Chapter 2: Tattoo
The hum was the first thing Angel noticed—a persistent, vibrating buzz that seemed to settle in his molars. Then came the smell: a sterile, chemical tang of green soap and alcohol, underpinned by the faint, metallic scent of ink and the warm, organic odor of blood. Neon signs, one for a brand of needles and another for a grimacing geisha, buzzed and flickered against exposed brick walls, casting a sickly, shifting glow over everything.
Alex’s hand was solid and warm in his. She led him through the maze of stations, nodding at a heavily pierced artist who was shading a massive dragon on a client’s back. The client’s face was a mask of strained calm. Angel squeezed Alex’s fingers tighter.
“Relax, baby. It’s just a shop,” she murmured, her voice a low contrast to the industrial noise. She looked utterly at home here, her black tank top and ripped jeans blending into the aesthetic of curated rebellion.
“I know,” he whispered back, though he didn’t relax. He was painfully aware of his own appearance here, a pastel poppy in a field of black leather and steel. His oversized cream-colored hoodie, one of Alex’s that smelled like her, drowned his frame, and the soft, powder-blue mini-skirt he wore felt impossibly delicate. He’d chosen thigh-high white socks, a futile attempt at armor.
“Hawk! Over here, you tall bastard.”
The voice came from a corner station lit by a bright, surgical lamp. Behind it stood a woman, maybe in her late twenties, her shaved head tattooed with intricate geometric patterns. She had a ring through her septum and her arms were a tapestry of black and gray imagery. She wiped her gloved hands on a paper towel and grinned, revealing a gold canine. “Right on time. And you brought a snack.”
Alex shoved the woman’s shoulder playfully. “Mara, this is Angel. Angel, Mara. She’s an asshole, but she doesn’t fuck up my ink.”
“Charmed,” Mara said, her eyes flicking over Angel with an appreciative, but not unkind, curiosity. “So you’re the muse. Heard a lot about you. Mostly about how you ‘look like a fuckin’ fairy princess’ and ‘smell like cupcakes.’” She did a surprisingly accurate impression of Alex’s growl.
Angel felt his face burn. “It’s nice to meet you,” he managed, his voice barely audible over the machine-hum.
“Alright, enough. Let’s see the final design,” Alex said, pulling out the leather-clad stool for Angel before settling herself into the client’s chair. It was a gesture so casually thoughtful it made Angel’s chest ache.
Mara pulled up a digital tablet, turning it so they both could see. The design was breathtaking. A samurai tiger, not in mid-roar, but in a moment of poised, powerful calm, seated with one paw slightly raised. Its stripes flowed like brushstrokes, merging with the folds of samurai armor plating on its shoulder and flank. It was fierce, but there was a dignified grace to it. And integrated into the armor plating, in a classic, bold script, were the kanji characters: 天使.
“Tenshi,” Angel breathed out, the Japanese word for ‘Angel’ feeling intimate on his tongue.
“You said you wanted it incorporated, not just slapped near it,” Mara said to Alex, tapping the screen. “The armor here, on the foreleg, it made sense. Gives it meaning, not just decoration.”
Alex was staring at the design, her expression unreadable. She just gave a single, sharp nod. “Yeah. That’s it. That’s the one.”
“Your boy approve? He’s the native speaker.”
Both sets of eyes turned to him. The weight of it, of his name being permanently etched into her skin, tied to a symbol of his birth year, was immense. He looked from the sleek lines of the tiger to Alex’s face, her black eyes waiting. “It’s… it’s perfect,” he said, his throat tight. “The kanji is correct. It’s beautiful.”
“Fuck yeah, it is,” Alex said, that familiar cocky grin returning. She leaned back in the chair, rolling up the sleeve of her tank top to expose the smooth, ink-free skin of her outer forearm. “Let’s burn it in.”
Mara got to work, shaving the area, wiping it down with cold antiseptic that made Alex’s muscle twitch. She applied the stencil, pressed it, and peeled it away. The purple outline of the tiger and the kanji stood out starkly against Alex’s skin. It was already a part of her.
“You ready for a few hours of suck?” Mara asked, snapping on fresh gloves.
“Just don’t cry and scare my boyfriend,” Alex shot back, but she reached out, her hand finding Angel’s. Her grip was firm, almost too tight. He laced his fingers through hers.
The first bite of the needle was a sharp, high-pitched whine. Alex didn’t flinch, but her jaw tightened. Angel watched, mesmerized and horrified, as a thin, black line began to trace the tiger’s back. The machine’s buzz was a living thing. Mara’s movements were confident, a strange kind of artistry in the slow, sure deposition of ink under skin.
“So, Angel,” Mara said, not looking up from her work, “what’s it like putting up with this grumpy bitch every day?”
“Hey,” Alex warned, but there was no real heat in it.
“She’s… not grumpy,” Angel said softly, watching Alex’s face. A bead of sweat had formed at her temple. “She’s very… protective.”
Alex’s thumb stroked the back of his hand. “He makes me sound noble. I’m just possessive.”
“Same thing, in your world,” Mara chuckled. The needle moved to a more sensitive area, near the inner elbow. Alex’s breath hitched, just a fraction. Angel squeezed her hand.
“You’re doing so well,” he whispered, leaning closer.
“It’s a scratch, baby. Don’t get all mushy,” she said, but she closed her eyes for a second, concentrating on the pain.
The hours bled together in the hum and the smell. Angel lost track of time, watching the tiger slowly come to life. Mara switched needles, from liners to shaders. The solid black of the armor began to fill in, a process that looked more brutal, the machine sounding angrier. Alex’s stoicism was profound. She barely moved, only the occasional deep breath or the tightening of her grip on Angel’s hand betraying the discomfort. He fetched her a bottle of water, holding the straw to her lips because her other arm was immobilized. She drank, her eyes on his the whole time, a silent thank you in their black depths.
During a particularly long stretch of shading, Alex spoke, her voice a little rough. “Remember that morning? After the wall?”
His cheeks flushed. He nodded. He remembered her promise, whispered in the dark. ‘Morning’s gonna come real early.’ It had. With the dawn light filtering through his fairy lights, she’d rolled over, her body a heavy, welcome weight, and taken him slowly, languidly, until he’d cried into his pillow from a different, sweeter kind of overwhelm.
“I was thinking about that,” she said, her gaze fixed on the ceiling. “While she’s been digging a hole in my arm. It helped.”
Mara paused, lifting the needle. “You two are disgusting. I love it. Now hold the fuck still, Hawk, I’m on a delicate bit.”
Angel brought Alex’s knuckles to his lips, kissing them. He didn’t care if Mara saw. This was his role here. To be the soft place for Alex to ground herself while she endured something hard. It felt more intimate, in a way, than anything they did in his pastel bedroom.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Mara leaned back. “Alright. The beast is done. Now for the pretty part. You ready for your name, sweet thing?”
Angel sat up straighter. This was the moment. Alex turned her head, her eyes finding his. There was no cockiness there now, just a raw, open intensity that stole his breath. “Yeah,” she said, her voice low. “Do it.”
The kanji was smaller, required a finer needle. The buzz changed to a higher pitch. ‘Heaven.’ The first strokes went into the armor plating. Alex watched, her expression unreadable. Then 使. ‘Messenger.’ Angel found himself whispering the words in Japanese, then in Chinese, a private incantation with each pass of the needle.
“天使,” he whispered finally, as Mara wiped away the last excess ink. “Tenshi. Tiānshǐ.”
Mara did the final wipe-down. The tattoo was vivid, slightly swollen, a stunning piece of art that told a story only the three of them in this corner of the buzzing parlor fully understood. The samurai tiger, poised and eternal, and woven into its very being, the word for Angel.
“Fuck,” Alex breathed, looking at it. She turned her arm, examining the way the light from the neon geisha played over the wet ink. “Mara… you killed it.”
“I know,” Mara said, beginning to apply the protective ointment and wrap it in clear, sticky film. “It’s some of my best work. Don’t you dare get it infected, you hear me? Follow the aftercare. And you,” she said, pointing a gloved finger at Angel, “you’re in charge of making sure she doesn’t pick at it or slam it into a wall.”
“I will,” Angel said, with more conviction than he felt.
Alex stood up, rolling her shoulder, wincing slightly. She pulled a wad of cash from her pocket and handed it to Mara, exchanging a nod that spoke of a long history. Then she turned to Angel. Her face was pale, her eyes shadowed with fatigue and the aftermath of adrenaline. She looked young, for once. Just a tired nineteen-year-old.
“C’mere,” she said, her voice rough.
He slid off the stool and into her space. She didn’t hug him, just leaned her forehead against his, her good arm slipping around his waist under the giant hoodie, her hand splaying possessively on the small of his back. They stood like that for a long moment, in the buzzing, neon-drenched world, breathing the same air of ink and pain.
“You okay?” he whispered.
“Never better,” she murmured back, but she didn’t move. “It’s perfect. You’re perfect.”
The walk back to his apartment was quiet. The night air was cool, a relief after the claustrophobic heat of the parlor. Alex held his hand, her bandaged arm held slightly away from her body. She was quieter than usual, the physical toll of sitting for hours finally showing.
Once inside his bedroom, the familiar pastel silence enveloped them like a balm. She sat on the edge of his bed, her movements stiff.
“Let me help,” Angel said. He gently helped her out of her tank top, careful of the fresh tattoo. He fetched a soft washcloth, dampened it with warm water, and wiped the sweat and tension from her neck and back. She let him, her head bowed, her wolf-cut hair falling forward.
When she was settled, wearing only her boxer briefs and the clear wrap on her arm, he climbed onto the bed behind her, his back against the lace-draped headboard. He pulled her gently, so she leaned back against his chest, between his legs. He began to massage her temples, his fingers light on her scalp.
A long, shuddering sigh escaped her. “Fuck, that’s good.”
“Does it hurt a lot?” he asked, his lips close to her ear.
“Throbs like a bitch. Worth it, though.” She lifted her arm, staring at the wrapped art in the fairy light glow. “Now everyone who sees it will know.”
“Know what?”
“That I’m yours. And you’re mine. That something of you is under my skin. Permanently.”
The words settled in him, warm and heavy as a blanket. He wrapped his arms around her, careful of her arm, and held her. He thought of the tiger, its quiet power. He thought of his name, a part of its armor. She had taken something of his and made it a part of her fortress.
“I love you, Alex,” he whispered into her hair, the words slipping out on a tide of emotion he could no longer contain.
She went very still in his arms. She never said it back first. It wasn’t her way. Words were cheap, to her. Actions, tattoos, possessions—those were her language. But after a moment, she turned her head, craning her neck to look up at him. Her black eyes were soft, the hard edges sanded down by pain and fatigue and something else.
“Come here,” she said, her voice a gravelly whisper.
He leaned down. She kissed him, slow and deep and tasting of metal and exhaustion and something profoundly sweet. When she pulled back, she didn’t say the words. Instead, she nudged him with her nose, a gesture so strangely vulnerable it made his heart clench.
“You’re stuck with me now, Emberly. Permanently. No take-backs.”
He smiled, tears pricking the corners of his eyes. He hugged her closer, their bodies fitting together in the soft glow. “I know,” he said. And it was the truest thing he’d ever said. Outside, the city hummed a different, colder tune. But in this room, with the scent of fresh ink clinging to her skin and his name now a part of her flesh, there was only the quiet, certain sound of their breathing, syncing up in the dark.