Sisyphus Ink
The others – Shell’s story – episode 1
Feb 12, 2026
The bell above the door pings—harsh and sharp—cutting through the furious grindcore blasting from a bank of wall-mounted speakers. The place smells like antiseptic, freshly inked skin, and burned coffee reheated past redemption.
Behind the wreck of a reception desk, a guy is slouched on a stool, doom-scrolling with the posture of someone waiting for something to end. When the bell goes, he looks up.
His eyes, which were dead a second ago, are defibbed back to life. His lips go from corpse pale to high blush in a breath. A tectonic shift underneath his freckled skin shunts the boredom from his face and lets a smile rise, one that registers on my inner seismograph. Fuck. Heat crawls up my neck, into my cheeks. A proper flush. The kind I don’t usually get caught with.
Get a grip.
“Alright?” I say. It comes out annoyingly girly.
“Hiya?” he says. Voice scraped raw. “What can I do you for?”
My brain offers a dozen bad ideas.
My mouth goes with:
“Looking to book in for a bit of ink?”
He perks, like this is the first good thing that’s happened all day.
“You’re in the right place then,” he says, eyes locked on like magnets. “Have you got a design in mind, or you wanting a flick through the flash?” He nods at the thick, battered binder on the counter.
“Nah, don’t want any pedestrian pish. Brought my own design.”
He clutches his chest, mock-wounded.
“Alright, steady on! We don’t do pedestrian here at Sisyphus. Everything in there is pure creative juice, squeezed from me and the lads.” A beat, then a grin. “Unless someone’s looking for pedestrian pish. Then we’ll take their money, obviously. Rent’s no’ gonna pay itself, is it?”
That loosens something in my shoulders.
“Coffee? Or maybe—a cheeky wee Vitamin T? Even got a fridge full of Irn-Bru if your sugar’s low.”
“Tinny, please,” I say. “Always.”
“My kind of trouble.” The ghost of a wink. “Right then, grab a pew and let me have a look at your masterpiece.”
He pulls two cans from a fridge that hums like it’s holding a grudge and gestures toward a knackered sofa. One arm’s splitting open, stuffing clawing out like it’s trying to escape the building.
I sit. The leather sighs. He sits beside me—not close enough to crowd, but close enough that I register his warm scent. The fizz of the can snaps loud in the room. Somewhere behind the wall, a needle buzzes, angry and persistent.
His gaze drifts—unapologetic but measured—down my legs, pauses at the hem of my skirt. The black curve of my snake tattoo vanishes beneath it.
“Clean work, that,” he says, nodding with a professional eye. “Where does it end?”
I take a swig, meet his eyes. Deadpan.
“At my forbidden fruit.”
He chokes, beer sputtering, and busts out laughing. A proper, head-thrown-back laugh. “Christ,” he wheezes.
“Sorry, my soft-pedal’s in for repairs,” I say. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”
“No worries, pal. I much prefer a straight-shooter.”
I pull the folded paper from my bag and smooth it on the table. Vines twist across the page, thorned blooms threading through tiny sneering skulls. Bold block letters anchor it all:
SECCELLES
He leans in. Too close. I catch sandalwood and iodine underneath. The shop light flickers once, like it’s thinking about dying.
“Sek-elles?” he says.
“Sex sells,” I correct. “Spelt fancy so polite folk don’t clutch their pearls. Our drummer’s idea.”
He exhales a quiet laugh.
“Cool. The name’s the art, the art’s the message. You the singer, then?”
“What makes you say that?”
“Got that ‘main character’ vibe about you.”
“Nah. Lead guitarist. So, aye, that energy’s definitely there.” A smirk lingers on my lips.
“Did you sketch this yourself?”
“Nah. Our bassist, Laine. She’s the artist—does all our merch and stuff.”
“It’s topper. She’s got the skills, definitely,” he says, tapping the paper with his finger. “Right then—where’s it going?”
“Tramp stamp. Saved that bit of skin for something special. This is it.”
He studies the page like it matters. That’s what gets me—not the flirting. The attention.
“She’s got good hands,” he says, squinting at the lines. “You lot for real, then? Or just playing at it?”
“As serious as a heart attack, pal.”
Something flickers there—respect, maybe. Or recognition.
“Colour?”
“Aye.”
“Couple of sessions, then,” he says, opening his digital calendar. “Looking at about four ton to get it mint. No point having the ‘front woman energy’ if the ink’s looking like a primary school project, eh?”
The buzz from the back room spikes. I feel it in my teeth.
“Aye, I want it done right,” I say. “No rush job.”
He holds my gaze. The playfulness drains just enough to show something steadier underneath.
“Good,” he says, cool as you like. “I don’t rush. No point doing it if you’re no’ doing it right.”
We sort the booking. Someone cancelled last minute. Tomorrow at two. Easy.
He holds his phone out.
“Give us your number,” he says. “Just in case something changes.”
I take it, thumb hovering a second too long before I type my name and digits. Pass it back. Our fingers brush—brief, charged.
“I’m Dean, by the way,” he adds, with a grin. “Folk call me Big D— which is unfortunate. Makes me sound like a 90s DJ or a mid-tier rapper. I’m working on rebranding, but it’s no’ sticking.”
“Shell,” I say. “Miss McCulloch if ye’re nasty.”
One more gorgeously raspy laugh slips from his lips.
“See you tomorrow, then, Shell.” He gives a casual two-finger salute. “Don’t go getting steaming tonight, eh—need you steady for the needle.”
Outside, Dennistoun is grey and humming. A bus groans past. Someone shouts. Life resumes its usual indifference.
But under my skin—below the surface, deeper than heat—something’s settled.
Desire and intention.
Like choosing where the needle goes.
Like deciding what you’re willing to carry forever.
Nicely Inked
The Others – Shell’s story – episode 2
Feb 19, 2026
The next day I turn up at Sisyphus Ink five minutes late, windswept and dishevelled, looking like a feral punk raccoon.
Dean’s at the desk. He looks up and that same electric smile sparks—but he clicks his tongue, shaking his head.
“Making your artist wait,” he says with a dry, knowing smirk. “Risky strategy, that. you’ll have me thinking you got stage fright before we’ve even cracked the ink caps open.”
“Sorry, pal,” I croak, throat dry as sandpaper. “Taxi was late. Rehearsals last night bled into an all-nighter. Pure carnage for a girl lacking a soft pedal.”
He laughs, low and warm.
“You still good for this?”
“Aye. I’ll survive.”
“How about we start you with a wee coffee?” He comes round the desk, looking me over. “You eaten? No’ wanting you whitey-ing on me.”
I shake my head. He’s already pulling out his phone.
“Bacon roll, alright?” he asks. “Best fuel for a long session.”
“Aye. Grand. Cheers.”
“Take a pew,” he says, gesturing to the sofa. “Relax. Get your heartbeat settled. I need you calm—no’ vibrating off the chair like a mobile phone.”
I slump down, listening to him murmur an order. A couple of minutes later the studio door swings open and a guy strides in—younger, same jaw—laden with a cardboard tray of coffees and a grease-spotted paper bag. He dumps the haul on the desk and disappears without a word.
“Cheers, bro!” Dean calls after him. He hands me a coffee and the warm bag. The smell is divine.
“Get that in you,” he says, smiling. “I’ll no’ be long.”
He doesn’t sit beside me. Doesn’t hover. Just leans against the desk, tapping at his phone while I eat in silence.
I think: Bet he’s already spoken for—and that’s his girlfriend he’s texting. Lucky cow.
Then he looks up and catches me staring. His eyes light.
“Right,” he says, pocketing his phone. “That’s all the boring admin stuff done for the day.” A slow grin spreads as he cracks his knuckles. “Shall we get down to business then? Get your skin nicely inked before the coffee wears off?”
Five minutes later I’m face-down in his studio, vinyl cool against my skin. Skirt and pants shimmied just enough to give him the full canvas. I’ve made sure to wear decent knickers—black lace.
One wall is covered in mirrors so I can see his face throughout. He closes the door.
“We’ll be here a while,” he says, adjusting his stool. “What’s your soundtrack? I’m no’ having us sitting here in silence like we’re at a wake. Anything you want—though I draw the line at Coldplay. Pedestrian pish. Interferes with my flow.”
“No danger I’d ever ask for Coldplay,” I say. “I’ve got standards.”
“Glad to hear it,” he winks.
“Anything alt metal’s good with me,” I say.
“Tool?”
“Vintage. Aye. Class!”
“Nice to know I’m no’ the only one in here with a bit of taste.”
Before prepping my skin he hands me a bottle of water.
“Can’t have you wilting like a day-old salad. Keep the fluids up.”
“Yes sir,” I say, giving it the full mock soldier routine.
He makes sure I am absolutely happy with the placement and details, then applies the stencil, the transfer gel cool on my skin.
“Right then Shell—deep breath in, and we’ll get this show on the road.”
“Fair warning,” I say. “I’m one of those weirdos that finds getting tatted relaxing. I have been known to drop off.”
“No’ weird at all.” He catches my eye in the mirror, his expression deadpan but with a glint of humour. “Just no sudden movements, eh. I’m no’ in the business of fixing accidental zig-zags because you had a dream you were falling off stage.” He winks.
The machine’s angry buzz fills the room. I sink into the pain—familiar, grounding, almost welcome.
“You breathe through it like a pro,” he says after a while, his voice a low rumble. “Pure focus, that. Most folk are twitching like a bag of cats by now, but you’re just locked in. Keeping my job easy, Shell.”
“Practice,” I mumble into the rest. “Stage lights are hotter than this.”
“Aye, I bet.” He wipes away a trickle of ink.
“What’s worse,” I muse, “a heckler or a bad canvas?”
“At least with a heckler, you can tell them to shut it or get them flung out. I’m stuck with a bad client for six hours while they complain about the pain.”
“What about a fainter or a know-it-all?”
“Know-it-all. Every single time,” he says, huffing a laugh as he dips for more ink. “‘My cousin’s mate did this for twenty quid in his kitchen.’ Brilliant. Go back there, then, and see if the infection’s free an’ all.”
He pauses, holding the needle back for a beat.
“Had a guy once try to correct my spelling. In Gaelic.”
“Was he right?”
“He was not,” his tone is bone-dry. “And now he’s got a permanent reminder of that. A wee memento of the time he tried to out-Gaelic someone who actually paid attention in class. I didn’t correct him—just kept my head down and tattooed exactly what he asked for. Spite’s a powerful motivator for a clean line, Shell.”
He shifts, knee brushing the vinyl. A point of contact.
“So when did you pick up the guitar, then?” he asks, his focus never wavering from the fine-lining. “Were you one of those kids that started before they could walk?”
“I was ten. My dad roped me into his covers band by thirteen—private functions mostly. Meant he could focus on getting pished.” I smirk. “We fell out when I was sixteen. Artistic differences.”
A low, understanding hum. “My old man owned a printing shop,” he says, his voice dropping an octave. “Wanted us to keep it going. Got two tattooists instead. He never said he was disappointed—but I could tell. Like he’d been winded. Probably saw all that legacy turning into ink-stained skin instead of stationery.”
“That’s rough,” I say. “Mine just got louder ‘til I couldn’t handle the volume any more. Smashed my first decent guitar. An Epiphone. I loved that thing—sounded like heaven and hell fused.” I close my eyes. “Moved out after that.”
“At sixteen?” His voice softens. “Takes some serious minerals to do that.”
“It was no’ bravery,” I say. “Just pure necessity.”
“What about your mum?”
“No’ in the picture. Messy.”
His hand steadies my hip, the faintest squeeze.
“Where’d you end up, then?”
“Mates’ couches. A cardboard coffin behind Central once. Squats. Then a boyfriend who turned out to be a right bastard.”
“Jesus.” He pauses, the gun falling silent for a second. “You’ve been through the wringer, eh. That’s some heavy lifting for a young lass.”
“How old are you?” I ask.
“Thirty-two.”
“Married? Weans?”
“Hell no,” he says, cleaning the excess ink with a quick swipe. “Though I suppose I could’ve been.”
“Did you bottle it?”
He snorts. “Aye. Something like that.”
“So we’re just two sad-sacks biding our time, then?”
“Aye. Tragic. Proper crying face situation.”
Our eyes meet in the mirror and his smile is warm and bright.
“Could be serendipity,” I add with a wink.
It hangs between us for a few minutes, then he says:
“My old man never saw this place. My mum did, though. Called it a ‘delicious den of iniquity’—and asked to be inked by us.”
“Did you do it?”
“Aye. Frazer and I did a design together. She called it her seal of approval.” The machine falls silent as he pulls the needle away. He clears his throat.
“Both are gone now.” He doesn’t look up from wiping the ink. Just keeps working steady. “This place—me, my brother, the lads—is the life raft.”
The confession hangs between us. No pity party. Just fact.
“Life rafts matter,” I say quietly. “I found mine at twenty-one.”
“The one going on your skin.”
“Aye. The only thing that ever felt like it came with a proper lifejacket.”
The needle touches down again—sharp, deliberate.
“You build a family,” I murmur, “or you find one.”
“Both, maybe,” he says after a moment. “You build it with the ones you find, don’t you? The ones that actually stick around when the weather turns.”
His thumb brushes a stray droplet of pigment away. The touch lingers.
The afternoon pours away like water through a sieve and I fall into the quiet current of Dean’s focus. I watch him with a heavy-lidded, dreamlike intensity, barely able to distinguish the sharp hum of the needle from the warmth of his steadying hand. He’s so intent, so certain.
Then, his gaze lifts. Caught in my silent adoration, he doesn’t look away immediately; instead, I watch a faint rose colour bloom across his cheeks, followed by a slow, helpless smile. He clears his throat.
“Got any plans tonight?” He kills the machine and, before I can even catch my breath, he adds:
“I’d like to spend some time with you without the buzz, if you’re up for it.” He wipes the last of the ink away, his eyes meeting mine properly now that the work’s done. “Maybe grab a wee drink or something? Somewhere we can actually hear ourselves think.”
I turn to face him properly.
“Fair warning—I’m chaos incarnate. A walking red flag,” I say with a smirk.
He leans in, breath warm by my ear.
“Shell, I’ve been tattooing you for hours,” he says, a slow, grin spreading across his face as he drops the used cartridge into the bin. “I think I’m prepared for whatever you’ve got. If I can handle that ‘front woman energy’ under the needle, I think I can handle a drink with you. What’s the worst that can happen?”
A shiver—nothing to do with pain.
“In that case,” I say, “I’m up for it.”
“Brilliant.” He steps back, surveys his work, then helps me sit up—hands careful on my bare shoulders.
In the mirror, the tattoo is alive: thorns, blooms, sneering skulls framing SECCELLES. Raw. Beautiful.
“That’s pure stunning, Big D.”
“I’m pretty good with my hands,” he says, his grin turning a bit more cheeky as he peels off his nitrile gloves with a sharp snap.
Outside, the sky has collapsed. The front window is doing a fine impression of a deluge, distorting the neon signs across the street into bleeding streaks of light. Dean gives his chin a thoughtful scratch, squinting at the chaos.
“Ach, that weather’s nasty.” He looks at me—hopeful, almost shy. “How about we dodge the cataclysm and I show you my digs?” He nods upward. “Get Deliveroo. Beats swimming to the pub, eh?”
“Micro commute? You’re pretty sorted, aren’t you?” I smile.
“Aye, everything under one roof. Seemed like a good idea at the time.”
“I’d love to see where you live. And I’m a pure sucker for a takeaway pizza.”
Relief breaks across his face. He holds out an ink-stained, steady hand.
“Come on, then,” he says softly. “Let’s get you upstairs.”
