Ryan's lower lip is caught in the sharp points of Bob's teeth. It should hurt. No, no, it does hurt. Ryan just likes it. A little. He likes that Bob has him, knows his limits, won't go past them. It's taken them a while to get to this place, this place where Ryan can trust because the trust has been earned, bit by slow bit.
Bob pulls off, but his lips are still pressed to Ryan's. He says, "I want to mark you."
Ryan says, "Yes."
Bob doesn't bring the marking thing up the next two times they see each other. Ryan thinks about it, but as hot as he finds the idea, it scares him a bit, too. He stays silent.
The third time they see each other is almost nine months after, and Ryan has almost--not really at all--forgotten about it. Bob, again, doesn't say anything until he has sucked Ryan off, slow and dirty. Then he says, "I'm going to pierce you."
Ryan knows that despite the imperative nature of the statement, he has the right to say no. He doesn't. He's been pierced before; it's not the worst thing he's lived through. He says, "Where."
Bob swipes his tongue across Ryan's lower lip. Ryan says, "Like you."
Bob says, "Like me."
Bob marks the spots. Spots. Ryan says, "Oh."
Bob says, "Like my teeth."
Ryan says, "Ngh," and lays still.
Bob says, "It took me a while to learn. That's why-- Frank knows a guy, which, yeah, anyway. I didn't wanna fuck it up."
Ryan says, "You won't," because Bob won't. Bob doesn't try where he might fail, not with Ryan. He's careful like that.
Bob touches his fingers to Ryan's jaw. "Stay still."
The touch of the alcohol to his lip is cold. Bob says, "I was taught without forceps, but you have to--"
Ryan closes his eyes to show he understands. Bob says, "All right."
Bob's hands are also cold on Ryan's lip, like he wiped them with the alcohol. He probably did. The first needle is through quickly. There's barely enough time for it to hurt. Bob says, "Another second," and okay, the slide of the piercing is a little more painful, but nothing too bad. Bob asks, "Ry?"
Ryan doesn't really want to talk. He runs his fingers up the side of Bob's arm. Bob asks, "Want me to wait a bit before the other one?"
Ryan taps his fingers a couple of time. A little bit. Bob says, "Just tell me when."
Ryan listens to the sound of Bob's breathing. It was the first thing he ever noticed, even and measured, like the drums. He counts to thirty, one on an inhale, two on the exhale. He squeezes Bob's arm. Bob says, "Okay."
The second one hurts more, much more. Ryan isn't sure why, but it's harder to stay still for it, harder to simply breathe through it. He does. Bob is looking down at him, patient and sure of him and Ryan isn't going to betray that trust. Bob says, "Just a little longer" and threads the piercing through. Ryan's fingers dig into his arm, he can't help it. Bob says, "I know, Ry. I know."
Ryan lies there a bit, lets the pain pulse through him, and it's not enjoyable, not really, except for the part where Bob is looking at him with slight awe in his eyes, the kind of look Ryan's never seen him grant anyone else, not even Gerard Way. Bob says, "C'mere," and pulls Ryan up, into the bathroom. He flips the light on and places Ryan in front of the mirror, holding him from behind.
The piercings are red and a little swollen and not really that attractive, but Ryan can see where the promise lies. Bob says, "Mine."
Yeah, Ryan can see the promise.