*Tosses halo in the trash*
I finally did it. I wrote all-the-way Phelps/Lochte. Whoo. Of course it's not a very serious treatment of the subject matter... Whatever. It's maybe a prequel to Bernard Ain't Got Nothin' On You.
And yay! The Phelps parade is October 4th! *begins to sharpen hunting observation skills*
:: Michael Phelps/Ryan Lochte, NC17. Unbeta'ed.
09.09.2088 (7:57 am)
"First Time's the Charm"
There is a first time for everything... and that's as philosophical as Ryan can get right now because isn't there a law of physics for shit like this? He's older than Mike so according to seniority he shouldn't be the one with his face down and his ass up.
I'm taller, Mike has the balls to mutter. Ryan wonders if punching him in said big balls would kill the mood. Probably. And retaliation would be so not cool just at this moment.
He curls his hands into the sheets with enough force to make his fingers ache. If only he had some coal he could be making bling by the pound-then, at least, maybe this would be worth it. Behind him Mike shifts his weight and the bed dips, tilting them. Then tilting them back.
Ryan's teeth grind. I'm getting sea-sick, he says. Can we hurry this the hell up?
Offered pacification comes in the press of lips against the back of his hip and he chokes on a sigh. Mike murmurs against his skin something that sounds suspiciously like, This was your idea. Then he feels the graze of fingers against his asshole and, oh, no fucking way, buddy. That is not how you sweet talk a girl.
A flopping death-roll flings legs and arms and just about knocks Mike right off the bed and onto the scratchy brown carpet. Ryan shoves himself up to his elbows. I want top, he declares.
Mike-who's sitting there on his bed with his boxers tented and his knees sticking every which way-raises an eyebrow. Ryan knows him well enough to know that it's hiding a smile, goddamnit.
I'm serious, he says, just to be absolutely clear on the point. Because who in the room right now doesn't have wood? Him. And he doesn't think it has anything to do with being under Debbie Phelps' roof; they've necked and rubbed and humped and fisted-to-death under this roof in the year since they've met-hell, just walking in the front door gets him hard at this point.
He's like, you know, those dogs that drool. Only he pops a plank.
I know you are, Mike's saying, But that's not going to change anything. Mike can be pretty fucking stubborn when he wants to be; it's what people call a double-edge sword. Because of it he's like, the guy to beat in the pool-but it makes him a tad obsessive-compulsive, too. Before he met Ryan-as Ryan likes to say-dude had a long-course sized stick up his ass.
Speaking of sticks in asses. Mike's fingers are creeping over his knee and up his inner thigh. Ryan moves to kick the hand away and instead ends up with his ankle held down against the bed. He frowns.
Relax.
Easy for you to say, Ryan growls. You're not the one who's gonna get something big shoved in his ass.
Michael smiles, lips peeling away from teeth in a way that makes him look like a deviant puppy. All happy and mischievous but just too stupid to beat. That smile should be a damn crime. You think I'm big? Mike asks.
Shut the fuck up.
There's a murmur of assent as Mike rocks forward slides his tongue in a circle around Ryan's belly-button. The best thing about Mike is that his tongue is ginormous, like a fucking rockstar, and when he... right...
Oh, hell yeah.
Ryan's head tilts back and hair falls back out of his eyes, which are now closed. Mike could suck an elephant through a straw, the boy is a talent. The wet friction, the tug and release of pressure-it doesn't take long for Ryan to get hard, a steady throb that connects every part of his body to his dick. And that tongue is moving, dragging, flicking. Ryan's toes curl and crease sheets.
And to think that in the beginning Mike refused to give head. Tragic. The boy had been simply tragic back when they met-Ryan should have karmic brownies by the busload for the good he's brought into the world.
He's so caught up in the spectacular head that at first he doesn't realize that something's knocking at his backdoor. Just a brush that gets dismissed as the sheets bunching up as he thrusts lazily up toward Mike's mouth.
The next time-that is no fucking brush. That is a goddamn finger in his ass and Ryan's hips come straight off the bed so fast that his pelvis smashes into Mike's nose with enough force that broken bones are not outside the realm of possibility. Not to mention that he's just inadvertently shoved his dick so far down Mike's throat that he's going epiglottal.
Spit flicks everywhere as Mike yanks away, eyes watering, and Ryan thumps his head down against the pillow. Get the hell away, he starts to say; his legs are twitching, knees trying to pull together but Mike-even coughing-keeps them jacked open with an elbow and a palm. Damn sasquatch.
Ryan tries again, says something that in his head is No way Playa but when it gets through his lips it really just sounds like a moan. Mike's finger is slick and feels big and sweet baby Jesus it shouldn't be so good, that filling pressure.
Ryan's breath is coming in short little gasps that he hates to admit are all adrenaline because it doesn't really hurt at all, Mike's finger. It's awkward but not unpleasant.
Not really pleasant, either, but not unpleasant.
Actually, it's pretty much the weirdest thing that Ryan's ever felt. Of course, that doesn't stop his back from arching slightly as he's intruded upon a little further. Just how long are Mike's fingers? He should know this shit since the guy out touches him in the pool, but all Ryan had ever really concerned himself with was that they were more than long enough to wrap around his dick so all was good and the case was closed.
There's a shift of bed again that's mostly unnoticed in Ryan's state of semi-shock but he sure as hell feels it when Mike's mouth slides back around his dick like a vacuum on steroids. Ryan's back comes further off the bed but this time it's less of a locked position and more of a reassuring thrust into something that he knows. And he knows Mike's mouth, knows how far he can get before his friend coughs, knows how hard he can thrust before he gets a smack in the balls.
Ryan grabs Mike's head, one set of fingers twists hard into hair and the other wrap around the edge of an ear-it might help him to feel like he's regaining a little control from the guy who's got a finger up his ass.
Two fingers.
Ryan gulps a breath like he's drowning as the pressure becomes a stretch. And he doesn't much like it but under all of that wrong is something that he doesn't want to stop. It's Mike, and that's okay, that's good. He'll tolerate shit from Mike that would make him walk away from other people. Like the way the asshole always steals the last cookie. Or hugs more than any man should hug and blames it on his mom.
Or will be a prude about blow jobs and then go and suggest a dick up the ass.
He doesn't realizes he's saying anything at all until Mike pops loudly off his dick and looks up with a, What?
Ryan's eyes are a little glazed over but he makes a mental note (probably for the fourth or fifth time) that Mike's lips look much better when they're all spitty and dick-bruised. His thumb slips almost into Mike's ear and there's a wince but he doesn't try to pull away. It takes a minute for Ryan to get that Mike's waiting for an answer to his question.
Come on, he rasps. That was what he was thinking. Come the fuck on.
Dark eyebrows arch. Yeah?
Yeah, fucking jeah motherfucker, come on.
Mike's tongue flips over his lips once as he does this crawling slide up the length of Ryan's body, a sort of retarded breaststroke, and fits them together in the little ways that have stopped surprising Ryan. He huffs out a breath when fingers pull out of him.
For all of Ryan's complaining his skin is hot and itchy, his pulse a mess, and when Mike shoves his knees under Ryan's ass there's no need to prompt for him to raise his legs-they're already hooking over the high shelf of Mike's hips. His heels thump against bare ass; at some point while Ryan was getting violated Mike was getting naked. He files the grievance away for later.
Foil crunches and rips as Ryan's staring at the ceiling, his legs jacked around his best friend's hips, wondering how he got right here to this moment. Had he been making fun of Mike for joking about putting Pussy as his intended major on his college forms? Boy couldn't catch pussy if pussy was a cold.
Ryan thinks that maybe he should stop making fun of Mike for skeeving. He repeats the thought to himself and closes his eyes as a thumb searches out his asshole. He promises to be nice from now on, but the universe is into payback like a bitch-Ryan knows the dick pushing at him too well to assume this'll be pleasant. Hell, he knows the guy who owns the dick too well.
Mike tends to come like he swims, and Ryan's afraid that he'll fuck like he swims, too. In which case this whole experience is going to land Ryan with a raw ass and a huge case of blue balls-all of which sounds about as pleasant as a training session with Bowman. Mike might be used to that shit but Ryan sure as hell isn't.
The first shove (because that's a good word for it, the impatient prick) drags a hiss in over teeth and Ryan's hips drop away. His hands-which have been removed from Mike's head-fist and he punches the jerk in the shoulder. Hazel eyes look up from an undetermined spot near Ryan's left nipple, slightly out of focus.
Slow down! he gripes. And if Mike smiles-
He gets punched again, in the same spot. And Ryan hopes it bruises. Stop smiling, he says. And slow the hell down. I'm not your last cheap date.
Mike leans in and teeth against Ryan's throat make his train of thought detour from Let Me Out At the Next Stop to Where Can I Get A Commuter Pass? He nearly forgets the dick poking at him until it starts to move again, and then no distraction on earth can help him get over that burn. Ryan raises a hand to hit Mike again but his wrist is grabbed and pinned down to the side and mother fucker! He opens his mouth to tell Mike just where he can stick himself when lips cover his.
Ryan's first thought is, gross, Mike just had my dick in his mouth.
They don't kiss as a general rule. There's just no real reason for it-they're not connecting, they're not making life plans. Ryan doesn't want to be the future Mrs Phelps or have Mike's mer-beast man babies. They're just getting off. Simple as that.
His second thought is, maybe it's not that simple. Because without any thought at all Ryan's fingers are digging into Mike's hair and his tongue is so far down the guy's throat it's possible that what he's tasting is tonsils. Mike's mouth is wide-a good match for his-and his friend doesn't complain when it gets a little sloppy.
Mike's hips slap against his ass before Ryan understands that he's being fucked. It still hurts, and Mike's still moving too fast, but the whole thing is starting to blur together into a motion that he can get his head around.
That's when he starts moving back, lifting his hips enough that his dick gets a nice little rub with each thrust to compensate. Not such a bad deal; he's sweaty and he's gonna hurt in places he doesn't normally think about tomorrow, but at least he's getting his wood back.
But in the end asking Mike to slow down is like asking the Pope to convert. Ryan's mouth is a little busy to stop and ask for it, anyway. The familiar rhythm of the motion between them falls apart and Mike's back to humping him like a hyperactive puppy cutting his first lipstick. All Ryan can really do is hang on.
And punch Mike again once he's slumped over him, one hundred and ninety-five pounds of sweaty fucking dead weight.
Ow.
Damn right ow, Ryan says, scraping hair out of his eyes. Get down there and fix the problem that you left.
One eye, more green than brown, rises to look at Ryan. Can't we-
No, Ryan answers.
There's a grumble that he completely ignores as Mike pulls away (and he's definitely on top next time). Ryan stretches out his cramping legs, links his arms behind his head on Mike's pillow, and doesn't think about the kissing. Shit happens.
Then he stops thinking all together when Mike sucks him back down, the slurp messy and fucking wonderful. Ryan reaches out for his favorite handles-hair and an ear and works a lazy thrust up into Mike's mouth.
Mike's always silent-must be a focus thing-so it makes no difference that his mouth is full, but Ryan's getting back on his stride. Fuck yeah shortie, he groans out, holding Mike down as he grinds up. Mike takes it because right now all the karmic brownies are on Ryan's plate and he's gonna enjoy that shit before the ache sets in, reminding him who really won this.
You know how to go down, don't you? Ryan rubs the warm curve of Mike's ear between a thumb and index finger. Yeah, fuck, hold your breath. Hold it. Take it like a champ-
He comes right off the bed with a groan as his body lets go and gives up with little crampy shudders that curl his toes and roll his eyes back. Mike yanks away from the tight grip too late to miss the mouthful and Ryan slumps back to the bed laughing as his friend lunges for a half-empty Gatorade bottle to spit in.
Remind me not to drink that later, Ryan murmurs, an idle smile twitching the corners of his lips. Mike rubs a backhand across his mouth and a moment later the used condom follows into the murky orange depths.
The bed shakes as Mike falls down next to Ryan and says, Don't drink that later.
Ryan punches him.
And yay! The Phelps parade is October 4th! *begins to sharpen hunting observation skills*
:: Michael Phelps/Ryan Lochte, NC17. Unbeta'ed.
09.09.2088 (7:57 am)
"First Time's the Charm"
There is a first time for everything... and that's as philosophical as Ryan can get right now because isn't there a law of physics for shit like this? He's older than Mike so according to seniority he shouldn't be the one with his face down and his ass up.
I'm taller, Mike has the balls to mutter. Ryan wonders if punching him in said big balls would kill the mood. Probably. And retaliation would be so not cool just at this moment.
He curls his hands into the sheets with enough force to make his fingers ache. If only he had some coal he could be making bling by the pound-then, at least, maybe this would be worth it. Behind him Mike shifts his weight and the bed dips, tilting them. Then tilting them back.
Ryan's teeth grind. I'm getting sea-sick, he says. Can we hurry this the hell up?
Offered pacification comes in the press of lips against the back of his hip and he chokes on a sigh. Mike murmurs against his skin something that sounds suspiciously like, This was your idea. Then he feels the graze of fingers against his asshole and, oh, no fucking way, buddy. That is not how you sweet talk a girl.
A flopping death-roll flings legs and arms and just about knocks Mike right off the bed and onto the scratchy brown carpet. Ryan shoves himself up to his elbows. I want top, he declares.
Mike-who's sitting there on his bed with his boxers tented and his knees sticking every which way-raises an eyebrow. Ryan knows him well enough to know that it's hiding a smile, goddamnit.
I'm serious, he says, just to be absolutely clear on the point. Because who in the room right now doesn't have wood? Him. And he doesn't think it has anything to do with being under Debbie Phelps' roof; they've necked and rubbed and humped and fisted-to-death under this roof in the year since they've met-hell, just walking in the front door gets him hard at this point.
He's like, you know, those dogs that drool. Only he pops a plank.
I know you are, Mike's saying, But that's not going to change anything. Mike can be pretty fucking stubborn when he wants to be; it's what people call a double-edge sword. Because of it he's like, the guy to beat in the pool-but it makes him a tad obsessive-compulsive, too. Before he met Ryan-as Ryan likes to say-dude had a long-course sized stick up his ass.
Speaking of sticks in asses. Mike's fingers are creeping over his knee and up his inner thigh. Ryan moves to kick the hand away and instead ends up with his ankle held down against the bed. He frowns.
Relax.
Easy for you to say, Ryan growls. You're not the one who's gonna get something big shoved in his ass.
Michael smiles, lips peeling away from teeth in a way that makes him look like a deviant puppy. All happy and mischievous but just too stupid to beat. That smile should be a damn crime. You think I'm big? Mike asks.
Shut the fuck up.
There's a murmur of assent as Mike rocks forward slides his tongue in a circle around Ryan's belly-button. The best thing about Mike is that his tongue is ginormous, like a fucking rockstar, and when he... right...
Oh, hell yeah.
Ryan's head tilts back and hair falls back out of his eyes, which are now closed. Mike could suck an elephant through a straw, the boy is a talent. The wet friction, the tug and release of pressure-it doesn't take long for Ryan to get hard, a steady throb that connects every part of his body to his dick. And that tongue is moving, dragging, flicking. Ryan's toes curl and crease sheets.
And to think that in the beginning Mike refused to give head. Tragic. The boy had been simply tragic back when they met-Ryan should have karmic brownies by the busload for the good he's brought into the world.
He's so caught up in the spectacular head that at first he doesn't realize that something's knocking at his backdoor. Just a brush that gets dismissed as the sheets bunching up as he thrusts lazily up toward Mike's mouth.
The next time-that is no fucking brush. That is a goddamn finger in his ass and Ryan's hips come straight off the bed so fast that his pelvis smashes into Mike's nose with enough force that broken bones are not outside the realm of possibility. Not to mention that he's just inadvertently shoved his dick so far down Mike's throat that he's going epiglottal.
Spit flicks everywhere as Mike yanks away, eyes watering, and Ryan thumps his head down against the pillow. Get the hell away, he starts to say; his legs are twitching, knees trying to pull together but Mike-even coughing-keeps them jacked open with an elbow and a palm. Damn sasquatch.
Ryan tries again, says something that in his head is No way Playa but when it gets through his lips it really just sounds like a moan. Mike's finger is slick and feels big and sweet baby Jesus it shouldn't be so good, that filling pressure.
Ryan's breath is coming in short little gasps that he hates to admit are all adrenaline because it doesn't really hurt at all, Mike's finger. It's awkward but not unpleasant.
Not really pleasant, either, but not unpleasant.
Actually, it's pretty much the weirdest thing that Ryan's ever felt. Of course, that doesn't stop his back from arching slightly as he's intruded upon a little further. Just how long are Mike's fingers? He should know this shit since the guy out touches him in the pool, but all Ryan had ever really concerned himself with was that they were more than long enough to wrap around his dick so all was good and the case was closed.
There's a shift of bed again that's mostly unnoticed in Ryan's state of semi-shock but he sure as hell feels it when Mike's mouth slides back around his dick like a vacuum on steroids. Ryan's back comes further off the bed but this time it's less of a locked position and more of a reassuring thrust into something that he knows. And he knows Mike's mouth, knows how far he can get before his friend coughs, knows how hard he can thrust before he gets a smack in the balls.
Ryan grabs Mike's head, one set of fingers twists hard into hair and the other wrap around the edge of an ear-it might help him to feel like he's regaining a little control from the guy who's got a finger up his ass.
Two fingers.
Ryan gulps a breath like he's drowning as the pressure becomes a stretch. And he doesn't much like it but under all of that wrong is something that he doesn't want to stop. It's Mike, and that's okay, that's good. He'll tolerate shit from Mike that would make him walk away from other people. Like the way the asshole always steals the last cookie. Or hugs more than any man should hug and blames it on his mom.
Or will be a prude about blow jobs and then go and suggest a dick up the ass.
He doesn't realizes he's saying anything at all until Mike pops loudly off his dick and looks up with a, What?
Ryan's eyes are a little glazed over but he makes a mental note (probably for the fourth or fifth time) that Mike's lips look much better when they're all spitty and dick-bruised. His thumb slips almost into Mike's ear and there's a wince but he doesn't try to pull away. It takes a minute for Ryan to get that Mike's waiting for an answer to his question.
Come on, he rasps. That was what he was thinking. Come the fuck on.
Dark eyebrows arch. Yeah?
Yeah, fucking jeah motherfucker, come on.
Mike's tongue flips over his lips once as he does this crawling slide up the length of Ryan's body, a sort of retarded breaststroke, and fits them together in the little ways that have stopped surprising Ryan. He huffs out a breath when fingers pull out of him.
For all of Ryan's complaining his skin is hot and itchy, his pulse a mess, and when Mike shoves his knees under Ryan's ass there's no need to prompt for him to raise his legs-they're already hooking over the high shelf of Mike's hips. His heels thump against bare ass; at some point while Ryan was getting violated Mike was getting naked. He files the grievance away for later.
Foil crunches and rips as Ryan's staring at the ceiling, his legs jacked around his best friend's hips, wondering how he got right here to this moment. Had he been making fun of Mike for joking about putting Pussy as his intended major on his college forms? Boy couldn't catch pussy if pussy was a cold.
Ryan thinks that maybe he should stop making fun of Mike for skeeving. He repeats the thought to himself and closes his eyes as a thumb searches out his asshole. He promises to be nice from now on, but the universe is into payback like a bitch-Ryan knows the dick pushing at him too well to assume this'll be pleasant. Hell, he knows the guy who owns the dick too well.
Mike tends to come like he swims, and Ryan's afraid that he'll fuck like he swims, too. In which case this whole experience is going to land Ryan with a raw ass and a huge case of blue balls-all of which sounds about as pleasant as a training session with Bowman. Mike might be used to that shit but Ryan sure as hell isn't.
The first shove (because that's a good word for it, the impatient prick) drags a hiss in over teeth and Ryan's hips drop away. His hands-which have been removed from Mike's head-fist and he punches the jerk in the shoulder. Hazel eyes look up from an undetermined spot near Ryan's left nipple, slightly out of focus.
Slow down! he gripes. And if Mike smiles-
He gets punched again, in the same spot. And Ryan hopes it bruises. Stop smiling, he says. And slow the hell down. I'm not your last cheap date.
Mike leans in and teeth against Ryan's throat make his train of thought detour from Let Me Out At the Next Stop to Where Can I Get A Commuter Pass? He nearly forgets the dick poking at him until it starts to move again, and then no distraction on earth can help him get over that burn. Ryan raises a hand to hit Mike again but his wrist is grabbed and pinned down to the side and mother fucker! He opens his mouth to tell Mike just where he can stick himself when lips cover his.
Ryan's first thought is, gross, Mike just had my dick in his mouth.
They don't kiss as a general rule. There's just no real reason for it-they're not connecting, they're not making life plans. Ryan doesn't want to be the future Mrs Phelps or have Mike's mer-beast man babies. They're just getting off. Simple as that.
His second thought is, maybe it's not that simple. Because without any thought at all Ryan's fingers are digging into Mike's hair and his tongue is so far down the guy's throat it's possible that what he's tasting is tonsils. Mike's mouth is wide-a good match for his-and his friend doesn't complain when it gets a little sloppy.
Mike's hips slap against his ass before Ryan understands that he's being fucked. It still hurts, and Mike's still moving too fast, but the whole thing is starting to blur together into a motion that he can get his head around.
That's when he starts moving back, lifting his hips enough that his dick gets a nice little rub with each thrust to compensate. Not such a bad deal; he's sweaty and he's gonna hurt in places he doesn't normally think about tomorrow, but at least he's getting his wood back.
But in the end asking Mike to slow down is like asking the Pope to convert. Ryan's mouth is a little busy to stop and ask for it, anyway. The familiar rhythm of the motion between them falls apart and Mike's back to humping him like a hyperactive puppy cutting his first lipstick. All Ryan can really do is hang on.
And punch Mike again once he's slumped over him, one hundred and ninety-five pounds of sweaty fucking dead weight.
Ow.
Damn right ow, Ryan says, scraping hair out of his eyes. Get down there and fix the problem that you left.
One eye, more green than brown, rises to look at Ryan. Can't we-
No, Ryan answers.
There's a grumble that he completely ignores as Mike pulls away (and he's definitely on top next time). Ryan stretches out his cramping legs, links his arms behind his head on Mike's pillow, and doesn't think about the kissing. Shit happens.
Then he stops thinking all together when Mike sucks him back down, the slurp messy and fucking wonderful. Ryan reaches out for his favorite handles-hair and an ear and works a lazy thrust up into Mike's mouth.
Mike's always silent-must be a focus thing-so it makes no difference that his mouth is full, but Ryan's getting back on his stride. Fuck yeah shortie, he groans out, holding Mike down as he grinds up. Mike takes it because right now all the karmic brownies are on Ryan's plate and he's gonna enjoy that shit before the ache sets in, reminding him who really won this.
You know how to go down, don't you? Ryan rubs the warm curve of Mike's ear between a thumb and index finger. Yeah, fuck, hold your breath. Hold it. Take it like a champ-
He comes right off the bed with a groan as his body lets go and gives up with little crampy shudders that curl his toes and roll his eyes back. Mike yanks away from the tight grip too late to miss the mouthful and Ryan slumps back to the bed laughing as his friend lunges for a half-empty Gatorade bottle to spit in.
Remind me not to drink that later, Ryan murmurs, an idle smile twitching the corners of his lips. Mike rubs a backhand across his mouth and a moment later the used condom follows into the murky orange depths.
The bed shakes as Mike falls down next to Ryan and says, Don't drink that later.
Ryan punches him.