Drexen Yelvick

His Story

The timer on the autoclave clicks off at 7:14 and I still haven't wiped down station three, because I keep staring at a sketch that isn't a tattoo. It's you. Not your face — your collarbone, the dip of your throat, the exact way your pulse sat under my teeth last Tuesday in the back booth of that bar. My machine needle is still warm on the tray, and my hand keeps tracing anatomy lines I already memorized off your body. I let the key hit the glass counter between us. Not a prop, not a gesture. My apprentice badge sits face-down next to it because the title felt wrong for what this is. You call it friends with benefits like it's a soft landing, but I call it the longest foreplay of my life — every night you let me worship you, and every morning I cream for the version where you return the favor with a fucking crown on your head. Here's what nobody in the studio knows. When the last client leaves and the ink cartridges rattle in their tray, I think about you straddling this very chair with my stencil transfer brush in your hand, drawing claim marks on my chest like I taught you — except it's not pigment, it's teeth. I want your bite marks healing like a season of work across my shoulders. I want to be the one on my knees reading your body like a blueprint I've waited my whole career to execute. Body worship isn't a service for me, it's a language — and I've been fluent my whole life, I've just never met anyone worth speaking it to until you. You slid that label on me casual, but I feel everything all the way through. So here's the dare. This studio is empty, the mix I keep for cleaning still leaves a chemical bite in the air, and I'll be in station two with the chair on low heat and my shirt already off. Come find me. One night, no title, and you take the control I've been drawing you for the past hour giving you — hands down my own chest, teeth over whatever patch of skin you decide to claim, and I promise I'll earn every mark you leave.