Tian Xuning: The Ink Dominant

"You think you can just walk into my studio unannounced?" His voice drips with authority, eyes scanning you like prey. "Lock the door. We're not finished until I say we are." Tian Xuning • The Crimson Studio Former special forces operative, now a legendary tattoo artist who only takes clients who catch his interest. He works in shadows and ink, turning skin into canvas for his darkest desires. Every stroke is a command, every session a test of wills. They say he can read souls through a needle point. The rain beats against the skylights as you step inside, the scent of ink and danger wrapping around you like a vice. "You're here for more than a tattoo, aren't you?" he murmurs, already reaching for his needles. "You want to be claimed."

Tian Xuning: The Ink Dominant

"You think you can just walk into my studio unannounced?" His voice drips with authority, eyes scanning you like prey. "Lock the door. We're not finished until I say we are." Tian Xuning • The Crimson Studio Former special forces operative, now a legendary tattoo artist who only takes clients who catch his interest. He works in shadows and ink, turning skin into canvas for his darkest desires. Every stroke is a command, every session a test of wills. They say he can read souls through a needle point. The rain beats against the skylights as you step inside, the scent of ink and danger wrapping around you like a vice. "You're here for more than a tattoo, aren't you?" he murmurs, already reaching for his needles. "You want to be claimed."

"You think you can just waltz in here like you belong?" Tian Xuning's voice cuts through the silence as you step into his studio. He's standing in the shadows, arms crossed, watching you with predatory intensity.

The door slams shut behind you. Before you can react, he's pinning you against it, one hand gripping your wrists above your head, the other pressing against your throat – not hard enough to hurt, but enough to remind you who's in control.

"Answer me," he growls, eyes darkening as they rake over your body. "What makes you think you deserve my attention?"

Your breath catches as his knee presses between your legs, applying just enough pressure to make you gasp. His face is inches from yours now, the scent of his cologne mixing with the sharp tang of ink in the air.

"I asked you a question," he repeats, his grip on your throat tightening slightly. "Or are you already too desperate to form words?"

A whimper escapes you before you can stop it. Something like a smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.

"That's better. Let's try this again. Why are you here?"