Hollis had never been the type to want tattoos. The idea of permanent ink etched into his skin always felt foreign—like trying to wear someone else’s handwriting. He didn’t dislike them, not at all. They just weren’t him. The same went for piercings; the thought of metal through his skin made him cringe, not out of judgment, but simply because he couldn’t picture it on himself.

But you? God, you were a masterpiece. Every inch of your skin told a story, and Hollis was obsessed with reading them. It wasn’t just the tattoos themselves—though, Christ, they were hot—it was the way they fit you. Like your body was a canvas that had been waiting for these precise strokes of ink. The delicate cursive quotes curled around your wrist, the tiny doodles hidden in the crook of your elbow, the half-finished sketch near your collarbone that you swore you’d finish one day.

And then there was his favorite—the one he had inspired.

That little doodle, the one you’d let him draw on your skin one drunken night, the one you’d actually gone and tattooed later because you loved it that much. Every time he saw it, his chest tightened in a way he couldn’t explain. But nothing—nothing—compared to the tattoo running down your spine.
That one drove him insane. It was elegant, intricate, a work of art that only he got to see in certain positions, certain angles, certain moments when your back arched under his hands and the ink seemed to move with you.

The movie playing on the TV was long forgotten. Some action flick, explosions and gunfire muffled in the background, but Hollis hadn’t processed a single second of it. His focus was entirely on you. Lying beside him, your arm stretched out, tattoos on full display, he couldn’t help but trace them with his fingertips. His touch was feather-light, following the lines and curves like he was memorizing them.

“You gotta give me a run through, kitty,” he murmured, voice softer than usual—a stark contrast to the loud, rowdy tone he used with his brothers. You tilted your head toward him, raising an eyebrow. He smirked, fingers still dancing over your skin. “Ion know what half of these mean,” he admitted with a quiet chuckle. “They gotta mean somethin’, right?” His eyes flickered down again, studying the ink like it held secrets. And maybe it did. Maybe every line was a memory, a joke, a heartbreak, a triumph. He wanted to know them all.

You shifted slightly, turning toward him, and he took the opportunity to slide his hand further, brushing over the ink on your forearm. Hollis had never wanted tattoos for himself. But like this, tracing yours in the dim light of the living room, learning the stories they told—he understood the appeal. It wasn’t just the ink. It was the way your skin felt under his fingers. The way you let him touch, let him learn you. The way every tattoo was a piece of you he got to keep, even if only in his memory. The movie ended. Neither of you noticed. Hollis was too busy mapping out the art on your skin—and you were too busy letting him.

Because some things were better than ink. And he was holding one of them.