Work Text:
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Yuma was thrilled about getting his first tattoo.
He’d been following a particular tattoo studio on Instagram for months, scrolling through their reels on the bus, saving posts during late-night doomscrolling, zooming in on tiny details just to admire the linework. All the artists there were good. Some were even great. But one of them, one anonymous, maddeningly private artist, captured his attention instantly.
[@rice_tattoos]
A ghost on social media.
No selfies, no stories, not even a blurry reflection in a mirror.
Just hands; elegant, steady hands, and art.
Designs that looked like something breathed onto skin, not inked. Soft blacks, delicate shadows, compositions that felt like secrets whispered just for the person wearing them. And beyond tattoos, he posted sketches, watercolors, even snippets of charcoal work. Every piece had that same intimacy, that quiet intensity that made Yuma hover over the like button like it mattered.
He stalked the account daily.
Daily.
It wasn’t even subtle anymore. He checked for new posts the way some people checked for messages from a crush. Yuma tried to convince himself it was purely because of the art, because this anonymous artist was simply that talented. And yes, that was true but also, there was something about not knowing his face that made Yuma’s brain spiral.
Who was he?
What did he look like while he worked?
What expression did he make when he focused?
What smile hid behind all that anonymity?
And then one afternoon, while half-asleep in class, he saw it:
“Bookings open. Limited slots.”
His heart did something stupid, tripping, stumbling, accelerating. He didn’t think. He didn’t plan. He just tapped the link in the bio with trembling fingers. Before he could talk himself out of it, he filled out the form, hit submit, and stared at his phone like it might explode.
It wasn’t just the thrill of getting a tattoo from an artist he admired.
It was the thought of finally seeing him.
Finally meeting the hands behind the art, the mind behind the designs, the person hidden behind the faceless profile.
Yuma booked the appointment on a whim, but now that it was done, he felt something coil in his stomach, anticipation, excitement, curiosity and a spark of something dangerously close to fascination.
He was dying to get the tattoo.
But he was just as desperate to see the man behind it.
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The day of his appointment, Yuma already knew what he wanted.
One of the artist’s selected designs—a small cat playing with a star—something delicate and silly at the same time, something that felt almost like it had been drawn just for him.
The studio looked even nicer in person than in the photos: dim lights, soft music, clean lines everywhere. His heart was already racing when he stepped inside, but it practically slammed against his ribs when a tall man approached him.
A very tall man.
“Yuma?” he asked, voice low, warm, somehow familiar even though Yuma had never heard it before.
Yuma nodded like a startled cat.
The man offered a small smile, polite, reserved, but enough to make Yuma forget how to breathe for about three seconds. He was wearing a jacket, a plain black one, zipped up just enough that Yuma couldn’t see any tattoos, any skin, any hint of who he truly was.
“Come on in,” the man said, guiding him to the chair. “You can sit down. I’ll prepare everything, alright?”
Yuma managed another nod, a quiet “Yeah,” even though his voice cracked embarrassingly at the end.
He sat, then lay back, feeling the cold vinyl under his palms, trying to calm down. He told himself he was being ridiculous. Tattoo artists were usually attractive. Or at least they had a vibe. It didn’t mean anything.
Then the man turned away, reached for the zipper of his jacket, and shrugged it off.
And Yuma’s jaw dropped.
Because under that jacket were two full sleeves of tattoos. Beautiful ones. Black and grey, intricate, flowing across his skin with the same softness and intensity of the designs Yuma had been admiring for months. His arms were lean, defined, and every line of ink made him look like someone carved out of art.
Yuma’s mouth went completely agape.
Oh.
Oh no.
Why was this man so hot?
His brain scrambled, short-circuited, and tried to reboot. This had to be illegal. Or at least unethical. You couldn’t be a faceless mysterious artist and look like that. Not fair. Not humane. Not safe for someone who already had the emotional stability of wet bread.
that the man paused mid-movement and glanced over his shoulder. The concern was subtle, just a small furrow between his brows, but it was enough to snap Yuma out of his daze.
“You okay?” he asked gently.
Absolutely not.
Not even close.
But Yuma forced a quick nod. “Yeah—yeah, just nervous. This is my first tattoo.”
The man’s expression softened instantly, the worry slipping into something warm and reassuring.
“I get that,” he said. “We’ll go slow. And you can tell me to stop anytime, alright?”
Yuma nodded again, grateful for the tone, grateful he wasn’t being judged for almost swallowing his tongue.
As the artist checked his tools and laid out the stencil, he added casually, “I really like the design you chose. It was one of the first ones I made.”
He let out a soft laugh under his breath, almost self-conscious.
“Nobody seemed to like it… until now, I guess.”
Yuma sat up a little, startled by how earnest he sounded.
“I love it!” he blurted, too fast, too loud.
The man blinked, then smiled. Small, shy, but real. The kind of smile that hit Yuma in the chest like a punch.
“Good,” he murmured, eyes dropping to the stencil in his hands. “I’m glad someone finally connected with it.”
Yuma’s heart fluttered at connected with it, because that’s exactly how it felt, like the design had hooked itself quietly into him the moment he saw it.
And now the artist who created it was standing right there, sleeves of ink, steady hands, and a smile Yuma absolutely wasn’t prepared for.
The artist moved closer, holding the stencil between his fingers.
“Where do you want it?” he asked, and Yuma almost choked on his own breath.
He pointed to the spot on his arm he’d imagined for weeks. “I was thinking here, maybe?”
The man nodded, stepping into Yuma’s space, and the world abruptly shrank to the soft rustle of gloves and the warm scent of his cologne.
“Alright,” the artist murmured. “I’m gonna place the stencil. You cool with me touching you?”
No.
Yes.
Please.
Yuma somehow managed, “Yeah.”
The first brush of the artist’s fingers against his skin was light, professional but Yuma’s whole body jolted like he’d been plugged into a socket. The artist didn’t seem to notice, focused entirely on getting the placement right. He leaned in, his hair falling slightly forward, the muscles in his tattooed forearm shifting as he pressed the design down.
Yuma tried, desperately, to remember how to exist.
After a moment, the man stepped back.
“Can you check it in the mirror? Tell me if you want it higher, lower, angled differently.”
Yuma stood up on slightly shaky legs, looked in the mirror, and it looked perfect.
“It—uh—it’s perfect,” he said, his voice much smaller than usual, the smile on his face was big and real. “I can't believe this is happening.”
The artist smiled again, softer this time, as if pleased by Yuma’s reaction. “Good. Then we’re ready to start.”
He sat down on the rolling chair, adjusted the machine, and patted the padded table.
“Come here, lie down. I’ll start with the outline. It’ll sting a little at first, but you’ll get used to it.”
Yuma took a deep breath and lay back again, staring at the ceiling.
He heard the machine buzz to life, sharp, electric, intimidating.
Then he felt a warm hand settle lightly on his arm.
“Hey,” the artist said, voice quiet but close. “You’re doing fine. Just breathe, okay?”
Yuma looked up at him.
Big mistake.
Because the man was looking at him with genuine care, concentration softening his features, and the sleeves of tattoos framed his hands so beautifully that Yuma felt his heartbeat trip.
“Okay,” Yuma whispered.
The needle touched his skin, sharp, bright, startling.
But somehow, with that warm hand steadying him, he wasn’t scared at all.
The artist worked slowly, carefully, pausing every so often to check on him. “You’re handling it really well,” he said once, almost sounding impressed.
Yuma flushed. His stomach did something stupid.
And somewhere between the buzzing and the warmth and the scent of ink, he realized:
Maybe he hadn’t been nervous about the tattoo.
Maybe he’d been nervous about him.
The outline of the tattoo took shape slowly, each line deliberate and clean. Yuma watched the artist work, watched the way his brows drew together when he focused, the way his lower lip jutted out just slightly, the way his tattooed wrists moved with effortless precision.
He was beautiful in motion, quietly intense and completely absorbed.
And every time he paused to glance up and check on Yuma, the world went a little blurry around the edges.
“You’re doing great,” the artist murmured again, wiping gently over the fresh ink. “Hurts?”
“A little,” Yuma admitted. “But it’s fine.”
“You can squeeze the cushion if you need to.”
Yuma absolutely did not need to squeeze the cushion, what he needed was to stop staring at this man like he was the moon, but he nodded anyway and clutched it lightly.
The artist chuckled, just under his breath, a sound so soft Yuma almost thought he imagined it.
When the outline was finished, the man leaned back, stretching his arms, his shirt lifting just a bit to reveal a sliver of skin inked with more designs winding up his ribs. Yuma’s brain made a sound that could only be described as a dying modem.
“Ready for shading?” the artist asked, rolling his neck.
“Uh—yeah,” Yuma croaked.
The guy laughed again, and Yuma wanted to melt into the chair.
He switched needles, dipped into ink, and then, “You know,” the artist said casually, “I don’t think I’ve ever had someone stare at my arms so much.”
Yuma froze.
His soul left his body.
He ascended into the fluorescent lights.
“I—wasn’t— I didn’t—” he sputtered, mortified.
“It’s okay,” the artist said, grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Most people look. It’s part of the job.”
Yuma covered his face with his free hand. “Sorry. I just think your tattoos are… really cool.”
“Thanks.” The man’s tone softened. “They’re all done by friends or myself. Most are pretty old. Not many people appreciate them the way you just did.” Then he added, quieter, “It was nice.”
Yuma slowly lowered his hand, daring to peek up at him.
The artist wasn’t teasing. He was looking at Yuma with a kind of gentle curiosity, like he was trying to figure him out.
Yuma swallowed hard.
“I really admire your work,” he said, because something in his chest pushed the words out. “That’s why I booked with you. I—uh—I’ve been following your Instagram for a long time.”
“Oh?” The man’s eyes brightened with genuine interest. “You have?”
Yuma nodded, cheeks heating. “Yeah. Your designs… they feel different. Like they mean something.”
The artist paused his shading, meeting Yuma’s gaze with a softness that knocked the air out of him.
“Thank you,” he said quietly. “It means a lot. More than you think.”
And then—because fate hated Yuma—the artist’s hand brushed his forearm again, warm and steady, guiding him back into position.
“Alright, Yuma,” he said, voice low. “Let’s finish your piece.”
Yuma exhaled shakily.
The shading continued, slow, steady, rhythmic. Yuma’s breathing synced with the sound of the machine without him even realizing it. Something about the artist’s focus, his calm presence, made the pain soften into a strange, pleasant hum.
After a few quiet minutes, the man broke the silence.
“So,” he said lightly, still working on the gradient of the design, “you already know my Instagram handle.”
Yuma blinked. “…Yeah?”
“But you don’t know my name.”
Yuma’s heart stuttered.
Right.
The faceless artist. The mystery. The person he’d been imagining for months.
He swallowed. “Yeah, you never post it.”
“That’s on purpose,” the man said with a small laugh. “I like staying a bit anonymous. Keeps the focus on the art.”
Yuma nodded, even though he didn’t fully understand how someone this gorgeous could ever blend into the background.
Then the man added, almost shyly, “My name’s Jo.”
Yuma forgot how to breathe for a second.
Jo.
Jo.
It fit him, simple, warm, charming without meaning to be.
Jo glanced up to check Yuma’s reaction, his eyes soft and curious.
Yuma managed a smile that felt much too earnest. “It suits you.”
Jo huffed a quiet laugh. “That’s good. I’ve always liked it, but it’s nice hearing it from someone who looks at my art the way you do.”
Yuma’s cheeks burned, “Sorry if I’m… intense about it.”
“No,” Jo said immediately, voice low. “I like the way you look at things. It’s honest.”
For a second, the buzzing stopped. Jo wiped over the tattoo gently, so gently Yuma felt his stomach twist.
He leaned a little closer, elbow braced on the table, as if letting Yuma in on something personal.
“It’s not often I meet someone who connects with a design before knowing the person behind it.”
Yuma’s pulse jumped.
“I didn’t… I mean, I didn’t book with you because I thought you were—uh—cool-looking or anything.”
“Of course,” Jo raised an eyebrow, amused. “You didn’t know what I looked like.”
“I know,” Yuma said, groaning into his hands. “Which makes this so much worse.”
Jo laughed, really laughed this time, warm and genuine, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “It doesn’t have to be,” he said, still smiling. “For what it’s worth, I’m glad you came in today.”
Yuma’s heart tripped over itself.
Jo settled back into work, the machine buzzing to life again, but the air between them felt different now, softer, charged, full of something Yuma didn’t dare name yet.
“Almost done,” Jo murmured, focused again. “You’re doing amazing.”
Yuma stared at the ceiling, trying desperately not to melt.
Jo worked in silence for a few moments, only breaking it to wipe the ink gently from Yuma’s skin. His touch was confident but careful, and every time he checked in with a soft, “Still okay?” Yuma had to remind his heart not to leap out of his chest.
Finally, Jo set the machine aside and leaned back, stretching his arms above his head. The motion pulled his shirt taut over his stomach, revealing the faint outline of ink climbing higher under the fabric.
Yuma very politely looked anywhere else.
“Alright,” Jo said, smiling as he examined the finished piece. “You can sit up. Want to see?”
Yuma pushed himself upright, and Jo angled the mirror for him.
The tattoo was beautiful. Better than the photo, better than the stencil, better than anything he’d imagined. It looked alive, smooth, sharp, perfectly balanced.
“It’s… perfect,” Yuma whispered. “I love it.”
Jo’s smile grew, just a little. “I’m glad.”
He wrapped the tattoo with delicate precision, giving instructions in a calm voice that Yuma tried to listen to but kept getting distracted by Jo’s face. His eyes were warm, his lashes unfairly long, and every time he looked up to make sure Yuma understood, it sent a spark down Yuma’s spine.
When Jo finished taping the wrap, he stepped back slightly but didn’t fully move away. There was a hesitation, soft, almost subtle, like he wanted to say something else.
Yuma beat him to it.
Trying to play it cool, he let out a nervous breath and joked, “So… should I ask you to tattoo your number on me?”
He meant it as a light tease. A joke. A dumb flirty line to break the tension.
But Jo’s face went from startled to genuinely concerned in a second.
“Please don’t,” he said, almost alarmed.
Yuma blinked. “I—I wasn’t serious—”
Jo hurried to the counter, rummaged for something, then came back with a small notepad and a pen.
“I have paper,” he said earnestly, as if saving Yuma from a terrible decision. “I can write it for you.”
Yuma stared at him.
Jo, tall, tattooed, mysterious Jo was offering his number like it was the most normal thing in the world.
Yuma’s cheeks burned as his heart tripped.
“Oh,” he managed. “O-Okay.”
Jo tore out a page, scribbled neatly, and handed it over between two ink-stained fingers.
“For aftercare questions,” Jo said, but his eyes were soft, almost shy. “Or… anything else.”
Yuma stared at the slip of paper like it might vanish if he blinked too hard. Jo’s handwriting was neat, a little slanted, the ink still fresh. His name was written too—Jo—as if Yuma could forget it.
“Thanks,” Yuma said, voice embarrassingly quiet.
Jo rubbed the back of his neck with a gloved hand, suddenly looking unsure of himself for the first time since Yuma walked in.
“You… don’t have to use it,” he added quickly. “It’s just… for convenience. If something looks weird. Or hurts. Or—”
“Are you always this nervous after giving someone your number?” Yuma asked before he could stop himself.
Jo froze. Then he laughed, soft, breathy, caught off guard.
“Maybe,” he admitted. “Only when I actually want them to use it.”
Yuma’s heart plummeted straight through the floor.
“Oh.”
Jo took a tiny step closer, enough that Yuma could feel the warmth radiating off him, even through the adrenaline and antiseptic smell of the studio.
“I liked talking with you,” Jo said, quieter now. “You’re easy to be around. And you care about art in a way that’s rare.”
Yuma swallowed, his throat suddenly tight. “You’re easy to be around too,” he managed. “Even when I’m panicking inside.”
Jo’s smile softened, honest, sweet, almost fond.
“I noticed,” he teased gently.
Yuma groaned into his hands. “Please pretend I was cool.”
“I can’t,” Jo said, amused. “But I liked you anyway.”
Yuma looked up sharply, mouth parted. Jo held his gaze for a moment too long, something warm stirring behind his eyes.
Then his phone buzzed on the counter, breaking the moment. He stepped back reluctantly.
“I—uh—should let you go,” Jo said. “You need rest. Eat something. Drink water.”
“Right,” Yuma said. “Human things.”
Jo laughed, and Yuma felt that laugh in his ribs.
As Yuma headed for the door, Jo called out softly behind him, “Text me when you get home? So I know you didn’t pass out on the sidewalk.”
Yuma’s steps faltered.
“Yeah,” he said, smiling without meaning to. “I will.”
“Good.”
Jo leaned against the counter, arms crossed, sleeves of tattoos on full display, watching him with that quiet, warm intensity that had nearly melted Yuma the moment he walked in.
“Bye, Yuma,” he said.
Yuma pushed the door open, heart pounding.
“Bye, Jo.”
It had been the best first tattoo experience ever.
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