Bad Bitches & Inked Sins || 1 || Age Gap
prompt: yn finally finds a space for her dream but not long after, she's already having issues with the tattoo shop next door
word count: 4.8k
warnings: discussions of previous discrimination, ableism, sexism, misogyny
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-
YN could admit that she had caught a lucky break because chances like this never happened to her.
Yet somehow she had managed to finally find a commercial space that fit her requirements and although it wasn’t in a prime location, it was in a safe area of the city that still felt welcoming and accessible to the kind of community she was trying to build.
The rent was as affordable as it could get for New York City and while it would still be tight financially, she had already run the numbers a million different ways and knew that everything would have to work exactly as she planned in order to manage the lease payments each month.
She had long ago accepted that risk because she intended to make it work no matter what it took.
She didn’t have the luxury of treating this like a careless venture anyway, not when she had taken out a two-hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar bank loan to make the place possible, which meant failure wasn’t an option unless she wanted to be financially fucked for the rest of her life.
At twenty-seven, some people might say it was a stupid decision to take on that kind of responsibility but the truth was that this had never been a casual idea or a impulse because ever since she was little, YN had carried the dream of building a women-only gym that truly lived up to the words inclusivity and acceptance.
Her fraternal twin sister had been born with fibular hemimelia, a condition that affected the development of the lower leg and had limited her physically in ways that became especially obvious throughout their childhood while she was still growing.
Her sister had never allowed it to define her or stop her from trying anything she wanted to do but YN had spent her entire life watching the way the world treated her anyway.
She spent her childhood seeing firsthand the way her experience was different from her twin sisters because her gait was different and the way she moved looked unfamiliar to others.
People constantly made assumptions before ever giving her the chance to prove herself and those assumptions followed her into nearly every aspect of her life.
When they were younger and signing up for sports through school or the community, there had always been a moment where the adults’ smiles turned polite and sympathetic the second they noticed the difference in her sister’s leg.
Their tone shifted into something overly careful (like talking to a little child) while they explained that the team “might not be the best fit” or that something like an art club would be better.
YN had learned early that those conversations usually meant her sister didn’t fight with the people who didn’t believe in her, sometimes she adapted and sometimes she just moved onto the next thing that would accept her as she is.
YN had never been willing to leave her behind which meant she lost out on a lot of things despite her sister telling her to go do them.
If her sister wasn’t invited, then neither was she, which meant the two of them spent a lot of those years building their own strong bond instead of trying to fit into other peoples ideas of what they should be doing.
Her sister eventually found weightlifting and strength training, discovering that exercise could be something empowering instead of humiliating but even that came with a different kind of struggle that YN witnessed over and over again.
There were too many nights where her sister came home frustrated or quietly angry after going to the gym, telling YN how other adults had hovered over her while she was using equipment, insisting she needed help even when she clearly didn’t.
Some people meant well but treated her like she was weak.
Others were openly dismissive, stepping in to claim machines because they assumed she wouldn’t be able to use them properly or questioning whether she was “allowed” to be doing certain lifts.
Once, she had signed up for a CrossFit class because she wanted the challenge, only to have someone casually suggest that she might be more comfortable in the senior citizens fitness class instead.
YN remembered the way her sister had shrugged it off at the time, pretending it didn’t bother her while she grabbed her bag and left early.
The moment they were alone in the car, the frustration had spilled out of her in a rush that happened when it built up - angry tears stream down her cheeks as she wishes people would just fuck off.
Her sister wasn’t the only one who dealt with that kind of treatment.
YN had started noticing it everywhere once she began paying attention, seeing how many people hesitated at the doors of gyms because they already expected to be judged, the comments, or the stares.
People who simply didn’t look like the kind of person fitness culture had decided was acceptable.
So when YN started planning her own gym, she knew from the beginning that it couldn’t just be another place with a trendy slogan about inclusivity printed on the wall but then do nothing to enforce that.
It wasn’t going to be a marketing gimmick.
The mission statement was going to be the law of the gym.
She intended to enforce it in the way the gym was run, the way classes were taught, the way members treated each other, and the way every single person who walked through the door was going to feel welcomed.
In her mind, a gym should be a place where people discovered what their bodies were able to, not spend justifying or defending why they were there in the first place.
If she could build even one space where women felt accepted, respected, and strong exactly as they were.
Well…all the risk would be worth it in the end because it wasn’t about money, it was able fulfilling a dream, and making her sister proud.
-
YN’s appearance was deceiving to anyone who only judged her by her looks.
With long, flowy waves that nearly brushed the small of her back, hair that more often than not twisted into a messy knot with a skewed scrunchy, and outfits that rarely changed because they were either biker shorts or leggings paired with a sports bra, chunky socks, and sneakers that matched some part of the outfit.
There was something bright and welcoming about her, something that made strangers expect a bubbly, overly sweet personality to match the aesthetic.
The kind of girl people imagined spent her mornings with a strict routine of coffee and reading a book, hugging everyone she met, and letting people take and take and take from her with a wide smile on her face.
And to the people who belonged to her, the ones she loved and trusted, that version of YN was absolutely real.
She was affectionate in the biggest ways, the type of person who showed up for the people she cared about without question and without keeping things even, whether that meant helping a friend move apartments, dropping everything to drive across the city at midnight when someone needed a ride from a bar, or canceling plans to support someone going through a break-up.
When someone was part of her circle, part of her people, she had a loyalty that was ferocious, and there was little she wouldn’t do to protect them or support them if they needed it, and at all costs to herself.
To anyone outside that circle, especially anyone who decided to test her patience or disrespect the her or something she cared, YN could shift in a way that caught people off guard.
There was a hardness there that people didn’t expect from someone who looked like her, a coldness in the way she spoke and held herself when someone did something she didn’t like, and once that switch flipped it became very clear that she was not someone who could be pushed around.
She had grown up watching her sister deal with people who underestimated her or treated her like she was less capable than everyone else and that experience had inked something permanent into YN’s instincts to not let bullshit slide, even the littlest things.
She had very little tolerance for arrogance, condescension, or people who thought they were better than anyone else for any reason.
If someone approached her with kindness and basic respect, she was welcoming and easy to talk to, quick to smile and even quicker to make people feel comfortable in a new environment because she understands that it can be difficult.
But if someone decided to be rude, thoughtless, or intentionally difficult, that warmth disappeared instantly and was replaced with something a lot colder and a lot less forgiving.
-
Maybe the name of her studio was stupid.
YN had considered that more than once while she was filling out all paperwork where she had to write it again and again, ordering the signs, editing for the advertisements because she was fully aware that it wasn’t the kind of name most business consultants would recommend for a fitness studio.
The bank asked her multiple times if that’s really what she wanted to name the company.
The truth was that she didn’t really care if someone thought it sounded ridiculous or unprofessional because the point of it had never been to impress anyone in a suit or with a business degree.
She wanted every woman who walked through those doors to feel like the space belonged to them the moment they stepped inside, and she wanted the name to represent that.
Whether they were completely able-bodied or someone who moved through the world with adaptations that other people didn’t always understand, YN wanted them to walk into that gym and feel like they were allowed to take up space without apologizing for it.
The building itself wasn’t glamorous.
The gym sat on the ground floor of an old brick building with apartments stacked above it.
There was one business on either side of her storefront, and the street itself was more residential than commercial, which meant it didn’t get the kind of constant foot traffic that most city streets got.
That low-key atmosphere was exactly why the rent had been something she could actually afford in the first place.
The downside was that a location like that could easily be forgotten because it wasn’t constantly something to be interacted with or seen on normal commutes.
YN had worried about that while she was preparing to open.
Six weeks before the launch date she had started advertising online, posting on social media, putting flyers in local shops, and reaching out to different community groups that focused on women’s fitness and adaptive exercise programs.
She had hoped that maybe a handful of people would be interested.
Instead, the response had been overwhelming.
Before the doors had even officially opened, the membership list had filled completely and she had been forced to start a waitlist for anyone else who wanted to join.
The classes themselves had taken off immediately.
Her “All Bodies Welcome” programming had become the thing people talked about the most, a combination of pilates, yoga, and strength training classes that were created in a way that allowed every single movement to be adapted depending on what someone’s body needed.
Instead, the focus was on making sure everyone could challenge themselves safely and confidently rather than forcing people to pretend their bodies worked exactly the same way as everyone else’s.
And maybe the name of the gym sounded ridiculous to someone passing by on the street.
Maybe it sounded unserious.
But to the women who had already started showing up every day, laughing together during warmups and pushing themselves through workouts they never thought they would be able to do, the name had started to feel like something closer to a badge of honor.
Which was exactly why the glowing pink neon letters mounted above the door proudly read:
Bad Bitches Fitness Club.
The merch she had set up in the front of the shop had also turned out to be something of a surprise success, even though she had originally stocked it more as a fun addition rather than something she expected to make real money from.
More often than not, the shelves looked half-empty by the end of the day.
All the girls bought merch, usually walking around with at least one item of clothing on their body that read something like.
“Bad Bitch”
“Strong as Fuck”
“Sexier Than Your Wife” (That one always got a good laugh)
“Only Bad Bitches Lift Heavy”
And more.
The phrases had started as jokes when she was designing them late at night with her sister but seeing the way people reacted to them now made her realize just how important having those were to them, a symbol, a badge of pride.
Outside the gym, though, the block itself was much calmer than the energy.
On one side of her storefront was a financial advisory office that kept appointments only business hours and looked exactly like the kind of place you expected accountants and consultants to work.
On the other side was a tattoo parlor with a bold black sign above the door that read “Inked By Sin.”
She had been so consumed with opening the gym, though, that she had barely given either of the neighboring places much thought beyond noticing they existed.
Between organizing equipment deliveries, training the instructors she had hired, managing memberships, and making sure every detail of the space lived up to the vision she had spent years imagining, the past few weeks had passed in a blur.
Introducing herself to the people running the businesses next door hadn’t gotten onto her priority list.
To be fair, though, neither of them had come over to introduce themselves either.
Which meant that despite being open for nearly three weeks now, YN still had absolutely no idea who her neighbors actually were.
-
YN just happened to be wearing what had essentially become her daily uniform as a boss at the gym (which definitely wasn’t typical boss attire).
The sports bra she had thrown on that morning was black with hot pink bubble graffiti splashed across the front that read “Bad Bitch,” the lettering loud and obnoxious in the exact way she liked it.
YN had parked down the block like she usually did, leaving the closer street spots open for clients who were coming and going throughout the day who needed more accessibility than her.
The small stretch of curb directly in front of the businesses was almost always taken anyway.
There was usually a vintage Mustang parked outside the tattoo shop while a sleek Mercedes sedan almost always occupied the spot in front of the financial advisory office.
As she approached the front of her gym, already running through a mental schedule of things to do, something unusual caught her eye before she could even reach the door.
A man was leaning casually against the front glass of her studio.
He had his phone held close to his face in one hand as he scrolled while the other hand held a cigarette between two fingers that he lifted lazily to his mouth every few seconds, it looks freshly lit.
Each time he exhaled, he blew the smoke out of the side of his mouth without any thought, thick white clouds drifting and hanging in the still air right in front of the entrance of her business.
YN felt irritation spark almost immediately.
The guy definitely looked like he worked next door at the tattoo shop.
Between the nose piercings, the dark quiff of hair that had a neon green stripe running through it, and the scattered tattoos that ran up his arms, he had the exact look she associated with the artists she occasionally saw stepping in and out of the place.
A client pushed open the door of the gym to leave, the woman walked straight into the lingering cloud of cigarette smoke that had just been blown around the entrance.
The client scrunched her nose in obvious discomfort as she stepped out onto the sidewalk, waving her hand slightly through the air as if that might push the smell away.
Her eyes flicked over to YN with a small, apologetic expression that suggested she didn’t want to make a big deal about it.
YN returned the look with one of her own that clearly communicated she was sorry that it happened even though the situation had absolutely nothing to do with her.
Still, the irritation that had sparked inside her a moment ago sharpened quickly into something far less patient.
YN had learned over the years that there were different ways to deal with men who already believed they had the upper hand in a situation.
Sometimes it was easier to meet aggression with aggression.
But more often than not, she preferred a different tactic.
She started sweet.
Friendly.
Just enough sugar and charm to make them relax and assume they had control of the conversation, and if they happened to be the kind of man who liked to underestimate women based on how they looked, that only worked in her favor.
It made the moment where she dropped the sweetness and went straight for the throat that much more satisfying.
So instead of immediately snapping about the cigarette smoke drifting into the entrance of her gym and the face of her client, YN approached him with an easy smile stretched across her face.
“Hiya!” YN chirps brightly, flashing a pretty, welcoming smile as she stops directly in front of him, her posture relaxed like this is nothing more than a casual introduction, “I don't think we've met. Do you own the tattoo shop?”
The guy doesn’t rush to respond.
Instead, he slowly lowers his phone and takes his time looking up at her, his eyes dragging over her in a slow, obvious once-over that starts at her shoes, stays too long on her tits, and then he finally meets her eye.
Bingo.
YN already can’t stand him.
His brow furrows slightly, like the question itself is confusing to him.
“No?” He replies after a moment, his tone almost dismissive, looking at her like she’s a fucking idiot, “Harry Styles does?”
YN’s eyes widen in an innocent, almost dramatic way that’s completely faked.
But the truth is that she genuinely has no idea who the hell he’s talking about.
The name means absolutely nothing to her.
She doesn’t know anything about the tattoo world or the people in it, she doesn’t have any either.
So if this Harry person is supposed to be some legendary figure in the industry, it’s news to her.
“Oh, I’ve never heard of him,” YN replies easily, still keeping her voice bright and pleasant as if she’s mildly curious rather than completely uninterested.
The guy stares at her like she’s just admitted she’s never heard of electricity.
“He brought Living Realism to the East Coast twenty years ago?” He says, his tone shifting into something that sounds like he’s explaining something obvious to a child, Started tattooing when he was fourteen. Nothing ring a bell? Award winning?”
YN blinks at him, unfazed by the condescending edge seeping into his tone.
Her head tilts slightly as she considers the information like a confused puppy though the truth is she’s far more focused on the cigarette still burning between his fingers than she is about some douche she doesn’t care about.
“Why is his shop here then?” She asks casually.
The man scoffs at that, shaking his head like the question itself is stupid while he lifts the cigarette back to his lips for another drag.
“This is the original shop,” He explains, exhaling another waft of smoke that drifts through the air between them.,“He’s got them all over the world now. Tokyo, Rome, Monaco, Paris.”
“All his artists are trained by him and him alone,” He continues, his tone shifting into something disgustingly close to worshipping, “Doesn’t matter if they’ve tattooed before or not, they all start under him. He doesn’t let just anyone represent his shops.”
YN just nods like she cares.
“He prefers this one as his main shop though,” The man adds, clearly proud of the fact that he gets to be there with the owner.
The exclusivity that he was making seem so amazing to him was something that she hated and was the opposite of everything that she stood for.
It does sound impressive on paper.
Plenty of people would probably be intimidated by that information of their next door neighbor.
But YN finds it difficult to feel impressed while the guy standing in front of her continues blowing thick clouds of cigarette smoke directly toward the entrance of her gym without any care of how it’s probably drifting into her studio.
And if the owner of this apparently world-famous tattoo empire surrounds himself with employees who behave like this then she’s already fairly confident she’s not going to like the man himself very much either.
“Cool,” YN says lightly, her voice polite but losing enthusiasm.
“Yeah, cool,” The guy mirrors back, it’s almost taunting like she was back in high school, and god, she really didn’t need that this morning.
His eyes slide over her chest again, staying for a beat too long before continuing lower over her stomach and the curve of her waist, making it painfully obvious he isn’t even attempting to be subtle about it.
Fucking prick.
By the time his attention finally lifts back up to her face, the damage is already done.
Still, she keeps the smile on her face because she hasn’t reached the point where she’s ready to drop the act yet.
“Well, I own the gym,” YN says, keeping her tone light and friendly as she gestures back toward the storefront behind him, “I’m YN.”
She keeps her posture relaxed though, her tone still even when she finally decides to address the thing that had irritated her in the first place.
“Can you smoke somewhere else?” YN asks, her voice neutral and calm as she gestures lightly toward the cigarette still burning between his fingers, “Maybe on the other side of your shop or in the alleyway?”
It’s a simple request.
Reasonable.
The man doesn’t react that way.
Instead, he lets out a short scoff through his nose, his mouth twisting slightly as if the suggestion annoys him, the cigarette lifting back toward his lips while he looks down at her with a faintly condescending expression and purposefully takes a drag.
“Sweetheart,” He says slowly, the word dripping with a patronizing tone that instantly makes it clear he didn’t appreciate being told what to do, “Why don’t you just focus on your little gym, mind your own business, and let me be, yeah?”
His voice carries a confidence that says he’s convinced the conversation ends there.
Bingo.
YN feels something inside her snap into place.
The friendliness evaporates so quickly it almost feels like it had never been there in the first place.
She takes one step closer to him, closing the small gap between them before he can even process what she’s doing, her hand moving quickly as she reaches forward and plucks the cigarette from between his fingers.
The guy barely has time to react.
YN drops it directly onto the sidewalk between them and grinds it out under the sole of her sneaker with a twist of her foot.
For a brief second, the guy just stares at her like he’s not quite sure he saw what he thinks he saw.
YN lifts her gaze to meet his again and there’s nothing friendly left in her expression now.
Her voice, when she speaks, is sharp and mean enough to slice through whatever smug demeanor he had on moments earlier.
“I think you are confused,” YN says slowly like he's the idiot, her tone low but dangerous, the sweetness she had started the conversation with completely gone, “That wasn’t a request.”
She tilts her head slightly, the movement almost thoughtful even though her eyes stay locked on his.
“It was a fucking demand.”
There's silence.
Then she adds, the last word coming out with heavy emphasis.
“Sweetheart.”
The nickname lands exactly the way she intends it to.
Mocking.
Without giving him the chance to respond, YN turns smoothly on her heel, already reaching for the door handle.
She pulls it open and steps inside, letting the heavy glass door swing shut behind her with a firm thud.
And she doesn’t bother looking back.
-
“Finally figured out which one of those girls is the owner,” Zayn grunts as he pushes the door open and walks straight into Harry’s office without bothering to knock.
Harry doesn’t look up.
He stays focused on the screen of the computer in front of him, scrolling through an order.
“Riveting,” Harry replies dryly, his tone flat with disinterest.
He had a shop manager whose entire job was handling inventory and making sure the artists had what they needed,m but that didn’t mean Harry trusted anyone else to actually place his orders.
It had been that way since the beginning and even after expanding to shops across the world, Harry had never let go of the habit.
Control over the details wasn't optional.
And nobody fucked with the process he had built.
Zayn drops into the chair opposite his desk like he was invited in, leaning back and stretching his legs out in front of him as he shakes his head with a quiet laugh.
“Bitchy little thing,” He says, still sounding mildly entertained by the interaction, “Looks like some kinda trust fund baby or somethin’.”
Harry still doesn’t look up, his eyes scanning the order list as he adjusts something for the next shipment.
Zayn continues anyway.
“She came marching right up like she owns the block,” He adds, a crooked grin tugging at his mouth as he leans forward slightly in the chair, “Tiny cute little thing but she’s got an awful mouth on her.”
Harry exhales quietly through his nose, still unimpressed.
“Thrilling,” He mutters, clicking to the next page on the screen.
Zayn obviously wants more from so Harry sighs, squeezing the ridge of his nose.
“She’ll be like every business that’s been there before her,” Harry says, his voice edged with irritation as he keeps his attention on the screen in front of him, “A wanna-be influencer with a cute idea and no plan to actually sustain it. The vegan candle shop lasted what, four months? The kombucha place before that collapsed before the lease was even up. All those trendy bullshit businesses that look good on Instagram never last, so why do you give a fuck?”
Zayn leans back further in the chair across from his desk, “The girls who owned those shops before were nice. We didn’t have to worry about them. This one though… she’s dangerous, man. She’s gorgeous, fucking rocking body, mid to late twenties, and a horrendous fucking attitude.”
That’s the point where Harry finally stops typing.
He leans back in his chair slowly and lifts his gaze toward Zayn with a look that’s equal parts annoyance and disbelief that this conversation is still happening.
“Zayn,” Harry says flatly, his patience clearly gone now. “I’m a forty-eight year old fuckin’ man. I’m hardly worried about a silly lil’ thing with an unrealistic dream. Drop it and go do something. Get the fuck out of my office.”
