high expectations

she doesn’t miss the way toby looks at her side, studies her skin, and london only hopes that the colour in her cheeks doesn’t return, or at the very least, doesn’t intensify and darken. she likes to think that he can’t see and feel the way her breaths have quickened a little under his gaze, and she’s thankful that she’s found her voice again and drawn his eyes away from her side briefly. 

what she says though makes london cringe inwardly because did that sound like she was referring to sex? it sounded like she was referring to sex. toby is probably assuming she’s referring to sex and god, is that embarrassing. 

“y-yeah,” she says, wishing that she hadn’t just stumbled over a simple word. “yeah, my first time getting a tattoo was… i don’t know if the chick tattooing me thought i was underage or something, but she was wouldn’t stop with the whole are you okay? does it hurt? keep breathing. it wasn’t even that bad.” it’s a petty attempt at explaining herself, redeeming her previous statement, but the words tumble out with so much urgency, it’s probably obvious that she’s flustered – again. “’ppreciate it though.” 

the buzzing that suddenly fills the air tells london to prepare herself, anticipating the first jab of the needle into her skin. she scrunches up her nose for a moment when it does, because it might not be her first time, but the pain of a tattoo gun isn’t exactly something she’s used to feeling on a regular basis. london tells herself to stay still after briefly tensing, to resist moving and squirming around on the chair, and she supposes that she’s grateful for toby’s hand pressed against her ribs because it gives her something else to think about. 

when she becomes aware of toby’s hand, london feels herself warming at the thought of how close the two of them are now and she wants to distract herself, but there’s no avoiding him, not when his face is inches away from her che– 

london forces herself to look somewhere else, anywhere else, but as luck would have it, her eyes are drawn back to toby – of course they are. instead, then, she avoids his face, and ends up letting herself look at his ink, peeking through the collar of his shirt. but even that is a little dangerous, because it runs the risk of having her mind wander elsewhere. 

   but so far, it’s not enough to distract him from his job. that’s why she’s here in the first place, and it’s what toby does best, so he continues like he were working on royalty instead. though his mind isn’t entirely and undividedly on the act of tattooing. his mind returns to the other tattoos that london has, how much younger she was and if she looked all that different. she may just have received one here, and how it’s possible he’s met her before, under different circumstances—

   quick to snap out of another tangent, toby finally lifts his gaze to look at london when he thinks to ask how she’s coping. as much of a badass she is in his books now, toby knows the pain of a tattoo isn’t an acquired taste—it just straight up hurts. but as he meets her eyes, his half-smile broadens as the words in his head disappear, left with the most basic idea of what he intended to ask.

   “how’s the pain?” 

   not quite the distraction he hopes to provide (especially when all he’s doing is reminding her of it), but he assumes it’s better than the loud, on-and-off buzzing that the tattoo gun whirring and pausing emits. “you’re not twitching near as much as the last rib tattoo guy.” it’s a basic line of conversation and he knows it, but anything more complex than that right now and he supposes the both of them will lose concentration. london’s focus on blocking out the pain, and toby’s on doing his job perfectly.

soon enough though, toby’s fingers on her skin becomes something almost… comfortable, and it’s a little concerning, but very exhilarating, though london won’t be admitting that out loud any time soon. she doesn’t have to look down to gain an understanding of where the tattoo will be, where the needle will be poking into, and really she doesn’t care, because the thrumming in her chest feels like it could beat the speed of the needle in the tattoo gun with no sweat. 

london nods at his words, watching him slide the gloves onto his fingers with ease, and when their eyes meet, even if it’s only briefly, she swears everything freezes for a while. fortunately – or maybe, unfortunately – the erratic beating in her chest seems to halt too, but it feels like she can’t breathe, doesn’t want to breathe, because even though their eyes are probably a similar, if not the same, shade of deep, dark brown, london, for the life of her, doesn’t want to look away. there isn’t an atom in her body that wants to break eye contact; london doesn’t even want to blink. 

but she does when toby speaks again. 

she nods, a smile on her lips because for a moment she forgets about this new and strange… infatuation with him and feels the beginning of excitement spreading out into her limbs. 

london’s going to get another tattoo. 

“you make it sound like it’s my first time all over again, tobes. but… yeah. i’m ready,” she answers, giving him a determined nod and a now eager smile as she does so. “work your magic.” 

   “only if you’re a good girl.”

   he’s nervous. he’s never nervous. but his nerves aren’t about the act itself—he’s done this too many times to have stage fright about tattooing now. the only thing that’s changed is that it’s london instead of everyone he’s ever inked before, and the fact that toby doesn’t need to explain why london makes such an impact is reason enough for why he’s got a butterfly or ten in his stomach. because she’s the one who’s making them flutter around.

   he breathes steadily, if not just in the hopes that it’ll calm the rest of him down, and pulls taut the skin stretched over her midsection. he studies the stencil, the way it moves when the muscles and bones beneath move too, and soon enough he’s just counting each of her breaths, the rhythm and pauses between each rise and fall of her chest. 

   and again, her voice snaps him out of it like she were waving at him, or tapping on his shoulder. maybe even a palm resting against his cheek.

   “your first time?” he questions, brow raising again in equal parts curiosity and amusement. he isn’t sure if she’s said the words without a filter, with or without full understanding of how toby’s interpreting them. “i’ll try and go easy on you, lon.” which may just be a lie in itself, a contradiction before he causes her pain. but he’s as focused as he’s ever been, adamant that he’ll do the best he can. after all, it’s his handwriting that’ll be on her for the rest of her life. 

   and he really doesn’t want to fuck it up. because he really wants her to remember this moment fondly.

she gives him a small nod of her head in agreement. it is deep. kind of. deep enough to have her remembering london, and her grandfather, and the deep musk of his cologne that would hit her with every embrace. it’s been months since she’s thought of home – is it home? isn’t korea her home now? – and she’d be lying if she said that talking about her grandfather wasn’t stirring something up inside her. 

it’s not that she left london on bad terms with her mother and stepfather, if her uninterrupted allowance is anything to go by, but she avoids thinking about it because she can’t help but wish that she had left a little less frustrated and little more grateful. it takes a few silent beats before she convinces herself that there’s very little she can do about it anymore, that she’s here, now, in korea. 

in front of toby. 

london resists the urge to bite on her bottom lip and make it obvious that sitting here with her shirt pulled up is making her flustered. it shouldn’t, because toby doesn’t look all that phased by it (if she’s being honest, she’s not so sure if she wants him to react to her exposed side or not), because he’s probably done this so many times, it’s practically routine, automatic. 

she hopes toby doesn’t hear the gasp she tries desperately to muffle when she feels his fingers and palms press against her side. his hands are warm, so warm, but london wants to shiver, and let goosebumps ripple across her skin. she doesn’t know where to look: down at the scuffed tips of her boots, at the decorated walls, at the slope of toby’s nose, or the locks of hair that shield his forehead that she really, really wants to run her fingers thr– 

london catches her reflection in the mirror he holds out towards her, and it pushes away the thoughts that should not be thought. not here. not right now. she lets herself get a look of where the stencil was just a few seconds ago, and makes a show of turning the mirror in different angles to make it seem like she’s checking, but really, toby could’ve put it on upside down, all askew, and london wouldn’t have had it in her to argue. 

   by now he can see that london’s mind is somewhere else ( and he isn’t sure if it’s from embarrassment and uneasiness, uncomfortable with the exposure ), but toby has half a mind to level the playing field and strip too. though, if he thought the chair thing would get him fired, he has no idea what turning all magic-mike will do to his career. so he doesn’t push the subject of family, doesn’t try any extraordinary measures, and tries to distract her in a more subtle manner. simultaneous with the effort to try and forget the warm touch of london’s skin through stencil paper.

   "i won’t be tattooing too close to any ribs this way,” he informs her while he presses a few fingers against the words, to let her feel where the needle will be tracing. maybe it’s a foolish move on his behalf, doing the opposite to remedy the tension in the way he’s sitting or the thrumming in his chest and against all his pulse points. maybe it’ll help her grow used to the feeling of what’s to come. 

   but whichever it comes to, he’s convinced the thrumming won’t stop.

   he turns away when he can, breathing in full and deep, and eventually manages to slide both hands into a pair of black gloves. careful to make sure his hands aren’t as shaky as the rest of him feels like. the tattoo gun is already adjusted to his liking from the day’s use of it, so all he needs now is the go ahead from london that she’s ready too. that she isn’t regretting the design, the placement, the artist. he lifts his eyes with the aim to search hers, and he can’t bring himself to ask just yet. 

“it’s a great chair either way,” london offers, sinking back into the leather some more as if to emphasise her point. “i’d buy one for sure, just to chill in. i’d say ‘to read some deadpool in’, but it’s so comfortable, i’d probably end up falling asleep before i even get through one comic book.” 

london pulls a face, pretending to be insulted, one hand pressed to her chest. “first of all, it’s 5eva. oh my god, toby, please.” she shakes her head, feigning disappointment, but the act doesn’t last very long because soon enough, she’s laughing, more at herself than anything. “mmm… it’s probably my favourite song. it helped my grandpa put me to sleep when i was a kid, so it’s one of those things that i just associate with, like, calmness and all that. the lyrics are kind of like a life philosophy for me too i guess.” she gives him a little shrug, but she feels that just the tone of her voice has given her actual feelings away. 

   “not that i wouldn’t let you take this one, but i’m pretty sure stealing a chair would get me fired—and i need to pay rent.” he admits with a cheeky grin, curled right to the edges. and it fades as quick as it had appeared. 

   he’s been moderately lucky in regards to his upbringing. neither parent died, no family history of cancer, the child of a somewhat painless divorce. but even with this adequate upbringing, toby is still fairly reluctant to open up to just anybody. and the fact that london is doing just that to him makes him feel a little more entertained, possibly more sentimental, and definitely more cruel about the potential pain he’s about to inflict on her.

   “wow,” he shakes it off with a twist of his wrist, a subconscious tick he didn’t know he had until now, “that’s deep bro.” and if the words sound as douche-y as he thinks they do, his expression gives away what he isn’t saying, nothing less than sympathetic.

   with stencil in hand, toby waits, calmed by the experience and muscle memory that has him confident in this process and in his abilities. but something feels off, different and frustratingly new. london’s shirt is hiked up high to reveal her skin, and at first that’s all toby sees—skin: a canvas, a blank surface for ink—but then there’s a hint of bra, the shift of muscle beneath ivory, and it isn’t as much of a canvas as it is an atlas. but his thoughts dissipate when he hears her voice, effectively snapping him out of it and forcing the realisation upon him that he’s at his place of work. and that this shouldn’t be happening. 

   “no,” comes his reply after several heartbeats too many, “i think i’ll be fine with you staying seated.”

she can hear alarm bells going off in her head, because she’s giving away too much way too quickly. london uses the time toby’s taking to organise his things to bring the back of her hand to her cheek – yep, definitely warm – and look back down at his sketchbook. his scribbles really are nicely done; she would’ve had no complaints to any of them, had he given her just one option. 

“sure, yeah.” london gets up, leaving her coat where she was sitting to walk over to the really comfortable looking recliner. when she drops herself down onto the leather, it turns out to be just as cosy as it looks, and she hums a little, satisfied. “hah. oh yeah, i’ve eaten. if i pass out, it’ll be a food coma. or because this chair is really nice.” 

it’s while toby’s getting ready that london starts to think maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to have devoured – practically inhaled – that burger for dinner, and half of a pizza an hour and a half later, because now, she’s gonna have to lift her shirt up for toby, and he’s probably gonna catch a glimpse of her belly. shit. 

but that’s not to say he hasn’t enjoyed every second of it so far. he’s just waiting to see if it’s reciprocated when he’s got tattoo gun to london’s skin.

“right? picked it out myself. i mean, it was either that or one other chair, but it kinda counts.” he says while his eyes are trained on the stencil paper, taking his time to map out each letter precisely. but as immersed as he usually gets with this part of the job, toby’s still reminded that london’s there with him, aware of her presence through every line. 

“so, why these lyrics?” he finally asks once he’s done, spinning around in his chair to see london making herself comfortable, lazy topknot and legs crossed over, and the frequent smile is back in place. “why not ‘deadpool + cable 4eva’ instead?” with a pair of scissors in one hand, he trims off the excess paper and grins a big, cheesy smile at her. “don’t worry, you don’t have to answer that.” 

but he shuts himself up before he can confess that he’s just being an idiot in the hopes she’ll smile at him again.

she can feel wads of caramel stuck to the back of her teeth, and london preoccupies her tongue by attempting to lick them away, just in case she decides to say more stupid things in front of toby. she hums thoughtfully as she glances down at his sketchbook, eyeing the curved and straight lines he’s scribbled onto the page. 

his attention is on organising all his equipment the way he likes it before his slight oral-fixation has his gaze flicking to her mouth. though he does his best at looking away before he gets caught. the last thing he needs is to be distracted moments before he’s going to tattoo her. but in his defence, london isn’t going easy on him.

with his lips curling into a smile once again when he hears her, toby pulls a sheet of the blue stencil paper from his drawer and nods, “yeah, i think that’s my favourite one too. i’ll draw up the stencil and then we can get started.”

too much? yep, probably too much. london tries to play it off with a smile, but she’s almost a hundred percent sure her cheeks are starting to take on a nice shade of pink. 

“uh… yeah?” thank god for the change of subject. “i love deadpool. like, love deadpool. i am fully convinced that wade fucking wilson is my spirit animal. completely and totally. when i die, i want ‘careless whisper’ playing in the background while they lower me into my grave. a deadpool tattoo would be bomb. i don’t plan on getting one any time soon, but like… give me a month or something, and i’ll be marching right up to you one day screaming toby, i want a chimichanga!” london can feel herself getting carried away, but there’s a comfortableness settling over her – that is, when she ignores how nice his smile is… and his voice… and like, everything else about him – as she’s sitting here, watching toby’s pen scribbling all over the page. 

talking about deadpool is also a plus, of course. 

she unwraps the caramel she’s fished out, shoving the wrapper back into her coat pocket. “black ink’s good,” london says, popping the caramel into her mouth. “everything else i have is in black ink, so… gotta maintain aesthetic.” 

if london comes back tomorrow wanting that tattoo, it won’t be soon enough.

“god damn, you’re my favourite customer ever.” he confesses with a hand lingering in front of his face to hide the awkward smile slash laugh he’s doing with his mouth. “i’ve never done a deadpool tat before, or anything marvel really.” he says as he gives a small shake of his his head, “you can’t toy with my emotions like this.” 

he draws a few more arrangements while she chews, eventually looking back at her with a lopsided grin, spinning around in his chair to face her. “why thank you. any of these speaking to you yet?” he motions back to the sketchbook before standing to retrieve the supplies he’ll need, organising it on his bench and pulling the armrest around to sit beside the comfy chair in the corner.

london thinks it over, and decides yes as she nods her head in agreement. “i guess i will, although this’ll probably be the biggest thing i’ll have by the end of today. all the other tattoos i have are small. easy to hide, y’know? as much as i’d love to have a full sleeve, or like… a giant tattoo of deadpool’s head on my leg, i’d probably get slaughtered by the ‘rents before the needle even touches me.” it’s an exaggeration – of course it is; london is all for hyperbole – but her words do hold some truth in them. one very obvious tattoo on her wrist had been enough for her mother to flash her a glare when she’d spotted it. “and… i don’t think i’m ticklish. but i’ll apologise in advance anyway in case i end up being a squirmer.” 

“don’t worry, i’ve totally been there with the crazy parents— hold up, deadpool?” toby backtracks slightly with a brow raised and surprise staining his expression. the merc with a mouth is probably a household name by now, but toby’s fondness of the character leans more towards obsession than just an innocent interest. and if he wasn’t impressed with london before, he sure is now. “that would be fucking awesome though.” 

he reaches for his sketchbook and a pen while she speaks, already at ease despite meeting london mere minutes ago, before leaning back to get a good look at her screen.

the words inspire him a lot more than he thought they would—as far as lyrics go, london’s definitely picked well—and he begins to write the words over and over again, differing the sizing and placement until he’s somewhat happier than he was when he started. 

“was it in black ink today, or were you looking for some colour?” he borderline mumbles as he finishes up writing the last few words, turning back to face her again. if london had met him years ago when he was just starting out, toby would never dream of tattooing someone in his own handwriting. but now he's confident enough to put a sharpie against her ribs and freehand it. either that, or he's just a little too eager to test out his new canvas.

          ’c'mon,’ they said, ’it’ll be fun and even if the date is a complete flop, you’re cute enough to make a new friend!’ somehow he doubted that would actually be the case if this date didn’t go well. never has he heard of people becoming close after situations like that.

          his only clues to find said date weren’t many, but they were good enough to pinpoint someone in the crowd of class and sophistication that didn’t suit him at all; the tux he wore sitting on him a little too big and stiff for his liking, but he tried. all he had to search for was a male around his age who looked just as out of place as he did. that seemed easy enough.

he’s tempted to drift off over to the bar to order a drink, a little liquid courage to help the night run a little more smoothly, but instead he sees a hand raising up and eyes that are looking right at him. deep, brown eyes that manage to capture toby’s attention even from across the room. and he walks over like he’s been summoned. 

but for a split second in time, toby’s heart sinks down to his ankles.

   taehyung?

maybe this isn’t the cute person his friend had optimistically set him up with. though he vaguely remembers their matchmaker jokingly telling toby that he’d use a fake name, just in case the date went south and they didn’t get along like they all hoped. sure, he didn’t think he was serious, because it sure as hell would pose problems for toby if they did in fact work out. but now, toby can’t tell if this cute ‘jungwoo’ is here for him or someone totally different.

“yeah, hah,” he admits, unable to keep down the nervous chuckle, “but just call me toby.” and he would feel bad about potentially stealing jungwoo away from whoever he was meant to meet, but the boy he’s looking back at now is too cute to say no to.

before walking into skin deep, truthfully london had already made up her mind on what and where she’d be getting for next tattoo, but what she hadn’t anticipated was toby. all of a sudden, the idea of getting natalie cole lyrics on her ribs – on her ribs; good lord, she’s gonna have to lift up her shirt for a guy she’s only just met – has become nerve-wracking. 

but it’s gotta be the ribs.

”uh… yeah, i’d prefer the ribs actually. i already get a few comments on this at work from my boss,” she says, lifting her right hand to show toby her wrist – oh crap, now he knows she’s not a tattoo newbie. what’s her new excuse for being flustered now? “bracelets aren’t really part of the uniform, and i hate wasting concealer on this tiny thing.” 

“alright, ribs it is. and don’t worry, it isn’t as bad as everyone says—” he cuts off before giving her a wider smile now, the pearly whites of his teeth shining through parted lips, “—unless you’re ticklish?”

his attention is drawn to her wrist as soon as she lifts it, and he takes his time to read the characters and see the wear of the ink into her skin. with his somewhat brief glance, he assumes it’s healed enough and naturally, wonders what other little gems she has scattered over her. “never mind, you already know how it’s gonna feel.”

at his question, london smiles a little sheepishly, reaching up to tuck a lock of her hair behind her ear. “uh… song lyrics?” she answers, meeting his eyes with a little hesitation. “i mean, it’s kinda cheesy and cliche, i know, but it’s… it’s one of my favourite songs, so… might as well, right? probably somewhere around the r… uh, the… ribs? or if that’s a bit, y’know, awkward, on my other wrist is fine too.” 

london likes to think – hopes is perhaps the more appropriate word – that she’s maintained some semblance of composure during the entire conversation that’s just played out now, because she’s cringing and berating herself internally for being so flustered in front of toby. if she’s being obvious – and she’s more than fifty percent certain she is – she prays he’s assuming it’s the thought of a needle pressing into her skin that’s got her a little nervous. london’s sure that that assumption’ll fade as soon as he sees she’s got other tattoos though, and she most definitely does not have a plan b. crap. 

“don’t worry. i’ve got lyrics on me too, so no judgement here.” he offers with a slight tilt of his head and a tight-lipped smile, wandering eyes trailing over her ribs and to her wrist. “it’s up to you, really. as cliche as it is to say, it’s your body and you do what you want with it.”

“so you tell me where to tattoo and i’ll listen.” 

he wipes off his hands again on the backs of his thighs, more out of habit by now, and looks down towards the end of the studio. “down the back, my area’s second to last.” with a half-hearted raise of his hand, he points to the empty space that he’s cluttered with books and his laptop, black disposable gloves and paper towel littering the wastebasket beside his chair.