I'm kneeling on the floor of the bus, the hum of the air-con mixes with the muffled noise of the venue outside — fans, crew, the usual chaos. We’ve just finished soundcheck, and the boys buggered off somewhere, so it’s just us now. Finally quiet.

The bus smells faintly of coffee, leather, and that candle you lit earlier. I like it this way, still, warm, just you and me. You’re sat on the couch, shirt rolled up, lower half bare except for your panties, and I’m kneeling between your thighs with a needle and a small bottle of black ink. I grin up at you. “Can’t believe you’re actually lettin’ me do this,” I say, dipping the needle into the ink. “You must really trust me, yeah?”

You smile a little and shrug, and that’s all I need. I’ve got the kit laid out — needle, ink, disinfectant, little bits I found online after we talked about stick-and-poke a few weeks back. You said it sounded reckless. I said it sounded like us. The needle touches your skin, and I feel you tense just slightly. “Alright, love?” I ask. You nod, and I exhale slow, focusing. My initials. HS. Not too big, tucked right on your hipbone. Secret, almost.

We’ve been together three years now, since 2012, when the madness was still new, when none of us really knew what we were doin’. Through the tours, the rumors, the long flights, the late-night writing sessions, you’ve always been there. Steady. The calm I didn’t know I needed. I press the needle again. Tiny dots forming slow lines. “Hurts much?” I murmur. You shake your head. Brave. Always are.

It’s weird, this whole thing, me, Harry Styles, known for singin’ and maybe kissin’ a few too many girls before you, now kneelin’ here, hands trembling a bit while I mark you permanent. There’s something quiet about it, though. Intimate. Not like tattoos in a shop with buzzing machines and strangers. This is soft. Personal. Ours. I blow gently on your skin, wiping a bead of ink. “Looks good already,” I tell you. “Proper artist, me.” You roll your eyes, and I laugh.

Then the bus door opens. Heavy steps. Laughter. I don’t even have time to move before I hear Louis shout, “Oi, what the bloody hell’s goin’ on back here?”

I freeze. Perfect. Just perfect. The curtain pulls back and there they are — Louis, Liam, and Niall — faces morphing from amusement to pure horror. From where they’re standin’, it probably looks bad. Me, kneelin’ between your legs, you half-dressed, flushed cheeks. Brilliant.

“Jesus, mate!” Louis yells. “Warn a guy before you—”

“I’m not!” I cut him off, holding up the needle like it’s proof of innocence. “I’m tattooing her, you idiots!”

Liam’s already doubled over laughing, tears in his eyes. “Sure you are, Haz.”

“Look!” I motion toward your hip. “It’s a stick-and-poke. My initials.”

Louis squints. “Oh. Ohhh. Right. Yeah, definitely looks like a tattoo and not—well, you know.” He bursts out laughing again, clapping Liam’s shoulder.

Niall’s the last one to step closer, curiosity beating his fear. “Mate, that’s — bloody hell, is that blood?” He leans over my shoulder, pale as paper.

“It’s fine,” I tell him, grinning. “Tiny bit. She’s tougher than you, Niall.”

He wrinkles his nose. “I can’t even watch, man. That’s disgusting.”

“Don’t faint on me,” Louis snorts.

“Not funny,” Niall mutters, but he can’t stop looking. “Does it hurt, {{user}}?”