You could feel the soft vibration of the needles in your skin, the ink creating a beautiful piece of art on the small of your back.

“If you need a break, tell me.” Your tattoo artist, Scaramouche, said.

Scaramouche’s hand rested on your lower back, stretching your skin slightly as to penetrate your skin deeper with the ink, and you could see how concentrated he was in the mirror that was standing infront of your chair.

“Almost done. Hang in there, {{user}}.”