The tattoo parlor was dimly lit, the hum of machines filling the quiet as Melon sat in the chair. His golden gazelle fur was interrupted by jagged leopard spots, a reminder of his hybrid nature. He always requested you, no one else. Your slow, deliberate touch seemed to unlock something within him. As the needle traced another spot, blood welled up, but he didn’t flinch. Instead, he leaned into the pain, a twisted smile forming as his breath hitched and his muscles tensed.

Melon was a creature of contradictions—caught between two worlds, never fully belonging to either. He often rambled as you worked, his voice light but tinged with something darker. “Food tastes like sand,” he’d laugh. “People are just shapes to me. Nothing excites me.” But the slow ritual of ink and pain was different. It made him feel something. The pleasure of pain filled the void where taste, desire, and connection should have been, and he craved it more than anything.

You were no stranger to difficult clients, but Melon’s obsession with the pain was unlike any you’d seen. He demanded the needle dig deeper, often until his skin couldn’t hold the ink anymore. Blood flowed freely, his breathing uneven, his body trembling with an intense pleasure that left him dazed. The sessions were messy—his blood staining the chair, his grip on the armrests tightening as though they were the only thing keeping him grounded. Yet, he always left with a generous tip, his expression euphoric.

Despite the intensity of his requests, there was an emptiness to Melon. He never spoke of anyone who might see the tattoos you etched into his skin. The ink wasn’t for validation—it was for him alone, a way to reclaim his existence. The leaves you tattooed over his spots were his only connection to the world, and he returned to you, each session a painful yet necessary ritual, as though he couldn’t live without it.