Chapter Text
A serious contender for the title of ‘Least Surprising Observation Ever’ would be that there is a lot of overlap between Renaissance Faires and the kink community. Was it any wonder that an industry based around public role-play, the selling of leather wear, and a frankly worrying amount of bladed weapons available for public access, would attract an alternative type of individual? And though he fully acknowledged his own place firmly in that overlap, Sam Bellamy did sometimes wish that folks would just be a little bit more goddamn chill about it.
It’s a Wednesday night; his regular partner has decided to ghost him; the club is only about half full; and yet he’s still had three different people recognize him from work and come over trying to call him “My Lord” while either being entirely too quick to try and touch him or bowing obnoxiously. Sam has spent most of his adult life questioning the rules that his upbringing had insisted on putting on him, and only one has stood the test of time: don’t shit where you eat. Being recognized from the faire, or recognizing anyone himself is an instant no-go for him. It’s too messy.
He’s beginning to think that tonight’s going to be a bust, and he’ll have just leave this particular itch unscratched for now, when an older man crosses through his line of sight, walking across the room. The man’s wearing a tight black t-shirt with the sleeves rolled up just enough to highlight his biceps, and his dark hair is swept back into a pompadour-style. His whole vibe reminds Sam of old pictures of James Dean or Danny Zuko. The only odd accessory is a single black glove he wore on his right hand. It’s incredibly retro, but charmingly so; and at least from this angle, Sam thought, it’s working for him, admiring the fit of the man’s jeans around a pair of slim legs. As his eyes travel back up, Sam clocks the corner of a black bandana peeking out of his right rear pocket and he smiles. Holy shit… old school handkerchief code. Whoever this guy was, he was legit, and a very promising prospect so far to Sam.
Then he turned around, and Sam huffed out a breath in frustration and shook his head. Just his fucking luck - a hot, older sub walks into a bar, and it’s only the number two star of the faire circuit’s most popular show. Izzy something or other. Sam takes an irritated sip from his drink and glances back over just in time to make eye contact with the man in question. A frisson of interest shoots through him regardless of his better judgement, and he holds the man’s gaze confidently. After a beat, Izzy’s eyes slide away to address a young woman who’s come up to proposition him with a derisive sneer. It’s more than a little fascinating to watch him deal with similar overeager offers from people who seem like they are more interested in completing a collection than considering whatever need he might be here to satiate.
When they make eye contact again, the older man subtly slides his fingers along the neck of the bottle as he readjusts his grip to take a drink. Sam is serious reconsidering his rule about fucking faire people. There’s no way that Izzy recognizes him - they’ve never been introduced and exist in completely different circles of people; so that’s still technically strangers, right? Ah well, he’s made stupider decisions, Sam grabs a cocktail napkin and scribbles a short note on it.
Buy me your favorite cocktail and come introduce yourself.
He passed it to a server to send over, and then deliberately stopped looking at Izzy. Sam liked this as an opening invitation to a potential partner for a few reasons: there was little chance of embarrassment if the recipient decided they were uninterested in his game, and he felt like he got some hint as to their personality based on their choice. Sam pulled out his phone to keep his hands busy and fight the urge to see Izzy’s reaction to his note - Lucius was posting pictures of himself and Pete on a beach trip today along with Stede and his beau. He liked Stede, genuinely he did, but keeping up with the latest news of his dramatic reunion with what’s-his-name even from the far periphery had been exhausting. Probably dodged a bit of a bullet there by not sticking his dick in someone else’s mess.
The dull clink of a tumbler being set on the table in front of him draws Sam from his thoughts, and he looks up to see the fascinating Izzy joining him at his table. He smiles, puts his phone away, and pulls the drink closer to himself using the napkin.
“What’s this?” Sam asked as he lifted it to his mouth for a sip, smoke and citrus filling his senses. Izzy has a matching cocktail as well, which he sets aside as he crosses his arms to lean on the bar table.
“It’s an Oxacan old fashioned,” he says. Notably, he does not introduce himself as instructed, and Sam waits patiently. They are silently feeling each other out, pressing against boundaries. After a few silent moments, Izzy’s eyes flick over Sam a little more appraisingly and he shifts to offer his hand out to him. “Izzy Hands,” he says simply.
“Sam Bellamy,” he answers, shaking his hand. Bless him, Izzy is definitely old school because he grips Sam’s hand hard enough to ache. Instead of replying in kind, he doesn’t react at all to the challenge, as if he hadn’t registered anything other than a normal handshake. “Thank you for joining me.”
“I was a little curious,” he says, releasing his hand and taking a drink, “and pickings are slim tonight.”
His smile grew to a small grin; Izzy had a lot of salt for someone looking for company. “Do you enjoy having an antagonistic relationship with your dom?” He asked with a curious tilt of his head. That caught the older man by surprise, and his stern expression flickered as he furrowed his brow.
“What?” Izzy’s voice had a slight wheeze to it, as if he’d been screaming in the past and hadn’t recovered.
“I’m just trying to gauge if we’re compatible,” Sam explained with a shrug, taking a drink and then licking the taste of mezcal from his lips.
He scoffed softly, looking down into his drink. “Christ, not some Gen-Z talk therapy bullshit,” he muttered.
“Ah Ah,” Sam made a stern sound like he was correcting a willful dog and snapped his fingers, drawing Izzy’s attention back to him. “Sass is cute, but I will not tolerate rudeness,” he told him sternly, holding Izzy’s stare until the other man swallowed and looked down again, more respectful this time at the change of Sam’s energy. “I’ll tell you what,” he said, picking up his drink and starting to walk back towards the private rooms, “You can come with me and see if my Gen-Z bullshit can get you off, or you can stay here with the rest of the ‘pickings’.” Sam walks into his reserved room without looking back to wait.
He has just enough time to wonder if he’s scared away his quarry before the door opens slowly and Izzy Hands steps inside. He closes and locks the door behind him, then turns to face Sam and tucks his hands in his back pockets. “Go on then,” he says, “dazzle me.”
Sam smiled, utterly amused by the bluster, “First, tell me your safeword.”
“I don’t have one,” he said with a small smirk.
“Why not?” Sam drank the last of his old fashioned, set the glass down on a side table and stood up.
Izzy’s eyes locked with his again, challenging, “Because I don’t need one.”
“You have no boundaries?” He asked, crossing his arms, “Nothing I could do to you to make you tap out?”
“Doubt it.” His lip curled a little when he said that, as if it were a point of pride; as if Sam should aspire to such lofty ambitions. He walked slowly around Izzy, looking him over; this time his eyes lingered on the small tattoo of an X just under his left eye.
Who gave that to you? he wondered. The same person who taught you that safewords were a failing? The older man just screamed ‘I imprinted on extremely unsafe bdsm and never learned better’ and fuck, if that wasn’t just up Sam’s alley. Here is this battered, mistrusting, old tomcat, and all he wants to do is rescue him, teach him how nice life can be, and maybe castrate him and clip his ear. Izzy gave him a wary look from the corner of his eyes, “Can we get on with it please?”
“As you wish,” Sam replied, and then immediately sucked on his index finger and stuck it into Izzy’s ear.
“What the fuck?” the older man hissed and jumped away from him, slapping a hand over his ear, “What the fuck was that?!”
“Whoops, we found a boundary,” he answered with a smile, “so since you don’t have a safeword picked yet, we’ll use mine.” Izzy finished rubbing the wet feeling out of his hear with a grimace, looking like he’d just been tricked into admitting something. “The word is ‘bronco’ with a three color system - bronco red, yellow, and green. I will use it to check in with you periodically, and I will require an honest answer.”
There was an expectant silence before Izzy finally nodded tightly and said, “Okay.”
“What’s the word?”
“Bronco.”
Sam nodded, “Excellent. If you are unable to speak, the nonverbal code is to knock or squeeze whatever part of me you can reach three times. Understood?” Izzy nodded again. “Great,” he smiled and slipped his jacket off to hang up next to the door, then began to unbutton and roll up his sleeves.
“What do you want me to do,” the other man asked, then added, “Master?”He said that last bit like he was testing out the flavor of the word.
Flinching, Sam shook his head. “Ugh, bronco, please do not call me Master.” Izzy just looked baffled by him now, as if Sam were some new creature he’d discovered. “If you would like to call me something during a scene, you can just call me sir. Or fuck it, you look like you’re in to pirate shit - you can call me Captain.” Izzy’s eyes narrowed and he focused in on Sam sharply - he’d tipped his hand too far.
“You’re from the faire.”
He shrugged and nodded, “Yes.”
“I don’t fuck fans.”
“I’m in the cast, dipshit - we’ve walked in parades together in two states.”
Izzy seemed to consider this, then tilted his head, “Are you going to be weird about this?”
“Don’t be gauche,” he replied with a slight scowl, “Nothing will leave this room.”
“Yeah okay,” the other man murmured, eyes traveling around the room as he thought. They settled on the black pelican case sitting on the far counter. “I’m a little curious about what you’ve got, sir.”
Sam crossed his arms and considered him, “I usually start slowly with new partners, but I did bring something heavier for an appointment that fell through. How do you feel about bleeding, Mr Hands?” Izzy’s breath caught in his throat, and Sam would almost swear he watched his pupils dilate wide and dark.
“That’d work, yeah,” he says somewhat absently, eyes going back to the black case. Sam nodded and turned around, moving to check the small padded platform that formed a small stage in the center of the room. He’d wrapped it in cellophane earlier this evening, laying crisp clean white towels over top. Moving past it, he picked up a plain black duffle bag, set it on the counter, and unzipped the top.
“Please go ahead and get undressed - to your own level of comfort, and then get on your knees on the platform,” he said, looking back over his shoulder at Izzy for a moment. While he gave the other man a moment’s privacy to undress, Sam set out the items he expected to need - leather cuffs, latex gloves, rubbing alcohol, first aid supplies. He heard the distinct sound of a joint cracking along with a soft muttered, “fuck,” behind him, and he turned around to see Izzy settling back onto his heels completely nude except for that black glove. Strange.
He was a lovely sight though, muscular and tanned with a moderate amount of body hair, covered in a road map of tattoos and scars that Sam wished he had permission to explore. Izzy was watching him again, almost defiant - like he was awaiting judgement. He took a moment to walk over to the pile of clothes that had been left in a heap and fold them respectfully and set them on a chair.
“May I touch you?” he asked as he walked back.
Izzy snorted and rolled his eyes, “I should fucking hope so.”
Sam quirked an eyebrow at him, fighting a smile even as he reminded him, “Sass.” Stepping forward, he reached out to trail his fingertips over Izzy’s shoulders softly as he walked around him, enjoying every angle, “Would you be comfortable with your arms suspended?”
“Yes,” he replied turning his head to watch Sam with that same wariness, “sir.”
Walking back to the counter, he picked up the velvet lined leather shackles and then held his hand out for Izzy’s. The older man let him bind his wrists and and then reached his hands up to click the shackles into the clip hanging above the stage, currently low enough that Izzy’s hands were only just above his head without having to sit up.
“I think we can do better,” Sam told him, reaching to untether the rope and pull the hook up until Izzy’s arms were stretched taut and he’s lifted off of his heels, core and thighs forced to engage to support himself. He was watching Sam with more interest now, breathing lightly. “Bronco?”Sam asked, and he watched Izzy’s expression shift for a moment as he tried to recall the instructions he’d been given.
“Bronco green.”
“Wonderful.” He returned to the counter, picked up the black plastic case and set it on the floor next to the stage. He did the same with a roll of paper towels, the gloves, lubricant, and a squeeze bottle filled with a clear liquid. Sam brought over a rolling stool with his foot and took a seat in front of Izzy. “You look incredible, by the way,” he told him as he shifted to lay down the pelican case and open it. The other man looked like he wasn’t sure how to respond to that. “I hope you don’t mind talking,” Sam continued as he deftly assembled the pieces of a small machine that connected to batteries built into the case. “I’m a talker.”
Izzy’s focus was on the tool in his hand, “Is that a tattoo gun?”
“The perfect tool for a controlled application of pain,” he said with small smile. “Unless you’d prefer some ‘talk therapy’?” Izzy fidgeted, his cock beginning to harden as Sam pulled on a pair of latex gloves with a snap. Sam set a foot control down on the floor and clicked the machine on; the gun buzzed pleasingly when he hit the peddle. “Now, we’re going to play a game - I’m going to ask you a question, and if you answer to my satisfaction, I will reward you. Sound good?”
The older man looked between the gun and his face, wetting his lips, “Yes, sir.”
“Well done,” Sam praised him, leaning forward to draw a small line on the top of his thigh. Izzy closed his eyes and held his breath through the sharp pain, then sighed when the gun was pulled away. “What’s Izzy short for?”
“Israel,” he answered and Sam drew another line. He paused long enough to grab some paper towels to wipe up the blood welling to the surface of the skin.
Sitting back up, Sam looked over the collection of art across his arms and chest, “Which tattoo is your favorite?”
Those steely grey eyes opened up to glare at him, “What is this? Twenty fucking questions?” There’s silence as the gun shuts off and Sam sits back up away from him, crossing his legs and just staring at Izzy disapprovingly. Izzy huffed out a frustrated breath and fidgets again, shifting his weight on his knees. He held out for a bit longer, then frowned, “The swallow, on my neck.”
“Better,” Sam told him, leaning forward again - this time rewarding Izzy’s submission with a longer line that curled around into the soft skin of his inner thigh until the older man gasped and squirmed. He was already half-hard and damn if Sam wasn’t very far behind him in that regard. “What’s my name?”
“Sam,” he gasped out in that hoarse voice of his, then groaned when the gun moved over his inner thigh again. God, he was magnificent, hardly even tired from the exertion of holding up his body, and making such pretty noises. Sam wanted to fuck him badly, but it wasn’t possible when the tattoo gun was in play - blood was too much of a serious biohazard, and he valued his and his partner’s safety too highly to risk it.
“I like hearing you say my name,” he told him, wiping the blood away again, “You’re a gorgeous canvas as well…I could write on you for hours.” Izzy whined, hips shifting useless against the empty air. “Where would you like me to draw next?”
The older man twisted his side towards Sam a bit, “My ribs, sir.”
“As you wish,” he answered with a smile, leaning in to begin writing on the curve of his rib cage.
Izzy’s breath caught in his throat and his head fell back, staring up at the ceiling, “Oh yes.” Sam took his time here, writing methodically for several minutes, while his subject shivered and whined. Soon Izzy’s dick was fully hard, jutting out proudly, and he was nearly fucking the air as he pulled against the manacles. “Look at you…” Sam marveled, his own voice thick with arousal, “You needed this, didn’t you? All that pent up tension.”
“Yes, sir,” he agreed breathlessly, panting for breath and spreading his knees further apart.
“Good boy,” Sam purred, leaning in to draw a small heart on Izzy’s groin, just above his pubic hair while the man groaned and his cock leaked over himself. “Do you want me to make you come?”
He nodded drunkenly, watching Sam through half lidded eyes, “Yes…yes….” Sam stood and put the gun aside, then quickly folded a stack of paper towels before grabbing the lube and squeeze bottle of alcohol.
“I think you’ll like this,” he told him as he poured a little lube into his left hand, then soaked the paper towels in rubbing alcohol and picked them up in his right. Stepping forward into Izzy’s space, Sam wrapped his slick hand around his cock tightly, then firmly pressed the alcohol pad against the fresh, bloody lines on his chest.
Izzy shouted, hips jerking forward desperately and almost immediately climaxing as Sam stroked him through it, holding the paper towels against him until he was whimpering and sagging in the manacles. Stepping back, Sam threw the towels aside and ripped the gloves off of his hands so he could reach down and open his own fly to pull his throbbing dick out.
“Yeah,” Izzy said, watching him through glassy eyes, “yeah.”
It didn’t take him long to climax either, and Sam growled softly as he spilled over Izzy’s chest - like leaving a signature on a piece of art. Panting and flush now himself, Sam grabbed a paper towel to clean himself with before redoing his pants and putting on a fresh set of gloves. Moving quickly, he took apart the tattoo gun, putting the needle into a separate bag for sanitizing later; once the gun was away, Sam grabbed a second squeeze bottle, this one full of saline and set it beside Izzy. The man was hanging heavily in the manacles, head hanging forward, hair over his face as he panted.
“You still with me?” he asked softly as he loosened the rope and carefully lowered Izzy so he could sit again.
The older man nodded weakly, muscles shaking, “Yessir.” Sam unclipped the manacles from their hook and then held onto the chain so that his arms didn’t just fall bonelessly. With Izzy no longer suspended, he could slow down a little, taking the time for a few tender touches as he uncuffed his wrists.
“There you go,” he murmured to him gently, exchanging the alcohol for the cooling saline, “Let’s get you cleaned up…” Izzy made a quiet unintelligible noise, hands tiredly lifting to rub his face. Sam cleaned all of the cuts gently, then applied a few sheets of the second skin bandages also favored by tattoo artists to make sure that they would remain clean for at least the next day. “You did so good,” he said, also using the saline to gently clean up the rest of the mess on Izzy’s belly and groin until he was clean. God, Sam wanted to kiss him - but that felt too intimate and Izzy was already retreating from this vulnerability, understandably not trusting a near stranger with too much emotion. “Feel free to get up whenever you’re ready,” Sam told him as he stood and turned to start putting his equipment away, because sometimes people needed to be released from a scene, and he had a hunch Izzy was one of those people.
He could hear the older man moving and dressing behind him - then he heard a sharp intake of breath and Sam turned to see Izzy looking at his ribs in the full length mirror with his jeans just pulled over his hips, hanging open. Twisting, he cocked his head to read “Sam Bellamy” along with his phone number signed onto his ribs.
“You cheeky fuck,” he growled with a note of respect.