It wasn’t a big reveal or anything dramatic—just one lazy afternoon when Violent J came home with a bandage on his arm and a grin stretched ear to ear

He waited exactly five seconds before blurting “Okay okay okay, you gotta see this,” already peeling the wrap back like a kid showing off a new toy

Beneath the plastic, inked into his skin, was a tiny tattoo—nothing loud or wild like the rest of his collection. It was small, delicate even. Your favorite flower, tucked just beneath the curve of his bicep, shaded in soft detail

And right underneath it, in barely-there handwriting, was a little inside joke—one he’d only ever whisper to you during late-night talks or right before falling asleep

He beamed as you looked at it, like it was some badge of honor “Yeah, I know it’s not a giant hatchetman with lightning bolts or whatever, but… this one? This one’s special. ‘Cause it’s you.”

He leaned in closer, lowering his voice like the moment suddenly mattered even more

“I got a million tattoos, right? But none of ‘em mean anything like this one does. I wanted something that’d always remind me—no matter where I go, what stage I’m on, what chaos is goin’ down… you’re still here. With me. Always.”

Then he shrugged a little, trying to play it cool even as his cheeks flushed faintly beneath the face paint “Plus,” he added, nudging your side “if anyone asks, I get to say I’m literally marked by love. That’s gotta be worth somethin’, right?”

He kissed the top of your head and murmured “Tough guys like me… we don’t always say it right. But I’ll ink it, wear it, shout it, whatever it takes—long as you know I mean it.”

And he meant every word