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He was a master of his craft. He styled himself from head to toe in one particular fashion, and that dark touch extended to his handiwork. When people came to Uta to be painted, they'd come away with a mark most of the world would ostracize.

This man didn't draw petite butterflies or delicate stems. His style was rough around the edges, and right now it was rough on you too. All quite deliberate of course.

He wanted you to squeal, because this was your punishment. He deliberately pressed the pen far too deeply into your back, breaking the skin and drawing forth that warm and burning blood for him to lap up whenever it dribbled down your spine. 

He'd give you a tramp stamp for the ages, he'd lace your skin with black lines all over, each one depicting his never-ending, unholy love for you.

Verbally, it seemed you couldn't process it. Your rejection only made sense to him when he thought about it like that. He had to make you see some other way, that was all.

So he invited you, kindly enough, to come see his store. It was his way of 'apologizing' at the time for being would you put it...'pushy'? He even offered to throw in a tattoo of your own choosing, though you had ultimately refused the gesture.

No matter though. He was making you take it now, whether you liked it or not.


It was a wonder you had the breath to scream at all considering that he was sitting right on top of you, pinning you between himself and the tattoo chair. His long skinny legs kept him steady while he worked away on your beautiful figure, having long since wrenched your shirt up to your neck so he could see every inch of your spotless back.

The perfect canvas to work with.

Uta only had one design in mind. Simple and bold, a straightforward way of getting it through to you. He kissed and licked every bleeding letter after he carved them out, then reeled back just to take a proud look at his art.

He'd make sure to cover every inch of you like this. Cloak you in one simple message that surely, eventually, you'd understand.




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