Chapter Text
He hated calling it a ritual. The word carried other connotations to his ears. But, fuck it, this is Ian’s pre-tat ritual. As much as he hates the name for it, the act itself is soothing. The repetition of preparing and having a clean workstation appeases a part of himself that takes comfort in controlling everything around him, which includes the cleanliness of his place of work.
The work surfaces of his station are covered to prevent biocontamination, the same for the chair, pillows, and headrest of his client’s chair. He’ll be relying on his lightweight pen machine today as it makes cosmetic work easier, and less intimidating to those unaccustomed to the big, bad world of tattooing. His bigger shader and liner machines are out, too, in case he’ll need them, they’re covered and loaded with needles, as well. He knows it’s too much, but those are his custom made babies, he does all his most important work with them. And today is important.
Resisting the urge to use his hands, Ian visually touches every piece of his setup. Sanitation is complete. Machines, needles. Mini fridge well-stocked with snacks and water. Reference pictures hanging in plain sight. Shades of red, yellow, brown, and white ink. Ink caps waiting politely to be filled.
Today, the young man in question has finally received his medical insurance to approve his areola restoration tattoos. His name is Fennel and he’s endured the terrible misfortune of a botched top surgery in his late teens at the hands of an under-practised doctor. After many years of recovery surgeries and with the support of his family, Fennel’s dream chest is finally happening. And Ian is the one who is going to be making those dreams come true.
While some people would think that tattooing nipples onto a twenty-something-year-old’s bare chest is not that big of a deal, Ian understands the significance of this final step for his client. It’s an evolution, a metamorphosis, and even then that’s putting it in simplistic terms.
These are the days that Ian is especially grateful he’s chosen the back corner furthest from the entrance of the warehouse his tattoo studio is located in. He’s equally grateful that the three women who own this warehouse, subletting space to a variety of artists and service providers, allowed him to build out three rooms in his allotted square footage. He has two tattooing rooms, one that is open so any walk-in clients can see what he’s working on while they talk to him about a booking. The other room is more private, used for sessions where he’s working on more intimate parts of the body. The third’s a recovery room with an old futon which he’s found especially helpful after intense sessions. After all, when you’re in the business of helping your clients work through their personal transformations, there’s bound to be a fainter or a crier mixed in within the lot. Ian’s come across exactly seven.
Truth be told, he’s worked hard to get where he is today, owning his own business that specialises specifically in tattoo cover-ups for those that feel mutilated by the scars that litter their body. He feels proud whenever he puts his ink pen down and watches his client’s faces morph into pure joy as they finally look at their bodies and no longer see something they hate.
It’s similar to the emotions he felt the day his own tattoos covered up the jagged skin on his wrists.
***
Doesn’t matter how many years have passed, Mickey still can’t seem to get his body used to rising with the moon and setting with the sun. He stumbles into his shitty one-bedroom apartment that’s situated on top of a pizza joint, which always leaves his room smelling like garlic bread, teasing him with the desire to eat it, only for the place to always be closed when he returns from work.
He strips off his grey sweatpants, along with the black booty shorts that he’s wearing underneath, throwing them into the hamper with his hoody that blocks out the cold wind that hits the air early each morning. His body is sore, muscles aching from constantly moving and bending in ways that’d make a pretzel seem relaxed. Sweat is covering his body, resembling the body's reaction to a humid summer day as it leaves him feeling sticky, and the multiple variations of cologne left on his skin that honestly makes him want to gag. The hot water tap in his shower is turned on, a whistling sound indicating that the pressure is higher than his system can handle, but he ignores it.
Mickey catches his reflection in the mirror and his eyes instantly cast down to his biceps. Flashbacks flood his vision, the influx of that memory gives him a head rush, causing him to grip the sink before the dizziness sends him crashing to the tiled floor below him. He can still remember the burning hot pain rippling through his body. People talk about phantom pain when a person loses a limb, Mickey feels the pain every time he looks at himself in the mirror.
***
“Holy shit, Ian, this is…”
Ian sits back, letting the dull ache of his own muscles simmer after working on Fennel’s chest for four hours straight, which included working out the positioning, size and then the tattooing itself. His dominant hand will continue vibrating for an hour or more, leaving him to rely on his non-dominant one for silly things like holding a bottle of water.
“I feel, I feel like me, man.”
Just like that, Ian knows that all the hours have paid off cos he has been able to make a difference in someone else’s life. He begins to clean his workstation, packing up the inks, and safely disposing of the needles before sanitizing the area. Fennel is still marvelling at his new nipples, to which Ian still needs to wrap and discuss the aftercare treatment.
“I’m sorry to rush you, Fennel, but I have another appointment.”
“Shit, yeah, my bad.”
He sits in front of Ian so he can apply the ointment before layering a few sheets of Glad wrap around his chest.
“Is your next appointment also cosmetic?”
“No. She’s my landlord that somehow became one of my best friends. She’s back from vacation and has been hounding me for a catch up.”
“Bitch, don’t act like you’re not happy to see me.”
As if on cue, Laura comes tumbling into his shop like a gush of fresh air, and even though he’d normally hate to be disrespected in front of a client, he can’t deny that he has missed her, smiling brightly at the sound of hearing her voice in person, rather than over the phone.
“Ah, the queen herself.”
Fennel puts his shirt back on and walks over to the cash register where Ian rings him up, accepting the cash amount for what insurance didn’t cover that they agreed upon prior to his appointment. With a megawatt smile on his face, Ian waits for his satisfied client to leave before enveloping Laura in a hug, burying his face within her bleach blonde hair.
“‘Course I’m happy to see you. Just sucked having you away that long.”
“We both know you do plenty of sucking to make up for it.”
Ian gives a slight shrug, unable to deny that if the situation presents itself, he can’t say no to a good blow job.
“Okay, business first. I sent Cheryl and Whitney to collect from the other stores so I could get the rent from you and then take you out for lunch.”
He opens the register, picks up the envelope he has stashed under the till and hands it over. He grabs his coat, picks up the keys to his shop and follows Laura out, locking up behind them, eager to catch up on what his best friend has been up to.
***
When he wakes, the sky is already black. Mickey finds it fitting that he goes to bed before the sun rises and wakes once it’s set, living his days in constant darkness, similar to how he’s felt inside ever since the day that set the rest of his life into motion.
He shuffles into the bathroom, wanting to take another shower, only this time it’s to wake himself up rather than wash away a night of shame. He rubs at his biceps, hoping it will ease the nerve pain which presents itself after sleeping due to the lack of movement.
Tonight he has a bachelor party. They’re his bread and butter, especially with the men who aren’t allowed actual strippers but have been granted “permission” to have an exotic dancer. Jealous bitches. Honestly, Mickey figures if these guys can’t trust their men to look at a naked man without trying to fuck them, then is marriage really the right choice? At the end of the day, as long as Mickey gets paid, then he doesn’t give a fuck about the rest of it. It is however a bonus if he can go a night without getting groped.
He turns the shower on, thinking over his outfit choices for the evening as the hot water soothes the ache in his body. While water rains over him, he decides to wear his new leather sleeve top, which only covers his arms, leaving his chest exposed and buttoned up around his neck like a collar. Yeah, that will get those vultures drooling and tips flowing.
He technically doesn’t need the money, over the last four years he’s made a name for himself, dancing at the clubs until he had created a list of regulars long enough to allow him to go out and work on his own. Yet after all this time, he continues to take on job after job because he knows he has nothing else to offer. Nothing else to fill his time or fill that void that eats away at him day after day, night after night.
He reaches down, grabbing himself firmly in the hopes that some spark inside of him will ignite if he starts his evening with a slow and teasing hand job.
***
Ian doesn’t know how he gets himself roped into these things. He’d much rather be home reading artists’ biographies or working on sketches to post on his workshop wall. Really, he could be doing anything but attending one more bachelor party reminding him how pitifully single he is. Not that he doesn’t have a curated list of men willing to give him a satisfying blow job whenever he chooses, he’s a self-made business owner with a nine-inch cock after all, but the lifestyles of the vapid and mindless have long since lost their appeal.
Getting where he is now took time. Hours of studying, practising and building up the money and clientele to have a successful business. Relationships, though he would love, were not something he could offer, not anymore. Hook-ups involved too much leg work, but a semi-anonymous mouthful of cum was quick, much like his built-up release. Unfortunately, it didn’t fill the loneliness that crept in the minute his willing participant swallowed. Fucking someone’s mouth does not equal a relationship.
He accepted the invitation to this particular bachelor party, however, cos he was trying not to be rude. One of the grooms, Montgomery, is a fellow skin modification artist and a dear friend. More than a friend, in fact, Monty was the one who gave Ian his first job and has always been a supportive mentor. They’ve both been invited to the annual tattooing convention that’s happening in the fall, and both are keen to make contact with other artists who have the experience necessary to form a type of network for clients looking for cover-ups or other medically necessary tattoos.
Let’s face it, not every person feels at ease being tattooed by a masc-presenting gay man. Even one as sweet-smiled and inwardly romantic as Ian Gallagher. Having a few talented colleagues he could safely send his clients to when necessary would save Ian loads of trouble and worry.
After a quick chat with Monty, Ian takes a seat in a quiet living room corner where he can fade into the crowd. The small plate of canapés he’s managed to balance on his knees nearly falls to the white area rug when he notices, finally, the wide empty space cleared at the front of the room.
He shakes his head and downs his champagne. “Fucking Monty, of course there’s a stripper.”
It’s another hour yet before Ian’s suspicions are proven right when a trio of otters come out fully dressed in ridiculously frilly outfits, then proceed to do a nonetheless impressively choreographed striptease until they’re down to nothing but coordinating jockstraps and copious amounts of body glitter.
The body glitter is what gives Ian the clue that this trio was not Monty’s entertainment choice. From everything he knows about this man whom he considers a big brother, he understands that he is obsessively neat; Ian can only imagine how badly he’s losing his ever-loving mind over the cleaning bill at this moment. His fiancé, Steve, will have some explaining to do by night's end.
As Ian's having a giggle over that, the song changes to Billie Eilish's “Bad Guy.” Out comes another stripper… no, no. Check that. Strippers don’t come out on stage already half-dressed and with the eyes of a murderer. This man has exotic dancer written all over him –only the tiniest difference in the name, but the attitude he brings forth spells out volumes.
Immediately the man gets to work dancing to the smooth baseline. His movements are undisciplined. There’s no choreography or rhythm to see, the proverbial jellyfish floating in water allowing the music’s soundwaves to carry him along. It’s all arms flowing through space, and hair being pulled at until it's got that messy, just-been-fucked quality to it. His shoulders rolling and undulating, and soft abs flexing. His hands graze over his body like he doesn’t know or doesn’t care who is in the room.
This man, with his black hair and startling blue eyes, is here to gyrate for his own pleasure. If you’d like to watch, have your fill. If not, then you can fuck right off.
That’s his vibe and Ian’s buying into it, all of it. So much so that the sip he attempts from his second flute of champagne dribbles down his chin and onto his shirt.
“Shit,” he mutters, dabbing at the silky material. “That’ll never come out.”
At that moment the song’s downbeat drops. That’s when this dark-haired marvel spins on his left foot and plants the right one down with a firm stamp, giving everyone in the crowd a full view of his muscular back, which stands out even more against the dark leather sleeves and what Ian easily recognizes as the roundest ass he’s ever seen, wrapped up in the tightest black booty shorts known to man.
The next movement is predictable, but still oh so enthralling as he places a hand on each ass cheek, gripping hard with nails dug in. And when he clenches those cheeks tight, Ian’s mind runs wild imagining what other type of muscle control this man might be holding secret.
The dance ends when he bends forward, completely folding himself in half. Acknowledging the audience for the first time, he gives the assembled crowd a wicked smile, quirks his eyebrows and bites at his ankle, tugging at the skin there a bit before he drags his palms up the line of his leg ‘til he stands at full height.
The applause is deafening.
“Shush, you hyenas,” the dancer says, causing everyone to chuckle. “My name’s Mickey. Monty’s collecting my tips so give him all your cash and tell him it’s for me. Time for a smoke break. Don't worry, I’ll be back.”
The dancer, Mickey, winks at the crowd before he ass-sways away. Ian’s dick is more interested in Mickey than the three before him who actually stripped down to the bare minimum. His head is telling him to be cool, but his smaller, though still quite large head is screaming at him to follow.
The minute Mickey exits the room, Ian’s mind plays a series of clips ranging from roadkill, to wrinkled granny tits to keep his burgeoning erection down. Luckily, that does the trick quickly. Much longer and Ian may have resorted to dumping an ice tray on his lap. With his boner now safely under control, Ian approaches Monty with a nice tip for Mickey.
“Like what you saw, hey, Ian?”
“Just want to support the local talent.”
“Sure.”
Ian doesn’t miss the way Monty drags out the word.
“Don’t worry, that tip will be put to good use soon enough.” Monty offers Ian a wink, but before Ian can press further, Mickey chooses this moment to return.
He pulls a chair to the centre of the performance space and pats the seat. “Alright, gentlemen, since Monty already has the ball and chain telling him no private dances, looks like this next part goes out to one of you lot.”
The sound of Monty chuckling has Ian on edge.
“Ian Gallagher, where you at?”
Oh, shit.
The snarky, almost brattish tone in Mickey’s voice sets fire to Ian’s insides. He checks himself quickly, and reminds himself this is only an act, part of this man’s routine.
Before he has a chance to protest or imagine more wrinkly boobs, Mickey seeks him out, no doubt noticing the look of panic on his face compared to the other men that are groaning in disappointment. Mickey struts over, taking his hand in his and Ian tries everything he has inside him to ignore whatever spark he thought he felt. Mickey places both his hands on Ian’s shoulders, pushing him down onto the chair and then walks away to start the music.
Ian instantly recognised the song as “Earned it” by The Weeknd. He’s fucked.
Mickey’s behind him, his hands roaming over Ian’s chest before he moves in front of him, smirking like the cocky asshole Ian is quickly learning he is. His hands are on Ian’s knees, using them for support as he sways in front of him, bending in ways that give the perfect view of that ass in the black booty shorts.
He really didn’t think it could get any worse until Mickey turns around, straddles himself over Ian’s lap and lowers himself down. The eyebrow cock is enough for Ian to know Mickey can feel his half chub. He curses his body for betraying him.
“Having a good time I see.”
The words are whispered in Ian’s ear, the smirk evident in Mickey’s voice while his tight ass rubs back and forth on his lap.
“Impressive moves. You self taught?”
“Complementing my dancing. Nice work. Most guys I do a one-on-one with are trying to convince me that one night with them will change my life forever.”
“A whole night? Nah, all I need is an hour.”
The laugh that falls from Mickey drowns out the sound of the song which evidently is coming to an end. For Mickey’s big finish, he bends backwards, his hands now resting on the floor, his back arched over Ian’s knees and suddenly his legs are rising up, doing the splits in front of Ian’s face before they wrap around his torso, locking in place while Mickey brings himself upright.
Mickey offers Ian a wink before standing up, accepting the cheers and rounds of applause that are aimed at his talents, leaving Ian unable to register the wolf whistles and comments coming from the other men that are hinting at Ian needing a private room to take some time for himself.
Monty is laughing as he walks over to take him from the chair, Ian finally coming to and realising he missed Mickey walking away to take yet another break.
At well past two a.m., Mickey dances his final number, a slowed-down version of Pink’s “Walk Me Home” that has a bluesy guitar lick added to it. The song is a perfect, if not unconventional accompaniment for Mickey’s languorous movements. The softness of the lyrics, the sex dripping from his pores, and the hardness of this man’s glare all combine to give a frighteningly juxtaposed image landing somewhere between soul-baring and standoffish. As if he’s embodying the lyrics, begging someone to walk him home while, somehow, managing to keep that someone at arm’s distance.
C’mere. One hand beckons.
Back the fuck up. The other warns simultaneously.
Ian casts his gaze around the room. The room is divided into two groups: those wearing the same thirsty look Ian’s pretty sure he’s got, and their very jealous partners. For the first time in a very long time, he’s glad to be single so that he doesn’t have that headache to deal with.
But, Ian quickly realises the downside to the single life. He looks down at his again half-hard dick, ruefully thinking there oughta be a law against self-edging. “Looks like it’s you, me, and the warming lube tonight, buddy.”
When Mickey’s dance is finally over, Ian seriously needs to cool off. His intention is to splash water on his face, gather his senses, and then get the fuck home for a long jerk session. With that goal in mind, he doesn’t bother running through his mental catalogue of boner killers, he simply looks around to make sure nobody’s watching and rushes into the bathroom, unaware it is already occupied.
Mickey’s in there, changing into his street clothes.
“Oh. Oh! Shit. I’m…” Ian hasn’t stuttered like this since puberty. Damn it.
The anger in Mickey’s voice sounds like obsidian: sharp, yet brittle. “Tryin’ to get a free show, asshole?”
Years spent studying the canvas of the human body, committing it to memory. Scanning its imperfections, its composition. The way a pore or a freckle can be utilised, incorporated into a piece of flesh art. This skill allows Ian to take several rapid-fire mental snapshots of the man standing before him. With every detail, Ian hears the snap-click-shutter snap of a camera lens.
Mickey is shoeless, his feet clothed in white socks with red stitching. snap
The heather grey sweatpants he’d pulled on just as Ian walked in are hanging at Mickey’s hips. snap snap
In his perfectionism, Ian can estimate the percentage angle at which those sweatpants are hanging, revealing the black booty shorts underneath. 35% snap snap snap-snap snap
Mickey’s waist. His chest, jawline, lips. Those fucking eyes. snap snap
Then there are those arms that wrapped around him during their one-on-one dance, and so easily drove Ian wild. Mickey’s current shirtless state gives Ian a chance, finally, to see the rest of the intriguing dancer. Ian can’t recall a time he’s ever been so excited to see a guy’s arms. Yet here he is, taking mental images of Mickey’s arms, section by section, no less.
Shoulders. snap
Biceps. snap
Ian’s eyes glitch out when he gets to his forearms. The large, old-looking scars spell out something Ian can’t quite read, which would explain the sleeved top Mickey chose for tonight’s performance outfit.
Ian’s change in demeanour happens in less than a nanosecond; and as quickly as his brain is taking and storing snapshots of Mickey’s body for future consideration, it’s moving even faster through his collective arsenal of professional skills. He’s already conducting a needs assessment, deciding on the best techniques to use on scars that he estimates are three, maybe four years old. He begins a mental list of which inks would best match Mickey’s skin tone. Then, begins playing his favourite guessing game of which drawing style his clients will choose –he’s only ever been wrong four or five times, thus far. He’s already running through his calendar in his head, cos of course, Ian’s got that shit memorised.
“Ey!” Mickey’s obsidian voice cuts through Ian’s premature preparations. “ Look man, it was just a dance. If you need the bathroom I’ll be done in a minute. Would‘a been fuckin’ finished by now if you hadn’t zoned out on me ”
A little embarrassed, Ian replies quietly, “No, thanks. Sorry for barging in.” Just as quietly, he offers Mickey a business card. “If you ever need help with those, call me. Monty can vouch for me.”
He leaves without further word, letting his card speak for him.
Ian Gallagher
TATTOO ARTIST
Specializing in restorative art.