New tattoo

The hum of the tattoo shop usually lingered in Malik’s bones long after he locked the door for the night. Tonight, however, the silence of their shared apartment felt heavy, amplified by the two-week stretch of Ivan being out of town. Malik tossed his keys onto the entryway table, his broad shoulders slumping as he kicked off his shoes. The Moroccan heat of his heritage seemed to simmer beneath his skin, a restless energy that usually found its outlet in the gym or at the end of a needle, but tonight, it just felt like loneliness.

He ran a hand through his shoulder-length brown hair, tugging at the ties to let it fall loose. His light brown eyes scanned the dark living room, settling on the clock. It was late. Ivan had been vague about his return time, citing "business" in the next city over, a crypticness that Malik usually met with a smirk and a shake of his head.

The sound of a key turning in the lock made Malik’s heart skip a beat.

The door swung open, and there he was. Ivan looked slightly disheveled, his black spiky buzz cut catching the hallway light, his bridge piercing glinting. He dropped his bag with a thud that sounded more like exhaustion than annoyance.

"You’re late," Malik said, his voice a low rumble, though the corners of his mouth were twitching.

Ivan didn't offer a dry retort. He didn't roll his eyes or complain about the drive. Instead, he stepped into Malik’s space, his boots scuffing the floor until he was inches away. Up close, the height difference was more apparent—Ivan looking up at Malik with an intensity that made the air feel thin.

"I missed you," Ivan muttered. It wasn't a confession; it was a demand.

Before Malik could respond, Ivan reached up, his fingers digging into the muscle of Malik’s biceps, pulling him down. The kiss was desperate, tasting of coffee and the cold night air. Ivan’s tongue piercing clicked against Malik’s teeth, a familiar, rhythmic spark that ignited a fire in Malik’s gut. Ivan was being *needy*, a side of him that had been emerging more frequently since their last breakthrough, and Malik found he couldn't get enough of it.

"Habibi, slow down," Malik whispered against his lips, though he was already wrapping his large hands around Ivan’s waist, pulling him flush against his chest.

"No," Ivan breathed, his hands moving to Malik’s jaw, his thumbs tracing the line of his beard. "I’ve been sitting in a car for four hours thinking about this. Don't tell me to slow down."

Malik chuckled, the sound vibrating through both of them. He hoisted Ivan up, the younger man wrapping his legs instinctively around Malik’s waist. They stumbled toward the bedroom, a mess of tangled limbs and discarded layers.

As Malik lowered Ivan onto the edge of the bed, he started to pull at Ivan’s shirt, but Ivan swatted his hands away with a sudden, mischievous glint in his eyes.

"Wait," Ivan said, breathless. "I have something to show you. That 'business' I was taking care of?"

He turned around, his back to Malik. Ivan reached for the hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head, tossing it onto the floor. Malik’s breath hitched. He always admired Ivan’s body—the strength in his frame, the faded, revered lines of his top surgery scars that Malik often traced with his lips. But as Ivan lowered his waistline just a fraction, a new mark appeared.

Just above the swell of his glutes, fresh and slightly raised, was a new tattoo. It was intricate calligraphy—Arabic script, elegant and sharp, mirroring the style Malik often used in his own sketches.

Malik leaned in, his fingers hovering just inches from the reddened skin. "Ivan... what does it say?"

Ivan looked over his shoulder, his stoic mask completely gone, replaced by a raw, vulnerable heat. "It says *'Yours'*. I wanted... I wanted something that was just for you. Somewhere you’d see every time I’m like this for you."

The weight of the gesture hit Malik like a physical blow. Ivan, the man who guarded his autonomy like a fortress, had permanently marked himself as Malik’s.

"You’re incredible," Malik rasped, his voice thick with emotion. He leaned down, not to kiss Ivan’s lips, but to press a soft, lingering kiss to the skin just beside the new ink. "You’re so beautiful, Ivan."

Ivan let out a shaky breath, his hands gripping the sheets. "Then show me. I’m tired of talking, Malik."

Malik didn't need to be told twice. He guided Ivan into a doggy style position, the younger man’s knees sinking into the mattress, his head hanging low as he braced himself on his forearms. The view was devastating. The new tattoo sat like a crown above Ivan’s ass, which Malik had always been unashamedly obsessed with.

Malik stripped quickly, his muscular frame looming over Ivan. He reached down, his large, calloused hands gripping Ivan’s hips, his thumbs digging into the soft flesh. He couldn't help himself; he leaned down and pressed his face into the heat of Ivan’s skin, inhaling the scent of him.

"I’m going to mark you so much more than this ink," Malik promised, his voice a dark promise.

He started slow, his tongue tracing the lines of the new tattoo, the salt of Ivan’s skin mixing with the lingering scent of ointment. He moved lower, his hands sliding down to cup the firm globes of Ivan’s ass. He squeezed firmly, watching the way the skin paled under his grip before flushing a deep, bruised red.

Ivan let out a sharp moan, his back arching. "Malik, please..."

"Please what?" Malik teased, his fingers wandering. He began to prep Ivan, his movements deliberate and reverent. He used his tongue and his fingers with a focused intensity, his eyes never leaving the way Ivan’s body reacted to him. He loved the contrast—Ivan’s piercings and tough exterior melting into a puddle of soft sounds and shivering skin.

Malik’s obsession with Ivan’s ass wasn't just physical; it was a claim. Every squeeze, every sharp spank that followed, was a reminder of their bond. The sound of a palm connecting with flesh echoed in the quiet room, followed immediately by Ivan’s hitched breath.

"You like that?" Malik asked, his voice dropping an octave.

"Yes," Ivan gasped, his forehead pressed against the pillow. "More. Harder."

Malik complied, his rhythm increasing. He was mesmerized by the way the new tattoo shifted with Ivan’s movements. When he finally felt Ivan was ready, he positioned himself at the entrance, his hands moving from Ivan’s hips to his lower back, his palms flattening over the fresh ink as if to protect it and claim it simultaneously.

He pushed inside in one smooth, deep motion. Ivan’s head snapped back, a loud, uninhibited cry escaping his throat.

"Starkha," Malik swore under his breath, the Arabic slipping out as it always did when his emotions overwhelmed his English. "You feel so good, Ivan. So tight."

He began to move, a steady, punishing pace that had Ivan’s piercings jingling with every thrust. Malik was a tall man, his reach long, and he used his size to drape himself over Ivan’s back, pinning him down even as he drove into him. He reached around, his fingers finding Ivan’s chest, tracing the scars there, before moving back down to grip Ivan’s thighs.

The friction was intense, the heat between them building toward a breaking point. Malik leaned down, biting into the meat of Ivan’s shoulder, leaving a mark that would surely match the purple bruises he was currently kneading into Ivan’s hips.

"Look at me," Malik commanded.

Ivan strained to turn his head, his face flushed, eyes blown wide and glassy with pleasure.

"You’re mine," Malik said, his jaw tight. "This tattoo, this body... all of it. Do you understand?"

Ivan reached back, his hand fumbling until he found Malik’s hair, tugging on the brown locks to pull him into a messy, desperate kiss. "Always. I’m yours, Malik. Just fucking finish."

The desperation in Ivan’s voice was the final trigger. Malik lunged deeper, his movements becoming frantic, his focus narrowed down to the sensation of Ivan beneath him and the sight of that beautiful, dark ink. He felt Ivan’s own release hit first, the younger man’s body tensing, his muscles locking up as he cried out Malik’s name.

Seconds later, Malik followed, a low groan tearing from his chest as he spent himself inside Ivan, his forehead dropping to rest between Ivan’s shoulder blades.

They stayed like that for a long time, the only sound the heavy, synchronized thud of two hearts trying to find their rhythm again. The air in the room was thick with the scent of sex and the hum of a connection that had been stretched thin by distance and was now snapped back into place, stronger than before.

Eventually, Malik shifted, pulling out and collapsing onto his back, pulling Ivan with him. Ivan curled into Malik’s side, his head resting on Malik’s chest, his fingers tracing the patterns of Malik’s own tattoos.

Malik ran a hand down Ivan’s spine, his thumb lingering on the new tattoo. "I can't believe you did this."

Ivan shifted, looking up at him with a sleepy, satisfied smirk. "I told you. I’m not as stoic as I look. Besides, I knew it would make you lose your mind."

"It worked," Malik admitted, kissing the top of Ivan’s buzzed head. "It really worked."

"Good," Ivan murmured, closing his eyes. "Because I’m not doing it again. That spot hurts like a bitch."

Malik laughed, the sound light and full of genuine affection. He wrapped his arm tighter around Ivan, pulling the duvet over them. The questions of the future—how this role reversal would play out in their daily lives, the deeper stories behind the scars Ivan carried, the way Malik’s culture would continue to bleed into their shared world—all of it felt manageable in the quiet of the room.

For now, there was just the warmth of the bed, the steady pulse of his partner, and the permanent promise written in ink on Ivan’s skin.

"I love you, Ivan," Malik whispered into the dark.

Ivan didn't answer with words, but he shifted closer, his hand finding Malik’s and squeezing tight, his rings cold against Malik’s skin, but his grip undeniably warm. It was all the answer Malik needed.