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players only. backdated to early March 2014 and takes place after Ryan takes comfort in Sam.
warning for diathermic branding
"...An alternative to traditional branding," the Citadel emcee says, and it sounds like a voice just on the edges of Ryan's consciousness, as opposed to one simply coming from the next room where the dais is set and their guests await. "It's a more controlled method, although I won't go into detail now for the squeamish among you." Ryan hears some scattered laughter of appreciation. "But don't think for a second that it won't still hurt like hell." Right. Ryan is trying so hard to remain deep in headspace, so that his terror won't surge and overwhelm him. But it's difficult, particularly when he overhears comments like that. He's incredibly excited to take Sam's mark, a permanent burn in his flesh from his lover, his sir. His god. And in front of their friends, too? He's been dreaming about this day for years. However, that doesn't lessen his fear of what's to come. Or his doubts. What if it hurts too much? What if he loses control and humiliates himself? What if he's simply not as strong as he thinks he is? He tries to shove all the pessimism from his mind and drops gracefully to his knees, waiting for his sir's signal to move.
"Good boy," Sam murmurs, listening to the emcee, his fingers run through Ryan's hair as they wait for their cue. "Here we go." He leads Ryan into the room, nodding and smiling at their friends as they go, keeping his pace slower to match his boy's and making sure Ryan makes it up onto the dais. He helps Ryan into position on the spanking bench, a hand kept on his shoulder, his skin, at all times. "I just want to say how happy we are to have you here to share this occasion with us. It really means a lot having our friends witness such a momentous happening in our lives, in our relationship, and we feel very blessed and grateful. Thank you."
The spanking bench is a bit taller than standard, the height set specifically to aid Dan the Citadel flesh artist in freedom of movement as he works. Ryan tucks his feet under, his gaze on Sam as he firms up his position. He waits until his sir nods before he stretches back, arching backwards over the waist-high support. It's incredibly vulnerable, his throat bared as well as his belly, his cock hard and standing lewdly, its piercing catching the light. But most important is that this position gives Dan all the access he could want to the smooth skin just above Ryan's right hip.
Dan sits down and rolls his chair up in front of them, pulling his tray in closer. He runs an antibacterial wipe over the area, wipes it down again with water, traces the design onto Ryan's skin and sits back, taking a better look at it. "Look good from your angle?" he asks, giving the men a smile.
Sam nods, giving Ryan's shoulders a squeeze. "Looks amazing."
Ryan devours the sight behind the screen of his eyelashes, and his smile is uncharacteristically shy. But... "Sam Forever"? Like, permanently? He could tackle his sir and lick him from head to toe right now in happiness, but that would kind of derail the proceedings. "I love it," he says softly, then leans back once more. Stretching out to give Dan plenty of room, and wrapping his fingers tightly around the bench's edge.
"Here we go," Dan warns, knowing the first few minutes are the worst. He touches the pen-like instrument to Ryan's skin, slowly starting to trace the outline of the design.
Even with the heads-up, Ryan jumps a little, his abs contracting in reflexive retreat. But then the pain hits and his eyes widen in surprise at how knife-sharp it is. With a gasp he flicks his glance upward, focusing on his sir's face.
"It's okay," Sam murmurs, "I've got you." His hands on Ryan's shoulders, upper body pressed as close as he can get it with the spanking bench between them. Idly he wonders what their audience is making of this, can hear a few soft gasps, groans, but his eyes never leave Ryan's face.
There's a smell, god -- an odor almost like burned hair, that Ryan simply won't let himself think on deeper. The moment is taking his full attention, anyway, every deliberate stroke of Dan's diathermic pen grounding him utterly in the physical. "Sir," he whispers, watching Sam and desperately trying to lose himself.
"You're doing really well," Sam says, rubbing Ryan's shoulders, the smell making his stomach flip although he's damned if he's going to let on. "I am so proud of you. You're my good boy," he smiles. "Forever and always."
"Yes, Sir." They're magic words, and Ryan smiles back as the pain abruptly blossoms into a more pleasurable warmth. He digs his fingernails into the vinyl cushion, and suddenly it's not so hard to remember to breathe evenly. "Thank you."
Dan glances upwards, smiling at them both. He appreciates their devotion to one another. It reminds him of his own marriage. "This is going to be one beautiful piece of art," he murmurs, lifting the pen for a second before continuing on.
"All your work on Ryan is beautiful," Sam says, eyes still locked on his boy's. "But of course you're working on a perfect canvas."
"Of course," Dan agrees sincerely, and it's true. Only a handful of people he's worked on over the years have come even close to Ryan.
Shutting his eyes Ryan begins to drift, letting their voices meld into the air above him. Even with the cushion of his endorphin rush, the pain is a harsh and brutal master, the visceral feeling of his skin burning still terrifying when he lets himself think about it -- that hasn't changed. So he doesn't think about it. And at last the heat, the smell, the vicious fire in his skin all seem to be taking place on the other side of a window, one he can't quite see through clearly. His muscles start to relax.
The design, while curved, is a simple enough one and Dan makes relatively quick work of it, keeping in mind Ryan wants him to keep going. He sits back once or twice to take a better look at the whole design but only for a second before he's touching pen to skin again. "Almost there," he murmurs when working on the final bit of outline.
Ryan has been tracing the shape in his mind as Dan worked, and now he notes when the burn changes from the needle-sharp outlining to something broader, the flat of the diathermic pen filling in the design. Maybe it's the work, or maybe it's just his body, but either way he's starting to wonder why he ever thought this hurt in the first place. "Sir," he whispers to Sam, his eyes still closed. His body feels strange, swollen, and like it's sucking all the oxygen from his brain. "I love you."
Sam grins. "I love you too," he says, shifting to he can press a kiss to Ryan's forehead. "Feeling better?" he murmurs, because he knows that tone of voice, that sound, the way Ryan gets when he's really under and pain's turned into a deep sort of fucked-up pleasure.
"Mm-hmm." Pleasurable fire fills Ryan, radiating from his core to his toes and fingertips. His cock might be erect or it might not be. He can't tell. He could drown here.
"How much longer?" Sam asks, having lost track of all time, his attention laser-focused on his boy.
"Ten, fifteen minutes," Dan estimates, trying not to chuckle at the way Ryan's gone completely pliant, the bench about the only thing holding him up.
Ten or fifteen minutes? It sounds like an eternity. Except that the concept of time is completely meaningless to Ryan right now: he floats on one wave after another, a flaring burn in his flesh surging into pleasure before his mind can quite process the distinction between the two. So good.
Ryan's cock jerks in front of him, wet at its tip, and Dan's gaze flickers to Sam before dropping again to his hands, to the pen he's lifted off Ryan's skin for a moment. It's not like he hasn't seen Ryan hard before, seen and heard him aroused, known he and Sam were fucking every chance they got, before and after every piercing, every tattoo, but this... damn. Dan shifts a little uncomfortably, wishing he'd thought to have his husband here.
"I'd take care of that, but I think it'd only make the situation worse," Sam murmurs. "For both of you." Ryan needing the endorphin high and Dan too much in the way.
Endorphin high, indeed. Ryan is blissfully unaware of how utterly brazen he is right now, completely exposed, his arousal on display to the entire fucking crowd even as his P.A. piercing brushes against Dan's thigh. He whimpers softly at the sudden shock of pleasure from that quarter, distracting him from the branding.
Dan almost echoes that whimper, biting it back at the last second. He's nothing if not a consummate professional, but God...
And Sam. Sam's so fucking hard he can barely breathe, fingers itching to move from Ryan's shoulders, tug on that piercing because he knows that's all it would take.
Dragging his eyelids back open, Ryan stares up at his sir -- and the ravenous look in Sam's eyes nearly undoes him. He whimpers again, sensation surging through his body, and he goes taut with the sudden tension.
"You almost done?" Sam asks again.
"Yep. Really close now," Dan confirms, gaze flickering upwards for a second. "He needs to hold still though," he says, even as he finishes the very last bit. "There we go. All done," sitting back as he breathes a sigh of relief.
But Dan sitting back is all Sam needs as he drops down, his hand on his boy's cock in a second, stroking, fingers tugging on that ring at the end. "Give it to me, boy." The order more for their audience than for Ryan himself.
Pleasure hurtles through Ryan on a shockwave and he comes instantly, shouting like they're alone. His perception of reality is so altered by now that his orgasm seems to stretch on forever -- until abruptly he huddles in on himself, shivering near hard enough to break his bones.
This time Dan does whimper, but thankfully Ryan's shouting covers it. Fuck. He waits until it's obvious Ryan's done and then hands a tissue to Sam and watches as Sam wraps his arms around Ryan, hugging him tight. "I just have to cover this up for now," he says, reaching for a patch of gauze and some pure aloe. "Don't use the aloe past the first day or two or the brand won't raise as well and I'll leave you a care sheet at the front desk and email it to you as well."
"Okay, thanks," Sam says. "Really. Thank you. You making the time to do this for us means a lot."
Some scattered applause begins from their audience, and the pristine silence that reigned during the ceremony is broken as people get to their feet, talking, exclaiming... and trying to get a better look at Ryan's hip. He's abruptly aware once more of their collective presence and he's mortified, uncertain just how he behaved, but he can't spare more than a moment of thought to it all -- he's fucking freezing, Christ, and wants to climb inside Sam's body to be comforted.
There were blankets stashed nearby earlier and Sam reaches for one now, wrapping it around Ryan's shoulders and hugging him tight. "You're my good boy," he tells him, exchanging a few words with their closest friends as they drop by. Soon enough the crowd moves off again, helping themselves to the spread that's been put out. "We're going to call it a night," he tells the emcee. "You can thank everyone for coming out."
Doing his best to tune out the world, Ryan wraps his arms around Sam and shambles with him when Sam tries to walk. Now the real pain is kicking in, dull spikes slamming through him with each pulse of his blood, and he feels shocky and oversensitized. "Please," he whispers to his sir, moistening his lips with his tongue.
"I know," Sam says, taking even more of Ryan's weight. "We're almost there," he assures him, heading straight for the bank of elevators and pressing the button. "Just a couple more minutes."
A couple more minutes. Ryan buries himself in his lover as best he can, hiding his face in the curve of Sam's throat and shutting down to everything but physical sensation. He trusts in Sam absolutely, and knows his lover will take the best possible care of him without Ryan's input.
Thankfully the elevator comes quickly and they're the only ones on it. Sam pushes their floor and holds Ryan close, kissing the top of his head, wherever he can reach. "When we get to the room, I want you to have some water and then you can pass out," he tells him, not even sure if any of this is registering but feeling the need to keep talking.
"--ssir," Ryan mumbles. God. He's never felt so close to collapse in his life, and he used to professionally compete in triathlons. The lift dings, signaling its arrival at their floor, and he obediently follows Sam out into the hall, still clinging.
"We're almost there," Sam says, grateful for once that their room's so close to the elevators. He unlocks the door, Ryan close to dead weight, and gets his boy to the bed in a few steps. "Here. Drink," he orders, cracking open a water bottle from the mini-fridge and helping Ryan do just that.
Ryan manages a few sips before he coughs, dribbling a few drops of water down his chin. He lies down very carefully, wincing at every slight shift of his body -- at the small burn that seems to have spread its agony throughout his limbs. "Sleep?" he mumbles, his tone hopeful.
"As much as you want," Sam says, lying down beside Ryan, careful not to jar his lover or brush against the gauze adorning his hip. He's still clothed but he wants Ryan asleep before he moves again, his boy needing the time to recover, get over the worst of the pain.
It takes a few moments before Ryan can settle somewhat comfortably, half draped over Sam and nothing pressing against his hip at all. Then he relaxes with a sigh, shutting his eyes and breathing in the familiar comfort of his sir's scent. "I love you."
"I love you too," Sam murmurs, holding Ryan close, only now really letting himself think about all his husband - his boy - went through tonight to be marked as his, permanently. "So fucking much," he adds softly.
[feedback welcome. comments screened.]
warning for diathermic branding
"...An alternative to traditional branding," the Citadel emcee says, and it sounds like a voice just on the edges of Ryan's consciousness, as opposed to one simply coming from the next room where the dais is set and their guests await. "It's a more controlled method, although I won't go into detail now for the squeamish among you." Ryan hears some scattered laughter of appreciation. "But don't think for a second that it won't still hurt like hell." Right. Ryan is trying so hard to remain deep in headspace, so that his terror won't surge and overwhelm him. But it's difficult, particularly when he overhears comments like that. He's incredibly excited to take Sam's mark, a permanent burn in his flesh from his lover, his sir. His god. And in front of their friends, too? He's been dreaming about this day for years. However, that doesn't lessen his fear of what's to come. Or his doubts. What if it hurts too much? What if he loses control and humiliates himself? What if he's simply not as strong as he thinks he is? He tries to shove all the pessimism from his mind and drops gracefully to his knees, waiting for his sir's signal to move.
"Good boy," Sam murmurs, listening to the emcee, his fingers run through Ryan's hair as they wait for their cue. "Here we go." He leads Ryan into the room, nodding and smiling at their friends as they go, keeping his pace slower to match his boy's and making sure Ryan makes it up onto the dais. He helps Ryan into position on the spanking bench, a hand kept on his shoulder, his skin, at all times. "I just want to say how happy we are to have you here to share this occasion with us. It really means a lot having our friends witness such a momentous happening in our lives, in our relationship, and we feel very blessed and grateful. Thank you."
The spanking bench is a bit taller than standard, the height set specifically to aid Dan the Citadel flesh artist in freedom of movement as he works. Ryan tucks his feet under, his gaze on Sam as he firms up his position. He waits until his sir nods before he stretches back, arching backwards over the waist-high support. It's incredibly vulnerable, his throat bared as well as his belly, his cock hard and standing lewdly, its piercing catching the light. But most important is that this position gives Dan all the access he could want to the smooth skin just above Ryan's right hip.
Dan sits down and rolls his chair up in front of them, pulling his tray in closer. He runs an antibacterial wipe over the area, wipes it down again with water, traces the design onto Ryan's skin and sits back, taking a better look at it. "Look good from your angle?" he asks, giving the men a smile.
Sam nods, giving Ryan's shoulders a squeeze. "Looks amazing."
Ryan devours the sight behind the screen of his eyelashes, and his smile is uncharacteristically shy. But... "Sam Forever"? Like, permanently? He could tackle his sir and lick him from head to toe right now in happiness, but that would kind of derail the proceedings. "I love it," he says softly, then leans back once more. Stretching out to give Dan plenty of room, and wrapping his fingers tightly around the bench's edge.
"Here we go," Dan warns, knowing the first few minutes are the worst. He touches the pen-like instrument to Ryan's skin, slowly starting to trace the outline of the design.
Even with the heads-up, Ryan jumps a little, his abs contracting in reflexive retreat. But then the pain hits and his eyes widen in surprise at how knife-sharp it is. With a gasp he flicks his glance upward, focusing on his sir's face.
"It's okay," Sam murmurs, "I've got you." His hands on Ryan's shoulders, upper body pressed as close as he can get it with the spanking bench between them. Idly he wonders what their audience is making of this, can hear a few soft gasps, groans, but his eyes never leave Ryan's face.
There's a smell, god -- an odor almost like burned hair, that Ryan simply won't let himself think on deeper. The moment is taking his full attention, anyway, every deliberate stroke of Dan's diathermic pen grounding him utterly in the physical. "Sir," he whispers, watching Sam and desperately trying to lose himself.
"You're doing really well," Sam says, rubbing Ryan's shoulders, the smell making his stomach flip although he's damned if he's going to let on. "I am so proud of you. You're my good boy," he smiles. "Forever and always."
"Yes, Sir." They're magic words, and Ryan smiles back as the pain abruptly blossoms into a more pleasurable warmth. He digs his fingernails into the vinyl cushion, and suddenly it's not so hard to remember to breathe evenly. "Thank you."
Dan glances upwards, smiling at them both. He appreciates their devotion to one another. It reminds him of his own marriage. "This is going to be one beautiful piece of art," he murmurs, lifting the pen for a second before continuing on.
"All your work on Ryan is beautiful," Sam says, eyes still locked on his boy's. "But of course you're working on a perfect canvas."
"Of course," Dan agrees sincerely, and it's true. Only a handful of people he's worked on over the years have come even close to Ryan.
Shutting his eyes Ryan begins to drift, letting their voices meld into the air above him. Even with the cushion of his endorphin rush, the pain is a harsh and brutal master, the visceral feeling of his skin burning still terrifying when he lets himself think about it -- that hasn't changed. So he doesn't think about it. And at last the heat, the smell, the vicious fire in his skin all seem to be taking place on the other side of a window, one he can't quite see through clearly. His muscles start to relax.
The design, while curved, is a simple enough one and Dan makes relatively quick work of it, keeping in mind Ryan wants him to keep going. He sits back once or twice to take a better look at the whole design but only for a second before he's touching pen to skin again. "Almost there," he murmurs when working on the final bit of outline.
Ryan has been tracing the shape in his mind as Dan worked, and now he notes when the burn changes from the needle-sharp outlining to something broader, the flat of the diathermic pen filling in the design. Maybe it's the work, or maybe it's just his body, but either way he's starting to wonder why he ever thought this hurt in the first place. "Sir," he whispers to Sam, his eyes still closed. His body feels strange, swollen, and like it's sucking all the oxygen from his brain. "I love you."
Sam grins. "I love you too," he says, shifting to he can press a kiss to Ryan's forehead. "Feeling better?" he murmurs, because he knows that tone of voice, that sound, the way Ryan gets when he's really under and pain's turned into a deep sort of fucked-up pleasure.
"Mm-hmm." Pleasurable fire fills Ryan, radiating from his core to his toes and fingertips. His cock might be erect or it might not be. He can't tell. He could drown here.
"How much longer?" Sam asks, having lost track of all time, his attention laser-focused on his boy.
"Ten, fifteen minutes," Dan estimates, trying not to chuckle at the way Ryan's gone completely pliant, the bench about the only thing holding him up.
Ten or fifteen minutes? It sounds like an eternity. Except that the concept of time is completely meaningless to Ryan right now: he floats on one wave after another, a flaring burn in his flesh surging into pleasure before his mind can quite process the distinction between the two. So good.
Ryan's cock jerks in front of him, wet at its tip, and Dan's gaze flickers to Sam before dropping again to his hands, to the pen he's lifted off Ryan's skin for a moment. It's not like he hasn't seen Ryan hard before, seen and heard him aroused, known he and Sam were fucking every chance they got, before and after every piercing, every tattoo, but this... damn. Dan shifts a little uncomfortably, wishing he'd thought to have his husband here.
"I'd take care of that, but I think it'd only make the situation worse," Sam murmurs. "For both of you." Ryan needing the endorphin high and Dan too much in the way.
Endorphin high, indeed. Ryan is blissfully unaware of how utterly brazen he is right now, completely exposed, his arousal on display to the entire fucking crowd even as his P.A. piercing brushes against Dan's thigh. He whimpers softly at the sudden shock of pleasure from that quarter, distracting him from the branding.
Dan almost echoes that whimper, biting it back at the last second. He's nothing if not a consummate professional, but God...
And Sam. Sam's so fucking hard he can barely breathe, fingers itching to move from Ryan's shoulders, tug on that piercing because he knows that's all it would take.
Dragging his eyelids back open, Ryan stares up at his sir -- and the ravenous look in Sam's eyes nearly undoes him. He whimpers again, sensation surging through his body, and he goes taut with the sudden tension.
"You almost done?" Sam asks again.
"Yep. Really close now," Dan confirms, gaze flickering upwards for a second. "He needs to hold still though," he says, even as he finishes the very last bit. "There we go. All done," sitting back as he breathes a sigh of relief.
But Dan sitting back is all Sam needs as he drops down, his hand on his boy's cock in a second, stroking, fingers tugging on that ring at the end. "Give it to me, boy." The order more for their audience than for Ryan himself.
Pleasure hurtles through Ryan on a shockwave and he comes instantly, shouting like they're alone. His perception of reality is so altered by now that his orgasm seems to stretch on forever -- until abruptly he huddles in on himself, shivering near hard enough to break his bones.
This time Dan does whimper, but thankfully Ryan's shouting covers it. Fuck. He waits until it's obvious Ryan's done and then hands a tissue to Sam and watches as Sam wraps his arms around Ryan, hugging him tight. "I just have to cover this up for now," he says, reaching for a patch of gauze and some pure aloe. "Don't use the aloe past the first day or two or the brand won't raise as well and I'll leave you a care sheet at the front desk and email it to you as well."
"Okay, thanks," Sam says. "Really. Thank you. You making the time to do this for us means a lot."
Some scattered applause begins from their audience, and the pristine silence that reigned during the ceremony is broken as people get to their feet, talking, exclaiming... and trying to get a better look at Ryan's hip. He's abruptly aware once more of their collective presence and he's mortified, uncertain just how he behaved, but he can't spare more than a moment of thought to it all -- he's fucking freezing, Christ, and wants to climb inside Sam's body to be comforted.
There were blankets stashed nearby earlier and Sam reaches for one now, wrapping it around Ryan's shoulders and hugging him tight. "You're my good boy," he tells him, exchanging a few words with their closest friends as they drop by. Soon enough the crowd moves off again, helping themselves to the spread that's been put out. "We're going to call it a night," he tells the emcee. "You can thank everyone for coming out."
Doing his best to tune out the world, Ryan wraps his arms around Sam and shambles with him when Sam tries to walk. Now the real pain is kicking in, dull spikes slamming through him with each pulse of his blood, and he feels shocky and oversensitized. "Please," he whispers to his sir, moistening his lips with his tongue.
"I know," Sam says, taking even more of Ryan's weight. "We're almost there," he assures him, heading straight for the bank of elevators and pressing the button. "Just a couple more minutes."
A couple more minutes. Ryan buries himself in his lover as best he can, hiding his face in the curve of Sam's throat and shutting down to everything but physical sensation. He trusts in Sam absolutely, and knows his lover will take the best possible care of him without Ryan's input.
Thankfully the elevator comes quickly and they're the only ones on it. Sam pushes their floor and holds Ryan close, kissing the top of his head, wherever he can reach. "When we get to the room, I want you to have some water and then you can pass out," he tells him, not even sure if any of this is registering but feeling the need to keep talking.
"--ssir," Ryan mumbles. God. He's never felt so close to collapse in his life, and he used to professionally compete in triathlons. The lift dings, signaling its arrival at their floor, and he obediently follows Sam out into the hall, still clinging.
"We're almost there," Sam says, grateful for once that their room's so close to the elevators. He unlocks the door, Ryan close to dead weight, and gets his boy to the bed in a few steps. "Here. Drink," he orders, cracking open a water bottle from the mini-fridge and helping Ryan do just that.
Ryan manages a few sips before he coughs, dribbling a few drops of water down his chin. He lies down very carefully, wincing at every slight shift of his body -- at the small burn that seems to have spread its agony throughout his limbs. "Sleep?" he mumbles, his tone hopeful.
"As much as you want," Sam says, lying down beside Ryan, careful not to jar his lover or brush against the gauze adorning his hip. He's still clothed but he wants Ryan asleep before he moves again, his boy needing the time to recover, get over the worst of the pain.
It takes a few moments before Ryan can settle somewhat comfortably, half draped over Sam and nothing pressing against his hip at all. Then he relaxes with a sigh, shutting his eyes and breathing in the familiar comfort of his sir's scent. "I love you."
"I love you too," Sam murmurs, holding Ryan close, only now really letting himself think about all his husband - his boy - went through tonight to be marked as his, permanently. "So fucking much," he adds softly.
[feedback welcome. comments screened.]
