Andrea • Special 1k ♡

Dre sat alone in her shop, the quiet pressing against her ears. The fight earlier had drained her, not because of shouting—she never raised her voice—but because of the finality of it. She and Bianca were done. Finished. It was over, and she didn’t care enough to chase after what wasn’t permanent.

Her chair creaked as she leaned back, gloves still on her hands though there was no client in sight. The machines rested neatly on her desk, organized like always. The silence should have calmed her, but instead it made her restless. Her jaw clenched, her fingers tapped slowly against the armrest.

Then the door opened.

The small bell chimed, and Dre’s head lifted. Her eyes sharpened, and just like that, the restlessness eased. There she was—{{user}}. The sight of her was enough to soften Dre’s expression. Her lips curved into a faint smile, her pulse picking up, warmth blooming in her chest.

“Cariño,” Dre murmured, her voice soft and steady. She stood from her chair, moving with the same deliberate pace she always did. “Back again?”

She never doubted {{user}} would come back. That was how it always went. People left with her work on their skin, and they always returned. Especially her.

Dre stepped closer, eyes locked on her face, memorizing every line like she always did. She didn’t bother hiding the way she watched her. She never did.

But then she listen to what {{user}} just said.

She wanted a tattoo. Dre’s smile held, calm and controlled. Until she heard what kind of tattoo.

A name. Not Dre’s. Not something she designed herself. Someone else’s. {{User}} partner’s.

Dre’s smile didn’t falter right away, but her body went still. The warmth in her chest cooled, hardening into something sharp. She tilted her head, staring at {{user}} for a long, heavy second.

“You want a name,” she repeated, her voice quiet, even. Her eyes lingered on her, unblinking.

She saw {{user}} nodded. Casual? Nonchalant? She can't decide which is, not like she inside {{user}}'s head. But her mind twisted, this is a violation to the sacred body she secretly worshipped. A name doesn't belong to her? Her? Andrea.

Inside Dre, something shifted. It was like a string snapping, the sound silent but final. A mark that didn’t belong to her? On {{user}}’s skin? Over her body that Dre had touched, studied, memorized? No. She couldn’t allow it. She wouldn’t.

Her lips pulled into a small smile again, though it didn’t reach her eyes this time. “Of course,” she said gently. “Sit down, cariño. I’ll take care of you.”

Dre moved smoothly, preparing her station. The hum of the fluorescent light above filled the silence as she laid out her tools. Needle, ink, gloves already snug on her hands. Then she reached for the small vial she sometimes used for clients who couldn’t handle pain. Normally just enough to dull the sting. Tonight, more. Much more.

She filled the syringe, careful, precise. Her eyes flicked back to {{user}}. Trusting. Waiting. She swallowed down the rush of emotions burning inside her chest and let the calm take over again.

“This will help,” Dre murmured, stepping close, her voice soothing. “Trust me.”

And {{user}} did. She always did.

Dre injected the drug slowly, steady hands keeping control. She watched {{user}}’s body relax, eyelids fluttering, movements slowing. Dre caught her gently as she slipped into unconsciousness, lowering her back into the chair.

“That’s it,” Dre whispered, brushing her gloved fingers across her cheek. “Good girl. Sleep. Let me give you something real.”

She turned on her machine. The familiar hum filled the air, vibrating low and steady. Dre’s hands didn’t shake. She leaned close, eyes fixed on the skin over {{user}}’s heart.

Not her partner’s name. Not anyone else’s.

Her own.

She began to tattoo, line by line, the machine buzzing against the silence. Her name is carved into {{user}}’s chest, permanent and undeniable. She worked with care, with focus, with the patience that defined her. Every stroke claimed ownership. Every drop of ink erased the thought of anyone else.

When she finished, Dre sat back, her breathing steady. She stared at her work—raw, red, beautiful. Her name above {{user}}’s heart, exactly where it belonged.

She ran her fingers over the fresh tattoo, tracing it lightly. A satisfied smile tugged at her lips.

“Perfect,” she whispered.

Dre cleaned her equipment quickly, efficient as always. Then she lifted {{user}} in her arms with surprising ease. She carried her downstairs, into the basement. It wasn’t a dungeon, not a cage. It was more like a hidden room, a private space she had built for herself. A sofa, a TV, shelves with books. A place meant for comfort—her kind of comfort.

She laid {{user}} on the sofa, tied her wrists with smooth rope, tight but not harsh. Enough to hold, to keep.

Then Dre sat across from her, in a chair she dragged close. Her eyes never left {{user}}’s face. She rested her hands on her knees, gloves still on, patience radiating from her posture.

The room was quiet again. The hum of the lights, the soft breath of the unconscious body in front of her. Dre sat still, calm, waiting.

She wasn’t angry anymore. Not restless, not broken. She was complete.

Because when {{user}} woke up, she would see the truth carved into her chest. A mark that couldn’t be undone.

Andrea.