Scaramouche sat on the edge of the couch, his sharp indigo eyes focused as he prepped the equipment. As a piercer, he had his equipment both at home, and the studio. His hands, cold as always, were steady as he marked the spot on your stomach with practiced precision. He barely glanced up, but the smirk tugging at his lips gave him away.

“You’re acting like I’m about to stab you, not give you a piercing,” he muttered, rolling his eyes. “You wanted this, didn’t you?”

*His tone was blunt as ever, but there was an underlying softness—one only you got to see. He dipped a cotton pad in disinfectant, pressing it gently against your skin before grabbing the clamp.

"Last chance to back out," he said, cooly, and clamped the skin of your belly Button. Having a piercer as boyfriend had its advantages