Ficlet : Santa Baby : MP/RL (nc17)
"Santa Baby"--10 days to Christmas
:: Michael Phelps/Ryan Lochte, US Swimming, nc17
Ryan laughs.
He's laying on the kitchen floor, mostly naked, and he's laughing. This is what Michael loves about him.
One of his socks is wet but still on-the other was lost somewhere between the oven and the fridge. His hair has cookie dough in it. There is flour in messy patches across his navy underwear in the shape of Michael's fingers; most of it on his crotch, making an odd white cup between his legs. The tshirt he was wearing now resides half jammed into the electric beater, and it's better not to ask about that; neither the appliance nor the shirt will ever be quite the same again. And Ryan's pants... well, Michael isn't sure where they went at all.
And Ryan is laughing. He picks a peppermint chip off his chest and pops it into his mouth, grinning and chewing. Michael climbs the length of his body and licks the taste of it off of his lips, sucking away the grit of sugar.
"Payback's pretty tasty," Ryan murmurs, pressing his mouth under the joint of Michael's jaw and scraping teeth over skin. Michael's nerves respond in a flutter of warmth, slow and thick and crawling south.
Michael uses a toe to push off Ryan's remaining sock. "Just wait until that cookie dough dries in your hair." Fingers slip under a waistband, dragging the sticky remains of batter down. Further. Ryan's legs fall apart and his smile rounds out until his lips are slack and eyelashes catch the flour on his cheeks.
This is what Michael loves about him. How involved Ryan is with everything, right now. The way he huffs a soft breath when Michael's fingers press against the warm pucker of his anus, circling wrinkled skin before pushing in. He watches Ryan's back arch off the tile and wants to save that picture-cheeks pink, eyelashes white, lips kissed slick and dark.
Teeth suck a lower lip and Ryan exhales, his back dropping and eyes opening. The light blue of them are almost drowned by wide black pupils, making him look inebriated, fucked, beautiful. He reaches down and his hand slides under navy cotton and his eyes close again with a moan-Michael pulls away, pulls Ryan's underwear away, and Ryan is slowly jerking himself off, fingers food-dirty around his hard dick.
"Wanna taste?" Ryan murmurs it, smiles sloppy. Michael can't help but smile back because he's destroyed Ryan's shirt, lost his pants, got the winning side of this battle but yes. He wants a taste.
His teeth catch at buttery knuckles, his tongue presses between fingers to the sound of his name like a prayer in Ryan's voice. The slick hand drops away only to scratch bitten fingernails through his hair and then grab his ear as he sucks the sugared residue of melted dough from the head of Ryan's dick. His nose brushes soft, grown-in hair. Ryan smells like butter, smells like peppermint, smells like Michael's Old Spice bodywash.
The more familiar smell beneath all of that is chlorine, a sharp, stinging, bright sort undertone that has soaked into his skin until it has become nothing but a part of who he is. This is what Michael loves about him. He loves that he can have Ryan and never leave the pool.
There's another arch, a rise of back that shows off the slimness of Ryan's waist and the bottom of his ribs as Michael swallows him, his tongue dragging the coarse grains of left over sugar across sensitive skin. Ryan's hips shiver, twitch, give a whispery shudder, and he's trying to follow Michael as he pulls back off.
Long arms are good for some things and Michael doesn't need to reach far to grab the bottle of olive oil, tipped from the fight off its spot on the counter. "Impatient," Ryan says, but of course he's already back to touching himself with long, slow strokes that make Michael's balls tighten. He twists the cap off and dirty fingers lose it under a cabinet-it's forgotten, won't even be remembered later when Michael wonders where it went. He's not thinking about it, he's thinking about the way Ryan's tan glows a soft gold in the light from the condo's low lamps and lit Christmas tree that is loaded with far too many lights to really be safe. It's the middle of winter and Ryan is still tan and Michael loves that, too, because he could get lost in the snow.
Of course, it all looks sort of equal when they're both covered in cookie dough and flour.
A long middle finger slides easily now, making a long slow push that curls Ryan's toes into the floor. The sound he gives up is honeyed, thick and sweet and Michael bites it off his lips, licks it out of his mouth. It tastes like cookies, butter and sugar and peppermint. Two fingers and Ryan tastes even sweeter, jerking under his touch. The olive oil gets knocked over, just another unremarked causality.
Knees work up over Michael's hips and the fingers that aren't still holding his ear climb his back, fingers digging into muscles as Ryan arches up into him. The remains of batter are slick and gritty where their chests touch-and then stomachs-as Ryan rises. Michael grabs a hip, an ass, holds him there. Up, close. And pushes something far better than fingers inside of him.
Ryan sounds like he's dying. This is what Michael loves about him, that there's no shame in it. Or maybe it's that Michael loves being able to make Ryan sound like this, like he's gonna tumble apart into a million little pieces.
He fucks into Ryan, slow. He eats the sounds from Ryan's mouth, teeth bumping and lips bruising. And Ryan meets every motion until they're both mindless-just a tangle of dough and oil and sweat and limbs. Ryan coming up, Michael coming down. Michael's lips ache but it's a sweet thing and he's kissing Ryan as he comes, a tightening of his body that starts in his gut and spreads out with a rolling shiver. That he's neglected Ryan's dick doesn't matter; he feels the hot splatter between their stomachs and this is what he loves.
Ryan slumps beneath him and Michael falls with. He lowers his head to Ryan's shoulder, content to lay there in the mess, and Ryan just lets go of Michael's ear and wraps an arm around his neck, lips pressing to his temple.
And this is what Michael loves about Ryan.
That Ryan loves him.
Santa Baby: 9 Days to Christmas.
:: Michael Phelps/Ryan Lochte, US Swimming, nc17
Ryan laughs.
He's laying on the kitchen floor, mostly naked, and he's laughing. This is what Michael loves about him.
One of his socks is wet but still on-the other was lost somewhere between the oven and the fridge. His hair has cookie dough in it. There is flour in messy patches across his navy underwear in the shape of Michael's fingers; most of it on his crotch, making an odd white cup between his legs. The tshirt he was wearing now resides half jammed into the electric beater, and it's better not to ask about that; neither the appliance nor the shirt will ever be quite the same again. And Ryan's pants... well, Michael isn't sure where they went at all.
And Ryan is laughing. He picks a peppermint chip off his chest and pops it into his mouth, grinning and chewing. Michael climbs the length of his body and licks the taste of it off of his lips, sucking away the grit of sugar.
"Payback's pretty tasty," Ryan murmurs, pressing his mouth under the joint of Michael's jaw and scraping teeth over skin. Michael's nerves respond in a flutter of warmth, slow and thick and crawling south.
Michael uses a toe to push off Ryan's remaining sock. "Just wait until that cookie dough dries in your hair." Fingers slip under a waistband, dragging the sticky remains of batter down. Further. Ryan's legs fall apart and his smile rounds out until his lips are slack and eyelashes catch the flour on his cheeks.
This is what Michael loves about him. How involved Ryan is with everything, right now. The way he huffs a soft breath when Michael's fingers press against the warm pucker of his anus, circling wrinkled skin before pushing in. He watches Ryan's back arch off the tile and wants to save that picture-cheeks pink, eyelashes white, lips kissed slick and dark.
Teeth suck a lower lip and Ryan exhales, his back dropping and eyes opening. The light blue of them are almost drowned by wide black pupils, making him look inebriated, fucked, beautiful. He reaches down and his hand slides under navy cotton and his eyes close again with a moan-Michael pulls away, pulls Ryan's underwear away, and Ryan is slowly jerking himself off, fingers food-dirty around his hard dick.
"Wanna taste?" Ryan murmurs it, smiles sloppy. Michael can't help but smile back because he's destroyed Ryan's shirt, lost his pants, got the winning side of this battle but yes. He wants a taste.
His teeth catch at buttery knuckles, his tongue presses between fingers to the sound of his name like a prayer in Ryan's voice. The slick hand drops away only to scratch bitten fingernails through his hair and then grab his ear as he sucks the sugared residue of melted dough from the head of Ryan's dick. His nose brushes soft, grown-in hair. Ryan smells like butter, smells like peppermint, smells like Michael's Old Spice bodywash.
The more familiar smell beneath all of that is chlorine, a sharp, stinging, bright sort undertone that has soaked into his skin until it has become nothing but a part of who he is. This is what Michael loves about him. He loves that he can have Ryan and never leave the pool.
There's another arch, a rise of back that shows off the slimness of Ryan's waist and the bottom of his ribs as Michael swallows him, his tongue dragging the coarse grains of left over sugar across sensitive skin. Ryan's hips shiver, twitch, give a whispery shudder, and he's trying to follow Michael as he pulls back off.
Long arms are good for some things and Michael doesn't need to reach far to grab the bottle of olive oil, tipped from the fight off its spot on the counter. "Impatient," Ryan says, but of course he's already back to touching himself with long, slow strokes that make Michael's balls tighten. He twists the cap off and dirty fingers lose it under a cabinet-it's forgotten, won't even be remembered later when Michael wonders where it went. He's not thinking about it, he's thinking about the way Ryan's tan glows a soft gold in the light from the condo's low lamps and lit Christmas tree that is loaded with far too many lights to really be safe. It's the middle of winter and Ryan is still tan and Michael loves that, too, because he could get lost in the snow.
Of course, it all looks sort of equal when they're both covered in cookie dough and flour.
A long middle finger slides easily now, making a long slow push that curls Ryan's toes into the floor. The sound he gives up is honeyed, thick and sweet and Michael bites it off his lips, licks it out of his mouth. It tastes like cookies, butter and sugar and peppermint. Two fingers and Ryan tastes even sweeter, jerking under his touch. The olive oil gets knocked over, just another unremarked causality.
Knees work up over Michael's hips and the fingers that aren't still holding his ear climb his back, fingers digging into muscles as Ryan arches up into him. The remains of batter are slick and gritty where their chests touch-and then stomachs-as Ryan rises. Michael grabs a hip, an ass, holds him there. Up, close. And pushes something far better than fingers inside of him.
Ryan sounds like he's dying. This is what Michael loves about him, that there's no shame in it. Or maybe it's that Michael loves being able to make Ryan sound like this, like he's gonna tumble apart into a million little pieces.
He fucks into Ryan, slow. He eats the sounds from Ryan's mouth, teeth bumping and lips bruising. And Ryan meets every motion until they're both mindless-just a tangle of dough and oil and sweat and limbs. Ryan coming up, Michael coming down. Michael's lips ache but it's a sweet thing and he's kissing Ryan as he comes, a tightening of his body that starts in his gut and spreads out with a rolling shiver. That he's neglected Ryan's dick doesn't matter; he feels the hot splatter between their stomachs and this is what he loves.
Ryan slumps beneath him and Michael falls with. He lowers his head to Ryan's shoulder, content to lay there in the mess, and Ryan just lets go of Michael's ear and wraps an arm around his neck, lips pressing to his temple.
And this is what Michael loves about Ryan.
That Ryan loves him.
Santa Baby: 9 Days to Christmas.