Sam Worthington and Ryan Kwanten (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ryan_kwanten) spend some time at Citadel Sydney
Apr. 21st, 2015 09:41 amsam_worthingtonplayers only. backdated to spring 2014, a few days after this talk.
warning for mild breathplay
Sam's hand tightens on the leash as they pull up to the gatehouse at Citadel Sydney, their driver flashing his credentials before they're admitted. "We're here," he tells Ryan, who's got his head in Sam's lap, Sam's other hand in his hair, his only clothes a pair of black track pants. Which will disappear the moment they're inside. "You ready, boy?"
A dreamy smile creeps across Ryan's face. "Yes, Sir," he whispers, already feeling a bit like he's floating. The leash, Sam's knee, the knowledge of what they're about to do: it's a potent combination.
The car pulls up in front of the door, the entrance well-shielded from the street, and Sam and Ryan make their way out of the car and inside. He nods to one of the in-house people waiting and they approach. "Worthington, we have a room for later. If you can make sure my boy's clothes," not that there's much of them, "make it upstairs."
"Of course, sir," the young woman says, waiting for Ryan to disrobe.
Ryan toes out of his flip-flops, then lets the track pants slide down and puddle on the floor. Ordinarily he immediately picks up after himself, but right now he is serving Sam, and only Sam. Until he is ordered otherwise. And so he steps aside to let the employee get his things.
Sam watches Ryan fold gracefully to his knees once his clothes are removed and he nods his approval. Heads for the bar at an easy pace, making sure Ryan can keep up with him.
The gentle tug of the leash is unfamiliar, but an amazing sensation – one Ryan thinks he could get used to, too easily. He follows his Sir, focusing on keeping his crawling as smooth and graceful as he can. His gaze turning neither right nor left, just watching.
Sam's well aware of the admiring glances as they go, those glances really the whole point of coming in the first place. Showing off Ryan's marks. His brand. Sam's ownership. He chooses a table closer to the center of the floor instead of a booth and takes a seat.
Ryan kneels up at Sam's side, his spine straight, head upright, but his gaze down. He breathes deeply, sinking further into himself.
"Good boy," Sam murmurs, keeping the leash loosely clasped in one hand while the other's laid on the back of Ryan's neck, over his collar, underlining his possession to everyone in the room. Mine. He nods at a server and orders a pint for himself and a glass of water for Ryan. "I should put you on a leash more often," he says, returning his full attention to his boy.
"Sir," Ryan murmurs, thrilling with the praise. The warm weight of Sam's hand feels so fucking good on his neck.
"You'd like that, would you?" Sam says then smiles, watching Ryan's posture, his lowered gaze. "You can talk to me."
Ryan's breath catches, and he tries to assemble words into some statement with meaning. "This is... It's simple," he murmurs eventually. "I'm yours, and you're my whole world. It's safe to tell people, it's safe for them to know. We don't have to worry for once about what anyone else thinks." A sense of peace settles over his shoulders like a heavy blanket.
"I know. It's nice," Sam says, fingers tightening just a fraction on the back of Ryan's neck. "I love you."
God, that touch... Ryan's smile goes dreamy. "Thank you, Sir."
The server brings their drinks and Sam takes a drink from his pint. "Everyone's looking at you, checking out your marks."
"My brand?" Ryan asks, but quickly corrects himself. "Your brand?"
Sam nods. "Yup. And my tattoo and piercings," he says, cock swelling beneath the zipper of his jeans. "Wishing they could touch you, touch them."
Without conscious thought, Ryan spreads his thighs wider, adjusting his stance to make sure that more of the gigantic tattoo around his hole is visible. "If... Would you let them, Sir? If they asked if they could touch?"
Sam's gut instinct is a definite fuck no even as his cock kicks up at the idea of watching someone touch his boy, his property, with his permission. "Maybe." He glances at the people watching them. "I might let them touch my marks, but I wouldn't share you with them. You're mine."
"Yes, Sir," Ryan murmurs meekly, but he has to duck his head in an attempt to conceal his huge smile of satisfaction: it just wouldn't be seen as modest. "Is there anything your boy can do right now to please you, Sir?"
"You can give me your mouth," Sam says, his cock helpfully supplying the answer.
"Thank you, Sir," Ryan murmurs, excitement streaking through his blood. But Sam's jeans and belt, his seated position... "Sir? May I use my hands please?"
Sam nods. "Go ahead, boy."
Shifting a bit to kneel between Sam's thighs, Ryan makes quick work of his belt and zipper. He smiles at his lover's cock, then leans in to lift it into his mouth, savouring the taste.
Sam groans, the sound low, rough, one hand instantly finding its way into Ryan's hair.
Ryan softly echoes that moan. He splays his hands on Sam's hips, widening his stance to be sure that any casual voyeurs will get an eyeful – and more. With long luxuriant swipes of his tongue he loves on his Sir's cock.
"Oh, fuck," Sam breathes, eyes heavy-lidded but locked on his boy. On those gorgeous fucking lips wrapped around his cock. "That's it."
His own prick beads with precome, and Ryan groans at the surge of lust that roars through his body. Only Sam matters. Sam's delicious cock, which he takes as deep into his throat as he can now, choking himself with every bob of his head.
"Good boy," Sam murmurs. "My good slut. Taking every fucking inch..." His hips rocking slightly, meeting Ryan's movements, his cock buried so fucking deep.
Ryan whimpers softly around his mouthful. He flicks his glance upward to meet his Sir's eyes, drowning in those intense pools of blue.
"Good boy," Sam says again. "You keep those eyes on me," he orders, pushing deeper, his hand slipping from Ryan's hair to the back of his head, keeping him right where he is, nose pressed tight against Sam's groin.
His breath cut off, Ryan does just as he's told – focusing on Sam's gaze and nothing else. Light-headed and sinking deeper.
Sam draws back, just barely, keeping Ryan with him as he thrusts in again. And again. Watching his boy go under.
Ryan's arms go limp, his hands slipping from Sam's thighs. His world narrows to a pinpoint.
Fuckyes. Sam groans, cock throbbing violently, and comes, hard, spilling down Ryan's throat, holding him still, right there, only as long as he dares before finally easing his grip.
Damn near boneless, Ryan collapses to the floor between Sam's feet, resting his cheek against his lover's thigh. His head is fuzzy, there's a dull headache beginning to sing in the back of his skull, but his universe is completely settled. Peaceful.
"My good boy," Sam says, fingers in Ryan's hair again, petting his lover, unable to resist the look he gives the people still staring at them. Mine.
[feedback welcome. comments screened]
warning for mild breathplay
Sam's hand tightens on the leash as they pull up to the gatehouse at Citadel Sydney, their driver flashing his credentials before they're admitted. "We're here," he tells Ryan, who's got his head in Sam's lap, Sam's other hand in his hair, his only clothes a pair of black track pants. Which will disappear the moment they're inside. "You ready, boy?"
A dreamy smile creeps across Ryan's face. "Yes, Sir," he whispers, already feeling a bit like he's floating. The leash, Sam's knee, the knowledge of what they're about to do: it's a potent combination.
The car pulls up in front of the door, the entrance well-shielded from the street, and Sam and Ryan make their way out of the car and inside. He nods to one of the in-house people waiting and they approach. "Worthington, we have a room for later. If you can make sure my boy's clothes," not that there's much of them, "make it upstairs."
"Of course, sir," the young woman says, waiting for Ryan to disrobe.
Ryan toes out of his flip-flops, then lets the track pants slide down and puddle on the floor. Ordinarily he immediately picks up after himself, but right now he is serving Sam, and only Sam. Until he is ordered otherwise. And so he steps aside to let the employee get his things.
Sam watches Ryan fold gracefully to his knees once his clothes are removed and he nods his approval. Heads for the bar at an easy pace, making sure Ryan can keep up with him.
The gentle tug of the leash is unfamiliar, but an amazing sensation – one Ryan thinks he could get used to, too easily. He follows his Sir, focusing on keeping his crawling as smooth and graceful as he can. His gaze turning neither right nor left, just watching.
Sam's well aware of the admiring glances as they go, those glances really the whole point of coming in the first place. Showing off Ryan's marks. His brand. Sam's ownership. He chooses a table closer to the center of the floor instead of a booth and takes a seat.
Ryan kneels up at Sam's side, his spine straight, head upright, but his gaze down. He breathes deeply, sinking further into himself.
"Good boy," Sam murmurs, keeping the leash loosely clasped in one hand while the other's laid on the back of Ryan's neck, over his collar, underlining his possession to everyone in the room. Mine. He nods at a server and orders a pint for himself and a glass of water for Ryan. "I should put you on a leash more often," he says, returning his full attention to his boy.
"Sir," Ryan murmurs, thrilling with the praise. The warm weight of Sam's hand feels so fucking good on his neck.
"You'd like that, would you?" Sam says then smiles, watching Ryan's posture, his lowered gaze. "You can talk to me."
Ryan's breath catches, and he tries to assemble words into some statement with meaning. "This is... It's simple," he murmurs eventually. "I'm yours, and you're my whole world. It's safe to tell people, it's safe for them to know. We don't have to worry for once about what anyone else thinks." A sense of peace settles over his shoulders like a heavy blanket.
"I know. It's nice," Sam says, fingers tightening just a fraction on the back of Ryan's neck. "I love you."
God, that touch... Ryan's smile goes dreamy. "Thank you, Sir."
The server brings their drinks and Sam takes a drink from his pint. "Everyone's looking at you, checking out your marks."
"My brand?" Ryan asks, but quickly corrects himself. "Your brand?"
Sam nods. "Yup. And my tattoo and piercings," he says, cock swelling beneath the zipper of his jeans. "Wishing they could touch you, touch them."
Without conscious thought, Ryan spreads his thighs wider, adjusting his stance to make sure that more of the gigantic tattoo around his hole is visible. "If... Would you let them, Sir? If they asked if they could touch?"
Sam's gut instinct is a definite fuck no even as his cock kicks up at the idea of watching someone touch his boy, his property, with his permission. "Maybe." He glances at the people watching them. "I might let them touch my marks, but I wouldn't share you with them. You're mine."
"Yes, Sir," Ryan murmurs meekly, but he has to duck his head in an attempt to conceal his huge smile of satisfaction: it just wouldn't be seen as modest. "Is there anything your boy can do right now to please you, Sir?"
"You can give me your mouth," Sam says, his cock helpfully supplying the answer.
"Thank you, Sir," Ryan murmurs, excitement streaking through his blood. But Sam's jeans and belt, his seated position... "Sir? May I use my hands please?"
Sam nods. "Go ahead, boy."
Shifting a bit to kneel between Sam's thighs, Ryan makes quick work of his belt and zipper. He smiles at his lover's cock, then leans in to lift it into his mouth, savouring the taste.
Sam groans, the sound low, rough, one hand instantly finding its way into Ryan's hair.
Ryan softly echoes that moan. He splays his hands on Sam's hips, widening his stance to be sure that any casual voyeurs will get an eyeful – and more. With long luxuriant swipes of his tongue he loves on his Sir's cock.
"Oh, fuck," Sam breathes, eyes heavy-lidded but locked on his boy. On those gorgeous fucking lips wrapped around his cock. "That's it."
His own prick beads with precome, and Ryan groans at the surge of lust that roars through his body. Only Sam matters. Sam's delicious cock, which he takes as deep into his throat as he can now, choking himself with every bob of his head.
"Good boy," Sam murmurs. "My good slut. Taking every fucking inch..." His hips rocking slightly, meeting Ryan's movements, his cock buried so fucking deep.
Ryan whimpers softly around his mouthful. He flicks his glance upward to meet his Sir's eyes, drowning in those intense pools of blue.
"Good boy," Sam says again. "You keep those eyes on me," he orders, pushing deeper, his hand slipping from Ryan's hair to the back of his head, keeping him right where he is, nose pressed tight against Sam's groin.
His breath cut off, Ryan does just as he's told – focusing on Sam's gaze and nothing else. Light-headed and sinking deeper.
Sam draws back, just barely, keeping Ryan with him as he thrusts in again. And again. Watching his boy go under.
Ryan's arms go limp, his hands slipping from Sam's thighs. His world narrows to a pinpoint.
Fuckyes. Sam groans, cock throbbing violently, and comes, hard, spilling down Ryan's throat, holding him still, right there, only as long as he dares before finally easing his grip.
Damn near boneless, Ryan collapses to the floor between Sam's feet, resting his cheek against his lover's thigh. His head is fuzzy, there's a dull headache beginning to sing in the back of his skull, but his universe is completely settled. Peaceful.
"My good boy," Sam says, fingers in Ryan's hair again, petting his lover, unable to resist the look he gives the people still staring at them. Mine.
[feedback welcome. comments screened]
