Archive of Our Own

Going to the bar with Jack, Joke, and Hoy was a /terrible/ idea.

Aran had practically begged him to, anyway. The moment Hoy had sent out the invitation in their group chat, he began nagging Tattoo. He was hunched over some old discarded scrap pieces of wire and metal, racking his brain with what he could possibly do with them, when Aran began pulling on the hem of his shirt sleeve from the couch.

“Tattoo?”

Tattoo initially ignored him. Not on purpose, really, but living with Aran had become too normal. His voice began blending in with the ambient noise of the small apartment. He had gotten /too/ used to having Aran around, and the comfort that his company brought scared Tattoo a bit.

Tattoo was not going to lie to himself and say that he’s not attracted to Aran. It was a foreign feeling to him, he had never liked someone like Aran before. Hell, he was snobby, picky, whiny, and worst of all; rich. Attributes that truly repulsed Tattoo. And yet, he had changed. Sure, he was still whiny, even picky when he could afford to be, but the rich snob he had met seemed to have disappeared with all of his money.

Tattoo couldn’t help but feel that maybe, just /maybe/, Aran was never actually made for the lifestyle he was born into. Aran cared. He could act like he didn’t, shrug his shoulders, scoff, but he cared for everyone. Tattoo noted how terribly his father had treated him, but every day, Aran disappeared from the apartment for an hour or two, taking care of him at his lowest, when he never did the same for him.

Even though he cared for his father, he also cared for the ones his father hurt, as well. Aran /shouldn’t/ have cared for Tattoo as much as he did, he thought. After all Tattoo had done, stealing Aran’s necklace, trying to sell it, Aran should hate him. But he sat on the couch beside his desk as he worked, almost a domestic scene.

When Tattoo awoke on that dock with Aran’s hand on his shoulder, bleeding out from the stab wound on his stomach, he thought he didn’t deserve Aran’s friendship.

When Joke had told him that Aran was stabbed trying to protect Tattoo, he /knew/ he didn’t deserve Aran’s friendship.

It was funny, he thought, that at the beginning, he thought Aran didn’t deserve to be around /him/, but now, it was the complete opposite. Tattoo would have never guessed the care that Aran had in him.

“Tattoo?” A second, louder request for his attention, accompanied with a harder tug at his shirt sleeve.

Tattoo turned around, raising his eyebrows, a silent “What is it?” that Aran had learned to read, also a scary behavior.

Aran held his phone up, opened to their group chat. “Hoy wants to know if we want to go out later. Jack and Joke are going. Can we?”

Tattoo thought, then shook his head, turning back around to his work, “I’m working. We’re short on cash anyway.”

“Hoy’s buying, though!” Aran moved further over on the couch, trying to move into Tattoo’s line of vision.

“I’m fine. You can go. Maybe I’ll make something that can sell.”

“I’m not going alone. I do not want to deal with Hoy alone. You know how he gets when he drinks.” Aran pouted.

“Jack and Joke will be there, right? You won’t be left to deal with him on your own.”

“And you know how Jack and Joke are, I /might as well/ be on my own.”

“Okay.” Tattoo sat down the stray battery he was fiddling with, turning back to Aran, “Then don’t go. Stay here and knit something.”

“But that’s turning down free drinks! That’s just a waste.”

“I don’t care if they’re free! It doesn’t change the fact that we are broke. You can go get drunk for free, but I’m going to try and make us some money.”

“Fine.” Aran huffed, he leaned back and crossed his arms, “Maybe I will go alone.”

“Okay, great.” Tattoo turned back around to his desk, picking his work back up.

“Maybe I’ll bring someone back, too.”

Tattoo paused.

“No, you won’t.” The reply came too quickly, and without a thought before it. Tattoo nearly covered his mouth, but continued to play it off.

Aran hummed, “Why not?”

“This is /my/ place. I’m letting /you/ stay here. Not some other guy.” Tattoo fiddled more hurriedly with his half-creation, suddenly sweating a bit, wondering if his save was inconspicuous enough.

“Fine. Maybe I won’t come back tonight, because someone will take /me/ to /their/ home.”

This was truly getting out of hand.

“That’s dangerous. You shouldn’t go home with just /anyone./”

“So worried about me. Come be my bodyguard, then.” Aran smiled, crossing his legs.

Really, it was really only a matter of time before Tattoo folded.

So here he was, at a dimly lit bar, different from their usual spot. “I need a new community. I’ve exhausted all of my options.” Hoy had reasoned, as if any of his previous /options/ were flattered by his bad, drunken pick-up lines. He wore the same brown tee-shirt and black shorts that he wore earlier that day, not bothering to change just for a mediocre bar.

Aran, on the other hand, had changed into a black knit tank top. The neckline was round and low cut, exposing his collarbones and a sinful portion of his chest. The sleeves covered no shoulder, and were cut large enough to show a generous amount of the side of his torso if he were to lift his arms. The top itself fit loosely on Aran’s body. Light, yet still left a bit to the imagination, and Tattoo would be lying if he said he wasn’t imagining.

The five had taken a booth in a corner, all taking advantage of Hoy’s generous offer of buying drinks. Jack and Joke had already had their fair share. Joke was leaned on Jack, slurring off whatever came to his mind. Jack seemed to listen intently, endeared by his husband’s babbling.

Tattoo took a sip of his drink as he took in the scene. A deep longing shoved down inside of him. He knew it was there, he knew what it was, but it didn’t mean he had to like that it was there.

He could stare at Aran all day. He was /so/ pretty. His skin was smooth, his eyes sparkled when he was happy, his lips made the saddest little pout when he was upset, his hair seemed so /soft/, and he had the cutest nose.

He couldn't let these hopeless, slightly tipsy longings in his mind cloud his judgement, though. It was confusing. He would go from never wanting to let these feelings exist, to wanting them to come true. Over and over, the same process repeated itself. Denial, begrudging acceptance, longing.

Hoy was off somewhere else in the bar, probably attempting to flirt, and more than likely failing. It’s not like Tattoo was in any place to judge him, though. He didn’t even /want/ to flirt with the one he wanted.

That was, until a man suddenly stood before their table, looking at Aran.

He was tall, taller than Tattoo, his skin was tanned, and he wore a tee shirt that revealed a decent layer of muscle. He had a kind grin as he spoke to Aran, now leaned onto the table.

Suddenly, a new feeling made its way into the rotation.

A lump formed in Tattoo’s throat, and he took a generous sip of his drink as Aran shifted next to him, moving closer to the stranger.

Tattoo had blocked out a good portion of their conversation, desperately trying to ignore the sweat on his palms and the fast beating of his heart. He sipped his drink, looking anywhere but Aran or the frustratingly handsome stranger. He looked to Joke, who was still staring at Jack. Then to Jack, who seemed to be holding back a /laugh/ at the situation before him. To Hoy, halfway across the bar, as a girl awkwardly smiled at him and walked away from him, leaving him only a bit dejected as he quickly moved on to her friend. Zero help from his friends, there.

He looked to the ceiling tiles, to the brick walls, to the silhouettes of people passing by outside the window under street lamps, to the table in front of him, to–

“Can I buy you a drink?” The man had said. Tattoo’s eyes shot over as he registered the question in his brain.

Aran laughed, “How could I turn that down?”

Aran had stood, following the man away from their booth.

Tattoo took a breath, suddenly feeling every emotion all at once. He was upset that Aran seemed to like that /stranger/ more than him, angry that he would go off with some /stranger/, worried about who this /stranger/ even was, and the one word he could /finally/ admit to himself. Jealousy.

Tattoo almost stood, then took a breath before settling back into his seat. Jack raised an eyebrow at him, Joke now asleep on his shoulder. Tattoo fiddled with the straw in his drink, averting his gaze from the man in front of him.

“So…” Jack started.

“Shut it.”

“I think,” Jack took a sip, “This is something that needs to be unpacked.”

“What is there to unpack?” Maybe if he played dumb enough, Jack would give up whatever mission he was trying to accomplish here.

“You know what. Don’t play dumb.”

Well fuck, “What are you, my therapist?”

“I’m your friend. And I care about you enough to know this is eating you whole.”

“And /if/, and I mean /if/ it is, what is there to be done about it?”

“There’s only one thing to do about it.” Jack smiled as Joke shifted against him in his sleep.

“Yeah, and I’m not doing that.” Tattoo leaned back, crossing his arms.

“Why not?”

“Because, I can’t lose this. I don’t want to weird him out.” Tattoo began rambling, “He’s not for someone like me. I don’t–”

Tattoo cut himself off before he let himself get too vulnerable.

“I think that maybe you shouldn’t be unpacking these feelings with me. It’s time that you tell him, Tattoo. It will only fester.”

Tattoo shrugged.

“It’s funny, though.” Jack continues, “Just two years ago, you hated the guy, you thought you were too good for him. Now you think he’s too good for you.”

Tattoo looked away, called out.

“But from what I see,” Jack tilted his head, “And between us, what everyone else sees too, you two are good for each other. It’s a nice balance, and I think you might be surprised if you went ahead and said something.”

“What? You’re gossiping about us?”

“Not the point, Tattoo. The point is that the only way to stop these feelings from festering is to get them out.”

What the hell, who cares.

Tattoo stood, downing the last bit of his drink. He walked over to where Aran and the man stood at the bar. Aran had one elbow leaned on the bar, his back arched just a bit, clearly /trying/ to look sexy. The other man sat on a barstool, staring at him like a sailor to a siren.

“Aran,” Tattoo put a hand on Aran’s shoulder, “Who’s your friend?”

Aran looked up, batting his lashes with feigned innocence, “Oh, Tattoo, this is Theo.”

Tattoo turned to him, giving him the nicest smile he could muster, “Theo. Good to meet you.”

Theo nodded, now clearly uncomfortable with the new presence.

“Aran, we should get going. It’s late.”

Aran stood, his pitch rose a bit as he spoke, “It’s not that late. I want to keep talking to my new friend.”

Aran’s eyes never left Tattoo’s, like he was /trying/ to get a rise out of him.

“Y’know, maybe I should go.” Theo stood, embarrassed, “It was great to meet you, Aran.”

“Maybe that’s best.” Tattoo smiled, “Maybe you could try our friend Hoy. The one over there with the red shirt and bad haircut. He’s desperate.”

Tattoo grabbed Aran’s arm, leading him toward the door.

Outside, in the light of the street lamps, Tattoo looked at Aran as they walked, expecting a sour expression. But to his surprise, he was fucking /smiling/. Aran was smiling, his eyes were sparkling and avoiding Tattoo’s gaze.

The walk home was a silent fifteen minutes. Tattoo closed the door behind them.

“Well? Really took your bodyguard job seriously, huh?” Aran sat on the couch and crossed his arms, putting on his best sour act.

“That guy was weird.” Tattoo leaned against the wall of cabinets.

“So you sent him after Hoy?”

“Hoy will scare him off.”

Aran hummed, not sounding convinced, “Do you want to tell the truth, or will I have to?”

“What truth? That you were flirting with that man to make me jealous?”

Aran smiled, “Well? Did it work?”

Tattoo rolled his eyes, “What do you think?

Aran stood, “Always answering a question with another question.”

Tattoo bit the inside of his cheek, staying quiet.

“Answer this then, and only a yes or no.” Aran began, now standing in front of Tattoo. A twinge of anxiety in his face, covered well by his feigned confidence from a distance. But up close, Tattoo could see the nervousness in his eyes. He took a breath before he spoke again, as if he was about to jump into an ice cold pool, “Did you wish I was flirting with you back there?”

Tattoo’s body felt impossibly cold, yet still sweaty, “What if I say yes?”

Aran stepped closer, the confidence in his eyes now gone, only anxiety left, even desperation, “I said no more questions! Yes or–”

Tattoo closed the gap between them, grabbing Aran by the waist and pulling him in. It was sloppy at first, their teeth bumping together as they adjusted into a rhythm.

For a moment, Tattoo hoped this was all a dream. A dream he had many times before, just another one added to the pile. He would wake up soon, alone on his mattress on the floor, Aran cluelessly still asleep in the next room, and he would keep pushing all of this down.

Then Aran kissed him /back./ Now, he hoped that if this was a dream, he was dead, and would never have to wake up from it.

Tattoo sucked desperately at Aran’s top lip as Aran gave the same treatment to his bottom lip. All of his predictions were correct, Aran’s lips /were/ as soft as they looked, and Tattoo was ready to kiss them until they were red and swollen.

Aran was a /great/ kisser, too. He knew just when to be more gentle, when to become more passionate, when to let his tongue wander, when to give Tattoo’s bottom lip a soft bite.

Tattoo’s hands roamed from his waist up to his hair, confirming even more theories. His hair was /impossibly/ soft. Even better, Aran made the most beautiful noises into Tattoo’s mouth when he grabbed his hair particularly hard.

Aran tasted of the Vodka-Tonic cocktail he was drinking, a hint of lime that was squeezed into the drink lingered on his tongue. But under the alcohol, Aran tasted just how Tattoo thought he would. He tasted just like how he looked, how he smelled, he tasted like /home./

Aran brought his hands under Tattoo’s shirt, one hand grabbing at his back, the other holding his waist. He brought Tattoo’s body closer to his, pressing themselves together. Tattoo breathed in their closeness, the scent of their sweat mixing together.

Aran pulled back first, tugging at Tattoo’s shirt, “Off. I want it off.”

“Only if you take yours off too.” Tattoo breathed, bringing his hands down to the hem of Aran’s tank top.

“Rip it off if you want, I don’t care.”

Tattoo pulled Aran’s shirt over his head, laughing just a bit. Tattoo’s shirt quickly joined Aran’s on the floor before he pushed Tattoo over to the couch. Aran sat on his lap before kissing him again. The two quickly regained their rhythm.

Tattoo could feel himself growing hard as Aran rubbed up against him, and he could feel Aran as well. He brought one hand back up to his hair, every short pull working Aran up a bit more. His other hand rested on his butt, squeezing every so often. Aran had Tattoo’s face in his hands, kissing him desperately, as if he was the last source of oxygen on Earth.

Aran’s body was hot, and both of them were sweaty. The old, whirring box fan in the corner made no dent in the growing heat between them. Aran pulled back for a moment, catching his breath.

Tattoo took this opportunity to attack his neck, immediately sucking just below his jawline.

“Do you know,” Aran breathed, “How long I’ve wanted this?”

Tattoo made a humming noise against him, moving further down his neck.

“That day we first met,” he rasped, “I thought you were /so/ hot. Dressed in black, all mysterious. Do you know how /bad/ I wanted to fuck the bodyguard? Then I found out what you did, and I /hated/ you.”

Tattoo smiled against him, and pulled back, Aran skin leaving his mouth a slight /pop/, “Clearly not enough.” He then went for the other side of his neck, closer to his collarbone, “Look at you now, finally fucking your bodyguard.”

Tattoo closed his lips around Aran’s skin, giving the spot a small bite, eliciting a quiet moan out of him.

Aran rocked his hips against Tattoo’s legs, and if that didn’t make Tattoo completely hard, he didn’t know what would.

Tattoo pulled back and admired the view. Aran was rubbing himself up against his legs, his eyes squeezed shut, focused on chasing his pleasure. His mouth hung open, spilling out the most beautiful noises. His neck was covered in red blotches bound to turn dark by the morning.

“Did you think it was funny?” Tattoo put his hands on Aran’s hips, guiding him, “Flirting with that guy to make me jealous?”

Aran gave no response, he just quickened his pace of humping Tattoo’s thighs.

“Answer me, sweetheart.” Tattoo continued, and Aran whined particularly loud at the nickname.

“Yes! I wanted to work you up so badly.” Aran wrapped his arms around Tattoo’s neck, “I wanted to /know/ that you want me.”

“You know, now.” Tattoo’s eyes traced the marks on Aran’s neck and chest. He reached out and grazed his fingertips over them, “Now, everyone will know.”

Tattoo watched as Aran continued to work himself against him. He thrusted his hips back and forth, his hands gripping at the top of Tattoo’s back. Aran’s forearms laid heavily on his shoulders, keeping himself steady as he shook from pleasure.

Tattoo thought Aran was the most beautiful, beguiling thing before him. A work of art, something straight out of a dream. How his head would tilt back after a particularly nice rock of his hips, exposing his beautiful, long neck. His mouth hung open, his lips bitten red, swollen up just a bit.

Aran let out a particularly high pitched cry, “I’m close.”

As hot as the thought of Aran desperately climaxing just from humping his thighs was, Tattoo wanted to make him feel better than what frotting through his jeans would bring him.

“Slow down, Aran.” He put some pressure on his hips, restricting him from moving, “You’ll be done before we even start, and we don’t want that.”

Aran bit his cheek, pouting.

“That is,” Tattoo began, “If you want to take this further? We can keep doing th–”

“No! I wanted to take this further.” Aran interjected, “I want you so badly.”

Tattoo smiled, rubbing his thumbs over Aran’s hips, “Okay, let’s take this somewhere else, then?”

Aran nodded as they stood. They made their way into Tattoo’s bedroom.Tattoo kissed Aran again, slowly this time, gently sucking at his lip as he shook himself out of his shorts.

Aran’s pants soon joined the pile of the floor. Tattoo noted the large spot on Aran’s boxers where pre-come had accumulated. He gently pushed Aran down, urging him to sit on the mattress that sat low to the floor. He obliged, and Tattoo walked over to his dresser, fiddling around in a drawer.

“What are you looking for?” Aran asked, impatience in his voice.

“Lube, condoms.” He responded, and continued looking around.

Aran hummed, “You could fuck me raw.”

Tattoo paused, feeling his dick twitch at the thought. He turned to Aran, who sat on the mattress. His legs were slightly apart, feet planted on the floor and his arms propping himself up behind him, leaning back. As appealing as the idea was, Tattoo shook his head and turned back around.

“What? I’m clean! You’re clean, right?” Aran almost whined.

“Of course I am. But it’s better to be safe. Also, we need lube anyway,” He turned back around, a bottle of lube and a condom in hand, “I wouldn’t want to hurt you.”

Aran chuckled, “Well I sure wouldn’t mind.”

“Maybe another day,” Tattoo smiled, he walked back over to the bed, climbing on top of Aran, setting the bottle and the package beside the two of them, “But let’s take this one step at a time. Let me do this right, tonight.”

“Glad to know there will be another night with us.” Aran was laying down now, Tattoo hovering on top of him, his necklace dangling between them.

“Of course there will be. I won’t let you go now that I have you.” Tattoo sat up, sitting in between his legs, “Even if you wake up tomorrow morning, and start to regret me, I’ll know that you do want me, and I’ll make sure you remember.”

Aran softly groaned as Tattoo pulled his boxers down. Aran lifted his hips, allowing him to take them completely off. His lower half was now exposed, his skin was flushed all over, glistening just a bit from sweat in the light of the dim lamp in the corner. His cock laid against his stomach, leaking of pre-come. His hips curved out only a bit, accentuating his waist.

Aran was sculpted and painted by hands that Tattoo suddenly felt the need to worship for the rest of his life. He wanted to kiss the hands that crafted Aran nearly as much as he wanted to kiss the man himself all over. He wanted to kiss every inch of his body, suck and bite on every spot until it was printed with Tattoo’s mark.

As he looked into Aran’s eyes, he realized that he wanted the same thing. Tattoo realized that he had never been wanted by someone this badly in his entire life.

Tattoo took the bottle of lube and squirted just a good amount onto his fingers. He rubbed his fingers together, warming the liquid. He smiled as he looked into Aran’s half shut eyes. Aran spread his legs open, and lifted his hips up just a bit, giving Tattoo better access to his hole.

“Tell me if something doesn’t feel right, okay? Tell me what feels good. I want to make you feel good.” Tattoo put his hand at Aran’s entrance, rubbing his middle finger around the rim.

Aran nodded, his voice shaky “Okay, I will.”

“Are you ready?”

With Aran’s nod, Tattoo pushed his middle finger into Aran, down to only his first knuckle. Aran hissed a bit, then let out a shaky breath.

“Good?”

“Hah- yes. Yes, it’s good. You can move it.” Aran rambled.

Tattoo pushed in further, curving his finger up inside him. He brought it back out a bit, hooking his finger inside. A whine escaped Aran’s throat at the stretch. As he slowly fingered him, he placed his other hand on Aran’s knee, rubbing comforting circles on it.

Aran writhed into Tattoo’s touch, desperate for more stimulation, for more of /him/. Aran’s back arched at certain, deeper thrusts, bringing Tattoo’s finger deeper into him. He quickened his pace just a bit, causing Aran’s breath to hitch and a filthy sounding moan to escape his lips.

Aran was beautiful under Tattoo’s touch, writhing against him, chasing some sort of pleasure. He bit his lip, attempting to muffle his noises, but ultimately failing every time Tattoo did something particularly nice, and his mouth would fall open, unleashing the most melodic noises, nicer than any song Tattoo had ever heard.

Aran’s body was a bit flushed, hot and aroused. The marks on his neck had grown darker already, soon to contrast against his lighter skin in a beautiful shade of deep red. One of his hands gripped at the sheets beside him, and the other laid above his head. His eyes were lightly shut, opening at times to meet Tattoo’s dark gaze. The scent of sweat had accumulated between them, the heat of the moment overtaking them.

At a particular thrust, Aran jolted, letting out a moan that may or may not have been audible outside of the apartment.

“Was that /it/?”

Aran nodded, catching his breath. Tattoo aimed there once more, causing Aran to moan again. Tattoo laughed softly, continuing to finger him, only brushing his prostate sparingly.

“Who knew you’d be so noisy in bed?” Tattoo mumbled, “I can’t wait to hear how you sound when I get inside of you if this is how you sound with just /one/ of my fingers.”

Aran bit down on his lip, embarrassingly holding back more noises. Tattoo added the tip of his ring finger, and Aran clenched around him, his mouth falling open once again. He let him adjust and catch his breath for a moment, and then began moving once again.

He gently worked Aran open, stretching his hole out to prepare him. He pumped his fingers in and out, barely brushing his prostate at times, causing Aran to jolt his hips forward with a yelp.

“You’re so beautiful, Aran.” Tattoo couldn’t help but let the declaration slip out, “You are the most gorgeous thing I’ve seen in my life. And you’re all /mine/.”

Aran whined, “You’re so hot, Tattoo. I want you so bad.”

“You have me. You’ll always have me.”

“I’ve wanted you for so long, you don’t get it. You won’t believe /half/ of the fantasies I’ve had about you.” Aran confessed in between sharp inhales and moans, “Every place, every position, every scenario you can think of, I’ve probably imagined it. Every time I touch myself, I’m thinking of you. I have to bite my pillow so that I don’t scream your name when I come. We’ve done so much in my head and now it’s /real/.”

Tattoo almost thought he was hearing things, that maybe he was imagining Aran’s shaky, barely coherent rambles. But he wasn’t, and that image was so /hot/. The image of Aran stroking himself to the mere /thought/ of him filled his head, and that was almost enough for Tattoo to come in his boxers.

But he held it together, and focused on the sight before him. Aran looked disheveled and blissed the fuck out. His hair was a mess, and his entire face was red. His cock was leaking onto his stomach, desperate to be touched.

Tattoo brought his other hand to Aran’s cock, giving it a few short tugs while brushing his prostate more.

“Oh God, Tattoo–” Aran choked, whining, “If you keep- agh- doing that, I’m gonna come.”

“Do it, then. Come all over my hand. Let me see you come with just my hands.”

“Tattoo, agh!” He nearly yelled as come spilled out, trembling and clenching around his fingers as he aimed directly for his prostate, pumping his hand over his cock.

Aran's climax was a heavenly sight. His eyes were squeezed tightly shut, his mouth wide open, Tattoo’s name hanging from his lips. His hands grasped desperately at the sheets for any sort of ground as he reached his high.

As Aran came down, Tattoo slowed his pace, keeping his fingers around his cock and the others in his hole, bringing him into overstimulation.

Tears pricked at Aran’s eyes, some streaming down his flushed cheeks. His whines became nearly pained, Tattoo began to remove his fingers, but was interrupted.

“No! Don’t pull out. Please. I can take it, please.” Aran begged, watery eyes looking up at Tattoo, “Keep fingering me. I want you to be able to fuck me. Please.”

And who was Tattoo to say no to that?

Tattoo kept fingering him, slowly this time. He gently stroked his cock, feeling him grow hard again. Come had covered Tattoo’s hand, slicking up Aran’s cock.

Tattoo leaned down, and kissed Aran, capturing his moans with his own mouth. The kiss was messy, open mouths pressed against each other, breathing into each other.

Tattoo licked into Aran’s mouth, ravishing the feeling of his kiss. He kissed with need and thrill, letting their saliva mix together. It was filthy, and the sound of their lips sliding against each other filled the room along with Aran’s muffled whines.

Their kiss was full of passion and nearly two years of yearning that bloomed from a shared hatred. It was electric, yet so tender at the same time. So hurried and needy, but so long-awaited. Aran’s hands wandered over Tattoo’s body, one hand running up and down his back, the other slipping through his hair. They melted into each other’s touch, closer than ever before, closer than either of them had ever anticipated would happen outside of dreams.

Tattoo was sure Aran had probably had better before this. Somewhere, not in a stuffy apartment on an old mattress on the floor. Probably in a luxury hotel with someone hotter, maybe kinder, more experienced. But he was here with Tattoo, and all he could talk about was how /amazing/ this was.

Maybe this confirmed Tattoo’s suspicions that Aran was never made for that life. Maybe he was made for their stuffy apartment and old mattress, and not expensive champagne with someone who felt nothing for him. Aran deserved something /real/, not something /luxury./

Aran gently pulled Tattoo away, catching his breath, exhaling into the Tattoo’s open mouth, “I’m ready. Please, please fuck me.”

With that, Tattoo sat up and removed his fingers from Aran’s hole. Aran gasped at the loss, but moved back on the bed, watching Tattoo with intense desire in his eyes.

He pulled his boxers down, and shuffled out of them. He ripped the condom package, and rolled it over himself. He squirted a bit more lube onto his hand, and spread it over his cock. He brought one of Aran’s legs up to his shoulder, “Is that comfortable?”

“It’s hot.” Aran breathed.

“That wasn’t my question,” Tattoo met Aran’s eyes, “Is it /comfortable/?”

Aran nodded shyly, averting his gaze.

“Are you okay?”

Aran sighed, “Yeah. I’m shy. It’s been…” Aran cleared his throat, “It’s been a while since I’ve gone /this far/. And I don’t think I’ve ever done it with someone I really–” He cut himself off, “That I’ve really liked.”

Tattoo leaned forward, bringing a hand to Aran’s chin, moving his face to meet his own gaze, “We don’t have to do this tonight, it’s okay.”

“No, no I want to. Fuck– I /really/ want to. I just am getting a little emotional. I’m sorry.”

“Hey, it’s okay. There’s nothing to be sorry about.”

“You used to hate when I cried.” Aran whispered, his teary eyes darting away from Tattoo’s.

“I /used/ to. I’m a better person now, for you. You made me a better person.

Aran laughed, a small sniffle accompanying it, “No one’s ever cared for me this much before. It’s weird.”

Tattoo pressed his forehead to Aran’s, “You deserve so much. You deserve better than /me./”

“I don’t think there /is/ better than you.” Aran laughed, and looked into Tattoo’s eyes. “I want you, Tattoo. I want you in every way. I want you inside of me.”

Tattoo nodded, pulling back, and brought Aran’s leg back up. He lined himself up with his hole. He looked up at Aran one more time, and he was met with a nod, and a desperate look in Aran’s eyes. He pushed the head in, and Aran’s breath hitched with a short cry.

Tattoo wasn’t really sure how to talk someone through sex, his experience didn’t often expand past one-night-stands, so it was never really his thing. But looking down at Aran, desperately trying to take his cock, he thought that maybe he needed it.

Unsure, Tattoo opened his mouth, “You’re doing so good, take your time.”

The words fell so naturally from Tattoo’s mouth, but felt so new. For the first time, Tattoo wanted to truly /care/ for someone, for /Aran/. He wanted to take his time to take Aran apart. He wanted to tell him he was beautiful at every hour of the day, and to wake up next to him every morning. He wanted to stare at him as he breathed in his sleep. He wanted to take him on cliche dates. He wanted to care for Aran the way Aran cared for /everyone/.

Tattoo rubbed Aran’s thigh, watching as he steadied his breathing. He opened his eyes again, meeting Tattoo’s.

“You can move now, I’m ready.”

Tattoo nodded, dropping a kiss to Aran’s knee before gently pushing in further. Aran’s mouth fell open, gasping. He rocked his hips back and forth, slowly. Every movement earned the most beautiful symphony of noises from Aran.

“You're- ah-” Aran gasped at every thrust, “--really big. You feel so good inside of me.”

Any other day, this would have been a major ego boost for Tattoo. But he could pay no attention to that when the most beautiful man was in front of him, squirming down on him, chasing stimulation. How his body writhed against the mattress, adjusting to the pressure inside of him.

Tattoo fucked in and out of him, still at a slower pace, and still not pushing all the way in, ensuring Aran’s full comfort. He breathed in the smell of sex between them, and took in the image before him as if he would never see it again, the image that would haunt his dreams forever, and hopefully linger in his reality.

With the hand not on Aran’s leg, he caressed his waist, brushing his fingertips over smooth, fair, gorgeous skin. He brought his fingers up to Aran’s chest, tracing the middle of his chest, between his pecs. Then moved down to his stomach, where a scar resided on the left side of his torso, a painful reminder of the past. But more than that, a hopeful symbol of Aran’s love and devotion.

His hand lingered there for longer than it should've. Tattoo leaned down, and pressed a gentle kiss to it, a promise to protect him, the way he should have been able to protect him that day.

Aran’s hand met Tattoo’s cheek, bringing his face back up to meet his gaze. He smiled softly, his mouth still open. Tattoo brought Aran’s leg down from his shoulder, and leaned up to capture his lips in a kiss. Aran grasped and scratched at Tattoo’s back, his nails digging into his skin. Tattoo quickened his pace, pushing a bit deeper into him.

Aran moved his head back, to which Tattoo dropped kissed to his jawline, neck, and chest, “Tattoo?”

Tattoo hummed as he kissed all over Aran’s body.

“Can I–” He caught his breath for a moment, “Can I ride you?”

Tattoo looked up into his eyes, and nodded, “Of course, anything you want.”

Tattoo sat up and let Aran get up. He sat down on the mattress, and planted his back against the wall, cold against his hot back.

Aran straddled his legs, and hovered over Tattoo’s cock. He watched as Aran lined himself up with his cock. He lowered himself onto it, shuddering. Tattoo placed a kiss to Aran’s collarbone, sucking new marks next to the ones he created earlier.

Aran began to sink himself down onto Tattoo’s cock until he had taken it down to the base. His lips spilled out swears and soft “Tattoo…”s. He wrapped his arms around Tattoo’s neck as he rode, lifting and lowering himself as he pleased, chasing another high.

“You’re so pretty riding me, Aran.” Tattoo whispered, looking up at him. His hands rested on Aran’s hips, keeping him steady as he rode.

“You’re so good, Tattoo. You fill me so well.” Aran moaned, breathing heavily.

Aran dropped himself down particularly hard, making his eyes roll back a bit, and eliciting the same noise that came when Tattoo hit his prostate earlier. He aimed there again, driving himself down harder, nearly yelling from the pleasure.

He fucked himself on Tattoo’s cock, brushing his prostate occasionally, filling the room with the filthy noises of Aran’s moans, skin smacking together, and Tattoo’s mouth sliding around on Aran’s skin. Tattoo prayed they weren't waking any neighbors. But realistically, if his neighbors didn’t know his name, they did now.

With how noisy Aran was now, maybe Tattoo would need to work on some sort of sound absorbent paneling next.

Not that he complained, though. The noises Aran made were not only hot, but they were /beautiful/. They were like the song of a siren, entrancing. Comparable to how Aran /looked/, and Tattoo was the poor sailor who will never be the same.

Tattoo felt the familiar heat pool in his stomach, building with every move Aran made. This was about to be over embarrassingly fast.

Aran’s pace became erratic as he fucked himself down, hitting his prostate with nearly every thrust. “Tattoo… I’m close.”

Tattoo suddenly felt very relieved that he was not the only one about to burst at the seams, “Me too, baby. Do it, come for me.”

With a few more quick rolls of his hips, Aran came between their stomachs. His mouth hung open, and a loud gasp escaped following Tattoo’s name. He clenched down around Tattoo’s cock, as if his body wanted to hold onto it forever. Seeing Aran come apart on top of him sent Tattoo over the edge, and he quickly followed, and waves of pleasure rippled through his body.

The two stayed still for a moment, coming down from their highs. Their chests rose and fell together, heavily. They breathed in each other’s air, the atmosphere between them hot and foggy. They sat in an intoxicating bliss, where Aran’s face was buried in Tattoo’s shoulder, his arms draped around him. Tattoo’s hands rubbed comforting circles on Aran’s hips.

They were left reeling, coming down from miles up in the air, their own personal paradise. They were boneless and limp, as if their orgasms drained all of the energy from their bodies.

After a while, Tattoo helped Aran off of him, and made his way to the bathroom. There, he tied off the condom and threw it in the trash. Next, he took a washcloth and wet it with warm water.

Coming back into the bedroom, Aran laid on the mattress, staring deep in thought at the wall. Tattoo walked over to him, and began wiping at Aran’s stomach and lower half, dabbing at the mess they had made. Tattoo looked up at Aran, who was now looking at him with a look of pure /love/ in his eyes.

Tattoo had seen many looks in Aran’s eyes, but never this one. This one was loving and adoring. Tattoo had never had someone look at him like that, like he was deserving of the sun. Yet, the sun seemed to be looking at him now, like he deserves the universe.

Tattoo continues cleaning Aran up, wiping gently at him.

“I’ve never felt this way for someone before.” Aran broke the comfortable silence, “This is so different.”

“Different in a good way?”

“Yes, in a very good way.” Aran laughed, “I really, really like you. I think I’m…. nevermind, forget it.” He turned away, a blush blooming on his face.

“Wait, what is it?”

“I think… I might be in love with you.” Aran spat out, “And I know it’s so soon, and technically we aren’t even anything yet, and you may not feel that deeply for me, and I’m rushing a lot, and–”

Tattoo cut him off with a short kiss, “You worry a lot.”

Aran blinked at him, worry still in his eyes.

“You don’t need to worry with me. I /adore/ you, Aran. I don’t want you to have to overthink your feelings for me, because I want to make you feel loved. I will love you, if you’d let me?”

“What are you saying?”

Tattoo set the cloth on the floor beside the mattress, “I’m asking if you want to be with me? Be my boyfriend?”

Aran smiled, “Yes, I really do.”