Travie’s tattoos can hide a multitude of sins.
It was strange, at first, but Gabe’s learned to like it, the way his marks fade into the patterns on Travie’s skin, disguised by the swirling colors. The way he has to get up close to him at the mic to spot the bruises even though he remembers where they are, remembers putting them there.
It means he can mark Travie anywhere, and no one will remark on it—that’s not usually Gabe’s style, but he can see the merit in it, especially on a tour, with Maja and Billvy and a dozen techs always in their space, with cameraphones always in their faces.
There are a few parts of Travie, though, that aren’t covered in tattoos—at least, not yet.
“Fuck, roll over.” This has become Gabe’s new favorite phrase. Something about the unmarked skin of Travie’s ass just calls to him, so stark against the art around it. The backs of his thighs are mostly free of ink, too, and Gabe starts there, mouths at the edges of the tattoos. Travie’s just gotten out of the shower and Gabe rubs his face on the back of Travie’s knee where there’s still lingering dampness there.
Travie’s pretty good at relaxing and letting Gabe mess around, and today’s no exception. Travie pillows his head on his arms and spreads his legs a little for Gabe, starts humming to himself. “Is that the Misfits?” Gabe asks, and strokes the colors on the back of Travie’s calves.
“Yeah,” Travie says, and he sounds half-asleep. Gabe supposes he’d better wake him up.
A sharp bite to the back of one thigh has Travie jerking up from the bed, palms flat. He settles back down but he’s definitely awake now, waiting for the next one. Gabe doesn’t like to keep people waiting, least of all Travie, so he bites him again, pushing his legs apart to nip at the inside of one thigh.
“Fuck,” Travie says, drawing the word out until it’s a moan, an invitation. Gabe doesn’t like to turn down requests, either. He bites higher, catches Travie on the crease where his legs meet his ass, lingers there for a while, biting and sucking until Travie’s half-rising to his knees. The movement draws Gabe’s attention elsewhere, and he lets himself lick over to Travie’s hole, listening for the groan, the muttered “yeah.”
“Yeah,” Gabe agrees, and kisses the wrinkled skin, works the tip of his tongue in. Travie can never stay still for this, writhing towards and away from Gabe’s mouth, and Gabe clamps his fingers around Travie’s hips to hold him steady, make him take Gabe’s tongue-fucking.
“Fuckin’, yeah,” Travie says, muffled against the comforter. He’s fully on his knees, now, but ass-up, shoulders almost pressed into the bed, and Gabe likes the line of his back when he’s like this, likes feeling like Travie’s presenting his hole to Gabe. He turns away to bite him on one side of his ass, hard, sucks at the skin until he’s sure he’s raised a mark that will still be there the next time he gets enough alone time with Travie to check it out.
“Such a, such a territorial asshole,” Travie says, and Gabe can hear the grin in his voice, nips him again.
“Yeah, you like it,” he says, and goes back to sucking on the skin around Travie’s hole, makes sure he’s too incoherent to reply. Travie loves this, loves feeling Gabe’s tongue opening him up, loves the anticipation of it—Travie had described it to him once, in one of the best phone-sex conversations of Gabe’s entire life, and even though Gabe’s been rimmed plenty, he doesn’t feel like Travie does about it, overwhelmed and desperate. Hearing Travie talk about it made Gabe want to do this every fucking day, to make Travie this hot any time he possibly can.
“I’m—you should stop and fuck me, or I’m gonna come,” Travie says, and Gabe believes him. They’ve done that more than once, Gabe licking Travie until he spurts all over the bed and himself, nobody’s hand near his cock, and it’s unfuckingbelievably hot, but Gabe really, really wants to be inside Travie right now.
“Sold,” he says, and listens for the return laugh before he condoms up, slicks himself with the lube they’ve started keeping close all the time, just in case.
The big mark Gabe made is dark red now, angry against the paler, sun-protected skin of Travie’s ass, and Gabe presses his thumb into it as he starts to push in, making Travie gasp. Gabe wants to make this one last, in this place where he can see it and no one else will, make it go purple and brown, vivid like one of Travie’s tattoos. This is Gabe’s art on Travie’s skin, less permanent but just as meaningful. This one means, mine for now.
Travie’s hot and tight around him, clenching with the rhythm of Gabe’s thumb in the bruise, and Gabe holds deep inside for a minute, reveling in it. “You should draw this,” he says, “I bet we look fucking hot.”
“We always look fucking hot,” Travie says, “we are some crazy handsome dudes. Now will you fucking fuck me or do I have to—motherfuck,” as Gabe pulls halfway out and shoves back in, hard as he can, starts pounding Travie without letting go of the mark on his ass.
Travie’s ass is so ridiculously good, and he’s groaning, bucking back into Gabe like he can’t get enough, can’t get fucked hard enough. “Gonna, gonna fucking bruise me with your damn hipbones,” Travie says, and Gabe’s pretty sure he won’t but he sure as fuck likes the idea, leaving big bruises all over Travie’s ass. Likes the idea that they’d match up perfectly to his hips, that they’d be an unmistakable mark that he was here, that they did this.
Travie’s leaning his head into one forearm, propped up on his elbow, and he snakes the other hand back to fist his cock. Gabe wishes he could see it, but he can see Travie’s muscles moving under his tattoos, see his back arching and his head dropping, feel his ass tightening on every stroke. “Fuck, fuck, you better, you should come, Trav, I gotta,” because nothing is as fucking good as this and Gabe can’t hold off, not with the wet slapping sounds of Travie stroking himself.
He pumps in harder, low on Travie’s back to make sure he’s hitting him just right, and he tries to think about something, anything else, but it’s impossible, all his senses are overwhelmed by Travie. He manages a few more thrusts and then he’s coming, pushing as deep into Travie as he can get, slumping down onto his back.
“Jesus fuck,” Travie gets out, and his arm moves faster, shaking both of them and the bed, and Gabe stretches forward and bites down on his shoulder, hard, keeps his teeth there while Travie comes again.
Travie makes an unimpressed grunting noise when Gabe pulls out and shucks the condom, and Gabe slides down next to him, kisses his collarbone. “You’re fun, you know that?”
“I do know that,” Travie says, and it would be deadpan if he didn’t sound so fucked-out. “I’m like a clown on speed.”
“You’re like a clown on pot,” Gabe corrects.
“Well, yeah,” Travie agrees, and rubs his come-slick hand down Gabe’s back. “So how’s my ass look?” He tilts it and Gabe cranes around to check the bruise out. He rubs his thumb over it and Travie hisses in a breath.
“Looks fucking amazing,” Gabe says. “Any chance you’re gonna drop your pants on stage tonight?”
Travie huffs a laugh. “Yeah, man, totally. And you’re gonna grow wings and fly.” He pokes Gabe’s shoulder. “Possessive ass.”
Gabe grins at him. “More like possessive of your ass.”
“Well,” Travie says, “it’s a pretty great ass. I get it, man.” He stretches, makes a satisfied noise in his throat. “You keep treating it this well, you can be as possessive as you fucking want.”
“Now there’s some good incentive,” Gabe says. “C’mon, we gotta get to soundcheck.”
“You just want us to get there while I’m still walking funny,” Travie says, “so everyone can tell.”
Gabe just pulls his pants up and smirks. Travie may know Gabe’s tricks, but he doesn’t have to admit to any of them.
“Yuh-huh,” Travie clucks his tongue, sounding a little bit like Gabe’s grandmother. “You sick bastard.” That part isn’t quite as much like her. “It’s a good thing you’re such a good fuck.”
“That’s basically my motto,” Gabe says. “‘I may be an asshole, but I am a really good fuck.’”
“We’ll get t-shirts made,” Travie agrees, and then they’re out the door for another fucking fantastic fangs-up day.