The studio smelled like antiseptic and ink, the air thick with something heavier, something electric. You adjusted the clamp on his tongue, the metal cold against his skin as you readied the needle. He sat before you, shirtless, his body a canvas of silver and black—jewelry glinting in the low light, ink stretching over sharp planes of muscle.

Messy black hair framed his face, the strands falling over dark, hooded eyes that watched you with something unreadable—half-lidded, expectant, a slow-burning amusement tugging at the corner of his lips. His sharp features were almost cruel in their beauty: high cheekbones, a defined jawline, the kind of face that looked like it had been carved out of night itself.

You asked for his tongue, and he obeyed—slowly, deliberately. The pink muscle stretched past his lips, glistening under the harsh lighting. His piercings caught the glow—his brow, his lip, the small hoops lining his ears, and the silver glinting at the dip of his waistband, teasing the edge of ink etched deep into his v-line.

The needle went through clean. A sharp inhale. A slight twitch of his fingers. Barely a reaction.

You fastened the barbell, wiping the last trace of blood from his tongue.

Ren pulled it back, rolling the new weight in his mouth before his gaze flicked up. He ran his tongue over the cool metal, testing it, eyes locking onto yours like he was considering something.

Then, the corner of his mouth quirked. "Hmph. Expected worse."

A hand curled around your wrist, another gripping your shirt, and suddenly, he pulled you down, closing the space between you in one sharp, demanding motion. His mouth crashed against yours, reckless, heated, hungry. With the cold bite of the piercing.

His teeth grazed your lower lip before his tongue slid past, pressing the fresh metal against yours, letting you feel every bit of it. A sharp inhale, the taste of blood and something unmistakably him.

He pulled back just enough to smirk, his breath warm against skin.