Work Text:
On a stainless steel table on his hands and knees, puffing out ragged box breaths that no yoga instructor would let slide, Jamie Tartt is suffering for art.
A big broad palm cups his left arse cheek, the one that's not in searing pain. Jamie's breath catches at the unexpected touch.
"You're shit at breathing," the owner of the hand says. Rasps, really, in a voice that can get Jamie's cock to half-mast if the mood is right. But Jamie's all but naked in a crowded shop right now, high up on a table and facing the room, so he tries not to let it.
"You saying you want to choke me?" Jamie quips. "Save it for later, mate."
Disappointingly, he doesn't get a response. But the fingers on his left cheek dig in harder as the pain on the right side sharpens. Jamie can't stop himself from letting a moan slip out, which makes the man behind him chuckle.
It's his first arse tattoo and he had no idea how much the whole setup, from the pain in his arse to the ache in his knees to the pinch of the snug jockstrap he's wearing to the pleasant buzz of humiliation of it all would do it for him.
Plus the fact that Roy Kent is doing it doesn't hurt, either.
Jamie loves getting tattooed – the way the pain courses through him like an electrical current through so much skin and muscle. He likes all kinds of pain really. Gets a thrill from being tackled. Always asks for the biggest, broadest, most Slavic bloke they've got in the place when he goes for a massage. Wanks, regularly, to the memories of the rare occasions when Roy's been persuaded to touch a cigarette to his skin for just a moment (always too short, but he takes what he can get).
But this isn't just any tattoo or just any pain. This is Roy Kent permanently marking his arse. As clear of an "I love you" as it gets, even though they don't talk like that. That already blissful feeling of his body muscling through something heavy is amped up to, like, a hundred and fifty simply because of what this pain is for.
He's taking it like a fucking champ. And he's going to look so good for Roy when this is done.
When the buzz of the needle stops for a moment, Jamie hears the silence before he feels the relief. Then comes the cooling sensation of gentle foam soap on angry, hot skin. Roy's thick fingers are soft as he wipes Jamie clean, his touch careful and light, like he's handling a little flower. Jamie breathes deeply, soaking it up.
"He takes it well," comments a thickly accented female voice from behind him.
Jamie startles, and he starts to turn his head, but then Roy's free hand pins his neck in place. Jamie takes the hint and hangs his head low again, resigned not to know.
"He's not bad," Roy agrees.
Another gloved hand pinches the flesh of his upper thigh. Not lightly, either. Jamie hisses through his teeth. "Has he been squirming?"
Roy grunts his grunt for no. Jamie preens, a little.
"It's good work," she says. "But you are pressing very hard. He is already bruising."
Roy snorts out a laugh. "He's not fucking complaining."
She chuckles. Her gloved hand finds a new, tender spot of his skin and presses down with one finger. He's sure it's hers this time because he can feel the long nail digging in. She applies force, more and more of it until she wrests a sharp yelp out of him, and then she releases him in satisfaction.
"You trained him?"
Roy grunts a yes.
"And this is yours?"
Another grunt.
She surveys him for a long while, or at least, she stands there in silent for a a moment.
"It will look very nice."
Roy doesn't say anything to that. But Jamie, for his part, is delighted.
"Keep up good work," she says at last, and then there's the click-click of a retreating heel.
"She meant you, you know," Roy breathes in Jamie's ear, and then he fires up the needle again. "You're being a very good boy."
"I–" Jamie begins, and then he swallows hard as the needle resumes its assault on his arse cheek. "I know."
Roy squeezes his left cheek. It stings and feels like love.
It's impossible to know how far into the design Roy has gotten because the pain is broad enough to make the exact location of the needle indistinguishable. But he imagines Roy's hand moving slowly as he traces the lines and curves of the stencil. His palms must be sweaty underneath the gloves, and his right wrist will be sore from his firm grip on the needle. Jamie hopes Roy will let him suck on his fingers tonight; they deserve some love after Roy's gone to all this trouble, all for Jamie.
"Are you going to fuck me with the bandage on?" he pipes up.
For a moment, Roy doesn't respond, and Jamie wonders if the fucker is going to pretend he couldn't hear over the needle.
But Roy wouldn't do that. "Depends if you keep being good."
Jamie pouts. He's always so good.
"Well I think you're gonna," he insists. "Can't fucking resist when I've got this, can you?"
With his free hand, Roy touches what must be a bruise. Then presses on it harder. "Haven't got it yet," he says. "I could leave it half done if you like. Like Colin."
It's true. Colin has the first fifteen minutes of an aborted stick-and-poke on his shoulder. Jamie doesn't know what the fuck he was going for, but what he got looks like a traffic cone. Or possibly a horse cock. There was one match where his sleeve rode up enough to show it and Sky Sports blurred it just in case. It became a meme, of course, and then Isaac printed it out and hung it in his cubby.
"Don't compare me to Colin when you're signing my arse," Jamie whines. "His arse ain't half as nice and you know it."
When Roy takes his hand away to fill up on ink, Jamie gives his arse a little wiggle. Roy taps his left cheek in a way that lets Jamie know he'd much rather give it a slap. Jamie'd rather a slap too, if he's being honest.
Around him, the hustle and bustle of the studio soothes him like white noise. When Jamie declined the offer of a privacy curtain, he was thinking mainly of the thrill of being witnessed as Roy stakes this obvious claim on him. He didn't think about how much sharper the surrounding sounds would be, and what it would feel like to be so aware of everyone else in the room, facing them and everything. Seeing all that surrounds him, Jamie doesn't feel as watched as he imagined he would. Bit like a paradox, if he's got the meaning of that word right. The more he can see of other people, the more he feels consumed only by Roy.
Listening to the dull chatter, his breathing starts to normalize. Finally, he can feel that sense of harmony he gets in a tattooist's chair–the good ones, anyway. It happens most times. His breathing starts to match the artist's, and the vibrations of their bodies fall into sync. Even as he's experiencing pain through five layers of skin, maybe less if Roy's as shit an artist as he warned Jamie he might be, he becomes aware of only the calming sensations around him: It smells like lemon bleach in here. The shop is playing Post Malone. Roy's hand is pleasantly heavy on his arse.
"Oi," Roy's voice interrupts suddenly.
Jamie drifts up from his daze. "Yeah."
"You went all quiet," Roy observes. "You okay?"
Jamie just smiles dopily.
But Roy insists, "Alright?"
That makes Jamie laugh.
"What?"
"You are so obsessed with me," Jamie informs him. "Checking on me while you're signing my arse. Sap."
Roy snorts. "'Course I fucking care. Got your blood all over me."
A cool shiver runs through Jamie at that.
"I'm almost done," Roy informs him. "Fucking… two more minutes."
That gets Jamie proper excited. "Is it shit?" he asks, even though he knows it isn't. Roy would have called in one of the real artists if it was.
"Fuck no. It's perfect."
Jamie's itching to see it. The tough thing about this piece is he won't be able to look at it all the time. He kind of hopes Isaac takes a creep shot and pins it in his cubby, just so he can get a load of it whenever he wants.
"I'm putting another mirror in the bedroom," Roy announces, shocking Jamie with how in sync they are. "You won't be able to live without seeing this fucking regularly."
"Keep telling you, mate, we need a mirrored shower."
Roy scoffs. "You'd spend all day in there looking at yourself. Like a cat."
Jamie gives him a little meow. Roy laughs properly at that, Jamie's favourite sound.
With the pain thrumming through him and the intoxicating effect of Roy's doting affection, Jamie can't help that his body is starting to respond with more than pain. In his snug jockstrap, his cock is starting to stir.
Maybe that's Roy's cue. The needle shuts off, and Roy clears his throat. "Right. Stay fucking still so I can clean you again."
Another pump of the foam soap and a sweetly cool caress grazes over his inflamed skin. Jamie moans in relief.
Roy keeps at it for a while, drying the skin and then wiping it clean again, doing a respectable impression of every tattoo artist Jamie's ever had.
Finally, he slaps Jamie's left cheek - proper hard, which is nice. "Up. Time to be a cat."
Jamie wants to bounce up with all the enthusiasm he has saved up, but his knees fail him he moment he starts to move, and he ends up nearly teetering off the table. Fortunately Roy's hands are right there at his hip and shoulder, steadying him.
"Easy, lad. There you go."
For the sake of discretion, Jamie keeps an awkward hand on his stubbornly interested package as Roy starts to lower him to the ground.
There's a full-length mirror in the middle of the room, where Jamie's watched numerous clients go and model their new ink, but Roy doesn't lead him there. Roy keeps an arm around Jamie's waist for support and weaves him through the mess of other tables and chairs where other needles are busily buzzing away. He ushers Jamie into a side room. It's small and dark, but there's a mirror against one wall and a desk against the other. Roy shuts the door behind them and snaps his gloves off.
Jamie grins. "Yeah?"
His arse is aching, but there's only one reason he can think of why Roy would pull him into a private room.
"Quiet."
Jamie makes a show of zipping his lips. Doesn't stop his eyebrows waggling, though.
Roy manhandles Jamie into a very particular position. Jamie cooperates, though now he's torn between dying to see what's on his arse and dying to goad Roy into touching him even more and in very particular locations. He's got his arse pointed to the mirror before Roy presses a hand mirror into his hand and nods his permission to look.
Taking in his bright red, inflamed, slightly bloody arse, Jamie breaks out into a stupid smile he's glad he can't see. Because there it is – the exact impression of Roy's handprint, encompassing most of his cheek, outlined from the very real spank Roy gave him as he got on the table. From the curve of Roy's thumb close to Jamie's crack to the sloped line under his pinky on the opposite end, it marks Jamie forever as freshly disciplined, claimed and marked by Roy.
This time it's Roy's turn to give him a cheeky "Yeah?"
Jamie can't look away. He adores it. He feels like Roy is holding his heart in his hand, keeping it warm.
"I love it," he says simply. "Can't wait for it to fucking heal so you can hit me there."
He tears his eyes off of the mirror and up to Roy just in time to see the relief in his eyes, the soft smile. He is suddenly so elated that he got Roy to give him his biggest fantasy, all the pain he could ask for at Roy's hand and a permanent mark to boot, and that it makes Roy happy.
"Better heal soon," Roy says. "You're gonna deserve a spanking soon enough."
Jamie smirks. "'Course I will."
With that, Roy's hands return to Jamie's hips again. To Jamie's surprise, Roy is manhandling him once more, bending him over the desk. Right–the bandage.
Jamie is free to wiggle his arse now, and he does, ignoring the pain for the sake of being cheeky.
What he isn't expecting is for the next firm touch he feels to be between his cheeks, rather than on them. In a shocking turn of events, Roy finger is prodding at his hole, his index finger cool and lubed. Jamie didn't see that coming, but he accommodatingly shuffles his feet further apart. "Good lad," Roy says.
"You're fucking obsessed with me," Jamie accuses again, even as he's loving it.
Without a word, Roy puts his other hand on the broad part of Jamie's back, pressing him down. Another finger enters him, and a twist of the two pulls a gasp out of Jamie's throat.
"Roy," Jamie whimpers.
"Go on, then," Roy encourages, and then his mouth is on Jamie's shoulder. As Jamie hastens to take himself out of the jockstrap, he tilts his neck indulgently. Roy rewards him with a kiss and then a sharp bite.
Sensations swarm him. He's aching all over and everything feels good too. Jamie can't stop himself from moaning openly. It's a lucky thing Roy's pinned him to the desk, otherwise he'd be on the floor. As a third finger enters him, Jamie speeds up the motion of his hand on his prick, gasping. Then an idea hits him. No, not an idea–a need.
"Wait, wait," he breathes, fumbling around blindly on the desk. "I need to see."
A laugh falls out of Roy. He grasps for it, the mirror, and hands it to Jamie. Jamie pumps himself with his right hand while frantically twisting around and raising the mirror in his left hand at various angles to try to catch his reflection just right. Behind him, Roy leans out of the way to give Jamie the clearest view of the mirror, but his fingers never stop working inside him.
Finally–with the mirror raised high, and Roy out of the way so far to the side he has to extend his elbow all the way to keep his fingers pumping away inside Jamie–Jamie sees it. The lightning feeling of being tattooed finds him again. Just as Jamie lays eyes on his fresh ink, Roy flicks at his prostate, and his world explodes. He moans the vowel of Roy's name as he comes into his hand, staring directly at Roy's handprint on his ass in the mirror. His eyes stay open through it. He can't look away.
After, Roy steadies him and helps him gently forward again so his chest is on the desk. Then Roy is snapping on new gloves and cleaning him up again–first his arse, which does need to be bandaged now, and then his hand and his prick. When Roy wipes at his cheek with cool soap beneath feather-light fingers, Jamie hums in satisfaction.
Jamie is formless and cooperative for all of it. He feels looser than he's ever felt, like a cartoon character without an outline around him. Like the ink on his arse cheek. He feels like a splotch of color.
At some point, Jamie is vaguely aware of a woman coming into the room to inspect his arse one last time. He can't focus enough to hear what she says, but then she and Roy are shaking hands, so he guesses he did it right. The next thing he knows, she's gone, and Roy is helping Jamie back into his trousers.
"'S good?" Jamie asks, and Roy grunts a yes.
Roy tugs Jamie's trousers up and zips them, then buttons them. Then he pats Jamie's right cheek through the fabric. It hurts, of course, and Jamie giggles in pleasure.
Before Roy opens the door, Jamie feels a sudden urge he can't squash, and he grabs Roy's right hand. He fucking loves this hand. He walks out holding it.