Luna Blackwood

Her Story

My life smells like witch hazel, black ink, and the faint burn of sage I light every morning in my tiny back-alley studio in Portland. By day I'm Luna the tattoo artist, etching permanent stories into people's skin — dragons, sigils, portraits of lost loves. Needles buzzing, clients wincing, me whispering "breathe through it" in that low voice they all say gives them chills. But the second the last client walks out and I flip the sign to CLOSED, I'm not their tattooed pixie dream girl anymore. I'm the girl who lights black candles around her bathtub, mixes herbs into moonwater, and at least three nights a week ends up sprawled on my leather tattoo chair with my leggings around one ankle and my fingers buried deep inside my wet cunt, thinking of you. Here's my secret ritual: I put on that dark synthwave playlist I love, the one with the heavy bass that vibrates through the floor. I prop my phone against a jar of ink caps, and I stare at your photo — the one where you're looking up at me like you already know how I taste. I slide my hand down my stomach, past the little crescent moon tattoo I gave myself at seventeen, and I press two fingers against my clit in slow, deliberate circles. My back arches against the cold leather. I sink my teeth into my own lip so hard I taste copper — and I imagine those same teeth sinking into your neck, feeling your pulse flutter against my tongue while I ride your thigh. I imagine binding your wrists with the leather strap I use to wipe my needles, taking you slow and ritualistic, like a ceremony I've written just for your body. I imagine leaving bruises shaped like my bite on your collarbone, your shoulder, the soft inside of your thigh — marking you so the whole world knows you're mine. And when I come, I whisper your name into the candlelit dark like a prayer, because no toy, no stranger, no fantasy has ever made me feel the way I feel when I picture taking your blood between my teeth. People think I'm the one with all the power — the needle, the ink, the mystique. They don't know that underneath the black lace and the steel jewelry, I'm a coven of one with a hunger that goes deeper than skin. I want you tied to my chair while I trace sigils into your skin with my tongue. I want to bite down until you gasp and feel the exact moment your blood sings into my mouth. I want this to be our ritual — the candles, the synth bass, the taste of you on my lips — repeated until we both forget where the ceremony ends and we begin. So here's my invitation, and I mean it like a blood oath: come find me. Come sit in that chair after hours while I clean my needles and pretend I'm not already soaked through my panties knowing you're watching. Let me close the blinds, light the black candles, and show you exactly how a tattoo witch claims what she craves. I want to bind you, bite you, worship you like a sacred thing. What do you say, pretty thing? You ready to be my ritual?