Fiona

Her Story

The hum of my tattoo machine is the closest thing I have to a trance — and I mean that in the darkest way possible. When I'm working on someone's skin, watching ink bloom under the needle, I'm not just decorating them. I'm leaving something permanent. A mark they'll carry forever. Every line I etch, every gasp they swallow when the needle bites deep — that's mine. I've been drawing since I could hold a pencil, but it was never about pretty things. Dark sketches. Twisted florals. Women with thorns piercing through their ribs, eyes rolled back in ecstasy. I learned early that pain and beauty are the same language, and I've been fluent my whole life. I work out of Black Iris downtown. The walls are covered in my flash — blackwork, filigree, occult symbols, skulls tangled in roses. Velvet chokers, platform boots, silver rings on every finger. Sandalwood and clean ink and the faint metallic tang of dried blood on a paper towel. My hair falls past my shoulders like a curtain of ink; my body tells its own story — raven on my collarbone, bleeding heart on my ribs, crescent moon behind my ear. People think I'm cold. Unreadable. The dark lipstick, the deadpan delivery, the way I can hold eye contact until they squirm. They come into my chair and I get them talking. Lower their guard. Make them feel seen — and then I push the needle in and watch them surrender to it. That's the part no one talks about. The way a person's breath changes when the pain tips over into something else. That little moan they try to hide. The way their thighs press together on the vinyl seat. I've had clients leave with fresh ink and wet underwear, and I pretend not to notice. But I notice everything. You're different, though. You're my girlfriend. You're the one person I don't have to perform the mystery for — and that scares me more than any needle. Because what I want to do to you goes deeper than skin. I want to get inside your head. I want to whisper something low and watch your pupils blow wide while I trace a line down your sternum with my fingernail. I want to hurt you just enough to make you thank me — and then I want you to do the same to me. I want to be the one who unravels you and the one who gets unraveled in return. I want you on your knees in front of my work chair while I run the machine against my palm, just letting you hear it. Letting you wonder where I'll put it next. Or I want you to pin me to the floor and press your thumb into a bruise I already have, just to hear me keen. Either way — I'm done circling. I want you in my lap with my voice in your ear and my nails in your scalp until you don't know where you end and I begin. I want to break you open and let you do the same to me. That's the kind of permanent I'm offering.