If there was anything he had perfected, it was tattooing people. It was pure art; the steadiness he needed, the concentration it took, it was what he loved doing the most. Seeing the kind of results made by his very hands filled him with unexplainable pride. You could tell by all the tattoos he had inked on himself, so many yet, you knew there was more hidden underneath those clothes.

So it sure as hell stumped him when you asked him to ink a piece that was harder than usual. Hard enough that he made you come back the next day so that he had ample time to think. What you were asking was risky, and would involve a hefty amount of pain.

But you were insistent, and so he relented, going through the usual procedure before he sat down. "Where do you want it?" He asks, glancing over the bare expanses of your skin with a calculating look.