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“Why are you such a baby all the time?” Pete asks with a hint of bubbly humor that only comes out when he’s in the best kind of mood. His eyes stay glued to the skin where he’s laying down the ink, solid and careful. Always focused on his art, even when he’s taking the time to destroy Gary’s ego.
He really picked right this time, he thinks.
The shop smells like disinfectant, ink, and hot metal. It always does but this close and personal, it’s a triple threat that never fails to shoot straight to his dick like the depraved individual that he is.
Pete says he’s disgusting, tarnishing the name of tattoo culture. Gary thinks the number of times they’ve fucked in the back after a tattoo speaks well enough for how he really feels. Gary can’t help what the burn of a needle does to his libido, especially when he’s got such a banging artist sticking it in him.
He’ll always take whatever Pete’s offering.
“You’re real mean now that we’re having sex,” Gary teases, subtly trying to grind into the chair without moving his shoulders where Pete’s currently trying to line some symbol from a show they started watching together at the beginning of the summer.
Important to both of them, as a couple; it seems fitting.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Pete says, twisting just a little to decide on the next color from the tray wheeled up beside him. He doesn’t miss the small movement though, Gary notes, hand pressing into the small of Gary’s back to pin him to the chair.
A tease.
“Who are you again?” Gary plays along, pushing back against Pete’s hand. The boy grunts, genuinely annoyed, and Gary relaxes his body at the sound. Still and quiet. He knows when he’s pushed too far, at least with Pete who’s so good at communicating even before Gary’s crossed a line.
“World renowned tattoo artist, pursuer of resident ginger Jimmy Hopkins,” Pete answers pointedly, smoothing his hand along Gary’s back before the buzz of the needle starts again. He tenses, but not for the pain that he’s long become accustom to.
Grunting, he turns his head to stare away from Pete, to the door and the people hustling beyond it. It’s a quiet afternoon. Pete had said he didn’t expect any walk-ins, and that’s a rarity now that word about his shop is out.
It’s nice, just the two of them.
“A baby,” Pete hums, breaking the silence. Gary’d been lost in thought more than sulking, but the affection he hears makes up for the accusation. “Jimmy won’t even let me finish the design I drew for him. At least you’re my tough baby.”
“I have a pain kink; I don’t think it counts,” Gary points out, wondering immediately why he’d jump to Hopkins’ defense. He likes the possession in Pete’s words though; wants to hear more of that forever. And that’s the thing really, why he keeps getting ink even though he already got the boy.
There’s tons of ways Gary could seek that thrill, but this is the only way that really makes him Pete’s.
He really, really likes being Pete’s.
“I could never date someone who could stand to stay a blank canvas.”
Gary laughs as the needle goes still, clattering against the tray as Pete moves to wipe down the area between his shoulders. It stings the way he hates; done until next time. There’s always a next time.
“You’re a tattoo snob, Peter Kowalski. How embarrassing,” Gary jokes, pressing his face into the fake leather of the chair as Pete starts winding plastic wrap around his upper torso. He hears the plastic tear, a kiss placed between his shoulder blades that feels weird with the plastic between his skin and the lips.
Not bad, but weird.
“Lucky for you,” Pete mumbles against his back, voice distorted by plastic and proximity.
Yeah, Gary feels pretty lucky.