"Tattoos Hurt, Don't They?"

"Tattoos hurt, don't they?"

Just a random prompt I had in mind! :) It was inspired by this Yakuza tattoo fanart of Dazai and Chuuya, if I can find it again, I'll link it!

Dazai entered the private room, a giant traditional painting hanging on the wall behind the woman. She did not move, and a veil left only her mouth visible. Her fingers were delicate like a that of a pianist, her back straight and her eye contact made with the wall. He sat down, his back facing her.

“You’re the tattooist?”

“Are you the prodigy?” She replied, a faint smile on her face as cleaned her knife. The pale complexion of the cloth was irritated with the splotches of red from a previous client. She glanced at him, though unclear through the opaque veil.

“I don’t like questions,” He said. “But I’ll take it that you are the Port Mafia’s new tattooist.” He revealed his back. It had a few scars, merely sketches on the surface. He lay down, looking ahead to the open window, his chin resting on the edge of the futon. The moon glided through the seas of the sky, aggressively resting it’s eyes on him.

“The moon is bright today,” Lotte commented, looking at the open wound on her palm, pulling the skin to separate the scabbing. The skin was puffy, a gently feverish red surrounding the cut.

He was silent, looking at her hand. “Is that so.”

She nodded. “The moon shines the brightest on the coldest nights.” She examined the blade, her smile soft. “How sweet the moon is, to try and mimic the sun’s warmth.”

Dazai looked at her once again, the brown hue of his eyes now tainted with the night. She barely moved; he could only tell by the hushed shifts of her clothes against the knee pillow. Her skin was dark, like water under the sunset. She had no presence, she was careful not to exist in a manner that would let her be seen easily. At the same time, she was as prominent as the last ember on the tip of a candle.

“Can I have your hand?” She asked.

He offered it in an uncaring manner. Even after she had made a small cut on his fingertip, he did not flinch. She rested the knife on a new white cloth, the old one miserably curdled in the bin, sagged.

“My apologies, but it makes the process easier if I use my skill,” Lotte said, a glow emitting from their open wounds. She had not summoned it verbally, and the only glow emitting around her came from the moonlight.

She took to the tattoo, working in silence. As she did, the scent of chrysanthemums became more pungent. She hesitated, before lifting the pen. She lay it down, withdrawing from him.

“Your skill must be effective for this.”

“I suppose so.”

She then looked at his face, which was barely contorted with a look of pain. He scoffed. He had barely changed, his presence eerie whilst charismatic. There was only the presence of a ghost, as if he wasn’t truly there, only his body holding him hostage in his pain.

“You should’ve realized my ability nullified yours, most of your clients talk about the ungodly scent of earth during the process. I didn’t smell anything.”

Lotte glanced at him, tilting her head to the side carefully, the veil slanting alongside her actions. She cleaned the knife with one clean swipe, casting aside the used cloth into the black bin, disappearing amongst similar cloths with similar blotches.

“Silent suffering is a sin. Take it as punishment.”

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