Needle & Nerve | E. Kirishima

needle & nerve | e. kirishima

he came in for a piercing. what he didn’t expect was the artist behind the gloves—sharp-eyed, quick-witted, and maybe his new favorite reason to come back. (987 words)

your shop sat just off the main street—half tattoo studio, half piercing parlor, with walls that held a little bit of grit and a whole lot of story. incense burned low in the corner, masking the sharp scent of disinfectant, and the constant hum of fluorescent lights buzzed beneath the soft thud of bass-heavy music filtering in from the back room. framed flash sheets covered the walls, inked with dragons, snakes, roses, and teeth. some were faded from sun, some fresh, some yours. all of them meant something to someone.

you leaned over the front desk, chin in your palm, scrolling idly through a list of upcoming appointments when the door chimed. you didn't look up right away—it wasn't rare to get walk-ins—but something about the shift in the room made your hand pause over the mouse.

he stepped inside like he wasn’t sure how loud to be. tall, square-shouldered, all muscle and nervous momentum. red hair pulled back in a headband that didn’t quite tame it, and eyes—bright, dark-lashed, darting around the space like they were trying to memorize it before it could change.

"uh—hi," he said. his voice cracked slightly on the first syllable, too loud for the low hum of the shop. "i’ve got an appointment?"

you looked up and found a boy who seemed more like a mountain in training. his cheeks flushed deeper when your gaze caught him.

"eyebrow at three?"

"yeah." he nodded, breath like it had been held since the sidewalk. "that’s me."

"cool. i’m your piercer today," you said, stepping out from behind the desk and gesturing toward the back. "i’m y/n."

he blinked, then smiled like he hadn’t expected introductions to be part of this. "eijiro. kirishima eijiro."

you gave him a nod and a smirk. "nice to meet you, eijiro. let’s make you bleed a little."

he trailed behind as you led him through the studio, past tattoo chairs draped in black leather and chrome trays lined with freshly sterilized tools. his eyes lingered on the art pinned above each station, pausing longer at a piece you'd done last week—three snakes coiled through the jaw of a skull.

"first piercing?" you asked, tugging on gloves.

"yeah." he scratched the back of his neck, sheepish. "figured it was time. always thought about it but... i dunno. guess i needed a push."

"it’s a good pick," you said, voice easy, hands already arranging your tray. "subtle. sharp. very you."

he blinked, then smiled. "you don’t even know me."

"don’t need to. i read people."

he laughed, louder this time. "and what do i read like?"

"someone who talks a big game and still gets nervous walking into places like this."

he opened his mouth, then closed it with a grin. "fair enough."

you motioned to the chair. "you’ll feel a quick pinch and then a little pressure. it’s not that bad. just don’t flinch."

"i won’t. promise." he slid into the chair like it was a test. his hands settled in his lap, though you could see the way he kept flexing his fingers.

you moved around him with steady precision. sterilized clamp. single-use needle in its packaging. mirror nearby. you sprayed his brow with antiseptic and caught his flinch out of the corner of your eye—not from pain, but from cold.

he glanced at you. "you do tattoos too?"

"yep. mostly blackwork. fine line, sometimes flash. i draw all my own sheets."

"that snake piece on the way in—that was yours?"

you nodded. "you've got a good eye."

he flushed again, red creeping across his ears now. "guess i’m just a fan of good linework."

you leaned in close, brushing his hair from his temple. his skin was warm under your gloves. close like this, he smelled like clean laundry and just a little sweat, like maybe he’d psyched himself up before walking through the door.

"keep your head still. i’m gonna mark you."

you felt his breath hitch as you pressed the pen lightly to his skin. you could feel the tension in his shoulders—not fear, exactly. more like anticipation wound tight beneath muscle.

"you alright?"

he nodded. "just thinking."

"about what?"

"if this actually makes me cooler or if i’ll just look like i lost a bet."

you smiled. "only one way to find out."

you lined the clamp up gently. "deep breath in."

he inhaled, and you pierced through his skin.

a second passed. then two.

you pulled the needle through, swapped it for the jewelry, and clipped the hoop into place. he didn’t move, not even when you wiped away the smallest dot of blood.

"that’s it?" he blinked at you, like he expected to be bleeding out.

"that’s it."

he touched the edge of the new ring, careful, like it might still sting.

"damn. kinda expected to cry or something."

"give it five hours. you might regret it."

he laughed and stood, slowly, adjusting to the sudden lightness in his posture.

you peeled your gloves off with a soft snap, tossed them in the bin, and reached for the aftercare sheet. when you turned back around, he was holding something in his hand.

a post-it. yellow. handwriting a little slanted, a little rushed.

he stuck it to the counter next to the tip jar. his number written in black ink on the paper.

"in case i want the other side done," he said casually. "or, you know, maybe a snake tattoo. or maybe coffee."

you tilted your head, one eyebrow raised. "you just hand out your number to everyone you meet under bright lights and sharp metal?"

he grinned, sheepish and bold all at once. "only when they’re the prettiest person i’ve ever met."

he waved over his shoulder, and the bell above the door chimed as he left, hair catching the light like a flame, and you were still staring at the post-it note—still smiling—when the door eased shut behind him.