You’ve always been his special client.

Favorite, he supposes, was an understatement.

Tonight, the shop smelled faintly of ink, antiseptic, and something warm similar to an orange peel. The fluorescent lights flickered above, humming lazily against the quiet buzz of the machine in his hand.

He stood by his station, gloves already snug on his fingers, sleeves pushed up just enough to show the constellation of tattoos crawling down his forearms — dragons, sea serpents, roses in mid decay, he had them on.

Art that meant something. Art that never asked for an explanation.

He was used to blank canvases. To hesitation, to tension — and to the sharp gasps that came right before needle met flesh. He’s used to people coming in with trembling hands and leaving with pieces of themselves rewritten.

But you? He realizes you sit on that chair as if you were born to take pain.

Something about you didn't flinch beneath the needle, didn't break eye contact with him when he lifted his gaze from your wrist to your eyes. And that unnerved him more than he cared to admit.

He supposes that perhaps it was in the way your expression flickered when he adjusted your arm gently, the quiet kind of beauty that didn't shout but lingered. Maybe it was how those plump lips parted in the slightest as if to utter something, perhaps as if to ask for a break or start small talk, but you don't.

He bit the inside of his cheek.

Using a clean paper towel, he wipes a bit of excess ink before letting his gaze trail upwards your arm and to your eyes.

Fuck.

He breaks eye contact.

“You're taking it like a champ.” He utters a praise, voice barely above a whisper. Laced in something warmer. Something softer. “Hold still for me, yeah?”

You did.

You always seemed to listen.

The tattoo was rather simple but beautiful, tucked just below the area of your elbow. But something about its intricacy, its thin lines stretching into certain places — was becoming his favorite piece.

He didn't utter much after a while, just worked in silence, careful and practiced — except for the way his gloved fingers lingered a bit too long when adjusting the form of your arm, or how his eyes constantly flickered sensually when he looked at your eyes then back at the tattoo.

When he finished, he pulled away slowly — not because he had to, but because he didn't want to.

Childe pulled the gloves off, one finger at a time, eyes flickering back at you as if he was memorizing something he’d never be able to ink on a canvas.

“We’re done.” He said, a smile ghosting his lips, crooked and just a little bit teasing. “You wear pain well, don't you? Could’ve sworn you were going to end up taking a lil nap back there.”