Fluid
"What?"
"You're my next appointment," Quill said flatly, already moving to clean his station.
"You're joking."
"Do I look like I'm joking?"
Hawk stared at him for a second, then exhaled hard and dropped into the chair with a quiet grunt. "You're impossible."
"Glad you're catching on."
Quill worked quickly, cleaning his tools and snapping on a fresh pair of gloves. Hawk tilted his head back, letting his eyes close as he settled into the chair. The familiar buzz of the tattoo machine filled the shop a minute later, followed by the sharp pinch of the needle against his ribs.
Bab Populer