Olympics RPS - The Person's Republic of Michael Phelps (MP/RL NC-17, 2/2)
I've heard that there are people who can write a closing without it becoming twice as long as they intended. I am not one of those people.
Olympics RPS
Michael Phelps/Ryan Lochte
Rated NC-17
The Person's Republic of Michael Phelps
Part One
It takes Ryan three whole days to try to get Michael high. Michael's kind of impressed with his restraint.
They're sitting on the sofa in their underwear, watching cartoons on Cartoon Network and eating Frosted Flakes out of the box as a post-breakfast snack. They've already been up and out to hit up McDonalds for breakfast (egg McMuffins, pancakes, and hash browns) and Walgreens for a few quarts of orange juice to wash down the food. They've also picked up another package of Oreos, some chips, some beer, some more beer and some beef jerky.
Michael has no idea how Bob expects him not to turn into a bowling ball with his 'no workouts' rule and the amount Michael has to eat to keep his energy up.
"Stop being a pussy," Ryan says, exhaling a long breath and holding out the smoldering blunt.
Michael waves Ryan away so he can focus on Tom and Jerry. "No."
"Please?"
Michael glances back at Ryan before shoving a handful of cereal in his mouth. "Men don't say 'please'," he teases, flakes going everywhere as he talks with his mouth full. "You think Jeezy says 'please'?"
Ryan belches and a little puff of smoke escapes. Michael is not fascinated. Okay, maybe a little bit.
"I will take you out back and cut you if you don't get high. Is that gangsta enough for you?"
Michael snorts. The threat would help if Ryan weren't grinning. And if he weren't wearing the diamond grill he had made with the USA flag on it. "Didn't we get high last time?"
"What are you, my mom?"
"Don't you have, like, meets and shit? Rules, Ry. What's Greg going to say?"
"Gregg's not my dad!" Ryan protests, ashing on the sofa. "Anyway, he's the one who told me to take another couple of weeks off. Apparently being your chaperone to the VMAs and SNL can be written off as work. You need anybody to chaperone you to, like, the Playboy Mansion on something?"
Michael frowns. "Ryan."
Ryan sighs, removes his grill, puts it on the coffee table and takes another hit. He's quiet for ten whole seconds, it's, like, a Quiet Ryan record.
"Do you really think I'd do anything to fuck up my career now?" he says after exhaling. "Really? My sponsors are actually taking me seriously for a change, Mike. I'm not going to fuck that up, but I'm not going to be Mother Teresa either."
"Mother Teresa is dead."
Ryan drops his head onto Michael's shoulder. His hair tickles Michael's skin.
"Why are you so fucking difficult?" Ryan says dramatically to Michael's bicep. "Didn't you get the memo that says I'm the best thing that's ever happened to you?"
Michael snorts. He's heard this once or twice. From Bob. And his mom. And Whitney and Hillary. And Bob Costas. And like every fucking news outlet ever. "Maybe."
Ryan lifts his head, his eyes are strangely focused, if very, very red. "Then shut up and let me be that best thing, okay?" he says firmly.
Michael blinks; he's not sure they're talking about weed anymore, but he takes the blunt anyway and sucks down a considerable inhale.
"Jeah?" Ryan asks.
Michael coughs, his lungs burning with the inhalation. "Jeah."
Ryan pats him on the chest and then rubs a few circles with the heel of his hand. It feels good. Really good. Michael looks from Ryan's hand, along his forearm and bicep with its Olympic rings, to his shoulder and his neck. Michael's eyes come to a stop at Ryan's mouth.
He takes another long drag of the blunt, inhaling and exhaling slowly. He can feel the heat from Ryan's hand marking his chest. "We should fuck now," he says thoughtfully.
Ryan clears his throat, and Michael finally meets his eyes. They're crinkling at the corners. "I never thought I'd see the day when I'd turn down a horny, stoned Michael Phelps, but we've got a field trip."
"Field trip. You want me to go somewhere like this?"
Ryan bites his lip. Fucking Ryan and his fucking mouth.
"I probably should've said that first," Ryan says, plucking the weed out of Michael's grasp and carefully putting it out in his sombrero ashtray. "My bad."
"Your bad?" Michael tackles Ryan because he's irritated that he has to go somewhere, not because he has no restraint and really wants to grope Ryan's ass.
Okay, that's a big lie.
Ryan laughs as they both go flying off the sofa and onto the floor with a thud, but his laughs turns into a curse and then a moan when Michael crawls over him, sliding his leg between Ryan's thighs and grinding his dick against Ryan's hip.
"We have, have to - to --" Ryan tries as Michael pins Ryan's hands on the floor above his head and continues to rub his cock against Ryan's hip through two layers of cotton. Michael's feeling very determined today; he nips Ryan's earlobe with his teeth before moving down the side of his neck.
Ryan whimpers when Michael begins sucking the soft skin behind his ear; maybe he'll leave a mark. "Fine, fuck, you --" Ryan gasps, writhing underneath him.
Michael pulls away, licking his lips and watching Ryan's face as Ryan struggles in his grasp before giving up. Instead, Ryan bends his legs, pushing away from the floor and up into Michael. Michael rides the thrust, skin against skin and cotton against cotton.
There are worse ways to spend a morning than high and dry humping on a dirty floor.
"I was right," Michael pants against Ryan's neck. "Say it."
Ryan grunts when Michael nips his shoulder sharply. "Fuck you."
"I'm trying," Michael says, speeding up his thrusts. Friction should be the eighth wonder of the world. Ryan's hips are bony, but it feels good. Fuck good, it feels awesome. Olympic awesome.
Ryan tries to wrap a leg around Michael's back, but he's not in the right position, which earns Michael a string of profanity that leads to Michael biting down on Ryan's shoulder even harder. It's going to leave a mark. Correction: another mark. Maybe nobody will notice with all the other bruises they have.
Ryan's panting in Michael's ear, babbling seriously dirty shit about fucking Michael in the backyard underneath the oak trees, all while rocking against Michael's thigh. He comes violently, shaking and yanking his hands out of Michael's hold.
"Son of a bitch," Ryan curses, grabbing at Michael's ass and pulling Michael forward and down and back and up and everywhere in between.
"C'mon… c'mon…c'mon," Ryan urges against Michael's neck, his hands sliding under the waistband of Michael's boxers and groping Michael's bare ass. Michael hisses loudly when Ryan's fingers rub insistently against his entrance; a little spit could go a long way here, but -- but -- fuck is he supposed to have a thought?
He can't breathe like this, and when he turns his head for air... Ryan's mouth is right there. He's not expecting it when they kiss; it's kind of like somebody set him on fire.
His mouth opens against Ryan's lips, and Ryan's tongue flickers into his mouth. It's soft and tentative; they pull apart for a fraction of a second and then dive back in. Ryan bites and Michael licks; Michael's fingers get tangled in Ryan's hair as he tries to control the kiss, tries to fuck Ryan's mouth with his tongue. And then Ryan's fingernails dig into his ass, and Michael comes so hard he thinks he's blacking out.
Only Ryan could send Michael's control from 100 to zero in one-hundredth of a second.
He doesn't remember closing his eyes, but when he opens them he's lying on his side next to Ryan, and Ryan's staring at him intently. Michael feels gross and incredible at the same time; his boxers aren't meant for this. When he licks his lips, he tastes Frosted Flakes and marijuana and something that might be Ryan.
His voice is raspy when he uses it. "Field trip?"
Ryan's smile is small and wry. "Jeah."
Being stoned outside is an experience people need to tell you about beforehand: the colors, the images, the time delay when you can't figure out how to cross the street. The sensory overload is enough to send anybody screaming, or possibly cause them to lie down in the sandbox in one of the kids' parks and declare sand the best thing ever. Ryan also says the same thing about the grass, the warm brick on the side of one of the buildings and the feel of his shirt against his tattoos.
For a split second, Michael thinks about licking Ryan's tattoos - Michael has very good ideas about reaching around to jerk Ryan off while sucking on the gator tattoo on his right shoulder -- but they're in public, and he's stoned.
Plus, he's got two tattoos of his own, which are actually feeling kind of sensitive. When he rubs his hip, his dick twitches in interest. Clearly M-A-R-I-J-U-A-N-A does not spell restraint.
Michael blinks and wipes away the sweat on his forehead.
Walking around town in the Gainesville humidity when you're sober is cruel. Walking around town in the Gainesville humidity when you're stoned is just fucking masochistic. By the time they get to the Florida Museum of Natural History, Michael's ready to go home.
"We have a museum in D.C." he points out after Ryan pays their admission fees and then pile-drives him through the exhibits without giving him a chance to look at anything. "It's a big one called the Smithsonian, maybe you've heard of it."
Michael doesn't have to see the Northern Florida: Waterways and Wildlife Exhibit, but he'd kind of like to look at the dinosaurs.
"Everything's bigger up north," Ryan mocks, yanking him along. "I've heard it all before."
"I didn't say everything," Michael leers. Or he tries to leer, but he's never been good at it. He probably just looks pained.
"Shut up and come on," Ryan orders.
"You brought me to the museum, so I couldn't see anything?" Michael protests, trying not to run into anybody with Ryan shoving him along. It's a good thing it's a workday, this could be kind of ugly if there were kids involved.
"I just didn't want you to be distracted when I show you this," Ryan says, steering Michael around a corner and stopping in front of a corridor labeled 'Butterfly Exhibits."
Michael raises an eyebrow, but dutifully takes in the exhibit. The butterflies are pretty, sure, but, "What's that?" he asks mid-way down the hall
"The lab where they're raised," Ryan says with a grin.
"Where what's raised?"
Michael knows he's missing something, but he's stoned and sweaty and he just came his brains out and possibly kissed Ryan, he's not at his sharpest.
"The butterflies," Ryan says obviously.
"They grow them just so they can pin them on the wall?" Michael's kind of horrified.
Ryan's smile is entirely too toothy. "Nooooooo," he says, steering Michael around another corner and through several sets of doors. "They raise them so they can live in the sanctuary," he says, opening the last door and waving Michael through first.
"Sanctuary? What sanc --" Michael stops mid-step.
They've gone from the museum to a tropical rainforest. A real tropical rainforest. There's a giant glass ceiling and plants and flowers everywhere. There are bridges and mists, but mostly there are butterflies. Hundreds and hundreds of butterflies everywhere. It's amazing.
"C'mon, dude, you're blocking the door," Ryan says softly, grabbing Michael's sleeve and dragging him along the path.
Michael follows dutifully, staring at everything he can possibly take in. He knows there are other people around, but he can't really hear them, and he knows it's hot in here, but it doesn't really matter. For the most part the exhibit is quiet and green and seriously soothing. This is a vacation.
"You like it, huh?"
Michael looks over to find Ryan smirking at him. "Dude."
"If you come on the weekends, you can be here when they release the new butterflies, but there are too many people. It's kind of claustrophobic."
Michael nods, he can see how it could get too crowded easily. Not because there's not room for other people, but because who would want to share this if they didn't have to?
There are doves overhead, and when they cross the bridge there are koi in the pond below. Michael's leans over the side; maybe he should get some koi for the condo, but that probably wouldn't go over well with Herman.
His hand twitches randomly, and when he looks down a bright pink butterfly has landed on him. "Holy shit," he says in awe. "Ryan, look."
Ryan chuckles softly. "Yeah, if you don't move around a lot, they'll come and sit on you. It's cool, see?"
Michael moves his head very slowly, but his laugh can't be stopped when he sees the butterflies nestled in Ryan's hair and on his shoulder. The noise makes the butterfly on his hand fly away, but seconds later two more land on his shirt.
And after that a few more land on his arm. Their touch is so light that if he weren't stoned, he's pretty sure he wouldn't be able to feel them at all.
They make these tiny gusts of air when they take off though; it's like Ryan breathing on him in the middle of the night.
The concept of a 'breeze' is not in the Gainesville vocabulary. They're walking back to Ryan's place, and Michael can feel the sweat sliding down his spine and gathering above the crack of his ass. Yuck. The sky is almost white and everything seems sort of fuzzy around the edges, but that's probably the weed.
Ryan's talking to him about something: Xbox, the weather, skateboarding, dingoes eating babies. Michael stops in the middle of the sidewalk. "What?"
Ryan keeps walking on, tossing a huge grin over his shoulder. "So you were listening."
Michael is so confused. "Did you just say something about dingoes eating your baby? What --" Michael's thought dies off when something wet lands on his face. Please don't let it be bird shit.
He wipes at it automatically, but there's no smear on his hand. He's sweating a lot, but not like --
"Rain," Ryan says knowingly.
Michael takes four steps forward before the sky opens up and pisses on his head. It's a lot of rain, really fast. Michael tries to outrun it but by the end of the block he's drenched, and when he looks over his shoulder, Ryan's ambling along leisurely, and occasionally, stomping in puddles.
"Anytime you want to get moving, princess," Michael says, tapping his increasingly wet Nike on the ground.
Ryan strolls up to him, curls dripping down his forehead and smiles. "I thought the great Michael Phelps walked on water, what?"
Michael snorts. "Fuck you."
Ryan looks him up and down blatantly. "Maybe."
There's rain running in Michael's eyes, but a blind man could appreciate exactly how much Ryan's clothes are clinging to his body. When Ryan pokes his tongue into the side of his jaw, it looks like he's giving a blowjob.
Hint received.
"What happened?" Ryan says conversationally. "Did the rain make you stupid or was it the weed?" Michael snorts and Ryan moves way too close. "You thinking dirty shit about me again?"
Michael doesn't even bother to deny it, it would take too much effort. "You could swim home in this," he says feebly.
"I'll race you," Ryan offers right before taking off down the street. Michael's hot on his heels a second later, praying he doesn't fall on his face or get swept up in some flash flood.
Ryan gets to the house first, but he slows down too late, and because of the rain, he totally overshoots the gate. Michael grabs the gate to slow down, laughing like an idiot as Ryan skids down the sidewalk several feet. "First!" he crows, his shoes squishing up the path to the front door.
Ryan's right behind him though, and Michael gets plastered to the door as Ryan crowds him to slide the key in the lock. The amount of water they track inside could fill a kiddie pool.
Ryan begins stripping his clothes off right after he closes the door. Michael's the one who flips on the light and turns the lock.
He's the one who watches.
Ryan's shirt lands with a heavy plop and his shoes thud loudly on the wood flooring. Michael's eyes grow bigger as Ryan pops the button on his shorts, unzips them and lets them fall down to the floor. Michael can be slow sometimes, but there really aren't more obvious invitations than this.
Ryan laughs as Michael crowds him. "I was wondering when you were gonna get with the program," he says as Michael studies him intently.
Michael sneezes; Ryan snorts. "Real sexy, Phelps. You gonna take those wet clothes off? You need some help?" he offers, pulling on the hem of Michael's shirt.
Michael swallows. "Yeah."
And then Ryan's pushing Michael's shirt up his chest and breathing on his wet skin. Michael makes this choking noise. He can't see what Ryan's doing because the shirt's in the way, but he can feel it. He can feel Ryan licking the water on his chest. Ryan's mouth is stupidly hot against his damp skin, and Jesus, he's lapping at Michael's left nipple.
Oh, fuck, yes.
He gets tangled up trying to yank his shirt over his head and rips it somewhere before finally getting free.
Ryan's not breathing on him anymore, but he is watching with a lot of amusement. "I would help you with the pants, but that, like, seems dangerous."
Michael puts his hand on Ryan's chest and pushes him back against the door again. "Stay there."
Ryan looks like he's about to argue, but instead he just nods and Michael turns around, feeling his way along the walls for light switches. In the bedroom, the lube is a sticky mess on the nightstand and there's nothing but glow-in-the-dark condoms in the drawer.
Michael snatches them both up and hurries back. He stops when he comes around the corner and sees Ryan standing there naked, leaning against the door and stroking his cock leisurely.
Porn was never this good.
Michael clears his throat as he approaches, and Ryan gives him that grin that's won over everyone else in a ten thousand mile radius.
"Am I interrupting?" Michael asks wryly.
Ryan raises an eyebrow, takes one last stroke and pushes away from the wall. Michael clutches at the lube and condoms as Ryan walks into his space, backing him up further and further until Michael hits the wall. Ryan's got purple-black bruises all over his knees, large splotchy red-purple bruises along his ribs and some faint blueish-green bruises around his wrists. Michael did that. Oh.
Ryan narrows his eyes, studying something, studying him, and then he wraps his hand around the nape of Michael's neck and tugs him down slightly.
It's a big hand, warm, and Michael shudders as Ryan pulls him in. He drops the lube and condoms on the floor as Ryan's wet mouth presses against his and his slick tongue slides along Michael's lips. It's epic. Like eight gold Olympic medals epic. Michael should probably say something; they don't do this, this is so -- so fucking hot. He groans loudly, opening his mouth for Ryan and letting him in.
Ryan grunts as Michael's hands finally decide to participate by groping his ass. Michael's fingers have very definite ideas about what they should be doing, and Ryan's skin is by turns wet, clammy and warm as Michael's fingers rub the cleft of his ass.
Ryan pushes back against his hands, which leads to Michael pulling him in tighter, trying to keep him near. Ryan hums against Michael's mouth happily, the vibrations going straight to Michael's cock. Their kissing is vicious and soft and dirty and wet and hard; it's like them.
Ryan pulls away eventually, biting down sharply on Michael's lower lip; Michael makes a sort of pitiful noise. Ryan ignores this, choosing instead to paw at his shorts. "Off. Now," he demands.
Michael nods helpfully. "Okay."
And he does. One minute he's kissing Ryan against the wall, and the next he's on the floor, his back against the wall and Ryan kneeling over his cock, pouring slick lube all over his own fingers.
"I wanted to do that," Michael protests as Ryan's right hand disappears between his own legs. Ryan scoffs loudly.
"You want to do everything," Ryan pants, his cheeks beginning to flush as he slowly rocks up and down. "You are such a fucking overachiever. You want eight medals. You want to be the best. You want to fuck me. Jesus fuck, you're demanding," he bitches.
There's sweat breaking out on Ryan's forehead, and his motions quicken under Michael's gaze. "If you want to be alone with you hand," Michael teases, "I can go to the Holiday Inn."
"God, you're a douchebag." Ryan glares at him. "Why the fuck do I put up with you?"
Michael looks Ryan directly in the eye, blindly reaching down and pulling Ryan's slick hand away. "Because I do shit like this," he says, replacing Ryan's fingers with his own.
Ryan yowls as Michael slides one finger inside him. "Yes," he says, digging his fingers into Michael's arm. "Fuck, yes."
Michael thrusts in and out, watching Ryan and letting Ryan ride his fingers, enjoying the heat and slick. It takes him a second to catch on when Ryan starts jerking himself off, and then it's all he can look at: Ryan's cock fucking his fist, the slick from earlier mixing with the pre-come to make Ryan look like some sort of porn fantasy.
It's so hot, Michael's dick aches in agony.
When he leans in for a better look, he can feel Ryan breathing against his forehead and when he looks up Ryan's staring at him hard.
He couldn't say if he kisses Ryan or if Ryan kisses him, it doesn't really matter. What matters is that this feels good. That it feels right for them.
Ryan sucks on his tongue suggestively, and Michael's cock twitches again in protest. Michael wraps his free arm around Ryan and pulls him in. He can feel Ryan's knuckles brushing against his stomach as he jerks himself off, can hear the little nasal snorts as they try not to break apart to breathe, and then Ryan bites down on Michael's lip sharply and Michael feels warm spatters on his stomach.
Damn.
Ryan's tongue flickers over Michael's bottom lip, soothing the pain before pulling away. It takes Michael a second to focus, to try and extract body parts and figure out what's going on, but when he does, he can’t seem to stop staring at the color in Ryan's face, at the wide eyed look of shock and at his swollen mouth.
Ryan smirks at him though, and Michael bangs his head against the wall when Ryan's hand closes over his dick and strokes once, twice, three times and he comes.
All that and he didn't even get to fuck Ryan. Well, not with his dick anyway.
Ryan slaps him lightly on the face to get his attention. Michael just looks at him dumbly; he's probably got a concussion by now anyway.
"I'm a hot piece of ass," Ryan says knowingly. "It's okay."
Michael reads everything about everybody in his orbit. He's got articles about Thorpe and Alain Bernard taped up in his lockers, on his walls at home there are articles about Cullen and Jason and Klete Keller and Ian Crocker. Invariably there's paper lint in Michael's laundry because of an article he ripped out of a magazine to read and forgot to take out of his jeans.
All this means that, of course, Michael has articles about Ryan. Not just the ones where they're standing together in their Speedos like some sort of gay porn.
Last year, Ryan did an interview with Men's Journal where they asked him if he was ever worried -- considering all the times he crashed his skateboard or his scooter or his surfboard -- to which, Ryan, in typical Ryan fashion, said, No. I'm not going to stop doing that stuff. All of that stuff makes me who I am. In my head, I feel like I'm going to do whatever I do. If I get hurt, then it's someone saying that it's not meant to be - you're not meant to go to the Olympics. Life is too short to just waste.
Michael thought it really was about the Olympics, but maybe it was about a little bit more.
"If you die suddenly, I would totally break into your house and take all your porn so your mom doesn't freak out," Ryan says in bed later on. He's tracing patterns on Michael's back, which is pretty much guaranteed to send Michael to sleep. Or to make him horny.
"I -- uh, you what?" Michael tries again. His cock likes Ryan's hands on his skin.
"I'm dead serious, Mike, I would totally be your porn buddy."
Ryan's using his 'this is important to me' voice, which always makes Michael a little uneasy. Ryan's just not built to be serious about anything outside of the water, so it takes Michael a minute to realize what Ryan's said.
"If I suddenly -- with my porn?" Michael rolls over to face Ryan. "Is there something I should know? You only want me for my porn, is that it?
Ryan smiles broadly. "Your porn isn't that good, trust me."
"Now you're insulting my porn? That's just -- that's wrong."
"I was just saying."
"You were just saying," Michael parrots.
Ryan nods. "Yeah."
Michael considers Ryan carefully. It's the thought that counts. Ryan's being deep. He's trying. He is so not good with this shit.
"Are we really talking about porn here?" Michael asks carefully.
Ryan blinks and then smirks. "What should we be talking about? Our feelings?"
Michael nearly chokes on his own tongue. "That's not even funny."
"Hell yeah, it is. You should see your face."
Michael socks Ryan in the arm. "You’re an asshole."
Ryan chuckles and drops down on the bed beside him. "Damn straight I am, it's why you like me."
Michael yawns. "Yeah, probably."
Ryan pats him on the arm. "It's why I like you too."
Michael smiles a little stupidly. He can't help it. Ryan just rolls his eyes and chuckles. "Now shut the fuck up and go to sleep, we're not two chicks."
"I wish you were a chick," Michael says mournfully. "I miss tits."
Ryan raises an eyebrow. "I have porn."
Michael groans and pulls his pillow over his head. "Enough with the porn!"
But Ryan's warming up to the idea. "We could have jerk off competitions, dude! C'mon, I've got some hardcore --"
Michael tosses his pillow away, eyeballs Ryan and grabs him by the hair.
"I knew you were into kink--"
Ryan's words are swallowed in Michael's kiss. It's a good kiss if Michael says so himself -- just enough teeth and tongue to keep it interesting. When he pulls away, Ryan looks dazed. Michael smirks. "Go to sleep, now, 'kay?" he says.
Ryan nods. "I can do that."
"Jeah?"
"Jeah."
And, surprisingly enough, Ryan buries his nose in Michael's shoulder, slings an arm across Michael's chest and does just that.
Go figure.
-end-
I really really enjoyed writing this, fucking hell.
+ Huge, Michael's arm-span sized thanks to alethialia, amberlynne, lyra_sena, metrosex, them0rgue, ruidoso, serialkarma, sparky77 and thorne_scratch for all their support and 'research assistance' and to the fine people at NYT for the title of this story.
+ Extra special thanks to lifeinwords, silentfire, strawberryelfsp and thisisbone for all their contributions to this section. I hope I did you proud, or at least not a disservice. If you're in Gainesville, visit the Butterfly Rainforest for real.
+ For the first time in a long-ass time there's no soundtrack for one of my longer works, but I very much recommend Adele's 19. Duffy my ass.
Olympics RPS
Michael Phelps/Ryan Lochte
Rated NC-17
The Person's Republic of Michael Phelps
Part One
It takes Ryan three whole days to try to get Michael high. Michael's kind of impressed with his restraint.
They're sitting on the sofa in their underwear, watching cartoons on Cartoon Network and eating Frosted Flakes out of the box as a post-breakfast snack. They've already been up and out to hit up McDonalds for breakfast (egg McMuffins, pancakes, and hash browns) and Walgreens for a few quarts of orange juice to wash down the food. They've also picked up another package of Oreos, some chips, some beer, some more beer and some beef jerky.
Michael has no idea how Bob expects him not to turn into a bowling ball with his 'no workouts' rule and the amount Michael has to eat to keep his energy up.
"Stop being a pussy," Ryan says, exhaling a long breath and holding out the smoldering blunt.
Michael waves Ryan away so he can focus on Tom and Jerry. "No."
"Please?"
Michael glances back at Ryan before shoving a handful of cereal in his mouth. "Men don't say 'please'," he teases, flakes going everywhere as he talks with his mouth full. "You think Jeezy says 'please'?"
Ryan belches and a little puff of smoke escapes. Michael is not fascinated. Okay, maybe a little bit.
"I will take you out back and cut you if you don't get high. Is that gangsta enough for you?"
Michael snorts. The threat would help if Ryan weren't grinning. And if he weren't wearing the diamond grill he had made with the USA flag on it. "Didn't we get high last time?"
"What are you, my mom?"
"Don't you have, like, meets and shit? Rules, Ry. What's Greg going to say?"
"Gregg's not my dad!" Ryan protests, ashing on the sofa. "Anyway, he's the one who told me to take another couple of weeks off. Apparently being your chaperone to the VMAs and SNL can be written off as work. You need anybody to chaperone you to, like, the Playboy Mansion on something?"
Michael frowns. "Ryan."
Ryan sighs, removes his grill, puts it on the coffee table and takes another hit. He's quiet for ten whole seconds, it's, like, a Quiet Ryan record.
"Do you really think I'd do anything to fuck up my career now?" he says after exhaling. "Really? My sponsors are actually taking me seriously for a change, Mike. I'm not going to fuck that up, but I'm not going to be Mother Teresa either."
"Mother Teresa is dead."
Ryan drops his head onto Michael's shoulder. His hair tickles Michael's skin.
"Why are you so fucking difficult?" Ryan says dramatically to Michael's bicep. "Didn't you get the memo that says I'm the best thing that's ever happened to you?"
Michael snorts. He's heard this once or twice. From Bob. And his mom. And Whitney and Hillary. And Bob Costas. And like every fucking news outlet ever. "Maybe."
Ryan lifts his head, his eyes are strangely focused, if very, very red. "Then shut up and let me be that best thing, okay?" he says firmly.
Michael blinks; he's not sure they're talking about weed anymore, but he takes the blunt anyway and sucks down a considerable inhale.
"Jeah?" Ryan asks.
Michael coughs, his lungs burning with the inhalation. "Jeah."
Ryan pats him on the chest and then rubs a few circles with the heel of his hand. It feels good. Really good. Michael looks from Ryan's hand, along his forearm and bicep with its Olympic rings, to his shoulder and his neck. Michael's eyes come to a stop at Ryan's mouth.
He takes another long drag of the blunt, inhaling and exhaling slowly. He can feel the heat from Ryan's hand marking his chest. "We should fuck now," he says thoughtfully.
Ryan clears his throat, and Michael finally meets his eyes. They're crinkling at the corners. "I never thought I'd see the day when I'd turn down a horny, stoned Michael Phelps, but we've got a field trip."
"Field trip. You want me to go somewhere like this?"
Ryan bites his lip. Fucking Ryan and his fucking mouth.
"I probably should've said that first," Ryan says, plucking the weed out of Michael's grasp and carefully putting it out in his sombrero ashtray. "My bad."
"Your bad?" Michael tackles Ryan because he's irritated that he has to go somewhere, not because he has no restraint and really wants to grope Ryan's ass.
Okay, that's a big lie.
Ryan laughs as they both go flying off the sofa and onto the floor with a thud, but his laughs turns into a curse and then a moan when Michael crawls over him, sliding his leg between Ryan's thighs and grinding his dick against Ryan's hip.
"We have, have to - to --" Ryan tries as Michael pins Ryan's hands on the floor above his head and continues to rub his cock against Ryan's hip through two layers of cotton. Michael's feeling very determined today; he nips Ryan's earlobe with his teeth before moving down the side of his neck.
Ryan whimpers when Michael begins sucking the soft skin behind his ear; maybe he'll leave a mark. "Fine, fuck, you --" Ryan gasps, writhing underneath him.
Michael pulls away, licking his lips and watching Ryan's face as Ryan struggles in his grasp before giving up. Instead, Ryan bends his legs, pushing away from the floor and up into Michael. Michael rides the thrust, skin against skin and cotton against cotton.
There are worse ways to spend a morning than high and dry humping on a dirty floor.
"I was right," Michael pants against Ryan's neck. "Say it."
Ryan grunts when Michael nips his shoulder sharply. "Fuck you."
"I'm trying," Michael says, speeding up his thrusts. Friction should be the eighth wonder of the world. Ryan's hips are bony, but it feels good. Fuck good, it feels awesome. Olympic awesome.
Ryan tries to wrap a leg around Michael's back, but he's not in the right position, which earns Michael a string of profanity that leads to Michael biting down on Ryan's shoulder even harder. It's going to leave a mark. Correction: another mark. Maybe nobody will notice with all the other bruises they have.
Ryan's panting in Michael's ear, babbling seriously dirty shit about fucking Michael in the backyard underneath the oak trees, all while rocking against Michael's thigh. He comes violently, shaking and yanking his hands out of Michael's hold.
"Son of a bitch," Ryan curses, grabbing at Michael's ass and pulling Michael forward and down and back and up and everywhere in between.
"C'mon… c'mon…c'mon," Ryan urges against Michael's neck, his hands sliding under the waistband of Michael's boxers and groping Michael's bare ass. Michael hisses loudly when Ryan's fingers rub insistently against his entrance; a little spit could go a long way here, but -- but -- fuck is he supposed to have a thought?
He can't breathe like this, and when he turns his head for air... Ryan's mouth is right there. He's not expecting it when they kiss; it's kind of like somebody set him on fire.
His mouth opens against Ryan's lips, and Ryan's tongue flickers into his mouth. It's soft and tentative; they pull apart for a fraction of a second and then dive back in. Ryan bites and Michael licks; Michael's fingers get tangled in Ryan's hair as he tries to control the kiss, tries to fuck Ryan's mouth with his tongue. And then Ryan's fingernails dig into his ass, and Michael comes so hard he thinks he's blacking out.
Only Ryan could send Michael's control from 100 to zero in one-hundredth of a second.
He doesn't remember closing his eyes, but when he opens them he's lying on his side next to Ryan, and Ryan's staring at him intently. Michael feels gross and incredible at the same time; his boxers aren't meant for this. When he licks his lips, he tastes Frosted Flakes and marijuana and something that might be Ryan.
His voice is raspy when he uses it. "Field trip?"
Ryan's smile is small and wry. "Jeah."
Being stoned outside is an experience people need to tell you about beforehand: the colors, the images, the time delay when you can't figure out how to cross the street. The sensory overload is enough to send anybody screaming, or possibly cause them to lie down in the sandbox in one of the kids' parks and declare sand the best thing ever. Ryan also says the same thing about the grass, the warm brick on the side of one of the buildings and the feel of his shirt against his tattoos.
For a split second, Michael thinks about licking Ryan's tattoos - Michael has very good ideas about reaching around to jerk Ryan off while sucking on the gator tattoo on his right shoulder -- but they're in public, and he's stoned.
Plus, he's got two tattoos of his own, which are actually feeling kind of sensitive. When he rubs his hip, his dick twitches in interest. Clearly M-A-R-I-J-U-A-N-A does not spell restraint.
Michael blinks and wipes away the sweat on his forehead.
Walking around town in the Gainesville humidity when you're sober is cruel. Walking around town in the Gainesville humidity when you're stoned is just fucking masochistic. By the time they get to the Florida Museum of Natural History, Michael's ready to go home.
"We have a museum in D.C." he points out after Ryan pays their admission fees and then pile-drives him through the exhibits without giving him a chance to look at anything. "It's a big one called the Smithsonian, maybe you've heard of it."
Michael doesn't have to see the Northern Florida: Waterways and Wildlife Exhibit, but he'd kind of like to look at the dinosaurs.
"Everything's bigger up north," Ryan mocks, yanking him along. "I've heard it all before."
"I didn't say everything," Michael leers. Or he tries to leer, but he's never been good at it. He probably just looks pained.
"Shut up and come on," Ryan orders.
"You brought me to the museum, so I couldn't see anything?" Michael protests, trying not to run into anybody with Ryan shoving him along. It's a good thing it's a workday, this could be kind of ugly if there were kids involved.
"I just didn't want you to be distracted when I show you this," Ryan says, steering Michael around a corner and stopping in front of a corridor labeled 'Butterfly Exhibits."
Michael raises an eyebrow, but dutifully takes in the exhibit. The butterflies are pretty, sure, but, "What's that?" he asks mid-way down the hall
"The lab where they're raised," Ryan says with a grin.
"Where what's raised?"
Michael knows he's missing something, but he's stoned and sweaty and he just came his brains out and possibly kissed Ryan, he's not at his sharpest.
"The butterflies," Ryan says obviously.
"They grow them just so they can pin them on the wall?" Michael's kind of horrified.
Ryan's smile is entirely too toothy. "Nooooooo," he says, steering Michael around another corner and through several sets of doors. "They raise them so they can live in the sanctuary," he says, opening the last door and waving Michael through first.
"Sanctuary? What sanc --" Michael stops mid-step.
They've gone from the museum to a tropical rainforest. A real tropical rainforest. There's a giant glass ceiling and plants and flowers everywhere. There are bridges and mists, but mostly there are butterflies. Hundreds and hundreds of butterflies everywhere. It's amazing.
"C'mon, dude, you're blocking the door," Ryan says softly, grabbing Michael's sleeve and dragging him along the path.
Michael follows dutifully, staring at everything he can possibly take in. He knows there are other people around, but he can't really hear them, and he knows it's hot in here, but it doesn't really matter. For the most part the exhibit is quiet and green and seriously soothing. This is a vacation.
"You like it, huh?"
Michael looks over to find Ryan smirking at him. "Dude."
"If you come on the weekends, you can be here when they release the new butterflies, but there are too many people. It's kind of claustrophobic."
Michael nods, he can see how it could get too crowded easily. Not because there's not room for other people, but because who would want to share this if they didn't have to?
There are doves overhead, and when they cross the bridge there are koi in the pond below. Michael's leans over the side; maybe he should get some koi for the condo, but that probably wouldn't go over well with Herman.
His hand twitches randomly, and when he looks down a bright pink butterfly has landed on him. "Holy shit," he says in awe. "Ryan, look."
Ryan chuckles softly. "Yeah, if you don't move around a lot, they'll come and sit on you. It's cool, see?"
Michael moves his head very slowly, but his laugh can't be stopped when he sees the butterflies nestled in Ryan's hair and on his shoulder. The noise makes the butterfly on his hand fly away, but seconds later two more land on his shirt.
And after that a few more land on his arm. Their touch is so light that if he weren't stoned, he's pretty sure he wouldn't be able to feel them at all.
They make these tiny gusts of air when they take off though; it's like Ryan breathing on him in the middle of the night.
The concept of a 'breeze' is not in the Gainesville vocabulary. They're walking back to Ryan's place, and Michael can feel the sweat sliding down his spine and gathering above the crack of his ass. Yuck. The sky is almost white and everything seems sort of fuzzy around the edges, but that's probably the weed.
Ryan's talking to him about something: Xbox, the weather, skateboarding, dingoes eating babies. Michael stops in the middle of the sidewalk. "What?"
Ryan keeps walking on, tossing a huge grin over his shoulder. "So you were listening."
Michael is so confused. "Did you just say something about dingoes eating your baby? What --" Michael's thought dies off when something wet lands on his face. Please don't let it be bird shit.
He wipes at it automatically, but there's no smear on his hand. He's sweating a lot, but not like --
"Rain," Ryan says knowingly.
Michael takes four steps forward before the sky opens up and pisses on his head. It's a lot of rain, really fast. Michael tries to outrun it but by the end of the block he's drenched, and when he looks over his shoulder, Ryan's ambling along leisurely, and occasionally, stomping in puddles.
"Anytime you want to get moving, princess," Michael says, tapping his increasingly wet Nike on the ground.
Ryan strolls up to him, curls dripping down his forehead and smiles. "I thought the great Michael Phelps walked on water, what?"
Michael snorts. "Fuck you."
Ryan looks him up and down blatantly. "Maybe."
There's rain running in Michael's eyes, but a blind man could appreciate exactly how much Ryan's clothes are clinging to his body. When Ryan pokes his tongue into the side of his jaw, it looks like he's giving a blowjob.
Hint received.
"What happened?" Ryan says conversationally. "Did the rain make you stupid or was it the weed?" Michael snorts and Ryan moves way too close. "You thinking dirty shit about me again?"
Michael doesn't even bother to deny it, it would take too much effort. "You could swim home in this," he says feebly.
"I'll race you," Ryan offers right before taking off down the street. Michael's hot on his heels a second later, praying he doesn't fall on his face or get swept up in some flash flood.
Ryan gets to the house first, but he slows down too late, and because of the rain, he totally overshoots the gate. Michael grabs the gate to slow down, laughing like an idiot as Ryan skids down the sidewalk several feet. "First!" he crows, his shoes squishing up the path to the front door.
Ryan's right behind him though, and Michael gets plastered to the door as Ryan crowds him to slide the key in the lock. The amount of water they track inside could fill a kiddie pool.
Ryan begins stripping his clothes off right after he closes the door. Michael's the one who flips on the light and turns the lock.
He's the one who watches.
Ryan's shirt lands with a heavy plop and his shoes thud loudly on the wood flooring. Michael's eyes grow bigger as Ryan pops the button on his shorts, unzips them and lets them fall down to the floor. Michael can be slow sometimes, but there really aren't more obvious invitations than this.
Ryan laughs as Michael crowds him. "I was wondering when you were gonna get with the program," he says as Michael studies him intently.
Michael sneezes; Ryan snorts. "Real sexy, Phelps. You gonna take those wet clothes off? You need some help?" he offers, pulling on the hem of Michael's shirt.
Michael swallows. "Yeah."
And then Ryan's pushing Michael's shirt up his chest and breathing on his wet skin. Michael makes this choking noise. He can't see what Ryan's doing because the shirt's in the way, but he can feel it. He can feel Ryan licking the water on his chest. Ryan's mouth is stupidly hot against his damp skin, and Jesus, he's lapping at Michael's left nipple.
Oh, fuck, yes.
He gets tangled up trying to yank his shirt over his head and rips it somewhere before finally getting free.
Ryan's not breathing on him anymore, but he is watching with a lot of amusement. "I would help you with the pants, but that, like, seems dangerous."
Michael puts his hand on Ryan's chest and pushes him back against the door again. "Stay there."
Ryan looks like he's about to argue, but instead he just nods and Michael turns around, feeling his way along the walls for light switches. In the bedroom, the lube is a sticky mess on the nightstand and there's nothing but glow-in-the-dark condoms in the drawer.
Michael snatches them both up and hurries back. He stops when he comes around the corner and sees Ryan standing there naked, leaning against the door and stroking his cock leisurely.
Porn was never this good.
Michael clears his throat as he approaches, and Ryan gives him that grin that's won over everyone else in a ten thousand mile radius.
"Am I interrupting?" Michael asks wryly.
Ryan raises an eyebrow, takes one last stroke and pushes away from the wall. Michael clutches at the lube and condoms as Ryan walks into his space, backing him up further and further until Michael hits the wall. Ryan's got purple-black bruises all over his knees, large splotchy red-purple bruises along his ribs and some faint blueish-green bruises around his wrists. Michael did that. Oh.
Ryan narrows his eyes, studying something, studying him, and then he wraps his hand around the nape of Michael's neck and tugs him down slightly.
It's a big hand, warm, and Michael shudders as Ryan pulls him in. He drops the lube and condoms on the floor as Ryan's wet mouth presses against his and his slick tongue slides along Michael's lips. It's epic. Like eight gold Olympic medals epic. Michael should probably say something; they don't do this, this is so -- so fucking hot. He groans loudly, opening his mouth for Ryan and letting him in.
Ryan grunts as Michael's hands finally decide to participate by groping his ass. Michael's fingers have very definite ideas about what they should be doing, and Ryan's skin is by turns wet, clammy and warm as Michael's fingers rub the cleft of his ass.
Ryan pushes back against his hands, which leads to Michael pulling him in tighter, trying to keep him near. Ryan hums against Michael's mouth happily, the vibrations going straight to Michael's cock. Their kissing is vicious and soft and dirty and wet and hard; it's like them.
Ryan pulls away eventually, biting down sharply on Michael's lower lip; Michael makes a sort of pitiful noise. Ryan ignores this, choosing instead to paw at his shorts. "Off. Now," he demands.
Michael nods helpfully. "Okay."
And he does. One minute he's kissing Ryan against the wall, and the next he's on the floor, his back against the wall and Ryan kneeling over his cock, pouring slick lube all over his own fingers.
"I wanted to do that," Michael protests as Ryan's right hand disappears between his own legs. Ryan scoffs loudly.
"You want to do everything," Ryan pants, his cheeks beginning to flush as he slowly rocks up and down. "You are such a fucking overachiever. You want eight medals. You want to be the best. You want to fuck me. Jesus fuck, you're demanding," he bitches.
There's sweat breaking out on Ryan's forehead, and his motions quicken under Michael's gaze. "If you want to be alone with you hand," Michael teases, "I can go to the Holiday Inn."
"God, you're a douchebag." Ryan glares at him. "Why the fuck do I put up with you?"
Michael looks Ryan directly in the eye, blindly reaching down and pulling Ryan's slick hand away. "Because I do shit like this," he says, replacing Ryan's fingers with his own.
Ryan yowls as Michael slides one finger inside him. "Yes," he says, digging his fingers into Michael's arm. "Fuck, yes."
Michael thrusts in and out, watching Ryan and letting Ryan ride his fingers, enjoying the heat and slick. It takes him a second to catch on when Ryan starts jerking himself off, and then it's all he can look at: Ryan's cock fucking his fist, the slick from earlier mixing with the pre-come to make Ryan look like some sort of porn fantasy.
It's so hot, Michael's dick aches in agony.
When he leans in for a better look, he can feel Ryan breathing against his forehead and when he looks up Ryan's staring at him hard.
He couldn't say if he kisses Ryan or if Ryan kisses him, it doesn't really matter. What matters is that this feels good. That it feels right for them.
Ryan sucks on his tongue suggestively, and Michael's cock twitches again in protest. Michael wraps his free arm around Ryan and pulls him in. He can feel Ryan's knuckles brushing against his stomach as he jerks himself off, can hear the little nasal snorts as they try not to break apart to breathe, and then Ryan bites down on Michael's lip sharply and Michael feels warm spatters on his stomach.
Damn.
Ryan's tongue flickers over Michael's bottom lip, soothing the pain before pulling away. It takes Michael a second to focus, to try and extract body parts and figure out what's going on, but when he does, he can’t seem to stop staring at the color in Ryan's face, at the wide eyed look of shock and at his swollen mouth.
Ryan smirks at him though, and Michael bangs his head against the wall when Ryan's hand closes over his dick and strokes once, twice, three times and he comes.
All that and he didn't even get to fuck Ryan. Well, not with his dick anyway.
Ryan slaps him lightly on the face to get his attention. Michael just looks at him dumbly; he's probably got a concussion by now anyway.
"I'm a hot piece of ass," Ryan says knowingly. "It's okay."
Michael reads everything about everybody in his orbit. He's got articles about Thorpe and Alain Bernard taped up in his lockers, on his walls at home there are articles about Cullen and Jason and Klete Keller and Ian Crocker. Invariably there's paper lint in Michael's laundry because of an article he ripped out of a magazine to read and forgot to take out of his jeans.
All this means that, of course, Michael has articles about Ryan. Not just the ones where they're standing together in their Speedos like some sort of gay porn.
Last year, Ryan did an interview with Men's Journal where they asked him if he was ever worried -- considering all the times he crashed his skateboard or his scooter or his surfboard -- to which, Ryan, in typical Ryan fashion, said, No. I'm not going to stop doing that stuff. All of that stuff makes me who I am. In my head, I feel like I'm going to do whatever I do. If I get hurt, then it's someone saying that it's not meant to be - you're not meant to go to the Olympics. Life is too short to just waste.
Michael thought it really was about the Olympics, but maybe it was about a little bit more.
"If you die suddenly, I would totally break into your house and take all your porn so your mom doesn't freak out," Ryan says in bed later on. He's tracing patterns on Michael's back, which is pretty much guaranteed to send Michael to sleep. Or to make him horny.
"I -- uh, you what?" Michael tries again. His cock likes Ryan's hands on his skin.
"I'm dead serious, Mike, I would totally be your porn buddy."
Ryan's using his 'this is important to me' voice, which always makes Michael a little uneasy. Ryan's just not built to be serious about anything outside of the water, so it takes Michael a minute to realize what Ryan's said.
"If I suddenly -- with my porn?" Michael rolls over to face Ryan. "Is there something I should know? You only want me for my porn, is that it?
Ryan smiles broadly. "Your porn isn't that good, trust me."
"Now you're insulting my porn? That's just -- that's wrong."
"I was just saying."
"You were just saying," Michael parrots.
Ryan nods. "Yeah."
Michael considers Ryan carefully. It's the thought that counts. Ryan's being deep. He's trying. He is so not good with this shit.
"Are we really talking about porn here?" Michael asks carefully.
Ryan blinks and then smirks. "What should we be talking about? Our feelings?"
Michael nearly chokes on his own tongue. "That's not even funny."
"Hell yeah, it is. You should see your face."
Michael socks Ryan in the arm. "You’re an asshole."
Ryan chuckles and drops down on the bed beside him. "Damn straight I am, it's why you like me."
Michael yawns. "Yeah, probably."
Ryan pats him on the arm. "It's why I like you too."
Michael smiles a little stupidly. He can't help it. Ryan just rolls his eyes and chuckles. "Now shut the fuck up and go to sleep, we're not two chicks."
"I wish you were a chick," Michael says mournfully. "I miss tits."
Ryan raises an eyebrow. "I have porn."
Michael groans and pulls his pillow over his head. "Enough with the porn!"
But Ryan's warming up to the idea. "We could have jerk off competitions, dude! C'mon, I've got some hardcore --"
Michael tosses his pillow away, eyeballs Ryan and grabs him by the hair.
"I knew you were into kink--"
Ryan's words are swallowed in Michael's kiss. It's a good kiss if Michael says so himself -- just enough teeth and tongue to keep it interesting. When he pulls away, Ryan looks dazed. Michael smirks. "Go to sleep, now, 'kay?" he says.
Ryan nods. "I can do that."
"Jeah?"
"Jeah."
And, surprisingly enough, Ryan buries his nose in Michael's shoulder, slings an arm across Michael's chest and does just that.
Go figure.
-end-
I really really enjoyed writing this, fucking hell.
+ Huge, Michael's arm-span sized thanks to alethialia, amberlynne, lyra_sena, metrosex, them0rgue, ruidoso, serialkarma, sparky77 and thorne_scratch for all their support and 'research assistance' and to the fine people at NYT for the title of this story.
+ Extra special thanks to lifeinwords, silentfire, strawberryelfsp and thisisbone for all their contributions to this section. I hope I did you proud, or at least not a disservice. If you're in Gainesville, visit the Butterfly Rainforest for real.
+ For the first time in a long-ass time there's no soundtrack for one of my longer works, but I very much recommend Adele's 19. Duffy my ass.