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Playroom walls

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players only. backdated. takes place in LA, when the boys have a break from filming in New Zealand.

"I'm back," Sam yells, dumping the groceries and beer on the kitchen island. There's no response so he takes a minute to shove the perishables in the fridge then heads for the stairs, calling out, "You up there?" He supposes Ryan could still be out on the beach somewhere but he's been gone a fair while, having stopped at the farmer's market as well to get their produce and their meat from the butcher Ryan prefers.

"Playroom," Ryan calls back, once he has taken the nail from between his lips and is hammering it precisely into the wall. Their collection of "artsy kink" has grown to encompass not just sculptures, but also a handful of professional photographs, all with a common theme: up close and personal with Ryan's tattoo, his piercings, his brand. Sam's permanent marks of ownership.

Sam takes the stairs two at a time, thumping down on the upper landing before he strolls into the playroom, his eyes going wide at the sight that greets him. "Holy shit," he murmurs.

Ryan looks over, drinking in the expression on his Sir's face. "What do you think? Are they spaced okay?" Because that's what he's really most concerned about, right.

Sam nods, still taking the pictures in. Christ. "They look brilliant," he says softly, stepping further into the room. "You look amazing."

"Yeah, but I'm not certain if I'm comfortable with this level of exposure," Ryan jokes softly, a shy smile dimpling on his face.

Sam laughs. He reaches for Ryan, pulling him in close. "What do you see, looking at them?"

Ryan lays his head on Sam's shoulder, taking a look from a new angle. "I see art," he answers after a moment of reflection. "Dan does great work."

"He does but you gave him the perfect canvas to work on," Sam points out.

"Nah. You gave it to him." If Ryan's smile is now a touch gooey, perhaps a like soul could forgive him. Because that right there is the reason why, joke though he might, it doesn't matter one way or another if he's comfortable with the display: it's simply not his decision to make. He's not looking for any greater reward.

"Either way, they're amazing. You look incredible and I love the way your marks are highlighted," Sam says, making sure he gives the display proper attention even as his fingers tease under the waistband of Ryan's board shorts.

Ryan beams, and wriggles just a bit (subtly, of course) to get more touch. "Thank you, Sir."

"Especially this one," Sam murmurs, fingers teasing lower, between Ryan's cheeks and over his tattoo.

His breath catches, and Ryan nods. "That one does seem to attract the most attention when you take me out."

"I think you should show it to me now," Sam says, letting one finger press over Ryan's already slicked hole. "Let me compare the picture and the real thing. See if they captured it accurately."

Ryan's eyes slip closed, and for a moment he sways on his feet. "Yes, Sir," he whispers, pushing his shorts down. He spreads his legs and bends at the waist to place his hands flat on the floor, the yoga pose comfortable and familiar. Downward-facing Dog, indeed.

"The photo's gorgeous but it's even better in person," Sam says with a smile, taking a good long look before he places his hands on Ryan's ass, thumbs spreading his cheeks wide so he can inspect his hole. His hole.

A tiny whimper escapes Ryan at the sudden stretch – but even more for the sudden intensity in the air. Damn, it near kills him when Sam gets like this. When Ryan can almost feel Sam's focused attention, like a palpable caress on his body. Locking his knees, he fights the urge to grab his Sir and just rub all over him like a big cat.

"Makes me want to mark you even more," Sam says casually, pushing his thumbs into Ryan. "Think you could find room for a few more pictures?" Mostly teasing, tormenting. Mostly.

Ryan's muscles clench in instant reflex. And thank fuck he bothered to shore up his stance when he first bent over, or he would be on his face right now. "Yes, Sir. I'm certain I could... If that's what you want," he answers softly, even as his mind roils with panic at the question of precisely where any new piercings might go.

"We could do one along the shaft, a couple on your balls, maybe one even lower, between your balls and your hole," Sam continues, everything murmured in that same low seductive nonchalant tone. Pushing just because he can.

"Tat– Tattoos?" Ryan gasps. "Oh, fuck." He recalls a time before when he and Sam discussed a tattoo curling around his shaft, discussed it like it was actually a not-completely-insane idea... And here they are, again. "They... On your balls, they don't really do that, right?"

"I was thinking piercings, but we could tattoo your cock, pierce your balls..." Two fingers pushed deep into Ryan's hole as his other hand grasps Ryan's testicles, squeezing them firmly.

Ryan yelps, his hips jerking in instinctive retreat. Trapped between trying to greedily suck those fingers deeper, and struggling to get the hell away from the sudden pressure on his sac.

"Is that a no?" Sam asks, squeezing a little harder, the pads of his fingers rubbing over Ryan's prostate.

"No! No, Sir!" Ryan fists his hands against the floor, putting real effort now into holding his position. "I mean yes! Shit!" He's crap at keeping track of questions when he's going under, and Sam fucking knows it. Obviously. "I– It's your decision, Sir."

"Yeah, it is," Sam agrees, easing up on his grip, a third finger added as he fucks Ryan's hole, his own cock aching, pressing tight against the zipper of his jeans.

Ryan presses his lips together, but a whimper sneaks out anyway. "Feels good," he whispers, and it does now that Sam isn't choking his balls anymore. "Thank you, Sir."

"You're welcome," Sam says with a smile, working a fourth finger inside Ryan, still deciding what exactly he wants to do with his boy.

With a hiss at the sharp stretch, Ryan begins to focus on his breathing. No matter that his cock is dripping and hard – he's got no idea how long Sam intends to play with him, and he knows he needs to get himself under control.

"This should be a reward," Sam muses, fingers never once stilling inside his boy. "After all, you put up all these pictures." Eyes sparkling, he continues, "So what would you like, boy? You'll have permission no matter what, but what else?"

Ryan's mind races with possibilities, but really – with four of his Sir's fingers inside him, there's not much question. "Your fist, Sir. Please."

Sam nods. It's Ryan's choice but he couldn't have made a better one. He pulls his fingers free and gives Ryan's ass a light swat. "Get on the bench."

Now Ryan sways on his feet, overcome by excitement for an instant. Carefully he stands up straight, then drapes himself over the spanking bench. He loves this thing – custom-made for their playroom. He settles into the familiar dips and drops, then slides his hands along the steel frame. Fuck knows he'll need a good grip on something for this.

Sam drags his t-shirt over his head and drops his jeans on the floor, kicking both to the side. He grabs a tub of thick fisting lube and greases up one hand – for now. Pushes two fingers easily back into Ryan, curving them to stroke over that bundle of nerves. "You need to come, you come," he says, giving his boy permission from the get-go. "But I won't be stopping until I'm done."

"Yes, Sir," Ryan whispers, and he's grateful as anything that Sam said so. Because the stress of trying to repress his body's instinctive responses when he's deep in headspace... Sometimes it's enough to brutally yank him back to the surface. Other times, he can't physically stop himself from coming, and then there's hell to pay after the scene – even if mostly from himself and not from his Sir.

Two fingers quickly become three and Sam reaches under Ryan with his free hand, giving his cock a few quick strokes before tugging lightly on his piercing.

It's like a lightning strike. Ryan feels his whole body light up with that tug, his blood beginning to simmer. Would Sam truly like to pierce him more? He shivers.

"It's been a while since you fucked me with this," Sam says, pulling a little harder. "Reamed my ass open," he murmurs, pushing a fourth finger into Ryan's hole.

"Nngh," Ryan replies, his hole clutching Sam's fingers then relaxing, then clenching again. "Can't– Can't call you Sir when I fuck you like that."

"I know, so we'll keep that for reward part two," Sam says with a smile, letting go of the ring – for now. He applies more lube to his hand and Ryan's hole and starts working his fingers deeper in earnest. "That's it, boy. Open up for me."

"Yes, Sir." The mumbled words are a conditioned response, leaving Ryan's lips without any actual directed thought of his. Because there's nothing in the world he can think about right now, nothing but this, the feeling of Sam physically taking him over. Overpowering him in the best of ways.

Christ he loves this. Loves the way Ryan's hole opens up around his fingers, his whole body welcoming Sam, begging for his fist. "Look at that," he breathes, the widest part of his hand breaching Ryan's hole, gaping him open. "Good boy."

A soft whimper of assent – Ryan certainly wants to be a good boy – and he shifts his weight, trying to spread himself open to the limits of possibility. Wrapping his body around the spanking bench so that he can simply sink in, focusing on nothing in the world but his Sir.

Working his hand back and forth, Sam's breath catches hard, his cock throbbing violently as Ryan's body suddenly opens, swallowing him up, taking him in to the wrist.

Fire bursts through him and Ryan cries out, stiffening in an instant. He gasps for breath, struggling to slowly unbend, to relax once more. Pliant and panting.

"Good boy." Sam reaches under Ryan and grabs his cock, slowly stroking while he folds his hand into a fist inside him.

Instantaneously that tease on his cock shatters Ryan's every hope of relaxing, of passively taking, of letting his Sir mould him into whatever he could possibly want. Fuck, no – now he rocks into Sam's hand, desperate for friction on his aching cock, and slams back in demand, whining and straining to work his Sir's fist deeper inside him. Deeper than ever before. Until they're truly one.

Sam moves with Ryan, letting his boy set the pace, his fist 'punched' into Ryan's body again and again, his other hand working his cock without mercy.

"Sir," Ryan gasps, "I–" Sam's fist feels fucking brutal, and his whole body shudders in response. His nerves are going haywire. Did Sam already give him permission to come? He did, surely he must've– Ryan howls, every muscle in his body seizing tight as his climax pummels him.

"That's it. Come for me, boy," Sam drawls, his fist stilled as Ryan's body clamps down around it. "Let it all out."

Ryan sobs, pain wracking him, and he's not even aware of the tears spilling onto his face – it's just one more jangling sensation his brain can't process, to go with the sweat, blood, and semen on the rest of him. He digs his fingers into the padded vinyl of the bench and bears down, struggling in reflex to reach some equilibrium.

Sam gives Ryan some time to settle, feeling those muscles ease up around his fist, before he slowly pushes deeper, moving forward bit by bit, gauging what his boy can take, because it's never a constant, never a done deal. Just because Ryan took his elbow the week before or his bicep the month prior doesn't mean he can even handle Sam's forearm today.

With a yelp Ryan slams flat against the bench, retreating as much as he's physically able to in this moment. It's not what he was expecting. He thought his Sir was done, he thought– "Please!" he cries out, bone-deep shudders of response working through him.

"Please what, boy?" Sam prompts, but he doesn't still. Keeps moving forward, slowly but surely, making room for himself in his boy's body.

"Please, I–" Oh god it hurts, it hurts, but Ryan's mind is so blown right now that he can't even figure out what he needs to say. Even if he could form the words, which he's not certain he can. "Sir–" He unclenches the fingers of one hand and hesitantly reaches back, hoping his Sir will understand and touch him.

Sam grabs Ryan's hand with his free one and gives it a squeeze. He drops his head to press a kiss to Ryan's fingers and then slowly starts easing back out. He's pretty sure they've reached their limit for today and that's fine by him. "You're my good boy," he says, "and I am going to fuck you so hard..."

Ryan manages only a strangled noise in response. He's pure sensation right now, so deeply seated in the physicality of his body that words don't even rise to his lips.

His hand free, Sam wipes it on the towel attached to the bench and grasps Ryan's hips, sinking himself deep, all the way in, so fucking easily.

With a gasp Ryan shoves back against him. Sam is warm, heavy, surrounding him, and he whimpers helplessly. Beginning to rock his hips in instinct.

Gripping Ryan's hips even tighter, Sam draws back to the tip and drives in again, Ryan matching his rhythm perfectly. "Fuck, yeah," he breathes, staring at where they're joined, where his cock slides into Ryan's hole, into the centre of that gorgeous fucking tattoo. His tattoo. His hole. He gasps, his pleasure right there, then grits his teeth, determined to make it last and fucks Ryan even harder.

Ryan's cheek is wet with tears, slipping a bit against the vinyl when he drops his head to rest. He's nothing. Nothing but energy, dense matter, meaningless, locked in a ritual as old as the sea. Giving himself up completely to be used by the man at the center of his universe.

When Sam comes, it's with a shout, hips pumping, his seed poured into Ryan's ass. Fingers leaving marks they'll see for days. "Oh, fuck," he blurts out, head thrown back, gone blind with pleasure for a long drawn out moment.

His whole body shakes, shudders, and Ryan wraps himself around the spanking bench even tighter. The world spins around him and all he can do is whimper softly.

"Good boy," Sam murmurs, easing up on his grip, his hands run over Ryan's hips and back. He pulls out and helps Ryan up from the bench, getting him over to the bed.

The instant he lies down, Ryan lets out a single sob of relief. The soft linens seem to rise up and swallow him, dragging him into the depths like a drowning man. He tightens his hold on his sir and lets himself drift.

"I love you," Sam murmurs, kissing the top of Ryan's head, his arms tight around him. "My good boy."