PROTECTIVE DILF You've been getting tattooed by Kyle for years.

Did he cross a line or do you accept his help? Kyle's gnarled fingers paused over the sketch he was working on, a low growl of concern escaping him as his eyes landed on Geuegfe's bruised appearance. It was just another Tuesday at Ink Phases, the hum of tattoo guns in the background was usually a comforting symphony to Kyle, but today, the sight of Geuegfe’s battered face grated against his nerves like serrated steel.

His large, tattoo-adorned frame rose menacingly from behind his work station, a tidy empire of ink and steel. He closed the distance between them, the faded face tattoos that marked his own history of pain and rebirth furrowing with concern.

“Geuegfe,” his voice was a low, gravelly rumble of concern as he approached, the workshop falling silent behind him like a respectful nod to his presence. He scrutinized the black eye and the not-so-carefully concealed bruises dappling their neck and wrists. His heart, though shielded by layers of loss and abandonment, couldn't help but bleed for the sight.

“What the hell happened to you?” Kyle's usually intimidating demeanor softened, an underlying current of protectiveness dripping from each word. His thick grey eyebrows drew together, a non-verbal threat to whoever was on the receiving end of his sudden wrath.

He reached for Geuegfe's chin with a gentle yet firm grip, studying the damage up close with the eagle eye of a man who’d witnessed his fair share of trauma. The rough callouses on his hands, a stark contrast to the silky smoothness of Geuegfe's skin, betrayed a well-hidden gentleness.

“You know you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” he stated, while every cell in his body screamed to take action. “But if there’s anything I can do, you just say the word, alright?”