Bright Ink

People always comment that, for a model, Darian is remarkably antisocial. He doesn't shmooze much, and between that and the enormous tattoo on his back, he might have trouble getting a job as a model if not for the fact that he is completely, stunningly gorgeous. Tall, bronze-skinned, effortlessly masculine, Darian is blessed with the sort of classic features that sculptors dream of, and a toned, well-muscled body to match. His black hair seems always perfectly intentional, even when it is disheveled and in disarray. Most of all, his dark eyes captivate anyone who sees him. They seem to peer into and past those around him, as though he is waiting for something, or someone, and cannot bear to notice anyone else. The effect is that those around him fawn over him, flirt with him constantly, but he never seems to notice.

Some people assume that his aloofness stems from arrogance, but those who watch him closely notice that he is never cruel, never demeaning. He is quietly confident, and far more humble than the average model. He does what he is told to do efficiently and without complaint. And yet no one takes advantage of him, for he exudes an aura of repressed power that gives even the most ardent fans and draconian photographers pause.

Really, it's a shame, they all say, that he has such a distinctive tattoo on his back. It makes him difficult to cast in certain jobs and advertisements, makes him just a little too memorable. The tattoo is an enormous dragon, a stylized Chinese serpent, with its eager jaws parted just below his neck, and its tail reaching down to just above his left buttock, its coils twisting and curving back and forth across the planes of his back. From the right angle it can be hidden, but any shot that shows his back will display it clearly. Everyone laments the mark, but no one has the courage to mention this to him. He always gets the strangest hard look in his eyes when the tattoo is mentioned, a look that makes the speaker falter and change the subject. So the tattoo stays, and Darian's career continues.

A strange tattoo, as well, people say. Where most tattoos would be outlined in black, the dragon's outline is a bright, liquid silver. The strange, iridescent color seems to make the green-and-purple serpent stand out even more, so that in the right light it seems to writhe on his back as though alive, its pale silver eyes glittering.

The screaming fans have no problem at all with his tattoo, of course. It is just one of many qualities they treasure about him, these raving masses that claw desperately for a bit of his attention. Rarely does Darian make it home without some kind of call or comment from someone eager to make his acquaintance. Every evening there is some man or woman waiting to strike up a "casual conversation," in the hopes of being the first in the multitudes to break through his aloofness, the be the one that he is searching for.

But he pays them no heed. Man or woman, he passes them by and returns to his apartment, as indifferent to them as if they did not exist at all. They are not necessary, because a far greater pleasure awaits him when he finally makes it home and clicks the lock of his door shut.

He always starts by removing his shirt. Sometimes he makes it all the way to the bedroom, but often he is barely halfway across the living room when the tattoo on his back begins to writhe and rise, growing and pulling up from his back, causing Darian to stagger and fall to his knees. He crouches on all fours on the carpet as the thick, serpentine coils pull up from his skin, becoming thick ropes of muscle that hold the shape of the dragon tattoo for mere moments after the beast has left him, and then begin to grow and shift.

Darian lies panting, exhausted from the separation, as the serpentine shape twists and grows, rising up and up and widening, growing arms, the flat silver eyes shining as the face that houses them changes from a hissing open muzzle filled with fangs to a handsome, dark face. The beast grows and changes until it is a mere beast no more but a being resembling a man, though what he is to an ordinary man, that same man is to a doll made from mud. He is no mere human but a seven-foot-tall god, his limbs slender and elegant but strong as iron. His skin is dark, very dark, the color of shadows cast in jungle undergrowth, and within this dark face sit the luminous silver eyes.

A dark black mane of hair frames his face, thick and wild, tumbling back over his shoulders and revealing from amidst their waves the tips of long, pointed ears. Underneath his hair, at the base of his neck, the scales begin, a silvery trail that snakes down his spine and the back of his legs to the soles of his feet, silver scales that glisten green in the right light, or purple from a particular angle.

He reaches one long, tapered limb towards the man on the floor, his fingernails pointed like claws. Darian rises to his knees and takes the hand, kissing the back of it. "My Lord," he murmurs, as his breath returns.

"Come, my loyal servant," says his master, and his voice is deep and thick enough to drown in, a dark liquid that sucks you down and never again let you see the surface. He pushes Darian to the bed, or the couch, or even the floor if nothing else is close enough, and Darian submits himself utterly, legs raised into the air, or bent down on hands and knees, or sitting on his master's lap, clutching vainly at the shoulders of his god. Darian must always be ready, keeps his body forever in a state of prepared expectancy, for his god is not patient, though his lovemaking is caring in its passion.

There is no ecstasy for Darian like being taken by his master. The dragon fills him like no one else ever could, not just in body but in spirit, a heat that fills his every cell and his mind and his soul and breaches him, leaves him open and vulnerable but never lets him fall. In the talons of his master, Darian feels complete, like the only fully complete human being on the planet, and he worships his master, and loves him, for allowing Darian to feel this.

Claws leave rough scores in his skin sometimes, but never too deep. Darian tells people he has a cat. Many of them will be healed anyway, when the dragon returns to his skin the next morning. But while the lovers are reunited, Darian could care less what damage is done to his body, as it is no match for the pleasure forced inside him, the hot and heady love that fills him up and spills over into his veins, flooding him with sensation and ecstasy and love and the slick, silvery seed of the dragon lord.

When he awakes in the morning, the dragon tattoo will have returned to his back, and he will be alone once more. Only the knowledge of his master's inevitable return keeps Darian going, forces him to get up in the morning and continue to work and wait, anything to better serve his master. Because when night falls, and they are once again alone, he will return. And always, always, Darian will be ready.