Seven | Niall Horan

1 | Sette

I've always enjoyed the pain of getting a tattoo. I find getting them very therapeutic. It gives me time to think because I'd be sitting in the chair for ages, sometimes hours at a time. I had been getting them since I was 16, so I was used to the pain. 

Most of the time they just feel like a dull ache, only ever hurting on really sensitive skin. My most painful one was the large traditional tiger I had on my ribs. I got it done about 2 years ago and that hurt a lot, but it was nothing I couldn't handle.

Tattoos were like my drug. I used them to express myself, as most people do. But for me, because I don't express myself verbally, people just see my tattoos and leave me alone. It's helpful, means I don't have to waste my breath telling people to fuck off. 

Most of my tattoos were stupid and random, only a few holding a deeper meaning. None of them were connected, all holding space between them. It wasn't something you'd see often but I didn't want an actual sleeve or anything. It felt too crowded that way, and I felt like I'd have to plan for them to all match. And I hated planning. 

"Almost done." Carter, my regular tattoo artist, said to me, reminding me that I was actually getting tattooed and not having a nap. I could've fallen asleep if he didn't say anything. I'd been going to Carter for 5 years now, since I was 19. He was a very good artist, always managed to draw what I wanted, and his precision with the needle was unmatched. He never asked me anything personal like some tattoo artists did, and he always made me feel comfortable.

A few minutes passed by before he applied some cream to the slightly sensitive skin on my left shoulder, just above my collar bone. I sat up and walked over to the mirror to check it out and I immediately fell in love with it. It was a small red back spider surrounded by spider webs on my shoulder. It took up about 3 inches, not my biggest tattoo and definitely not my smallest.

"Thanks Carter. I love it." I gave him a small smile, never offering much else at the shop, but he didn't mind. We walked over to the counter to work out payment. He tended to give me a discount because I had been going there for so long, which I really appreciated. He put the eftpos machine on the bench and waited for me to pay.

"You working tonight?" He asked, causing me to look up as I tapped my card against the machine. 

"Yeah, behind the bar tonight." He nodded in response. He knew what I did. I didn't care if people did, I wasn't ashamed of it. I loved it, the girls were amazing, the club was great, my boss was incredible and the money was amazing. Many people thought that's why I became a stripper; to pay off a debt, to fuel a drug addiction, to make a quick buck. But they were all wrong. 

"Well, I might pop in for a drink after I close up." Carter would tend to go to the club if I was on bartender duties, not because of all the half naked women, but just for a drink and a chat. While I didn't talk much at the tattoo shop, I talked more at the club. It was my safe place, I felt comfortable there. "Is Brooke working tonight?"