[bandom] FIC: "Love You While I Bruise,"
Jun. 29th, 2008 07:41 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
stephanometraO hay. Have some porn.
Title: Love You While I Bruise
Pairing: Ryan/Sean/Tom [empiresfic]
Rating: NC17
Summary: "I am, in fact, wearing a collar. And Tom's a twat."
Warnings: BDSM, wholly safe, sane, and consensual
Notes: So![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
t_usual_suspect is an evil bitch who does things like mention Sean Van Vleet in a collar, mostly because she knows that when she does, I'll do things like this. This is for her, with love, and was originally posted as commentporn in her journal, and a couple of the lines at the beginning are hers. No beta here, so all errors are mine and mine alone. Title from the Charlotte Sometimes song "Sweet Valium High." 3100 words (I FUCKING KNOW).
***
Ryan is one of those people with a particular talent for showing up exactly when you least want to see him. And that's really not a bad thing, nor is it a statement on how much Sean does or doesn't like him; it just kind of is.
What it means, though, is that this is far from the first time that Ryan has come into the middle of a conversation between Tom and Sean where Tom was giggling and Sean was giving Tom his longest-suffering why-do-I-put-up-with-you look.
It's just that Sean is usually not kneeling at Tom's feet, shirtless, and wearing a thick strip of black leather around his neck when that happens.
"Is that—are you wearing a collar?" Ryan asks, although to his credit, he sounds more curious than anything.
Sean sighs. "Yes," he says. "I am, in fact, wearing a collar. And Tom's a twat."
Tom just keeps snickering, and Sean kind of wants to kill him.
"Hey, man, this isn't," Ryan says to Tom, gesturing lamely. "Stop laughing, I think he's going to kill you in a second."
Under his breath, Sean mutters, "We should be so lucky."
Ryan gives him a sharp look, then, and says, "You're just as bad as he is."
"What?" Sean asks, glancing up through his bangs.
"You're not taking this seriously, either."
And just like that, Sean's world spins, tilts, shifts, and settles into a new and slightly terrifying configuration. The way Ryan is looking at him seems to block out everything else; Tom's now-faltering laughter is nothing but a distant echo in his ears.
"I—sorry?" he says, wincing at the rise in his tone, making it a question when it really oughtn't to be. He gets the sudden urge to look down, look away, anywhere but right at Ryan, but he can't seem to tear his gaze away from Ryan's hard, knowing eyes.
Tom must feel the change in the air, or something, because he stops laughing altogether, looking uncertainly from Sean to Ryan and back again. "Guys?" he asks.
"You two seriously have no idea what you're doing," Ryan says, tapping his fingers pensively against his thigh. "No idea at all."
And Sean resents that, because—he knows exactly what he's doing. He knows. He's asking for it, isn't he? It's not his fucking fault that Tom doesn't get it.
"Don't give me that look, Van Vleet," Ryan says, slipping back into that sharp tone, and Sean bites his lip and looks down. "You don't even know if he's capable of doing what you're asking him to do."
"Hey!" Tom says, indignant. "I can—whatever he wants, I'll do. It's just. Come on, you can't tell me that you don't think this is a little bit funny."
Ryan's gaze slides back to Sean, settling warm like a caress on the arch of Sean's neck, the lines of his shoulders. "Funny is...not the word I'd use." He takes a step forward and tilts Sean's chin up with two gentle fingers. "You're serious about this?" he asks, trailing his hand down Sean's throat to settle on the collar.
"Ryan," Tom says, voice uncertain. "What are you—"
Ignoring him, Ryan says, "Sean. Tell me."
Sean licks his lips, tries to look away from the intensity of Ryan's gaze, but Ryan's hand is firm on his chin, a question that Sean can't not answer. "I don't—it's not a thing. I don't need it all the time."
Ryan smiles faintly. "You say that like it makes it any better. How long has it been?"
"Um. Not since—" His eyes flick over to Tom, who is just staring blankly at them, like he has no idea what's going on, and that's probably not too far off the mark. "A while," he finishes lamely.
"That's—" Ryan sucks in a breath. "That's fucked up, Sean."
Sean shuts his eyes, because that's the only way he can hide from the rebuke on Ryan's face. "I know."
"What's fucked up?" Tom asks, sounding offended on Sean's behalf, and God, he might be a clueless jerk sometimes, but Sean loves him so much.
"Your boyfriend needs to scene, Tom," Ryan says. "Needs it pretty bad, if he's willing to ask you for it." He looks down at Sean again, considering. "If I do this..." he says, trailing off.
Sean bites his lip again, fighting the thrilled full-body tremor he feels starting in his toes. "Please," he says softly, and then he looks up at Tom and back at Ryan, pleading, not knowing exactly what he's asking for but needing something, something that Ryan looks just about ready to give him.
Ryan rocks back on his heels. "Tom, you're okay with this, right?"
Tom waves his hands around helplessly. "I don't even know what this is," he says.
"Yeah, I know," Ryan says. "That's why we need to do it."
There's a long moment when nobody says anything, the tension thick in the air, and then Tom's shoulders drop, resigned, even though he still looks confused.
"Whatever he needs," he says. "Just—whatever he needs."
Sean looks up gratefully at him through his eyelashes before casting his eyes downward again. Ryan's fingers are still playing with the leather at his throat.
"Safeword, Sean," he says, an unmistakable note of command in his tone.
Sean swallows hard. "Valmont," he says.
Ryan rewards him by petting his hair softly, and Sean has to fight not to lean into the touch.
"Good boy," he says, and then turns to Tom again. "Tell me what he likes," he orders. "And you, up. Bedroom." He tugs once on Sean's hair, a warning.
Sean bites back a pleased noise and scrambles to obey, hanging back a pace behind Ryan as he leads the way to Sean's room.
"Uh," Tom says, and Sean doesn't have to look at him to know that he's wearing his oh-my-God-could-this-be-any-more-awkward face, the one that's usually reserved for idiots who ask him what he thinks about Michael Guy Chislett, or something.
Ryan looks meaningfully at Sean's bed, commands, "Strip," and then looks impatiently at Tom. "It's a pretty simple question, dude," he says.
"No, it isn't," Tom says, bitchy. "I have no idea how you're doing this, or even what you're doing, and I don't know if—fuck." He looks helplessly at Sean, who's unbuttoning his jeans and sliding them down his hips, dropping his boxers as well at Ryan's nod.
Tom's eyes go a little dark when Sean sits naked on the bed, his thighs parted, his body turned toward Ryan.
"Fuck," he says again.
"Tom," Ryan says gently. "You know Sean. That's all I'm asking for. We can work on the rest."
"I—" Tom shuts his eyes tight and waits a beat. Then he says, haltingly, "He likes it when. I pull his hair sometimes, when he's going down on me. Or when I'm—when we're fucking."
Ryan grins, reaches out and tugs on a lock of Sean's hair. "Yeah?" he says, not actually a question, just encouraging Tom to go on. He touches Sean's lips, pressing, and Sean obligingly opens his mouth to suck Ryan's fingers in.
"He likes being, uh, bitten. On his neck, or his shoulders. The insides of his thighs."
"How does he like to be fucked?" Ryan punctuates the obscenity by pushing his fingers a little deeper into Sean's mouth, and Sean moans a little, shifting his ass on the bed, fisting his hands in the blankets to keep from touching himself, because he hasn't been given permission.
"Slow," Tom says. "Deep. He likes—he likes it best on his hands and knees. Sometimes I hold his wrists down, and he likes that, too." His face is fucking scarlet with embarrassment, and he's trying to look anywhere but at Sean's mouth, at Sean's cock twitching flushed and needy against his thigh. He's hard in his jeans, standing uncomfortably in the doorway. "But we don't—I don't top much."
Ryan smirks. "You don't say," he says dryly, and then yelps when Sean bites his fingers. He pulls his hand back and backhands Sean across the jaw, not particularly hard, not intending to bruise, but enough to let Sean know that he could. "Tom can take care of himself," he admonishes.
Sean nods, contrite. He shouldn't have done that.
"I was going to let you—but no. On your stomach. Arms up."
Sean hurries to obey, spreading out on his belly, clasping his wrists above his head, feeling the pull in his shoulders as he flattens his body on the bed. He gasps a little as he settles into the position, feeling the sheets rubbing cool and rough on his cock, but he keeps his hips still, waits, presses his forehead into the mattress. He hears the clink of a buckle, the cool whisper of leather sliding against denim, and he shudders in anticipation.
Ryan taps his shoulder, says, "Turn," and Sean turns his head to kiss the belt Ryan is holding out, the black of the leather stark against the pale skin of Sean's bicep.
"Ryan," Tom says, sounding worried. "You aren't seriously—"
He's cut off by the sound of the first stroke falling across Sean's back; Sean muffles his cry against his arm, arching mindlessly, his instinct to shrink from the fire of the stripe warring with his need to let Ryan do this, to let Ryan take whatever he wants.
"Fucking—are you insane, you're hurting him!" Tom yells.
"He asked for it," Ryan says easily. "You don't have to be quiet, Sean. I want to hear you." He raises his arm again, the strokes falling in an even cadence across Sean's shoulders, his lower back, catching the edge of his ribs in careful, even stripes, lightly at first, but gaining in strength the longer he goes on.
And fuck, but this is exactly what Sean wanted, needed, the heat spreading out from his back, the strain in his arms, the harsh sound of his breathing as he pants in rhythm with the fall of the belt. It's so easy to lose himself in it, to slip under into the headspace he's been craving since he bought the stupid collar on a whim the week before—for a lot longer than that, actually, but he didn't know how to ask for it.
Ryan is talking again, but Sean doesn't hear his name, doesn't hear anything that would pull him away from the hotwantpainneed thrumming under his skin, from the cries falling like water from his lips, like the tears he can't hold back, because Ryan wants to hear him—Ryan wants—
The lashes stop, and Sean moans brokenly, rocking backward, bending his knees and trying to push himself up, but his arms don't want to cooperate. His hands are still wrapped stiffly around his wrists, white-knuckled. He lifts his head and blinks blearily at them.
"I—" he says, his voice a thready whine.
Then there's a hand soft in his hair again, Ryan's voice gently shushing him, and he hears the sound of the belt whistling through the air again. The blow isn't as hard as Ryan's been giving him, more tentative, the force less even when it licks across his skin, but it falls right on top of another welt, and Sean sobs, trying to breathe through the pain.
"He can take more," Ryan says, distantly.
If Ryan is—oh, Christ. "Fuck, Tom, please," Sean moans, the words sounding wrecked as he forces his mouth to shape them. He grinds down against the mattress because he just can't help it, the thought of Tom's fingers curled around the buckle of Ryan's belt, of Tom hesitating before bringing down his arm too much for Sean's body to handle.
"Hey, none of that," Ryan orders, pulling Sean's hair as Tom lays the belt down again, harder than before, the stripe catching the top of Sean's ass, the base of his spine, and it hurts so much, the best kind of pain. Sean keens wordlessly, wanting it so much, so desperately.
"I can't—" Tom says, his voice trembling, scratchy with emotion.
"Three more," Ryan says, firm and reassuring. "Count them down for him, Sean."
Sean isn't sure he can. He shakes his head, rubbing his forehead against sheets wet from his tears, no, no.
"You can do this," Ryan orders, and Sean can't refuse that tone.
He just manages to choke out, "Three," before Tom hits him again, in the middle of his back this time, the tip of the belt catching him between his shoulder blades, and he's writhing with the pain of it.
"Two," he moans around it, concentrating on the movement of the air on his oversensitized back, on Ryan's fingers in his hair, as the belt comes down again.
"One" is a breathy gasp, and the last stroke is barely a touch, as Tom drops the belt on the bare floor and climbs onto the bed
"Sean, hey," Tom says, urgent, intense, his hands gentle on Sean's hips and ass, skirting the lattice of welts that he helped to create, like he's afraid to make them real by touching.
Ryan pries Sean's hands apart from his wrists, lacing their fingers together, moving them so the feeling returns, and Sean pushes himself up onto his elbows, head lolling a little, eyes unwilling to focus on anything. Ryan's sitting right by his head, and Sean can see that he's hard, can smell it, even; he shimmies forward on the bed to nuzzle at Ryan's denim-clad thigh. "Please," he whimpers. He chances a glance upwards, sees that Ryan is looking questioningly at Tom over Sean's head.
"Sean?" Tom says again. He sounds lost.
"Please, Tom," Sean begs. "I need—can I?" Words are failing him; the need to take care of Ryan overwhelms everything else.
Tom huffs out a breath, his fingers digging briefly into the curve of Sean's hip, but he says, "Whatever you need, babe."
Sean moans and pushes forward, pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the crease of Ryan's thigh through his jeans, breathing out a steady chant of please please please as Ryan wrestles with his fly one-handed, the fingers of the other hand still tangled in Sean's hair.
Then he manages to push his pants down his hips—not far, just enough—and his cock is pushing hard and slick into Sean's mouth. He sucks greedily, circling his hand around the base, taking him deep.
Ryan doesn't stay still under him, either, his hips shifting, pushing up so that the head of his cock drags across the back of Sean's throat, one hand tugging hard on Sean's hair, the other stroking over Sean's cheekbones, his jaw. Sean loses himself in it. He feels Tom behind him, touching the back of his knee, and without thinking he spreads his legs, arches into the press of Tom's hand.
"Fucking Christ," Ryan bites out, and thrusts up once, twice, and comes hot and thick in Sean's mouth.
"Oh my God," he hears Tom say, and then Ryan is pulling back. Sean moans at the loss, but then Ryan's hands slide warm and gentle under his shoulders, helping him onto his knees, Tom behind him, close enough to feel the warmth of his body but careful not to touch the hot welts crisscrossing his back.
Sean leans his weight backward into the cradle of Tom's hips, feels Tom's thighs bracketing his own, and Tom's hand wraps loosely around his cock. He cries out sharply, riding the edge but holding himself back, waiting.
Ryan leans forward, gently reaching up to tilt Sean's head into a deep, filthy kiss, licking into his mouth to chase down the taste of his come. "You did so good, Sean. So good," he says, and then pulls away, sitting back with a pointed look at Tom.
Sean hears Tom swallow hard. "Babe," he says, close to Sean's ear.
"Tom, please," Sean whimpers back, fucking up into Tom's grip, unable to keep his hips still.
"You're amazing," he says. "I can't even." He stops at Ryan's eyeroll, and then finishes, simply, "I want—come for me."
Sean comes, the tension spiraling out of him as he shakes with the force of it, his eyes sliding shut as he slumps back against Tom. The pain of his back touching the worn cotton of Tom's t-shirt—fuck, Tom's still fully clothed—is almost enough to bring tears to his eyes, but he feels—
He feels fucking amazing.
He shifts on the bed, turning in the loose circle of Tom's arms so he can reach Tom's mouth, pressing their lips together. Tom opens for the kiss, one hand sliding up to cup the back of Sean's neck, thumb gently stroking over the thin skin behind Sean's ear.
"Tommy," Sean says, overwhelmed. "You didn't—" He drops his hand to the waist of Tom's jeans, fitting his fingertips under the denim.
Tom shakes his head, gently catching Sean's wrist and tugging it away from his belt. "It's okay," he says, cheeks coloring. "I don't—this was for you."
Sean kisses him again. "Thank you," he murmurs into Tom's mouth. "I—"
He's interrupted by Ryan shouting triumphantly from the direction of the bathroom, which startles both of them; Sean hadn't even noticed that he left.
"The hell, Ryan?" Tom calls.
"Bath salts!" Ryan says, bounding back into the room, waving a small tin in the air. He shoves it at Tom, who reaches for it automatically.
"Bath salts," Tom repeats, turning it over in his fingers. "What?"
Ryan rolls his eyes. "You," he says, "are going to run him a bath. And you are going to put those in it." Then he presses the bottle of Advil Sean keeps under the sink into Sean's hand and continues, "And you're going to take two of these now and one more after the bath."
Tom blinks. "You're actively scaring me right now, man. I thought you should know."
Sean shakes his head, smiling. "He's just trying to make sure you take care of me."
Ryan bends down to grab his belt from the floor. "God knows he can't do it on his own," he says, threading the leather back through his belt loops, completely nonchalant.
"Oh, fuck you," Tom says.
Ryan grins. "You wish, Conrad."
Tom splays a hand over Sean's stomach. "No, I don't think I do."
"You're just in denial," Ryan says with a dismissive wave, and then he gives them a serious look. "You guys are going to be okay, right? Because that was..." He trails off, like he doesn't know the precise words he's looking for.
Lacing his fingers with Tom's, Sean smiles and says, "We'll figure it out."
***
Title: Love You While I Bruise
Pairing: Ryan/Sean/Tom [empiresfic]
Rating: NC17
Summary: "I am, in fact, wearing a collar. And Tom's a twat."
Warnings: BDSM, wholly safe, sane, and consensual
Notes: So
t_usual_suspect is an evil bitch who does things like mention Sean Van Vleet in a collar, mostly because she knows that when she does, I'll do things like this. This is for her, with love, and was originally posted as commentporn in her journal, and a couple of the lines at the beginning are hers. No beta here, so all errors are mine and mine alone. Title from the Charlotte Sometimes song "Sweet Valium High." 3100 words (I FUCKING KNOW).Ryan is one of those people with a particular talent for showing up exactly when you least want to see him. And that's really not a bad thing, nor is it a statement on how much Sean does or doesn't like him; it just kind of is.
What it means, though, is that this is far from the first time that Ryan has come into the middle of a conversation between Tom and Sean where Tom was giggling and Sean was giving Tom his longest-suffering why-do-I-put-up-with-you look.
It's just that Sean is usually not kneeling at Tom's feet, shirtless, and wearing a thick strip of black leather around his neck when that happens.
"Is that—are you wearing a collar?" Ryan asks, although to his credit, he sounds more curious than anything.
Sean sighs. "Yes," he says. "I am, in fact, wearing a collar. And Tom's a twat."
Tom just keeps snickering, and Sean kind of wants to kill him.
"Hey, man, this isn't," Ryan says to Tom, gesturing lamely. "Stop laughing, I think he's going to kill you in a second."
Under his breath, Sean mutters, "We should be so lucky."
Ryan gives him a sharp look, then, and says, "You're just as bad as he is."
"What?" Sean asks, glancing up through his bangs.
"You're not taking this seriously, either."
And just like that, Sean's world spins, tilts, shifts, and settles into a new and slightly terrifying configuration. The way Ryan is looking at him seems to block out everything else; Tom's now-faltering laughter is nothing but a distant echo in his ears.
"I—sorry?" he says, wincing at the rise in his tone, making it a question when it really oughtn't to be. He gets the sudden urge to look down, look away, anywhere but right at Ryan, but he can't seem to tear his gaze away from Ryan's hard, knowing eyes.
Tom must feel the change in the air, or something, because he stops laughing altogether, looking uncertainly from Sean to Ryan and back again. "Guys?" he asks.
"You two seriously have no idea what you're doing," Ryan says, tapping his fingers pensively against his thigh. "No idea at all."
And Sean resents that, because—he knows exactly what he's doing. He knows. He's asking for it, isn't he? It's not his fucking fault that Tom doesn't get it.
"Don't give me that look, Van Vleet," Ryan says, slipping back into that sharp tone, and Sean bites his lip and looks down. "You don't even know if he's capable of doing what you're asking him to do."
"Hey!" Tom says, indignant. "I can—whatever he wants, I'll do. It's just. Come on, you can't tell me that you don't think this is a little bit funny."
Ryan's gaze slides back to Sean, settling warm like a caress on the arch of Sean's neck, the lines of his shoulders. "Funny is...not the word I'd use." He takes a step forward and tilts Sean's chin up with two gentle fingers. "You're serious about this?" he asks, trailing his hand down Sean's throat to settle on the collar.
"Ryan," Tom says, voice uncertain. "What are you—"
Ignoring him, Ryan says, "Sean. Tell me."
Sean licks his lips, tries to look away from the intensity of Ryan's gaze, but Ryan's hand is firm on his chin, a question that Sean can't not answer. "I don't—it's not a thing. I don't need it all the time."
Ryan smiles faintly. "You say that like it makes it any better. How long has it been?"
"Um. Not since—" His eyes flick over to Tom, who is just staring blankly at them, like he has no idea what's going on, and that's probably not too far off the mark. "A while," he finishes lamely.
"That's—" Ryan sucks in a breath. "That's fucked up, Sean."
Sean shuts his eyes, because that's the only way he can hide from the rebuke on Ryan's face. "I know."
"What's fucked up?" Tom asks, sounding offended on Sean's behalf, and God, he might be a clueless jerk sometimes, but Sean loves him so much.
"Your boyfriend needs to scene, Tom," Ryan says. "Needs it pretty bad, if he's willing to ask you for it." He looks down at Sean again, considering. "If I do this..." he says, trailing off.
Sean bites his lip again, fighting the thrilled full-body tremor he feels starting in his toes. "Please," he says softly, and then he looks up at Tom and back at Ryan, pleading, not knowing exactly what he's asking for but needing something, something that Ryan looks just about ready to give him.
Ryan rocks back on his heels. "Tom, you're okay with this, right?"
Tom waves his hands around helplessly. "I don't even know what this is," he says.
"Yeah, I know," Ryan says. "That's why we need to do it."
There's a long moment when nobody says anything, the tension thick in the air, and then Tom's shoulders drop, resigned, even though he still looks confused.
"Whatever he needs," he says. "Just—whatever he needs."
Sean looks up gratefully at him through his eyelashes before casting his eyes downward again. Ryan's fingers are still playing with the leather at his throat.
"Safeword, Sean," he says, an unmistakable note of command in his tone.
Sean swallows hard. "Valmont," he says.
Ryan rewards him by petting his hair softly, and Sean has to fight not to lean into the touch.
"Good boy," he says, and then turns to Tom again. "Tell me what he likes," he orders. "And you, up. Bedroom." He tugs once on Sean's hair, a warning.
Sean bites back a pleased noise and scrambles to obey, hanging back a pace behind Ryan as he leads the way to Sean's room.
"Uh," Tom says, and Sean doesn't have to look at him to know that he's wearing his oh-my-God-could-this-be-any-more-awkward face, the one that's usually reserved for idiots who ask him what he thinks about Michael Guy Chislett, or something.
Ryan looks meaningfully at Sean's bed, commands, "Strip," and then looks impatiently at Tom. "It's a pretty simple question, dude," he says.
"No, it isn't," Tom says, bitchy. "I have no idea how you're doing this, or even what you're doing, and I don't know if—fuck." He looks helplessly at Sean, who's unbuttoning his jeans and sliding them down his hips, dropping his boxers as well at Ryan's nod.
Tom's eyes go a little dark when Sean sits naked on the bed, his thighs parted, his body turned toward Ryan.
"Fuck," he says again.
"Tom," Ryan says gently. "You know Sean. That's all I'm asking for. We can work on the rest."
"I—" Tom shuts his eyes tight and waits a beat. Then he says, haltingly, "He likes it when. I pull his hair sometimes, when he's going down on me. Or when I'm—when we're fucking."
Ryan grins, reaches out and tugs on a lock of Sean's hair. "Yeah?" he says, not actually a question, just encouraging Tom to go on. He touches Sean's lips, pressing, and Sean obligingly opens his mouth to suck Ryan's fingers in.
"He likes being, uh, bitten. On his neck, or his shoulders. The insides of his thighs."
"How does he like to be fucked?" Ryan punctuates the obscenity by pushing his fingers a little deeper into Sean's mouth, and Sean moans a little, shifting his ass on the bed, fisting his hands in the blankets to keep from touching himself, because he hasn't been given permission.
"Slow," Tom says. "Deep. He likes—he likes it best on his hands and knees. Sometimes I hold his wrists down, and he likes that, too." His face is fucking scarlet with embarrassment, and he's trying to look anywhere but at Sean's mouth, at Sean's cock twitching flushed and needy against his thigh. He's hard in his jeans, standing uncomfortably in the doorway. "But we don't—I don't top much."
Ryan smirks. "You don't say," he says dryly, and then yelps when Sean bites his fingers. He pulls his hand back and backhands Sean across the jaw, not particularly hard, not intending to bruise, but enough to let Sean know that he could. "Tom can take care of himself," he admonishes.
Sean nods, contrite. He shouldn't have done that.
"I was going to let you—but no. On your stomach. Arms up."
Sean hurries to obey, spreading out on his belly, clasping his wrists above his head, feeling the pull in his shoulders as he flattens his body on the bed. He gasps a little as he settles into the position, feeling the sheets rubbing cool and rough on his cock, but he keeps his hips still, waits, presses his forehead into the mattress. He hears the clink of a buckle, the cool whisper of leather sliding against denim, and he shudders in anticipation.
Ryan taps his shoulder, says, "Turn," and Sean turns his head to kiss the belt Ryan is holding out, the black of the leather stark against the pale skin of Sean's bicep.
"Ryan," Tom says, sounding worried. "You aren't seriously—"
He's cut off by the sound of the first stroke falling across Sean's back; Sean muffles his cry against his arm, arching mindlessly, his instinct to shrink from the fire of the stripe warring with his need to let Ryan do this, to let Ryan take whatever he wants.
"Fucking—are you insane, you're hurting him!" Tom yells.
"He asked for it," Ryan says easily. "You don't have to be quiet, Sean. I want to hear you." He raises his arm again, the strokes falling in an even cadence across Sean's shoulders, his lower back, catching the edge of his ribs in careful, even stripes, lightly at first, but gaining in strength the longer he goes on.
And fuck, but this is exactly what Sean wanted, needed, the heat spreading out from his back, the strain in his arms, the harsh sound of his breathing as he pants in rhythm with the fall of the belt. It's so easy to lose himself in it, to slip under into the headspace he's been craving since he bought the stupid collar on a whim the week before—for a lot longer than that, actually, but he didn't know how to ask for it.
Ryan is talking again, but Sean doesn't hear his name, doesn't hear anything that would pull him away from the hotwantpainneed thrumming under his skin, from the cries falling like water from his lips, like the tears he can't hold back, because Ryan wants to hear him—Ryan wants—
The lashes stop, and Sean moans brokenly, rocking backward, bending his knees and trying to push himself up, but his arms don't want to cooperate. His hands are still wrapped stiffly around his wrists, white-knuckled. He lifts his head and blinks blearily at them.
"I—" he says, his voice a thready whine.
Then there's a hand soft in his hair again, Ryan's voice gently shushing him, and he hears the sound of the belt whistling through the air again. The blow isn't as hard as Ryan's been giving him, more tentative, the force less even when it licks across his skin, but it falls right on top of another welt, and Sean sobs, trying to breathe through the pain.
"He can take more," Ryan says, distantly.
If Ryan is—oh, Christ. "Fuck, Tom, please," Sean moans, the words sounding wrecked as he forces his mouth to shape them. He grinds down against the mattress because he just can't help it, the thought of Tom's fingers curled around the buckle of Ryan's belt, of Tom hesitating before bringing down his arm too much for Sean's body to handle.
"Hey, none of that," Ryan orders, pulling Sean's hair as Tom lays the belt down again, harder than before, the stripe catching the top of Sean's ass, the base of his spine, and it hurts so much, the best kind of pain. Sean keens wordlessly, wanting it so much, so desperately.
"I can't—" Tom says, his voice trembling, scratchy with emotion.
"Three more," Ryan says, firm and reassuring. "Count them down for him, Sean."
Sean isn't sure he can. He shakes his head, rubbing his forehead against sheets wet from his tears, no, no.
"You can do this," Ryan orders, and Sean can't refuse that tone.
He just manages to choke out, "Three," before Tom hits him again, in the middle of his back this time, the tip of the belt catching him between his shoulder blades, and he's writhing with the pain of it.
"Two," he moans around it, concentrating on the movement of the air on his oversensitized back, on Ryan's fingers in his hair, as the belt comes down again.
"One" is a breathy gasp, and the last stroke is barely a touch, as Tom drops the belt on the bare floor and climbs onto the bed
"Sean, hey," Tom says, urgent, intense, his hands gentle on Sean's hips and ass, skirting the lattice of welts that he helped to create, like he's afraid to make them real by touching.
Ryan pries Sean's hands apart from his wrists, lacing their fingers together, moving them so the feeling returns, and Sean pushes himself up onto his elbows, head lolling a little, eyes unwilling to focus on anything. Ryan's sitting right by his head, and Sean can see that he's hard, can smell it, even; he shimmies forward on the bed to nuzzle at Ryan's denim-clad thigh. "Please," he whimpers. He chances a glance upwards, sees that Ryan is looking questioningly at Tom over Sean's head.
"Sean?" Tom says again. He sounds lost.
"Please, Tom," Sean begs. "I need—can I?" Words are failing him; the need to take care of Ryan overwhelms everything else.
Tom huffs out a breath, his fingers digging briefly into the curve of Sean's hip, but he says, "Whatever you need, babe."
Sean moans and pushes forward, pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the crease of Ryan's thigh through his jeans, breathing out a steady chant of please please please as Ryan wrestles with his fly one-handed, the fingers of the other hand still tangled in Sean's hair.
Then he manages to push his pants down his hips—not far, just enough—and his cock is pushing hard and slick into Sean's mouth. He sucks greedily, circling his hand around the base, taking him deep.
Ryan doesn't stay still under him, either, his hips shifting, pushing up so that the head of his cock drags across the back of Sean's throat, one hand tugging hard on Sean's hair, the other stroking over Sean's cheekbones, his jaw. Sean loses himself in it. He feels Tom behind him, touching the back of his knee, and without thinking he spreads his legs, arches into the press of Tom's hand.
"Fucking Christ," Ryan bites out, and thrusts up once, twice, and comes hot and thick in Sean's mouth.
"Oh my God," he hears Tom say, and then Ryan is pulling back. Sean moans at the loss, but then Ryan's hands slide warm and gentle under his shoulders, helping him onto his knees, Tom behind him, close enough to feel the warmth of his body but careful not to touch the hot welts crisscrossing his back.
Sean leans his weight backward into the cradle of Tom's hips, feels Tom's thighs bracketing his own, and Tom's hand wraps loosely around his cock. He cries out sharply, riding the edge but holding himself back, waiting.
Ryan leans forward, gently reaching up to tilt Sean's head into a deep, filthy kiss, licking into his mouth to chase down the taste of his come. "You did so good, Sean. So good," he says, and then pulls away, sitting back with a pointed look at Tom.
Sean hears Tom swallow hard. "Babe," he says, close to Sean's ear.
"Tom, please," Sean whimpers back, fucking up into Tom's grip, unable to keep his hips still.
"You're amazing," he says. "I can't even." He stops at Ryan's eyeroll, and then finishes, simply, "I want—come for me."
Sean comes, the tension spiraling out of him as he shakes with the force of it, his eyes sliding shut as he slumps back against Tom. The pain of his back touching the worn cotton of Tom's t-shirt—fuck, Tom's still fully clothed—is almost enough to bring tears to his eyes, but he feels—
He feels fucking amazing.
He shifts on the bed, turning in the loose circle of Tom's arms so he can reach Tom's mouth, pressing their lips together. Tom opens for the kiss, one hand sliding up to cup the back of Sean's neck, thumb gently stroking over the thin skin behind Sean's ear.
"Tommy," Sean says, overwhelmed. "You didn't—" He drops his hand to the waist of Tom's jeans, fitting his fingertips under the denim.
Tom shakes his head, gently catching Sean's wrist and tugging it away from his belt. "It's okay," he says, cheeks coloring. "I don't—this was for you."
Sean kisses him again. "Thank you," he murmurs into Tom's mouth. "I—"
He's interrupted by Ryan shouting triumphantly from the direction of the bathroom, which startles both of them; Sean hadn't even noticed that he left.
"The hell, Ryan?" Tom calls.
"Bath salts!" Ryan says, bounding back into the room, waving a small tin in the air. He shoves it at Tom, who reaches for it automatically.
"Bath salts," Tom repeats, turning it over in his fingers. "What?"
Ryan rolls his eyes. "You," he says, "are going to run him a bath. And you are going to put those in it." Then he presses the bottle of Advil Sean keeps under the sink into Sean's hand and continues, "And you're going to take two of these now and one more after the bath."
Tom blinks. "You're actively scaring me right now, man. I thought you should know."
Sean shakes his head, smiling. "He's just trying to make sure you take care of me."
Ryan bends down to grab his belt from the floor. "God knows he can't do it on his own," he says, threading the leather back through his belt loops, completely nonchalant.
"Oh, fuck you," Tom says.
Ryan grins. "You wish, Conrad."
Tom splays a hand over Sean's stomach. "No, I don't think I do."
"You're just in denial," Ryan says with a dismissive wave, and then he gives them a serious look. "You guys are going to be okay, right? Because that was..." He trails off, like he doesn't know the precise words he's looking for.
Lacing his fingers with Tom's, Sean smiles and says, "We'll figure it out."
