So many fandoms, so little time. Prompted by the wonderful anons at the tsn_kinkmeme over on LiveJournal: Eduardo gets a tattoo.
If there is one thing anyone should know about me, it is that I have a massive, massive tattoo kink. Because hnggggggh. But the story doesn't really go that way. Just get reading.
It's the day after the Facebook goes live to Yale, Columbia, and Stanford and absolutely explodes that Mark notices a change in Wardo.
Well, it isn't a change so much as an oddity. For some reason, Wardo's usually loping gait is stilted, kind of leaning to one side, like he's limping but not really. And his shoulders are set differently, gingerly, like he's trying to make sure his arms stay still, and, wow, Mark is drunk. Why else would he be staring so hard at his best friend? He can feel the answer to that question pressing at the back of his skull and tries not to think about it.
Mark shakes his head, tries to rattle whatever he's just thought of out of his ears. He downs the rest of the Sam Adams next to him and tries to go back to blogging. But then, Wardo's there again. He leans up against Mark's desk, as he's wont to do, but doesn't try to sit on it; instead, he cocks a hip into it and grins down. He's got this mischievous look that Mark has no idea what to do with, and Mark is helpless to do anything but look back up at him questioningly. "You want something?"
Eduardo bites his lip, but it does almost nothing to dampen the grin that's breaking across his face like a sunrise or a cracked egg or something. Mark is really drunk. He watches Wardo leave his place beside Mark's desk and wave a beckoning hand. "Come here," he says, "I wanna show you something."
Mark follows, not sure that he would have been able to just stay there anyway, and is a little surprised when Wardo closes the door to Mark's room behind Mark. Blood rushes to the tips of his ears, because, really? Hadn't he just been blatantly ignoring all signs of attraction towards Eduardo, and now Wardo's gone and locked them in Mark's bedroom? Was this some alcohol-induced hallucination? He certainly hoped not.
Wardo turns from the door to spout something so quick that Mark barely catches it. "Igotatattoo."
"You what?" And Wardo starts untucking his dress shirt, something Mark's only seen a few times in their entire friendship, and what? Mark is rendered unable to move or think or possibly throw up by the flash of darkened skin that winks at him when Wardo's shirt tails leave his trousers.
"I got a tattoo."
Those words leave Mark speechless longer than he expects them to. Then again, that could have also been the fact that Wardo was now unbuttoning his shirt, fingers working their way deftly down the front of Wardo's chest and exposing miles and miles of horribly exquisite skin and Mark can feel sweat prickling at the back of his neck and his legs are a little iffy to stand on and maybe he can throw up now. "You got a tattoo?"
Wardo's dark eyes flick back to Mark as he undoes the last few buttons at the bottom of his shirt. "Yeah, I know. My mom's gonna slaughter me." And holy shit, his shirt is all the way open, and this is another first for their friendship. This is almost like a victory, seeing Wardo unraveled. It's making Mark's spine all electrified, like that therapy where they send an electrical impulse through your brain to stop bad habits, or being struck by lightning multiple times at once. He can see a trail of dark hair wind down Wardo's abdomen and disappear under his trousers. Mark's pretty sure that his brain has short-circuited.
But Wardo is unwavering in his smile, cheeks flushed in half-embarrassment, half-pride as he pulls the hem of his shirt on his left side up and turns that side to Mark.
Mark's instinct by now is to be blown the fuck away by all of that beautiful fucking skin, but he's stopped short by the ink on Eduardo's side. It's covered in shiny plastic, probably to preserve the ink, and Wardo's skin is all red and swollen around the lines, but Mark can see clearly what it is. Draped down the side of Eduardo's ribcage is a formula:
There's too much air in the room, and all of a sudden Mark's lungs start gasping for all of it, scrambling for something to cling on to. "You..."
Wardo's eyes downcast a little in embarrassment. "Yeah." He looks back up, brown eyes catching on Mark's blue, and they're unapologetic and a little fierce. "I told you I believed in this a thousand percent."
Mark is struck by the sudden urge to either cry or throw his arms around Wardo and kiss him senseless, so he ignores the mathematical impossibility of what Wardo said in favor of staring down at the tattoo. It's really quite beautiful, the lines arching and graceful, and it makes the math look like something more, like a piece of art instead of cold hard numbers. "It's gorgeous," Mark says before he can stop himself.
Wardo's answering smile is soft. "Thanks, Mark." He drops the hem to its usual place, but pulls back the opening in the front like he's pulling back a curtain. He peels the plastic up and off of his skin, balls it up and tosses the ball into the trashcan, leaving the raw skin open to the air. The hair on the back of Mark's neck stands at attention. His hands are shaking, itching for something, so he curls his fingers into loose fists.
Wardo, in his weird, freakishly perceptive way, notices this. His eyes are dark and a little glow-y in the light of the streetlamp outside and staring right at him when he says, "You can touch it. If you want."
And Jesus Christ, he does want. He wants so bad that it's physically painful, probably because his fingernails are digging into the skin of his palms, and the excess air in the room is making him nauseous. Mark wants to feel that puckered skin where the pitch black ink meets the angry red of Eduardo's dried blood before it fades into his lovely tanned skin, he wants to trace his fingers along the numbers, and is caught up by a vision of himself murmuring wordlessly against the tattoo, against Wardo's now-sensitive skin.
The last thought is enough to make him skittish—that's not what Wardo meant, dammit—and Wardo recognizes this immediately. He steps closer into Mark's space slowly, like he's trying to calm a horse or some shit and not a neurotic college sophomore. Eduardo slips a hand over Mark's fist and anchors it there, fingers working themselves into Mark's fist to force it open. The grin Mark receives when it works is absolutely blinding. "Come on," Eduardo says, leaning in to speak low into Mark's ear, and oh god, Mark better not be asleep or hallucinating. "You know you want to."
Wardo's fingers are around his wrist now, and since Mark has all but passed out from what the hell just happened, he drags Mark's shaking hand to his side himself. Eduardo's palm is hot enough to scathe the back of Mark's hand when Wardo presses it to his skin. Wardo breathes in, a hiss through his teeth, and Mark can feel the breath hitching in Wardo's abdomen when he chuckles, a little bit winded. "Your fingers are so cold."
Mark is too afraid to look up. Instead, he traces his finger along the first E, head bowed close to Eduardo's shoulder, and raises his other hand to lay in the middle of Eduardo's chest. "Bad circulation," he mutters quietly as he tries not to focus on the thumping of Wardo's pulse underneath his palm. "Is it—I mean, does that bother you?"
Wardo hums thoughtfully in the back of his throat before answering. "Nah," he decides, and Mark can feel the tip of Eduardo's nose brush against the top of his head. "It actually feels really nice." The cadence of Eduardo's speech is slow and comfortable, a total contrast to the hot skin beneath Mark's fingertips, and the sounds of the words settle into Mark's head; Wardo is acting as if it's totally normal to be stroking your guy best friend's tattoo in the darkness of an unlit bedroom, and it puts Mark completely at ease.
"Good." Mark doesn't try to catalogue this descent into somehow-flirting-definitely-touching that he's fallen into with Wardo, because he's fairly sure that his alcohol-addled brain wouldn't be able to handle it. He's pretty sure his brain at any time would be unable to handle it. Code and computers were simple and concrete, and this was something totally different. Mark is pretty sure he'd rather just ride it out. Both of his hands slip down Eduardo's chest near the same time, and a near-silent, bit-off groan escapes Wardo's mouth.
Yeah, Mark thinks, he could definitely just ride this out.
Curiosity gets the better of Mark's staggering fear, so he looks up, and wow, Wardo's face is way closer and way more appealing than expected. Eduardo's coffee-brown eyes are staring right down at him, unnervingly clear, and the light from the lamp post outside Mark's window casts a light that catches the flecks of gold in Wardo's eyes. He's grinning in a barely-there way, and Mark can feel Wardo's breath halting and stuttering beneath his hand before Eduardo's arm sneaks its way around Mark's waist to pull Mark flush against him.
Wardo's other hand goes to Mark's face, long fingers tracing down Mark's jawline and then down the tendon in his neck. He hooks his thumb into the soft place behind Mark's collarbone for just a second before moving his hand to dig four fingers into the hair at the nape of Mark's neck, the pad of his thumb resting right behind Mark's ear. Then he stares directly at Mark, like he's expecting something, and Mark doesn't have an answer for him. Did he as a question? Because if he did, Mark's mental capacities were a little bit occupied at the time with the words HOLYSHITHOLYSHITHOLYSHIT and PLEASELETMEBEAWAKE and NGGGHHHHHHHHH.
But Eduardo must have caught the answer in Mark's eyes, because after the fond words "You idiot", Wardo presses a kiss to Mark's lips.
Now, as far as kisses go, the first one's not mind-blowing. It's chaste and hesitant, like Wardo's asking for permission. He pulls away quick, but Mark's hands are both on the front of Wardo's shirt now, and he yanks Wardo back to him automatically. Mark huffs partly in amusement and mostly in irritation—really, this was ridiculous—before pulling Wardo's face back down to his.
The second kiss is mind-blowing. Mostly because Wardo opens his mouth and fuck, it's like the dawning of the age of Aquarius or the fountain of youth or the holy grail it's so wonderful in there. And that's not to mention Wardo's tongue, which is just as big a slut as no one expected it to be and gets Mark to shudder, radiating all the way out from deep in his chest, when it slides wetly along the backs of his teeth. It makes Mark's pulse start to pound in his head and his hands shake for more. He slips the fingers of his right hand out from Eduardo's hair and thinks what the hell before sliding his hand down Wardo's neck to his chest and underneath Wardo's unbuttoned shirt.
Wardo's shoulders drop down automatically, making Mark's job of hoisting the Armani cotton over them much easier. The shirt flutters to the floor with a hint of melodrama and Mark has to scoff down at it before he gets a glimpse of Eduardo sans shirt.
If Mark had believed that the snatches of skin he'd seen before were enough, he redacted that statement immediately. There were just acres of smooth,soft, sun-darkened skin he'd never even hoped to see sitting right in front of him, and it made Mark salivate (only a little) to think that he could touch all of it. He's intoxicated by the situation (and the alcohol, still), so he tells Wardo this fact—his pleasure at finally touching—confidently.
Wardo takes it rather well. He takes it so well that Mark finds himself wedged between a bookcase and an extremely pleased-looking Mr. Saverin, wondering where his shirt and hoodie went while trying to control his gasping breath. Eduardo's jammed a thigh between both of Mark's and his hips are rocking ever-so-slowly back and forth and Mark's eyes roll back in his head at the friction of Wardo's leg under him. He slams his hands against the bookcase, fingernails clawing for something to distract him from all of the blood in his body rushing southwards. It doesn't do much, so Mark about-faces his tactic, settling one of his hands in the small of Wardo's back to pull him in closer and putting the other one over the fresh tattoo and pressing.
Eduardo moans at that, cursing heavily and half in Portuguese into the curve of Mark's neck. "Shit, Mark."
"Does it hurt?"
"Like hell." He closes his lips over the part of Mark's collarbone that juts out in the middle in a gentle kiss. Wardo rests his forehead on Mark's shoulder. His breath is warm and slow against Mark's chest and Mark is undeniably soothed by this after the developments of the last few minutes. He had been a little afraid that he would have a massive panic attack or busted blood vessel when this invariably ended, but when Wardo is being calm and lovely and unbuttoned as he is now, it's almost impossible for Mark to worry about anything at all.
Mark mutters a quiet apology, but Wardo cuts him off. "No, don't. It's fine." Wardo even laughs a bit, lips curling up into a smile when he meets Mark's eyes. "I actually kinda liked it."
Mark is still a little shaky and the bulge in his jeans is getting more and more uncomfortable by the second, but he's helpless. He chuckles too. "You fucking masochist."
"You're acting like I didn't see that look in your eyes when you saw the tattoo!" Wardo's grin has turned now, into something snarky and a bit demanding; it's turned to a smirk. "Kinky bastard." The taller man leans in close to Mark again and sucks Mark's earlobe between his teeth. One of Wardo's hands trickles down the middle of Mark's chest at the same time, unassuming even as it comes close to the top of Mark's jeans. Mark marvels a little at the duality of Wardo's personality—on the one hand, he's doing anything to make Mark comfortable, and on the other, he's doing anything he can think of to unsettle him. "You have a thing for tattoos, don't you?"
"I—" Mark wants to say no to that, because no, that isn't really it at all, is it?
It's not just tattoos, because tattoos are just colors on someone's skin, and they can be badly drawn and disgusting or pithy and overdone or just plain stupid. It's that tattoo. And it's Wardo, too, because, well, it just is. Kind of like their friendship—it's just there, and neither can quite remember how and when it happened or how it ascended to this level of codependency, but that's the way it is. Wardo is beautiful because he makes Mark feel less like a prisoner of his own skin and more like a part of something more than lines of code, and those streaks of ink on his torso are going to concrete that feeling in Mark for the rest of his life. And also because he's just pretty, with all that soft velvety brown hair and those long legs and chocolatey eyes; which, how did Mark never notice that before?
Mark doesn't say any of that, because it's too trite and half-thought-out and even thinking it makes his stomach churn a little bit. He isn't used to new revelations, especially when they're pouring from his own mouth, so he tends to keep them bottled up, tucked behind his tongue in case the right opportunity comes around again. He turns his head away from Eduardo. "No."
Wardo's eyes are bright with confusion. "What, Mark?" His hands are on Mark's cheeks, fingers warm against his cheekbones and it feels nice enough to make Mark want to close his eyes and just burrow into Wardo for the rest of his life.
"It's not a tattoo thing."
It isn't. It's a Wardo thing.