He traces, absentmindedly, the tattoos decorating his skin. He rests in the middle of his four-canopy bed, black and white drapes breezing around him. The balcony doors are open on a cool Italian night, chilling his painted form. He is naked, open to admire the handiwork of a professional.

The left and right eyes of Horus stare blankly from his shoulder blades, greedily taking the surfaces of his scapulas. Beneath the eyes of Horus, right side, a bull is tossing his head, eyes glowing green and tail flowing above his charging body as his horns pierce his hip bone. Trickling down his spine, like the great divider between these powerful symbols, reaching from the base of his neck to the small of his back, is the Italian horn, undulating and curving over the vertebrae.

In the dip of his clavicle, on his front, is Ankh, like a medallion that could never be removed, stitched into his skin. Below the ancient ruin, embossed into both pectorals, are handprints, spread wide with thumbs grazing each other over his sternum. Circling his belly button is a snake biting down on its tail and the David's star is between that and the hands, stretching from the palms to the snake's back. A copper arrow head languishes on the back of his right hand, a yellow cat's eye in the palm of his left. Resting over his one inner ankle is the green Laurel wreath and the sole of his other foot carries The Traveler. The scarab beetle is bleeding into the metatarsals of the same foot, golden in color.

He is a canvas of protection and guardianship, a masterpiece of ink and blood that will last as long as his flesh lasts.

He fingers his inner thigh, imaging his next conquest, the pentagram, and how it will rest there. Better yet, he images the man who will put it there, take the needle to his skin and brand him yet again, like his little piece of art that is never completely done.

Smiling, he licks his lips. Electric green eyes are laughing, muscles are quivering – his intimates are reacting strongly to the memory of cool, long-fingered hands on him, holding him in place, attacking him with artistic pleasure. He can see the figure in his mind's eye, towering over him like the S&M male version of Snow White, eyes and hair as black as coal, lips as red as blood. Skin white like snow.

He shivers and let his hand wander up, invading himself, taking perverse enjoyment in toying with his own body, visualizing his hand to be that of another's.

When all is moaned and done, tissues wet and nasty at the side of the bed, he laughs at the irony he has never realized was there before.

Here he is, a map of worldwide safeguards – symbols and emblems and talismans to ward off evil and anything that could bring evil – and it's too late. Far, far, far too late~ and he doesn't mind in the least.

Sin. His skin is a print of pure and good things, but he is sin. Lust is his burden.

He licks his palm, directly over the cat's eye, obscuring its vision and leaving it blind in a trail of saliva.

And he will be lustful, will take his artist's hand, that careful, beautiful hand, and he will lead it up his thigh until it rests on the erection they both know he will have. From there… well, he'll know when it happens.

Perhaps, and also maybe, he can stop with this charade of protective symbols and likewise, he can be branded. He can have his artist's name on his rump, just over his flank, and he can have it say in bold, attention-grabbing letters, so damn demanding that everyone will see it, his name.

Lambo chuckles and nibbles on his wrist, pearly whites flashing predatorily in the shadowy room. In big, bold letters, he can have his artist claim him.

REBORN.

He rather likes the feel of that.

Author's Note: I have NO idea.