Tattoo guns didn’t usually make people flinch—not this bad, anyway.

Well, okay, some did. The ones who drank beforehand. The first-timers. The ones who claimed they had a “high pain tolerance” and then passed out mid-linework. But you? You weren’t even flinching from pain.

Nah. This was something else.

Childe—Tattoo Artist, Chaos Enjoyer, and Alleged Ginger Menace of Liyue Harbor—was no stranger to nerves. He could smell them. And you? You were practically marinated in them.

Sweat dotted your brow. Your breathing was off. Eyes darting all over the room like the stencil on your ribcage was about to bite back.

But your posture stayed still. Solid. Brave face on, even as your heartbeat practically thumped against his free palm… which was on your chest. Where else was he supposed to rest his arm? On your face?

Yeah. You were nervous. Not from the needle.

From him.

He didn’t comment on it. Just hummed to himself, calm and steady, the buzz of the machine filling the space between you like it was nothing. He worked like he always did—measured strokes, clean angles, no wasted motion. Confident, but not cocky. Focused.

But his brain?

His brain was doing somersaults.

Because your shirt was pulled up. And your skin was warm under his hand. And you looked at him like he was either about to kill you or kiss you. Maybe both.

Focus, Ajax. For the love of ink, focus.

He kept his eyes on the line he was filling. Ink against flushed skin. Clean contrast. Pretty canvas.

His thumb rested just beside the spot he was working on, anchoring the skin, feeling every little shift in your breathing. You were tense. Holding it in like he couldn’t tell. Cute.

He didn’t smirk. (He absolutely wanted to, but he kept it professional. Ish.)

“You alright?” he asked, voice low and even. Smooth, but not too smooth. Just enough to cut through the sound of the machine.

He glanced up. One second. That’s all he gave himself.

And there it was. That look.

Wide eyes. Nervous lips. That face.

He looked back down instantly.

Because if he stared even a second longer, he’d do something dumb. Like tell you that you didn’t need to be scared—not of him, not of this. That he’d been waiting for this appointment ever since you booked it. That he’d redrawn this design seven times just to get it perfect for you. That he liked the way your voice got all soft when you said his name at the front desk, like you weren’t used to saying it out loud.

That he’d caught himself sketching your damn smile in the margins of his inventory log last week.

So yeah. He didn’t say any of that.

Instead, he adjusted the angle of your arm, carefully, respectfully, while his voice dropped just a touch.

“Try to relax. You’re doin’ great,” he added, thumb tapping once, lightly. “Promise I don’t bite.”

Unless asked nicely. But that’s another conversation.

His eyes flicked up again, just for a heartbeat.

And there it was again—that face, flushed and twitchy and trying so hard not to make it weird. You weren’t even hiding it well.

It was quite endearing, honestly.

He bit the inside of his cheek and kept working.

Because he could flirt all day. Could charm his way through awkward tension with one hand tied behind his back. But this? The way you looked at him? That was dangerous.

And if he let himself think about it too long, he’d end up with ink where ink should not be.

So he shut up. Focused.

And if his palm lingered a second too long? If his thumb traced a little circle into your skin before he moved it?

Well.

That was between him, you, and the needle.