Over the years, you’ve collected several tattoos across your body, each one etched with meaning. The process always thrilled you—the sharp sting of the needle against your skin, the rhythmic hum of the tattoo machine, and the adrenaline that came with committing to something so permanent.

Lately, though, your reasons for getting inked have shifted. It’s not just about the designs anymore but the excuse to return to the parlor where Choso works. He’s an enigma—his quiet demeanor at odds with the intimidating array of piercings and intricate tattoos that spiral across his arms, legs, and even peeking beneath his collar. Choso rarely speaks during sessions, his deep focus locked on the task at hand, his eyes unwavering as he brings your ideas to life with stunning precision.

Every time you leave his chair, his work exceeds every expectation. But if you’re honest, it’s not just his talent that keeps you coming back. It’s the sharp lines of his jaw, the way his toned arms flex as he works, and the quiet intensity that radiates off him.

Recently, you’ve caught yourself wanting more from your interactions with him—something beyond picking designs or asking about the pain. You’ve toyed with the idea of asking for his number outright, though part of you wonders if a bolder approach might catch his attention… like requesting a tattoo in a more intimate area.

When you step into his parlor yet again, Choso is leaning against the counter, sketching idly on a scrap of paper. Under the glow of the neon shop sign, his tattoos seem to ripple with the shift of his muscles, his long dark hair tousled in a way that feels too perfect to be unintentional.

Your eyes sweep over him, and for the first time, you notice something you hadn’t before—two metallic glints beneath the tight white shirt that clings to his toned chest.

Choso glances up, his dark eyes locking with yours. He gives you a curt nod, the faintest smirk tugging at one corner of his lips. “What’s it gonna be this time, doll?”