While watching Game of Thrones and drawing on myself, I give you this.

Ink

He always had such a steady hand, unlimited amounts of patience, and incredible unmatched talent. I had never truly realized this till we sat on the floor of his parent's master bath, cross-legged, my leg in his tender hands. The pen hurt when he pressed too hard against my skin, he made sure to not do that as often, but it couldn't be helped. His hair was pinned back, continuously getting into his mouth and dark eyes and too annoyed to push it back over and over again. He had two pens in his mouth, red and pink, two in the left hand, yellow and purple, and three, black, teal, and silver in the right. He was naturally left handed, but learned to use his right for larger detail. His concentration and fast pace work switching colors and strokes and decal.

My parents would never allow a real tattoo, so we settle for just drawing on one another (more him on me than me on him). Last week he had adorned my pale skin with a vibrant ember phoenix spreading its wings along my shoulder blades. The bird unraveled from the ash and flame of its former self, eyes as jade as my own.

"You should be a tattoo artist."

"Why?"

"You're brilliant."

"Then I'd have to touch others skin," his middle finger caressed my inner thigh, "The way I touch yours."

I shivered, smiling at his smirking, handsome face. He continued on the branches of the cherry tree in full bloom. The stump started mid foot, curving up my calf to sit just bellow my knee. Before I had even arrived, a snake weaved in and out of his forearm, coiling till its head lay on his shoulder. Instead of scales, stars, moons, swirls and dots danced along the body, eyes non-existent, but fangs intimidatingly drawn with such a cautious hand. Only one mural on his godly body stood after he showered, on the whole of his back to his elbows. It started from his back as a bird of prey, wings going to his shoulders, stopping only for the wings to collapse into flocks of smaller non-descripted birds. All black ink, done by a friend. When we were alone or just out of the pool or some activity that allotted he discarded his shirt, he'd let me color the bird to my liking, let it be shockingly red, electric blue, bright pink or what have you. He told me he liked being able to add color when he so choose, making the tattoo just that much more beautiful.

"There."

I looked at the tree full of shades of pink on the petals and dark contrasting colors for the branches. It always astounded me how detailed and life-like all his work can be. You could see the wind and how it hits the tree to make a few loose buds float wherever it takes. Gorgeous could not describe the art on my leg, the way it complimented the mint polish on my toes blended immediately with the hues of the ever budding tree.

"I love it."

"You say that about all of my works."

"Because they are nothing short of beautiful."

"Aa."

I chuckled at the ever-egotistical Uchiha.

"Sasuke, thank you."

"Hn."

"May I?"

"Hn. To my room then."

He laid across the bed, head deep in the pillows, shirt gone and markers to his left. I climbed atop and gazed at all the colors he's acquired. The markers he used were specifically for skin, non-irritating and washable. Thinking I decided on a teal and gold, outlining in silver. I did careful lines of gold after the silver, adding blocks of the color on the outer parts of the bird, then colored the rest in teal. I could never compare to him, but from what he has unknowingly taught me, color blends are something I can manage. It wasn't till I finished did I realize he was lightly snoring. I removed the hairpins and stoked soft ravenett hair behind his ear. A sigh left his nostrils, snuggling closer to the pillows a peaceful look crossing his face.

Of all the art he created, this would be the most perfect. The natural contours of his sharp nose and eyes, the aged look the dark circles around closed orbs. How his hair perfectly blended with his paper pale skin, yet contrasted at the exact same time. The dips and curves of his arms bent to comfortably shield his face, popping his back muscles as well. I never truly could depict the scene of serenity surrounding this man, the fact I could even look at it made me ashamed. I shouldn't be the only one able to share in his glory, but I am selfish by nature.

Slowly, I lay next to him, close enough to touch my head to his elbow, but far enough I was not contacting the rest of his body.

We may flirt and exchange playful banter, but I never wanted anything more than his friendship. He was an arrogant prick, to say the least, but caring and protective in his own way. Like the brother I've always wanted. Whatever God was out there saw my need and became human just to cater to my wills and needs.

"I'm going now." I whispered, knowing it fell on deaf ears. All I got was a sigh. That was good enough; I'd leave him a text later telling him I was home safe.

"Sakura Haruno, what did I tell you about letting that boy draw on you? You'll get ink poisoning for sure."

"I think its lovely, sweetie."

"Don't encourage her, Mebuki."

"Oh hush, Kizashi."

I smiled at my parents and went up to my room to take pictures of Sasuke's work. I had about a hundred of pictures of his art, a dozen on my skin, a few of his own, and the rest on paper. I had the original sketch of his tattoo and a few others he wanted on his body. His parents thought all his skin work on himself was washable, they have yet to actually see the bird, glimpses of it they assumed it was just pen. Him and his brother lived together with rich adoptive parents from America, full blown against piercings and tattoos, claiming they destroyed the body. True, I had learned in my human anatomy class tattoo ink altars the skin cells and makes the skin prone to many diseases. They had spoken with my parents, convincing them to not let me get the family crest I wanted for my eighteenth. It was all right by me, I didn't need the ink, Sasuke had already sketched out the design and done a rough outline on my left shoulder, so a picture of it was good for me. My parents really didn't mind my allowing Sasuke to draw on me after I brought the boy pens that were skin safe; they just wanted to give me a hard time. I sat at my desk, opening my phones camera. I couldn't angle it the way I actually wanted but I got a picture, sending it to my printer. I rolled the chair to my bookshelf and grabbed my scrapbook. I cut then placed the picture on a new page. I needed to buy another I already had six full.

I text him, not expecting a reply at all; he rarely used the device in the first place.

I flipped through the recent scrapbook, starting at a note we had passed in lit class. It started as a whiney 'get me out of here' note to him, then into him drawing our teacher riding three water dragons, telling me he wished we were in his favorite ninja movie and we were in ninja class. I laughed at the memory. I looked at the next, a drawing of a rose telling me to feel well after I was out sick. The next page was me, a portrait he did for a project, or so he claims. In reality he had done one every year, comparing his previous works. It looked so life-like; I couldn't believe how beautiful I actual am. The next were random sketches on notes and loose-leaf papers. I finally got to the one I loved most. A portrait of all of us: Naruto, Itachi, Sasuke, and all of our parents. It was drawn entirely by hand during a get together at Sasuke's house. He had drawn us all then added himself later, giving it to me as a birthday gift.

The next day, after school, I went to his house waiting for him to take a shower and get ready for game night with our friends. I looked around the plain room, opposite of his personality, glancing at the books he kept. I noticed one out of place, so I picked it up. It was a book of photography he had taken. I loved most of these pictures, as it was filled with pictures of the school year and various landscapes. The last few pages made me stop. They were of the bird, colored, all done by me. I had no idea he kept them; I thought they were washed off like the rest of the day.

"Ready?"

"You. You kept all of them, from the pink to the teal. You kept them."

"Aa."

I put the book down and hugged him. I may not be good at art, but I tried, he may not keep all my crappy attempts at art, but he kept the ones that I actually wanted to keep myself. He tensed at the contact, but patted my head. He pried me off and reached for the hem of his shirt, pulling it off. On his back were all the colors I had ever done on his skin, yet, they weren't going to wash off. I just stared. It was fantastic to me. I noticed he had calligraphy just above the belt line to the right.

"Art is an outlet shared by those who find it most beautiful, not for it's perfection, but its imperfection." I smiled; it was something I had read to him earlier in the year.

The next day we sat in his bedroom, me on my back as he did stars and swirls on my abdomen. It tickled, so I laughed he'd poke me, making me laugh harder. When he was done, I doodled on him, just a few stars in black ink. He never minded and always let me color them. It was more than I could ask for.