You Rarely Win, But Sometimes You Do

“Shit, that looks good,” his tattoo artist says, pulling out his phone so he can snap a picture of the healed raven wings unfurled across Sirius’s collarbones for the shop’s instagram.

“There’s a reason I keep coming back,” Sirius grins, because that’s just what James needs right now. Nipples and a perfect smile. He distracts himself flipping through the artist’s binder until Sirius’s glorious torso is covered up by his shirt again. If he catches one final glimpse of abs out of the corner of his eye, that’s neither here nor there. Really he doesn’t look for long. It’s not like he’s trying to pop a semi in the middle of the tattoo parlor.

James used to be normal around Sirius. They’ve been friends for ages, he never would’ve made it this far if he hadn’t been. But especially recently, there’s just been something all consumingly intoxicating about every look Sirius sends James’s way, every little flash of skin. Like the wing tattoo, for example. Ever since Sirius got it, it’s been peeking out the top of his shirts, drawing James’s eye down the column of his pale throat to his broad chest and suddenly James is having thoughts about tongues and skin that are anything but platonic.

“Still leaning towards the thigh piece today?” The artist asks.

“Yeah we’ll save the tramp stamp for another time.”

Jesus fucking christ.

Sirius changes into shorts in the bathroom while James twiddles his thumbs on his perch next to the tattoo chair, watching Sirius’s artist get things set up.

“Thinking about getting some?” The tattoo artist asks.

“What??”

“Tattoos?” He clarifies. “You were looking through our book?”

“Oh,” says James, laughing nervously. “Right, uh, that, no.” He laughs again. “I mean maybe, I’m not like against them obviously,” he gestures vaguely to the artist who’s more tattoo than skin at this point. “I’ve just never felt the need to get one.”

“Smart,” says Sirius, dropping his hand on James’s shoulder as he slips past him, and James tries not to startle again. “Once you start, you’ll never want to stop.” His eyes flash at James, something devilish in his smile, and James swallows down whatever could possibly be hidden in that innuendo to laugh. Normal. Like a normal friend. Laughing at his bro’s sex jokes. Was that even a sex joke? Or does Sirius just have his thighs out and suddenly James’s mind is not a safe place.

They’re the same soccer shorts he’s seen Sirius wear a million times, this time without socks and shin guards, sure, but that’s still no excuse for the way James’s mouth waters at the way Sirius sits back against the chair and spreads his legs.

He starts to roll up his shorts even higher, and James has to avert his gaze again, watching the tattoo artist get the razor ready to prep the skin.

“This parts easy,” Sirius says, and when James looks back at him he’s winking at James. “Prep’s always the best part.”

Right. That one was definitely a sex joke.

Sirius hands James his pants to hold on to, and James tries not to think about the fact that they’re still warm from those same bare thighs he’s currently trying and failing not to stare at as the tattoo artist glides the razor up Sirius’s inner thigh. 

Sirius hops off the chair for a second, and the artist takes his time lining up the stencil against Sirius’s skin, which is probably good. What he’s supposed to do. Meticulous, thorough. But it gives Sirius time to watch James watching him, while James tries really, really hard to look as chill as humanly possible about some random man’s hands being so close to Sirius’s dick.

James isn’t a jealous person. He really isn’t. That’s so not the problem. In fact it’s the exact opposite of the problem. The poor man’s just trying to do his job, and here comes James, objectifying him or whatever the fuck. The stool James is sitting on might as well be a cuck chair the way his brain is lighting up at the sight of his head bent towards Sirius’s dick while gloved hands press the tracing paper against Sirius’s skin before carefully peeling it back.

“Check from different angles?” The artist prompts.

Sirius turns to check out the placement in the mirror, and James is absolutely not watching close enough to notice Sirius’s asscheeks clenching as he rotates his leg in the mirror.

“What do you think, James?” Sirius turns so James can assess the placement too.

The art is probably gorgeous, James has always liked Sirius’s taste in tattoos, but unfortunately it’s completely drowned out by the muscles of Sirius’s thigh under the bright shop lighting, Sirius’s hand holding the leg of his shorts up to expose his skin.

He’s having tongue thoughts again.

“Looks great,” he says quickly, eyes flying back up to Sirius’s face before those thoughts can fully take root. But Sirius is staring right back at James, and James is just delusional enough to think that there’s a heat in his gaze as he watches James. James tightens his grip on Sirius’s pants.

Sirius takes his position back on the chair, spreading his thighs again so the artist can access the space between his legs, and when he leans over Sirius’s groin, James has to avert his gaze.

“Don’t tell me you’re afraid of needles,” Sirius smirks at him, and James tries to laugh it off again.

“I’ll be fine.”

“Better be,” he teases. “I’m gonna need you to hold my hand through it.”

James chuckles. Because obviously Sirius is just joking.

Obviously. 

He’s not going to stick his hand out in James’s direction, sharp teeth biting into the tender flesh of his bottom lip as needle touches skin, head tipping back as he looks at James with so much pleading. 

Except that’s exactly what he does.

“Jamie, please?” He asks, and that’s all James needs to decide that if Sirius is dead serious, then so is he.

He leans forward on the stool, hand grasping Sirius’s, holding the pants against his lap so they don’t slide off as he shifts. Sirius’s eyes meet his, and it’s like all of James’s thoughts vanish at the sight of those fluttering eyelashes. His lip is still caught between his teeth as his eyes close. The sigh he makes as he tries to relax back against the chair is barely audible over the hum of the tattoo gun. 

James glances down, and the tattoo artist’s hand holding Sirius’s shorts out of the way while the needle passes over his skin would already be a lot for his pervert brain to take in, but then Sirius starts whimpering. It’s just a soft groan at first, easy enough to miss if James wasn’t so laser focused on every fucking thing Sirius does, but then the sound comes again, a bit higher, fingers tightening in James’s grasp, and when James glances up at Sirius’s face his eyes are open, staring at James like he’s Sirius’s one tether to solid ground.

He whines again, a pathetic little sound, but it’s so beautiful. Sirius’s head is falling back against the chair, eyes fluttering shut again as he moans through the pain. All James can do is hold the fuck on. Squeeze Sirius’s hand right back.

Sirius is a pretty crier. James already knows this. He’s already seen his face wet with tears after a particularly hard loss, emotions and endorphins high from the crushing arc of hard play and bitter defeat. So when Sirius’s eyes open again, this time shining brilliant with glossy tears, James wills whatever god in heaven or hell that those tears don’t fall.

“It’s okay,” he breathes, thumb stroking over the back of Sirius’s hand, and Sirius nods, bites his lip again as he stares at James. Looking so beautiful, James could start crying.

But then his back is arching, lips parting, mouth falling open to let out a loud moan that goes straight to James’s dick. He’s grateful he’s holding Sirius pants as he adjusts a bit in his seat, making sure his lap is covered.

Cause things are heating up. Fast. 

He glances back at Sirius’s parted thighs, at the miles of exposed pale skin, but the tattoo artist is just getting started, only a bit of the purple outline traced over in dark ink, and as his hands move across Sirius’s skin, wiping away ink just to press in again, Sirius lets out the breathiest moan yet, hand tightening in James’s until his gaze is back on Sirius’s face.

The eye contact is almost as unrelenting as the sounds, but James can’t bring himself to look away. He’s going to be good for Sirius. So good. Whatever he needs. Even if that means holding his hand and watching fat tears well up against dark eyelashes and fighting off every urge in his body that’s telling him to simultaneously dive right in and run. 

James isn’t sure how he’s going to last. They’ve barely even started and already he’s halfway to hard. But what’s a little blue ball if it means being there for Sirius. Sirius needs him. Needs him as a friend. And he’s not going to ruin that just because he can’t stop perving out over a little handholding or—oh god, whimpering, there he is whimpering again. His head falls forward, dark hair brushing against his cheekbones as he grits his teeth in pain, and James would reach forward, tuck a lock of hair behind his ear, stroke against his cheek soothingly, if it weren’t for the fact that his hands are already full trying to simultaneously protect his dignity and comfort Sirius.

“It’s okay, bro,” he says again. “You’ve got this.”

“I know,” says Sirius, eyes meeting James’s again. “I know.”

There’s really no safe place to look. The exposed skin between Sirius’s legs. The rise and fall of his panting chest. The pale shine of his tearstained eyes. All equally dangerous, but when one of those fat tears finally leaks from the corner of his eye, dancing against Sirius’s carved cheekbones, tracing against skin and shimmering iridescent as angel dust along his face, it’s all James can do not to finally give in. To lean forward. To lick. Press his tongue to Sirius’s glistening cheek, his lips to the corner of his eye. Gather up those tears like precious offerings and worship at the altar that is Sirius’s weeping face.

He’s so beautiful. So fucking beautiful.

James isn’t sure how he’s going to last, but somehow he does. A combination of focusing on Sirius, trying to be strong for Sirius, and distracting himself with the dad rock that’s blaring over the tattoo parlor’s speakers. 

Eventually they do take a break. Sirius gulping down a water bottle that does unfair things to his throat and even more unfair things to James’s begging dick, but then Sirius disappears into the bathroom, and James finally gets a chance to breathe, leaning back against the stool and clutching Sirius’s jeans like a lifeline.

The tattoo artist is doing something, god knows what, something extremely professional James is sure. And once again he tries to come across as normal and friendly and not horny for his best friend.

He chuckles nervously and decides that did not help his case. 

“Tattoos seem, like, really intense,” James says, hoping a little small talk will save it.

“Yeah, I don’t know why he’s doing all that,” the tattoo artist says, turning away from his cart. “He usually sits really well for tattoos.”

James frowns in confusion.

“Hey,” Sirius returns, already back from the bathroom. “Thanks again for holding my hand, bro. Literally couldn’t do it without you. So fucking painful.”

James looks back and forth between the tattoo artist and his best friend, brow still furrowed, but the tattoo artist is shaking his head, chuckling silently, even as Sirius slides back into the chair and grasps James’s hand in earnest.

“Ready to go again?”

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