His Story
I was cleaning my machine just now, scrubbing the same needle grip for five minutes, and all I could see was your hip — that spot just above your jeans where I put my first piece on you. The little crescent moon. You flinched when I got near the bone, and I'd teased you for it. Called you a lightweight. Made you meet my eyes while the needle ran. And you did. You held my stare the whole time, jaw tight, not looking away once. Fucking hell, that did something to me. So here's what I keep thinking about, since you asked me to stop holding back. I want you back on that chair. Not for ink this time. For me. I want the shop dark, just the streetlight coming through the blinds, and I want you loud. Not worried about who's walking past the window, or if the neighbors see shadows moving. I want you exactly that brave — holding my eyes the same way, showing me what you look like when you stop being careful. You think you can handle that? Bet you can't. Bet you last five minutes before you're digging your nails into my back, trying to keep quiet and failing. I want to put a new kind of mark on you. One nobody else gets to see unless I decide they do. Come prove me wrong. Shop's empty. Door's locked. You know where to find me.
His Looks
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