head. Nothing about them screamed rebellious or entitled.
God, if Soap had been around, he would’ve cooed right at them as if they weren’t standing right there, “Well who is this bonnie thing? Is Ghost here giving you a hard time?” the man would joke with a knowing smirk as he teasingly bumps Simon with his elbow.
Simon sighs while rubbing his hands over his face before glancing at the small clock hanging on the wall—11:28pm. That's his queue to call it a night. He stands from the couch with a small grunt and grabs his phone sitting on the end table next to him. He slides it into his pocket and throws the jacket that he had folded over the back of the desk chair earlier over his arm. Keys in hand, he turns out the lights, shuts the office door, and continues to check off tasks on his metal closing time list. Once the neon open sign had been turned out for the night only five minutes had passed.
Simon braces for the cold wet air as he locks the door from the outside giving it a quick “test tug”. The walk to his flat wasn’t far from the shop, usually about ten minutes, but when Simon left this late he could usually make it in six. The streets were dim, with just the glow of the streetlights guiding the way. All the other shops along the strip close long before 141 Ink thought about calling it a night. Simon didn’t mind that though, in fact, he preferred it, always being somewhat of a night owl. The quiet walk home, the occasional rustle of leaves or a lone car passing through, was familiar. And before the man knew it he was planted outside his flat, keys in hand, when the door opened for him.
“I was just about to start without ya,” the voice behind the door says.