Work Text:
Kenshi always told himself he would never do it again.
His entire life until now had been spent with the Yakuza, living in the shadow of their influence and covering his body in ink in order to align with their standards. It never really mattered whether he wanted the tattoos or not, it was simply customary; in a twisted sort of way, they were a badge of protection - and one that could be turned into violence in a blink of the eye.
He had long since come to accept his tattoos.
The hatred he had in them had passed.
And while their symbolism may remain to some, they did not symbolize the same to him anymore.
Still, Kenshi vowed that he would never get another one.
He would never allow another needle to penetrate his skin.
As far as he was concerned, the only permanent mark that was allowed to be on his body was a scar.
And even that was to be avoided, if and when possible.
But yet, the heat of her lips still burned on his neck.
Kenshi felt where her lipstick had left a mark behind on his skin - something she had done on purpose.
"You didn't give me a lot of room to work with."
Sonya teased.
The collar of his shirt bundled and wrinkled in her hands.
The firm press of her body between his arms as she pulled him down to her.
"It looks good on you though."
He didn't want it to fade.
He didn't want it to go away.
He wanted the memory of it, the touch of it, the sight of it to stay with him.
Kenshi hardly considered himself to be impulsive anymore.
He used to be when he was younger, when it was necessary, when it was expected.
But such an act had worn off with age, with mistakes and resulting injuries.
His last act of impulsiveness had been a jump to conclusion in a situation regarding the Outworld heir.
And look at where that had gotten him.
But as Kenshi heard the soft whirring of the tattoo gun next to his ear, he knew it was impulse, it was an obsession that had driven him here.
Sonya had left her lips on his neck in the dark corner of a restaurant they had both paid far too much for, before she bid him farewell at the end of their date, at the end of the night. And while she had departed the city, returning to her home on the military base, Kenshi had hit the streets in search of a tattoo parlor that still had its lights on.
He had never gone to a parlor before.
All of his tattoos had been done by tradition, by the hand of a local, but talented Yakuza member; usually one whose training only consisted of the people around him.
But Jax had brought up the location of a few parlors in the city to him, saying that he should go around and show off his work.
And it was striking then to realize just how different their cultures were.
There were places back home that Kenshi knew he would never be allowed to step foot in due to his tattoos; he couldn't even risk someone catching a peek of them in public, lest he deal with the fallout that would certainly follow. People feared the Yakuza, but in the passing years, they had started to experience more and more resistance to their presence. While rules never named them directly, the blanket ban on visible tattoos in bathhouses and such were more than enough to get the point across.
But here, in a city larger than any place he had ever experienced, his tattoos were seen as an art, as a commitment - even as a joke to some people.
Sonya herself had even cracked a few of them at his expense.
And Kenshi had let her, because it was such an odd perspective to hear.
There was no fear, no hatred in her voice.
Just a catty kind of tone that was there to get a laugh out of him.
And admittedly, some of her jabs were funny.
It didn't change his mind about concealing them, about not showing them off, however.
Kenshi had remembered Jax's words and his directions - and utilized that knowledge to get him where he wanted to be.
When he walked through the doors, a voice told him that they were closing soon.
But with plenty of cash on the counter, and a quick look at what he wanted, Kenshi found himself in one of the tattooing chairs - despite the late hour.
It felt... alien to know that people acquired tattoos willingly.
And that they meant nothing to anyone outside of the person who received it.
Kenshi realized that this would be the first tattoo he received that he wanted for himself, that he asked for himself. It was the first one that he actually felt a connection to, that stood out amongst the others around it. For a moment though, brief as it was, he did consider how something as soft, as warm as what he wanted, was surrounded by ink that represented the opposite.
It was a passing thought, however.
As a steady hand kept the tattoo gun moving, Kenshi occasionally used Sento's power to tap into the man's eyes, to keep an eye on how the progress was moving, on how it was looking.
And he liked what he saw.
It was exactly what he wanted.
The process was done in under an hour.
Just an outline, a perfect replica of the warm lips that had tortured him just after the second bottle of wine had been opened, and just before dessert had been served.
Kenshi left the parlor with the already well-understood process of how to take care of new ink.
The next morning, however, he was more awake, more aware of what he had done.
He questioned himself on the odd change in his own behavior.
Spur of the moment, impulsive.
He had broken his stance on never getting inked again.
And for what?
But as Kenshi ran his fingers over the tender skin, the healing wound, he still felt the heat of Sonya's mouth on him.
The ink itself meant nothing.
The memory that was permanently etched into his skin now was all he needed to remember.