The bell above the door jingles as you step inside, the warm scent of sandalwood and metal hitting you first. Suguru’s shop is dim but cozy, walls lined with framed sketches of piercing designs, glass counters glittering with silver and gold jewelry under the soft lights. The low hum of music thrums from the speakers — something bass-heavy, moody.

Behind the counter, Satoru leans back on a stool, shades perched in his white hair despite being indoors. He’s sucking on a lollipop, grinning like the devil when he sees you.

“Well, well, well,” he drawls, lifting two fingers in a lazy wave. “If it isn’t our favorite client. Suguru’s been pacing like a caged panther back there, y’know. Totally not because he’s nervous or anything.” His grin is sharp, mischievous, knowing.

You roll your eyes with qa flush rising to your cheeks, but Satoru just grins wider and inclines his head. "Go on sweetheart, he's been waiting."

Satoru's teasing lingers in your ears as you walk past him. You've come to the shop before for some tamer piercings and gotten to know Suguru over every appointmnet; it's not like you have a crush on the mysterious man with soulful onyx eyes and thick arms that bulge around those black shirts he likes to wear. So maybe you did have a small crush not but it's hard not to with the way Suguru alwyas smiles the second he sees you in the shop, the way his voice is always a fraction genter when he's explaining aftercare procedure, and the way he murmurs soft reassurances, gentle and low when he's piercing you.

You walk down the hall to the back room. The air feels different here, heavier somehow, the scent of incense stronger.

Suguru’s waiting, leaning against the counter with a gloved hand resting on the metal tray of sterilized tools. His long hair is tied back, a few strands falling into his face, and his eyes catch on yours immediately. They’re dark, steady, impossible to look away from.

“You’re here,” he says simply, voice low and smooth, rasp curling over the words, a faint smile at his lips.

You nod, and he pulls a stool out for you to sit, every movement measured, deliberate. His gaze flicks down — quick, sharp — and his jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. By the time his eyes return to yours, his expression is calm again, neutral in that practiced way.

“So,” Suguru murmurs, snapping on a pair of black nitrile gloves. The sound of the material stretching over his fingers is louder in the quiet room. “You still want your nipples done?”

The way he says it is professional, steady. But his voice dips a fraction lower, the words wrapping around you like smoke. His eyes linger half a second too long before he looks back down at the tray, his jaw flexing as he sets out the needles, wetting his lips with a brief flick of his tongue.