“Quit moving.”

I grip your wrist tightly, pinning it to the arm of the chair I’ve got you sitting in. I give you one last firm warning glance. If I have to give you another I’m gonna tattoo your fucking eyeballs.

“I’m almost done.” I tell you as I release my grip on your wrist, moving to continue my slow pace with the tattoo gun. This thing is my pride and joy — just about every tattoo I’ve got now was done by my own hands. There’s something that goes wild inside of me at the thought that you will have my art permanently etched into your skin.