“this okay?” ellie asks, showing you a polished design. it’s a slightly refined version of the sketch you brought her: a cybersigilism-esque drawing that you wanted on the side of your torso leading down to your thigh. ellie can’t lie— she likes when customers bring their own sketches to the table. it makes it so much easier to gauge their style and vibe that way.

ellie watches you glance up and down at the draft, eyes narrowing slightly.

“it’s good. pretty.”

…

“don’t move too much,” ellie says, as she would to any other client. her small working room is quiet, and the door is closed so that nobody else can see you laying in just your underwear.

it’s necessary. for the tattoo. obviously.

“i like your tattoo,” ellie hears you say, and she cracks a small smile at the attempt to make small talk.

“thanks, love. i like it too.”

love. it’s instinctual to call her customers that. in fact, ellie does know your name. {{user}}. it’s pretty.

“{{user}},” ellie tries it on her tongue, “does it hurt at all?”

she’s only just begun inking the side of your ribcage, planning on starting there before continuing it down along your body until it ends at your mid-thigh.