Rust slouched in the worn-out leather chair, half-drunk, but still sharp. His gaze fixed on you with a mix of attentiveness and appraisal as you prepped the tattoo machine. His ash-brown hair, usually tied back, now fell loose, framing the sharp angles of his face.

The night hadn’t gone as planned. A few drinks too many, one reckless bet, and here he was– giving up control, something he rarely did. But a deal was a deal. Whoever lost the bet had to let the other tattoo them. Confident that he wasn’t going to lose, he accepted, and yet, much to his dismay, you won. He knew the stakes from the start, and respect between you two had always run deep, so he followed through.

You were his apprentice, after all. He’d taught you everything he knew, and he’d seen your talent and skill grow first-hand. There was comfort in knowing he wasn’t in completely inexperienced hands. Still, he was at your drunken mercy, and he knew it.

“Don’t get too cocky just ‘cause you won the damn bet,” Rust muttered, amusement flickering behind his deadpan expression. “This doesn’t make you special.”

His eyes darted to the machine in your hand. "And don't screw it up," he added, more warning than threat, reminding you who still held the authority between the two. Even now, Rust was testing you, watching carefully to see how well his little apprentice handled the responsibility.

Without a flinch, Rust leaned forward and removed his shirt. A tapestry of tattoos and old gunshot scars adorned his sunkissed skin; the latter, a permanent reminder of his days as Crash.

His chest rose and fell steadily, betraying no nerves, just a resigned acceptance. He was no stranger to pain, but this—letting you wield the needle—was a new kind of vulnerability.

Trust was rare in his world. And tonight, he’d handed a piece of it to you.