Olympics RPS - Random Acts of Crazy Behavior (Michael Phelps/Ryan Lochte, NC-17)
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Olympics RPS
Michael Phelps/Ryan Lochte
Rated NC-17
Improv: noodles, squish, crystal, paper, cap
Random Acts of Crazy Behavior
Just because two people are talking doesn't mean they're fucking. Even if those two people are huddled together in a dark corner, and one of them is holding a pen and giving the other one a folded-up piece of paper with something obscene probably scribbled on it, it doesn't necessarily follow that that's a phone number. Or a hotel room number. Or a dirty drawing of two people fucking.
Yeah, okay, it could mean that, but it probably doesn't.
So, when Michael catches Ryan in the corner with Aaron Peirsol, he doesn't think they're doing anything bad. Okay, they probably are, because this is Lochte and Peirsol, but he's sure it's not sex-related because this is Chicago and they just finished filming Oprah.
Nobody in their right mind would be scamming after Oprah. Not that Ryan has ever been in his right anything.
Still, Ryan's rooming with Michael, and Ryan and Michael are fucking, so there's no way Ryan would invite Aaron back to their room to fuck. Unless there's a scheduled threesome that nobody told Michael about. Or unless Ryan's going to Aaron's room instead.
But that's just crazy talk, and Michael's not crazy. He's really not. Except that that night Ryan, Michael, Cullen and Aaron and a couple of the other guys go out to dinner, and then they go to a strip club and the only person who gets a lap dance is Cullen.
Ryan's trying to convince some girl to let him lick tequila out of her navel and Aaron's drinking champagne from the bottle, and Michael, well he's far too busy wondering if Aaron's thinking about giving a lap dance to Ryan.
Ryan and Michael aren't exclusive. They aren't even anything except really good friends, who like sick rides and rap and swimming and fifteen thousand other stupid things. So maybe Ryan and Aaron have already fucked, and Michael just doesn't know about it yet.
Maybe what Michael really needs is another drink.
After Chicago, everybody sort of descends on Manhattan. Well, not everybody, but Ryan goes for some sponsor thing and Michael goes for SNL, so, for Michael, that's everybody. They don't get rooms in the same hotel and they don't have the same schedule, so, it's not like they see each much -- read: at all -- but Michael knows where Ryan is and they're in touch all the time. Michael doesn't pine or anything. Pining is so gay. And girlie. And Michael is neither gay nor girlie. He's Michael fucking Phelps. People think he lives in a tank in fucking Sea World. He's so much better than this.
Preparation for Saturday Night Live is intense. Michael's not an actor, he's a swimmer. He doesn't like cameras, he doesn't like being before the cameras, but he wants to do this and he wants to do it right, so he pays attention during rehearsal and doesn't think of Ryan at Fashion Week hitting on supermodels.
Ryan's constant texting doesn't help though. Especially when Michael's sitting on the sound stage with some of the SNL cast waiting for people to finish setting the scene, and Ryan keeps texting him like he's got diarrhea of the thumbs.
Andy Smbrg iz hot!!!! Get digits!
Michael's appalled. STFU!
he loks lik me! :D
Michael glances up at Andy Samberg, with his curly hair and sort of vacant look -- no hes bettr lookig
Ryan shoots back -- id do him
Michael snorts, and his agent looks up from where he's talking to the stage manager. Michael shrugs apologetically. ud do urself? freak.
threesome! is Ryan's reply.
hotass! comes through a second later.
u know ur down! is the third message in ten seconds.
Michael pockets his phone. It's one thing for Ryan to talk about banging girls; Michael can't compete there. It's something else to drag another guy into the mix.
Michael's been stashed at some hotel near Rockefeller Center called The Library Hotel. It's nice, it's not the rock-n-roll hotel he'd been hoping for with the holes in the walls from people trashing the place and the chicks from Gossip Girl getting drunk in the bar, but it's got 24-hour room service and that's all he really cares about at three in the morning.
Who knew you could request Chinese food and have somebody actually make it happen? This shit is so wicked; he needs to get room service at his new condo or at least a 24-hour chef. They have stuff like that at the Playboy Mansion. Or so he's heard.
He's sitting in his underwear, slurping Lo Mein noodles, watching Sports Center and trying to remember some of the script from the Michael Phelps Diet skit when his phone starts playing Lil' Wayne's 'Lollipop' on the nightstand.
Michael drops his fork in the sheets, because who the fuck - Ryan. Of course.
"You know what time it is?" Michael asks, picking up the call and trying to find his fork.
"Mikey, you gotta come... beer... boobies!"
Michael blinks in the darkness. He can hardly hear Ryan over the background noise. "What boobies?"
"Supermodels... hotass... naked!!" Ryan's clearly excited, but Michael can't really share that with every fifth word coherent. There's this pounding beat drowning out everything Ryan's saying. It's like a porno soundtrack, but with faster drums.
Michael just sighs. "Some of us are working, Ry."
"... kill it... choking donkeys.... " Ryan offers up.
Michael pulls his phone away from his ear and does something rather unexpected when he disconnects the call. He's not going to deny Ryan his fun, but some people are actually working here. Or they're trying not to choke on donkeys on live TV.
Yeah, Michael can grope peroxide blondes at the Playboy Club in Vegas and sit next to that lady from Vogue, but he's not Ryan. He doesn't fall into parties with supermodels and porno beats at almost four a.m. on a Friday morning. He wants to though. This fucking sucks.
When the phone rings again, Michael shoves it in the nightstand drawer, and when he scrounges in the sheets for the TV remote he grabs his fork full of squishy noodles instead. Yuck.
Just because two people are sitting side-by-side at a fashion show doesn't mean they're fucking. It could mean that, because in the photos from Page Six that Ryan so helpfully sends Michael, Ryan seems really happy to be sitting next to Nastia Lukin, but Michael's not even going to pay attention to that photo, because he just -- fuck it.
There's nothing rational about jealousy.
He doesn't choke on Saturday Night Live. He's not great, but he doesn't trip and kill himself in front of the entire country and that's all that counts. Oh, and he gets a photo with Lil' Wayne that he can taunt Ryan with for the rest of their lives. That's pretty good, too.
At the after party, Michael is swarmed by people who want his autograph and who want to pinch his ass and grope him in photographs. They think he's the best thing since, like, the Super Sized Big Mac. It's awesome, and Michael wishes Ryan could see this.
Ryan may be fucking models and Olympians, but Michael's got everybody else covered.
He even invites this girl back to his hotel for who the fuck only knows what. The fact that he has no real clue about what they're going to do when they get to his hotel is probably why he ditches her between the party and his Town Car.
Michael's wearing these crazy clashing neon swim trunks that look like something Ryan would love. He can feel the tightness around his temples which means he's wearing a swim cap, and judging by the water running down his ankles, he's going to assume he just got out the pool. He hasn't peed in the bed since he was nine.
Everything is kind of cloudy at the moment though, because Michael's distracted. He only has eyes for Ryan and Nastia fucking Lukin fucking on the bed in his mom's house.
Michael doesn't know how he got there, or how they got there, all he knows is what he's watching, and what he's watching is Nastia riding Ryan like a goddamn rodeo queen. What Michael's suffering through is watching Ryan with somebody else, on his fucking Spider-Man sheets, and he's really not feeling this at all.
He wakes up with a start, drooling on himself in a first class seat on a flight to yet another clinic, or a party, or an appearance, or something else that is supposed to signal his arrival, when all he really wants to do is to go home.
Just because two people are fucking doesn't mean they're in a relationship. It could mean that, but it might not. It might mean that they're just buddies who don't really have other people who understand the pressures they're under, or the lives they lead, or how fucking hard it is to get up day after day, morning after morning, and go to the pool and think that this might be the only thing they're going to be good at for their entire lives. Or maybe that's just Michael. He never did finish school, but Ryan's got a degree and that's more than Michael can say. Michael's got more sponsors, but Ryan seems to be enjoying himself a lot more. Maybe Michael'll open a school like Lenny did. Maybe he'll just retire to some island and go crazy like Marlon Brando in Apocalypse Now.
Ryan and Michael play phone tag for hours, days, weeks on end. It's what their friendship has been built on in the first place: Ryan babbling about some Billionaire Boys Club Pharrell Williams swim trunks for Speedo and Michael wondering what time it is and where the fuck he's at this morning. At no point do they talk about the people Ryan might be fucking or skanky chicks that follow Michael into the bathroom to suck his dick.
Why the hell aren't you answering your phone, manwhore? Too many groupies smothering you with their tits? I never thought I'd be so fucking happy to see Flo Rida in my life. You know they're having a parade for me today, right? That shit is so sick! I have, like, my own fucking parade like a fucking war hero! Jeah!
Dude, you're not even a war hero with your Halo score. I got a parade; you are so not special, Lochte. Hit me back.
I'm not special? Fuck you and your size 50 shoes. You wish you were as special as me, Fish Boy! When are you going back to B-more? Holla!
My bad, you are special like the short bus. I dunno when I'll be home. Yeah, I know, I suck.
Short bus? Did it really take you a whole day to think that up, MP? I know you're, like, jealous of my parade skills. And if I'm on the short bus, I'll see your funny looking ass there. When are you gonna come by and visit me? I've got this new board, you gotta see it.
It's been three whole hours, did you lose your phone?
Mike, it's been three days, what the fuck?
Hey, Ryan, I'm in fucking -- yeah, I don't even know where I am. That's fucked up. I know I suck ass, but I'm sorr -- I'm late for this clinic, I'll call you back.
He does get home eventually. All his shit is in Ann Arbor, waiting for somebody to move it, steal it or burn it, but he does make it back to Baltimore, Herman and his family. Fucking finally.
Falling asleep on his mom's sofa with Herman dribbling on his hand and a bowl Ben & Jerry's melting in his lap might be the tenth greatest moment of his life. The next morning he jerks off in the shower thinking about lithe gymnasts and Andy Samberg and Ryan fucking him on the pool deck of the Water Cube in Beijing.
He generally tries to keep the kinky thoughts out of his mom's house, but shit happens.
There are people who will go to your house and pack up your shit for you if you are moving. They will ship it and deal with it when it arrives at your brand-new 4,000 square foot condo in Fells Point and you never even have to think about it. All you have to do is hire them. You can even do that on the phone. You can sign the contract via fax machine, and if you are driven enough and motivated enough, you can get this shit done in time to catch the 1:55 p.m. US Airways flight to Jacksonville via Charlotte. But you still have to get your ass to Gainesville.
Why is there no fucking direct flight from Baltimore to Gainesville again?
"What's hood?" Ryan says by way of greeting when Michael calls.
"What's hood? You're a skateboarding pro-swimmer in a five bedroom house with a pool. What the hell do you know about hood?"
"It's an expression," Ryan says in mock irritation. "Don't be so white."
Michael laughs so hard he gets the hiccups. "Did my boy Lil' Wayne give you some street cred, because when I saw him-"
"Shut up," Ryan complains. "Just because you're, like, all tight with the most awesomest rapper ever-"
"Is 'awesomest' a word?"
"I see people sucking your dick has, like, made you bitchy. I thought the opposite was supposed to happen."
"Aw, baby," Michael teases, "don't be like that. Open the door though, there's bugs out here the size of fucking apples. This shit is scary."
Michael can hear the moment that Ryan's figured out what he's saying, because there's this massive clatter from inside the house and the front door of Ryan's house is flung open hard enough to ricochet off the wall, but if that happens Michael misses it, because Ryan tackles him into the plants lining the walkway.
Michael hits his head on something and gets mulch and dirt in his mouth, but he's got 200 plus lbs. of a happy Ryan pinned on top of him and that's worth it.
"'sup, dude?" Ryan asks nonchalantly, sitting on Michael's chest.
Michael just laughs; the sun is filtering through the plants and he squints a bit. "Nothing, man."
Ryan's warm and heavy; they could stay here for a while. "You should've called first; I didn't even get to hide my blowup dolls."
Michael blinks. "Stop fucking with me."
Ryan cackles, curling over enough that his hair tickles Michael's forehead. "You should see your face," he crows.
Michael shoves Ryan off of him and into the bushes. "Asshole," he says, getting to his feet, picking up his bag and heading into the house.
"Love me, love my asshole!" Ryan hollers after him.
Ryan's house is what a house should be: it's got a fridge full of beer, a pool table and a pool. Michael would totally buy Ryan's house from him and live here -- he'd even let Ryan stay -- if it were in Baltimore.
Michael's visited enough that he doesn't need to ask where things are, which is why he drops his bag at the foot of the stairs, kicks his sneakers off and immediately heads for the kitchen. He hasn't eaten in, like, four hours.
There's beer and cold pizza, which Michael eats while standing in front of the open refrigerator door. It takes him at least two slices of pepperoni to realize Ryan's not hounding him for his share. Michael grabs a Heineken and a half-devoured piece of pizza and goes back to the front door, but the door's shut, and there's no Ryan there.
Ryan's not in the pool room or the living room either.
Michael eventually finds Ryan in the dining room, standing over the table and looking at a bunch of colored pieces of something, which is just weird. Ryan's had this house for almost a year now and as far as Michael knows, nobody's ever used this room. Or this table.
"I forgot this was even here," Michael says, knocking on the table with his knuckles before crowding Ryan's space.
Ryan twitches when Michael presses the cold beer against his neck. "Fucker," he says distractedly.
Michael chews and waits and chews and waits. When the pizza's done, he says, "Seriously, I come to visit your ass and all you can do is call me a 'fucker'? Where's the love?"
Ryan glances over at him. "I'm working, dude, give me minute."
Michael almost drops his beer. "Working on what?"
"Swim line, dude." Michael's so shocked he can't even reply. Ryan glances at him over his shoulder. "Four minutes," Ryan promises. "I won't even ask for a whole five."
Michael's so disturbed he has to go back to the kitchen and get another beer. It's only when he's opening the second beer he realizes that he never opened the first one. So, he opens both of them and heads back to the dining room with that table that Ryan only got to make his mom happy.
Ryan's still standing there, playing with pieces of what's apparently fabric, and it's just strange to see him so focused on anything that's not the water. Michael feels like he's intruding, which is just wrong. He doesn't like this feeling.
"You're serious, aren't you?" Michael asks, offering Ryan one of the beers.
Ryan takes a sip and sets the beer on the table. "This is what I wanna do, Mike, I wanna design clothes. You know, make shit I like."
Michael sits down on the carpet. "You want to be a designer?" Michael thinks of the lady from Vogue and those skinny women who always look constipated and starved.
"Do you not listen to any of the fifteen thousand voicemails I leave you? Why do you think I was at Fashion Week?"
"Hot chicks."
Ryan smiles in memory. "Yeah, okay, that too."
"So," Michael tries again. "A designer."
"I wanna do shit I like."
"You mean like your tacky ass shoes?"
"Don't hate just because you have no style. I've already got a line for Speedo, didn't I tell you?"
Did he tell him? Maybe. Probably. Did Michael pay attention? Probably not. He can be a little self-contained, but -- but shit.
Michael takes another pull of his beer and belches. Ryan doesn't even look up, and Michael can feel the irritation stirring at the base of his skull. It's not like he wants to design swimsuits for Speedo, but still. "I flew all this way and I don't even get a blow job. That's fucked up."
Ryan finally graces him with a smirk. "I was wondering when you were gonna get to that. I mean if I rolled up to your hood for a booty call, we'd totally be fucking on your mom's front lawn by now."
The neighbors would love that.
"Fine, I get it," Michael sighs loudly, "you're working." And wow, did that sound like a neglected girlfriend or what?
Michael knows he's probably sulking, but shit. He has needs and they haven't been met in a long fucking time. Over the last month or two, Michael's been groped a lot and groped other people a lot, but you don't know where people've been.
At least Michael has an idea where Ryan's been. Kinda.
Michael swallows down more of his beer and glares at the carpet; he's not even enjoying this. He's wound way too fucking tight. He looks up when one of Ryan's bare feet prods his leg.
"Poor Mikey," Ryan mocks, "got tired of whoring around the country or something? Did one of your skanks give you an itch?"
Michael's jaw just falls open. Okay he's been acting out a bit, but it's not like he's been actually hitting it with anybody. "I didn't -- I wasn't - you started it!" he protests lamely.
"I started it, Mr. If His Name is Ian I'll Fuck Him?" Ryan laughs.
Michael's mouth falls open.
"The internet is a wild ass place," Ryan carries on sagely. "They have photos of fucking everything. Except you fucking, but they're getting there. You need to think about a no-camera phone clause."
Michael gets to his knees, his body in just the right place to give Ryan a blowjob -- instead his beer goes all over the place when he grabs Ryan around the waist and flings him over his shoulder in a fireman's carry.
"Holy fuck! Put me down!" Ryan hollers as Michael staggers to his feet. Ryan slaps at Michael's ass as Michael shifts him slightly to open the doors to the backyard, stumbling a bit under Ryan's wriggling in displeasure.
Ryan outweighs him, but not by much; still, it's a good thing they're not going far.
"I swear to God I'm going to kick your ass," Ryan curses as Michael wobbles closer and closer to his destination.
"You keep moving, and I'm going to drop you on your head," Michael warns, tightening his grip. If Ryan actually got hurt that would suck badly.
"Put me the fuck down, Mike!" Ryan orders, digging his fingernails into Michael's lower back. That actually hurts, and Michael can take orders, so he puts Ryan down -- by flinging him in the pool.
He's totally not expecting to fall in after Ryan, which is obviously why it happens.
There's wet and cold and water up Michael's his nose and in his ears. So not part of any plan. There's a huge blur on Michael's left as he breaches the surface, which turns out to be Ryan pushing him back under.
"You are such a fucktard!" Ryan berates, letting him up for air just to shove him back under. "I'm, like, trying to fucking work, and here you come with your, like, lanky ass, totally distracting me with your stupid ears and skeezy dick."
Michael finally manages to dislodge Ryan, coughing for air as he swims away. "You were fucking Peirsol!" Michael shoots back. "And Nastia Lukin! And, like, everybody who breathes on you!"
When Michael wipes the water out of his eyes, he can see the smirk on Ryan's face. "You're fucking with me, aren't you?"
Ryan licks his lips and grins. "I really was trying to work, dude, but I'm glad you came."
Michael's brain can't figure out if he's pissed off or happy; it makes his head hurt. He's fully-dressed and fully-drenched and the water isn't exactly warm. He treads water easily as Ryan swims towards him, pausing just inside his personal space.
Ryan cocks his head to the side, his hair plastered to his scalp and his eyes bright. "So you think I was hittin' it with Nastia Lukin? Dude, she's, like, tiny."
"Gymnasts are flexible."
"True, but she was in town for Speedo, too. She's designing some leotards or some shit."
"Oh."
"Yeah, oh. Now what's this about Peirsol?"
"I saw you two, like, talking."
"If we're talking, we're fucking? Seriously, Mike?"
Well, when you put it that way… Michael looks away.
"Wait," Ryan orders, "is this your way of saying you want to fuck Aaron?"
"Fuck you."
"Not if you're fucking Aaron too. And Carrie Underwood. And all those pageant chicks. And Stephanie Rice. And --"
The only way to shut Ryan up is to shove him back under the water, except that Ryan twists away, and then he's grabbing at Michael, but maybe it's not grabbing so much as groping, and there are just way too many layers in the way.
Michael's trying to get off his shorts when Ryan slips away, and when he surfaces, Ryan's on the deck, water dripping everywhere.
Michael paddles over to him in two strokes. "No fucking in the pool during the day when the neighbors can see," Ryan says in a mock-serious tone, right before turning on his heel, yanking off his shirt and wandering into the house.
Michael watches the shirt go flying back into the pool with a wet slap, and then he's scrabbling out of the water and following Ryan into the house.
Ryan's not in the dining room, but there're wet footprints on the carpet leading into the living room. Ryan's not in the living room either, but his pants are, which causes Michael to pause and look around very closely. "I know you're around here somewhere," he calls out. Nothing.
Common sense says Ryan's gone upstairs, but when Michael goes upstairs, Ryan's not in his room. Or the guest room. Or any of the other three bedrooms, which makes no fucking sense.
"Where the hell are you, asshole?!" Michael hollers.
"Awesome! Dirty talk!" Ryan's voice taunts from downstairs. The stairs thud loudly as Michael races back the way he came. There's water on the kitchen floor, but there's still no Ryan.
"When the fuck did we start playing Hide-n-Seek?" Michael grouses.
He stumbles when something hard and wet is slapped across the back of his skull. "Tag, you're it!" Ryan shouts from behind him, and when Michael reaches up, he comes away with Ryan's wet underwear in his hand.
Games weren't like this when he was little, too bad.
Michael takes off, following Ryan's thundering steps up the stairs to where all five bedroom doors are shut. Michael has a moment of disorientation, because he only ever finds Ryan's bedroom by the fact that he can see the mess inside it.
His best guess is … wrong
And his second best guess is locked. Michael doesn't remember a locked door. He pushes a little harder and the door gives just that little bit. "Ryaaaaan," he calls out in a sing-song voice.
"That's just fucking creepy," Ryan chides from the other side of the door. "Don't do that Jack Nicholson shit."
"You are so gonna get it." Michael slips on his own wet footprints as he tries to charge the door.
"I thought I was getting some dirty talk. What happened to that? C'mon, give me, like, your best porno voice."
"I'm going to beat your ass until you're begging me for it," Michael threatens, giving the door one last shove and going flying into the closet as it opens easily.
All of Ryan's clothes smell like Ryan. Shocking.
When he emerges, Ryan's standing in the middle of the room holding a pair of dry boxer shorts. "Your sex talk needs work."
"Why are you getting dressed?" Michael complains.
"Why are you tracking water all over my house?" Ryan retorts. Michael narrows his eyes, he only begins stripping off his clothes when Ryan tosses his boxers on the bed. "Don't drop your wet shit on my sneakers."
Michael pauses with his wet boxers pooling around his ankles. "Seriously?"
Ryan's smile is all teeth, and Michael's pinned against the wall before he quite realizes that Ryan's moved. "Are you clean?" Ryan asks him, pool-clammy thigh pressed between Michael's legs.
Michael's balls try to retreat into his body and away from the cold, as he tries to figure out what Ryan's talking about. "Am I clean from what?"
Ryan's skin is cool from the pool, but his breath is hot on Michael's face. "I'm not stupid, MP. If you're banging groupies that's your business, but you better not be-"
Michael scoffs loudly and then collapses against Ryan in hysterical laughter.
He winces when Ryan grabs his hair and yanks his head up to eye-level. "I'm serious, I know how people are like, 'yeah, I'm totally clean except for that one person I banged and didn't tell you about'."
Michael blinks because this is the second time today that Ryan's been serious serious. Jesus. People win a few medals and decide what they want to do with their lives and -- fuck, that's hot.
Ryan makes this surprised noise when Michael kisses him, which is totally understandable, because it's pretty damn surprising to Michael too. He brushes his mouth against Ryan's lips lightly, nuzzling, checking and then pressing the advantage when Ryan's fingers tighten in his hair.
They kiss twice with closed mouths, Michael pulling back to breathe once, and then his tongue flickering against Ryan's when Ryan's mouth opens up for him. Michael dives in hard, his tongue brushing Ryan's palate, his teeth, only pulling back to tug on Ryan's lower lip with his teeth.
He wraps an arm around Ryan's waist to keep him close, heat flaring under his skin where Ryan's body presses him into the wall. Ryan's fingers tighten in his hair as Michael surges forward, trying to deepen the kiss.
Ryan's tongue strokes against his and their teeth clash as they try to find the best angle, Ryan pulling away to breathe and then diving back in to steal the little air that Michael has left. They're loud, and Michael can hear the wet panting in his ears, can feel his body tuning in to what's going on. He shifts his weight and his dick rubs against Ryan's hip, which leads to a whole new set of noises.
The arm around Ryan's waist becomes Michael's hands groping Ryan, his fingers sliding up and down the crease of Ryan's ass. Ryan moans loudly against Michael's mouth, using the fingers in Michael's hair to hold him still, to fuck Michael's mouth with his tongue.
Yeah, Michael's got no complaints.
Especially not with the way he's trying to ride Ryan's thigh, and the way Ryan keeps making these dirty noises when Michael's fingers rub against his entrance. Michael can feel the pre-come smearing and spreading between then, the sweat starting to form along his biceps from the burn of holding Ryan exactly where he wants him so he can grind against Ryan's thigh.
If you asked Michael why he pushes Ryan away, he wouldn't be able to tell you. Ryan's clearly confused too if his parted, wet lips, unfocused glare and straining erection are anything to go by. "What?"
Michael takes a huge step forward, pressing right against Ryan, who still looks dazed, and then with another huge step he propels them both on the bed. Ryan's hot and slick underneath him, writhing to get back to that place where he was happy, so when Michael pulls away again, Ryan is not feeling it.
"What the hell is going on?" Ryan bitches when Michael grabs his hips and rolls him onto his stomach, and then Michael's pulling Ryan up on his hands and knees and Ryan seems much happier. Almost.
"I'm serious about the clean thing," Ryan says haltingly as Michael spreads him with the fingers of one hand and sucks on the index and middle finger of his other hand.
Ryan can't see him, but he clearly feels it when Michael rubs two wet fingers against his asshole. "Whoa," Ryan says, his whole body tensing up.
"Whoa no, or whoa fuck yes?" Michael asks, pausing.
"Fuck yes, god, you are a fucking idi-"
"I'm not fucking anybody else," Michael says, going back to using his fingers on Ryan. "I kissed some random girls, had some fans try to put their hands down my pants, groped a few strippers and actually had somebody follow me into the bathroom in Vegas, but the only thing I've been fucking is my hand, okay?" And then Michael leans down and flicks his tongue over Ryan's asshole.
It's… strange. Not bad or wrong, just strange.
"Oh Jesus fuck," Ryan moans, pushing back against Michael's mouth. "You should've done this on Saturday Night Live. They'd want you every week."
Michael makes a noncommittal noise; he's busy. He's had one or two very adventurous girlfriends try this and he wasn't game, but, well, what does he know besides swimming?
"Do you have any idea what you're doing?" Ryan gasps.
Michael stops and looks up, Ryan's watching him over his shoulder. "Everything I know I learned from porn."
Ryan looks stunned. "Huh."
"Is that a problem?"
"No, just making conversation."
"How about we talk after?" Michael offers before going back to the task at hand.
Michael spits and licks, his tongue pushing further harder, and Ryan makes this noise like he's dying. Michael laves with his tongue, just like in all that porn he's been watching lately, and well, Ryan seems to like it. As least he does if the way he keeps pushing back at Michael's mouth is anything to go by.
The bed shifts a lot while Michael's experimenting, and when Michael backs off slightly he can see Ryan's trying to jerk himself off. Oh. Michael wants to watch this. "Roll over."
Ryan groans loudly but does as Michael asks. "You came down here to kill me, didn't you?" he says, rolling onto his back. "First, you try to drown me, and then you try to make me stupid with sex." His cock slaps against his stomach obscenely, leaving wet spatters. His face is flushed and there's blood on his bottom lip. He must've bitten himself. Wow.
"I think the stupid part is too late," Michael teases.
"Fuck you." Ryan kicks at him with his left foot; Michael grabs his ankle and just holds it for a minute.
"Touch yourself," Michael coaxes, "I wanna watch."
Ryan's eyes narrow for a minute and then he pulls his foot free from Michael, bends his knees and puts his feet on the bed. Taking his dick in hand he strokes himself slowly a few times, spreading sweat and pre-come, and then he picks up speed, jerking off hard and fast. Michael just stares.
"I wish porn were this hot," Michael mumbles, and Ryan licks his lips and begins thrusting up into his fist.
Michael doesn't think he needs to participate, but his fingers stroking along the inside of Ryan's thighs clearly disagree.
"Fuck," Ryan pants, right before his whole body goes rigid and he comes all over himself and Michael's forearms.
Michael blinks as Ryan sprawls out on the bed. "Wow."
Ryan groans, wiping his hands on the thick comforter. "Did you eat your Wheaties this morning or something? I mean, damn, dude."
Michael's still staring so it takes him a minute to realize his body is not pleased about his neglect. He begins jerking himself off because the pressure is enough to cause permanent injury. A few strokes in, though, Ryan's sitting up and pushing his hands away.
"Don't even," he says, pushing Michael back on the bed, crawling between his legs and mouthing the head of Michael's dick.
"This is gonna be a short-"
Ryan lifts his head. "Dude, shut up." And then he goes to work, licking the length of Michael's cock and slurping him down very wetly. Michael thrusts up automatically, but Ryan's fingers splay along his hip, pushing him down.
Michael whimpers, trying to follow along every time Ryan pulls off with a slick, filthy pop. Ryan hums and sucks hard, and there's spit sliding behind Michael's balls. When he spreads his legs, Ryan rubs his thumb along the wet line and just the hint of Ryan's thumb against his hole is more than enough to make Michael come.
He hasn't felt this good since Beijing.
Afterwards, Ryan climbs up next to him and collapses on the bed. "Now that was a booty call," he says around a yawn.
"Would you believe I didn't come here for sex?" Michael offers, yawning in reply.
Ryan snorts. "No."
"Oh, okay," Michael shrugs, closing his eyes. He flinches when Ryan pokes him in the face, apparently trying to pry open his eye. "What?" he asks, batting Ryan away and opening his eyes.
"You came here for sex, right?"
Michael smiles. "Sure."
"Nothing else?"
"Nothing else like what?"
"I dunno, you're the one who just showed the fuck up."
Michael raises an eyebrow. "Are you having a girlfriend moment?"
Ryan bristles. "Fuck you."
"Maybe later."
Ryan rolls over, poking Michael in the ribs with his elbow. "Fucking douchebag."
Michael laughs as Ryan slings his left arm across Michael's chest. "Yeah, I missed you too," he admits to the back of Ryan's head.
Ryan's fingers curl around his waist slightly. "I know you did. Everybody misses my ass."
Ryan's still laughing when Michael slaps him in the back of the head. "Asshole."
Ryan turns his head. "Don't call me things you can't spell." Michael opens his mouth. "Don't even try, you'll only embarrass yourself."
Michael scowls and Ryan shifts onto his side, his right hand brushing damp hair out of his eyes. "I'm glad you came, though, f'real."
The tightness in Michael's jaw slips away. "Oh, okay."
"We good?"
"Jeah?"
"You sure?"
"Didn't I just say 'jeah'?"
"Yeah."
"Okay then."
Ryan closes his eyes, and Michael exhales. After several moments Ryan's breathing evens out; he always falls asleep first. Michael wishes he knew how to let go like that.
"I really did miss you," Michael says quietly.
Ryan doesn't say anything in reply, but he opens one eye and his mouth twists into a smile.
-end-
Huge thanks to metrosex, smilingskull and thorne_scratch for providing a lot of the information contained herein, and to serialkarma because she loves me.
Happy early birthday amberlynne!!
Everybody have a Happy Wednesday! (Or at least not an unhappy Wednesday).
Olympics RPS
Michael Phelps/Ryan Lochte
Rated NC-17
Improv: noodles, squish, crystal, paper, cap
Random Acts of Crazy Behavior
Just because two people are talking doesn't mean they're fucking. Even if those two people are huddled together in a dark corner, and one of them is holding a pen and giving the other one a folded-up piece of paper with something obscene probably scribbled on it, it doesn't necessarily follow that that's a phone number. Or a hotel room number. Or a dirty drawing of two people fucking.
Yeah, okay, it could mean that, but it probably doesn't.
So, when Michael catches Ryan in the corner with Aaron Peirsol, he doesn't think they're doing anything bad. Okay, they probably are, because this is Lochte and Peirsol, but he's sure it's not sex-related because this is Chicago and they just finished filming Oprah.
Nobody in their right mind would be scamming after Oprah. Not that Ryan has ever been in his right anything.
Still, Ryan's rooming with Michael, and Ryan and Michael are fucking, so there's no way Ryan would invite Aaron back to their room to fuck. Unless there's a scheduled threesome that nobody told Michael about. Or unless Ryan's going to Aaron's room instead.
But that's just crazy talk, and Michael's not crazy. He's really not. Except that that night Ryan, Michael, Cullen and Aaron and a couple of the other guys go out to dinner, and then they go to a strip club and the only person who gets a lap dance is Cullen.
Ryan's trying to convince some girl to let him lick tequila out of her navel and Aaron's drinking champagne from the bottle, and Michael, well he's far too busy wondering if Aaron's thinking about giving a lap dance to Ryan.
Ryan and Michael aren't exclusive. They aren't even anything except really good friends, who like sick rides and rap and swimming and fifteen thousand other stupid things. So maybe Ryan and Aaron have already fucked, and Michael just doesn't know about it yet.
Maybe what Michael really needs is another drink.
After Chicago, everybody sort of descends on Manhattan. Well, not everybody, but Ryan goes for some sponsor thing and Michael goes for SNL, so, for Michael, that's everybody. They don't get rooms in the same hotel and they don't have the same schedule, so, it's not like they see each much -- read: at all -- but Michael knows where Ryan is and they're in touch all the time. Michael doesn't pine or anything. Pining is so gay. And girlie. And Michael is neither gay nor girlie. He's Michael fucking Phelps. People think he lives in a tank in fucking Sea World. He's so much better than this.
Preparation for Saturday Night Live is intense. Michael's not an actor, he's a swimmer. He doesn't like cameras, he doesn't like being before the cameras, but he wants to do this and he wants to do it right, so he pays attention during rehearsal and doesn't think of Ryan at Fashion Week hitting on supermodels.
Ryan's constant texting doesn't help though. Especially when Michael's sitting on the sound stage with some of the SNL cast waiting for people to finish setting the scene, and Ryan keeps texting him like he's got diarrhea of the thumbs.
Andy Smbrg iz hot!!!! Get digits!
Michael's appalled. STFU!
he loks lik me! :D
Michael glances up at Andy Samberg, with his curly hair and sort of vacant look -- no hes bettr lookig
Ryan shoots back -- id do him
Michael snorts, and his agent looks up from where he's talking to the stage manager. Michael shrugs apologetically. ud do urself? freak.
threesome! is Ryan's reply.
hotass! comes through a second later.
u know ur down! is the third message in ten seconds.
Michael pockets his phone. It's one thing for Ryan to talk about banging girls; Michael can't compete there. It's something else to drag another guy into the mix.
Michael's been stashed at some hotel near Rockefeller Center called The Library Hotel. It's nice, it's not the rock-n-roll hotel he'd been hoping for with the holes in the walls from people trashing the place and the chicks from Gossip Girl getting drunk in the bar, but it's got 24-hour room service and that's all he really cares about at three in the morning.
Who knew you could request Chinese food and have somebody actually make it happen? This shit is so wicked; he needs to get room service at his new condo or at least a 24-hour chef. They have stuff like that at the Playboy Mansion. Or so he's heard.
He's sitting in his underwear, slurping Lo Mein noodles, watching Sports Center and trying to remember some of the script from the Michael Phelps Diet skit when his phone starts playing Lil' Wayne's 'Lollipop' on the nightstand.
Michael drops his fork in the sheets, because who the fuck - Ryan. Of course.
"You know what time it is?" Michael asks, picking up the call and trying to find his fork.
"Mikey, you gotta come... beer... boobies!"
Michael blinks in the darkness. He can hardly hear Ryan over the background noise. "What boobies?"
"Supermodels... hotass... naked!!" Ryan's clearly excited, but Michael can't really share that with every fifth word coherent. There's this pounding beat drowning out everything Ryan's saying. It's like a porno soundtrack, but with faster drums.
Michael just sighs. "Some of us are working, Ry."
"... kill it... choking donkeys.... " Ryan offers up.
Michael pulls his phone away from his ear and does something rather unexpected when he disconnects the call. He's not going to deny Ryan his fun, but some people are actually working here. Or they're trying not to choke on donkeys on live TV.
Yeah, Michael can grope peroxide blondes at the Playboy Club in Vegas and sit next to that lady from Vogue, but he's not Ryan. He doesn't fall into parties with supermodels and porno beats at almost four a.m. on a Friday morning. He wants to though. This fucking sucks.
When the phone rings again, Michael shoves it in the nightstand drawer, and when he scrounges in the sheets for the TV remote he grabs his fork full of squishy noodles instead. Yuck.
Just because two people are sitting side-by-side at a fashion show doesn't mean they're fucking. It could mean that, because in the photos from Page Six that Ryan so helpfully sends Michael, Ryan seems really happy to be sitting next to Nastia Lukin, but Michael's not even going to pay attention to that photo, because he just -- fuck it.
There's nothing rational about jealousy.
He doesn't choke on Saturday Night Live. He's not great, but he doesn't trip and kill himself in front of the entire country and that's all that counts. Oh, and he gets a photo with Lil' Wayne that he can taunt Ryan with for the rest of their lives. That's pretty good, too.
At the after party, Michael is swarmed by people who want his autograph and who want to pinch his ass and grope him in photographs. They think he's the best thing since, like, the Super Sized Big Mac. It's awesome, and Michael wishes Ryan could see this.
Ryan may be fucking models and Olympians, but Michael's got everybody else covered.
He even invites this girl back to his hotel for who the fuck only knows what. The fact that he has no real clue about what they're going to do when they get to his hotel is probably why he ditches her between the party and his Town Car.
Michael's wearing these crazy clashing neon swim trunks that look like something Ryan would love. He can feel the tightness around his temples which means he's wearing a swim cap, and judging by the water running down his ankles, he's going to assume he just got out the pool. He hasn't peed in the bed since he was nine.
Everything is kind of cloudy at the moment though, because Michael's distracted. He only has eyes for Ryan and Nastia fucking Lukin fucking on the bed in his mom's house.
Michael doesn't know how he got there, or how they got there, all he knows is what he's watching, and what he's watching is Nastia riding Ryan like a goddamn rodeo queen. What Michael's suffering through is watching Ryan with somebody else, on his fucking Spider-Man sheets, and he's really not feeling this at all.
He wakes up with a start, drooling on himself in a first class seat on a flight to yet another clinic, or a party, or an appearance, or something else that is supposed to signal his arrival, when all he really wants to do is to go home.
Just because two people are fucking doesn't mean they're in a relationship. It could mean that, but it might not. It might mean that they're just buddies who don't really have other people who understand the pressures they're under, or the lives they lead, or how fucking hard it is to get up day after day, morning after morning, and go to the pool and think that this might be the only thing they're going to be good at for their entire lives. Or maybe that's just Michael. He never did finish school, but Ryan's got a degree and that's more than Michael can say. Michael's got more sponsors, but Ryan seems to be enjoying himself a lot more. Maybe Michael'll open a school like Lenny did. Maybe he'll just retire to some island and go crazy like Marlon Brando in Apocalypse Now.
Ryan and Michael play phone tag for hours, days, weeks on end. It's what their friendship has been built on in the first place: Ryan babbling about some Billionaire Boys Club Pharrell Williams swim trunks for Speedo and Michael wondering what time it is and where the fuck he's at this morning. At no point do they talk about the people Ryan might be fucking or skanky chicks that follow Michael into the bathroom to suck his dick.
Why the hell aren't you answering your phone, manwhore? Too many groupies smothering you with their tits? I never thought I'd be so fucking happy to see Flo Rida in my life. You know they're having a parade for me today, right? That shit is so sick! I have, like, my own fucking parade like a fucking war hero! Jeah!
Dude, you're not even a war hero with your Halo score. I got a parade; you are so not special, Lochte. Hit me back.
I'm not special? Fuck you and your size 50 shoes. You wish you were as special as me, Fish Boy! When are you going back to B-more? Holla!
My bad, you are special like the short bus. I dunno when I'll be home. Yeah, I know, I suck.
Short bus? Did it really take you a whole day to think that up, MP? I know you're, like, jealous of my parade skills. And if I'm on the short bus, I'll see your funny looking ass there. When are you gonna come by and visit me? I've got this new board, you gotta see it.
It's been three whole hours, did you lose your phone?
Mike, it's been three days, what the fuck?
Hey, Ryan, I'm in fucking -- yeah, I don't even know where I am. That's fucked up. I know I suck ass, but I'm sorr -- I'm late for this clinic, I'll call you back.
He does get home eventually. All his shit is in Ann Arbor, waiting for somebody to move it, steal it or burn it, but he does make it back to Baltimore, Herman and his family. Fucking finally.
Falling asleep on his mom's sofa with Herman dribbling on his hand and a bowl Ben & Jerry's melting in his lap might be the tenth greatest moment of his life. The next morning he jerks off in the shower thinking about lithe gymnasts and Andy Samberg and Ryan fucking him on the pool deck of the Water Cube in Beijing.
He generally tries to keep the kinky thoughts out of his mom's house, but shit happens.
There are people who will go to your house and pack up your shit for you if you are moving. They will ship it and deal with it when it arrives at your brand-new 4,000 square foot condo in Fells Point and you never even have to think about it. All you have to do is hire them. You can even do that on the phone. You can sign the contract via fax machine, and if you are driven enough and motivated enough, you can get this shit done in time to catch the 1:55 p.m. US Airways flight to Jacksonville via Charlotte. But you still have to get your ass to Gainesville.
Why is there no fucking direct flight from Baltimore to Gainesville again?
"What's hood?" Ryan says by way of greeting when Michael calls.
"What's hood? You're a skateboarding pro-swimmer in a five bedroom house with a pool. What the hell do you know about hood?"
"It's an expression," Ryan says in mock irritation. "Don't be so white."
Michael laughs so hard he gets the hiccups. "Did my boy Lil' Wayne give you some street cred, because when I saw him-"
"Shut up," Ryan complains. "Just because you're, like, all tight with the most awesomest rapper ever-"
"Is 'awesomest' a word?"
"I see people sucking your dick has, like, made you bitchy. I thought the opposite was supposed to happen."
"Aw, baby," Michael teases, "don't be like that. Open the door though, there's bugs out here the size of fucking apples. This shit is scary."
Michael can hear the moment that Ryan's figured out what he's saying, because there's this massive clatter from inside the house and the front door of Ryan's house is flung open hard enough to ricochet off the wall, but if that happens Michael misses it, because Ryan tackles him into the plants lining the walkway.
Michael hits his head on something and gets mulch and dirt in his mouth, but he's got 200 plus lbs. of a happy Ryan pinned on top of him and that's worth it.
"'sup, dude?" Ryan asks nonchalantly, sitting on Michael's chest.
Michael just laughs; the sun is filtering through the plants and he squints a bit. "Nothing, man."
Ryan's warm and heavy; they could stay here for a while. "You should've called first; I didn't even get to hide my blowup dolls."
Michael blinks. "Stop fucking with me."
Ryan cackles, curling over enough that his hair tickles Michael's forehead. "You should see your face," he crows.
Michael shoves Ryan off of him and into the bushes. "Asshole," he says, getting to his feet, picking up his bag and heading into the house.
"Love me, love my asshole!" Ryan hollers after him.
Ryan's house is what a house should be: it's got a fridge full of beer, a pool table and a pool. Michael would totally buy Ryan's house from him and live here -- he'd even let Ryan stay -- if it were in Baltimore.
Michael's visited enough that he doesn't need to ask where things are, which is why he drops his bag at the foot of the stairs, kicks his sneakers off and immediately heads for the kitchen. He hasn't eaten in, like, four hours.
There's beer and cold pizza, which Michael eats while standing in front of the open refrigerator door. It takes him at least two slices of pepperoni to realize Ryan's not hounding him for his share. Michael grabs a Heineken and a half-devoured piece of pizza and goes back to the front door, but the door's shut, and there's no Ryan there.
Ryan's not in the pool room or the living room either.
Michael eventually finds Ryan in the dining room, standing over the table and looking at a bunch of colored pieces of something, which is just weird. Ryan's had this house for almost a year now and as far as Michael knows, nobody's ever used this room. Or this table.
"I forgot this was even here," Michael says, knocking on the table with his knuckles before crowding Ryan's space.
Ryan twitches when Michael presses the cold beer against his neck. "Fucker," he says distractedly.
Michael chews and waits and chews and waits. When the pizza's done, he says, "Seriously, I come to visit your ass and all you can do is call me a 'fucker'? Where's the love?"
Ryan glances over at him. "I'm working, dude, give me minute."
Michael almost drops his beer. "Working on what?"
"Swim line, dude." Michael's so shocked he can't even reply. Ryan glances at him over his shoulder. "Four minutes," Ryan promises. "I won't even ask for a whole five."
Michael's so disturbed he has to go back to the kitchen and get another beer. It's only when he's opening the second beer he realizes that he never opened the first one. So, he opens both of them and heads back to the dining room with that table that Ryan only got to make his mom happy.
Ryan's still standing there, playing with pieces of what's apparently fabric, and it's just strange to see him so focused on anything that's not the water. Michael feels like he's intruding, which is just wrong. He doesn't like this feeling.
"You're serious, aren't you?" Michael asks, offering Ryan one of the beers.
Ryan takes a sip and sets the beer on the table. "This is what I wanna do, Mike, I wanna design clothes. You know, make shit I like."
Michael sits down on the carpet. "You want to be a designer?" Michael thinks of the lady from Vogue and those skinny women who always look constipated and starved.
"Do you not listen to any of the fifteen thousand voicemails I leave you? Why do you think I was at Fashion Week?"
"Hot chicks."
Ryan smiles in memory. "Yeah, okay, that too."
"So," Michael tries again. "A designer."
"I wanna do shit I like."
"You mean like your tacky ass shoes?"
"Don't hate just because you have no style. I've already got a line for Speedo, didn't I tell you?"
Did he tell him? Maybe. Probably. Did Michael pay attention? Probably not. He can be a little self-contained, but -- but shit.
Michael takes another pull of his beer and belches. Ryan doesn't even look up, and Michael can feel the irritation stirring at the base of his skull. It's not like he wants to design swimsuits for Speedo, but still. "I flew all this way and I don't even get a blow job. That's fucked up."
Ryan finally graces him with a smirk. "I was wondering when you were gonna get to that. I mean if I rolled up to your hood for a booty call, we'd totally be fucking on your mom's front lawn by now."
The neighbors would love that.
"Fine, I get it," Michael sighs loudly, "you're working." And wow, did that sound like a neglected girlfriend or what?
Michael knows he's probably sulking, but shit. He has needs and they haven't been met in a long fucking time. Over the last month or two, Michael's been groped a lot and groped other people a lot, but you don't know where people've been.
At least Michael has an idea where Ryan's been. Kinda.
Michael swallows down more of his beer and glares at the carpet; he's not even enjoying this. He's wound way too fucking tight. He looks up when one of Ryan's bare feet prods his leg.
"Poor Mikey," Ryan mocks, "got tired of whoring around the country or something? Did one of your skanks give you an itch?"
Michael's jaw just falls open. Okay he's been acting out a bit, but it's not like he's been actually hitting it with anybody. "I didn't -- I wasn't - you started it!" he protests lamely.
"I started it, Mr. If His Name is Ian I'll Fuck Him?" Ryan laughs.
Michael's mouth falls open.
"The internet is a wild ass place," Ryan carries on sagely. "They have photos of fucking everything. Except you fucking, but they're getting there. You need to think about a no-camera phone clause."
Michael gets to his knees, his body in just the right place to give Ryan a blowjob -- instead his beer goes all over the place when he grabs Ryan around the waist and flings him over his shoulder in a fireman's carry.
"Holy fuck! Put me down!" Ryan hollers as Michael staggers to his feet. Ryan slaps at Michael's ass as Michael shifts him slightly to open the doors to the backyard, stumbling a bit under Ryan's wriggling in displeasure.
Ryan outweighs him, but not by much; still, it's a good thing they're not going far.
"I swear to God I'm going to kick your ass," Ryan curses as Michael wobbles closer and closer to his destination.
"You keep moving, and I'm going to drop you on your head," Michael warns, tightening his grip. If Ryan actually got hurt that would suck badly.
"Put me the fuck down, Mike!" Ryan orders, digging his fingernails into Michael's lower back. That actually hurts, and Michael can take orders, so he puts Ryan down -- by flinging him in the pool.
He's totally not expecting to fall in after Ryan, which is obviously why it happens.
There's wet and cold and water up Michael's his nose and in his ears. So not part of any plan. There's a huge blur on Michael's left as he breaches the surface, which turns out to be Ryan pushing him back under.
"You are such a fucktard!" Ryan berates, letting him up for air just to shove him back under. "I'm, like, trying to fucking work, and here you come with your, like, lanky ass, totally distracting me with your stupid ears and skeezy dick."
Michael finally manages to dislodge Ryan, coughing for air as he swims away. "You were fucking Peirsol!" Michael shoots back. "And Nastia Lukin! And, like, everybody who breathes on you!"
When Michael wipes the water out of his eyes, he can see the smirk on Ryan's face. "You're fucking with me, aren't you?"
Ryan licks his lips and grins. "I really was trying to work, dude, but I'm glad you came."
Michael's brain can't figure out if he's pissed off or happy; it makes his head hurt. He's fully-dressed and fully-drenched and the water isn't exactly warm. He treads water easily as Ryan swims towards him, pausing just inside his personal space.
Ryan cocks his head to the side, his hair plastered to his scalp and his eyes bright. "So you think I was hittin' it with Nastia Lukin? Dude, she's, like, tiny."
"Gymnasts are flexible."
"True, but she was in town for Speedo, too. She's designing some leotards or some shit."
"Oh."
"Yeah, oh. Now what's this about Peirsol?"
"I saw you two, like, talking."
"If we're talking, we're fucking? Seriously, Mike?"
Well, when you put it that way… Michael looks away.
"Wait," Ryan orders, "is this your way of saying you want to fuck Aaron?"
"Fuck you."
"Not if you're fucking Aaron too. And Carrie Underwood. And all those pageant chicks. And Stephanie Rice. And --"
The only way to shut Ryan up is to shove him back under the water, except that Ryan twists away, and then he's grabbing at Michael, but maybe it's not grabbing so much as groping, and there are just way too many layers in the way.
Michael's trying to get off his shorts when Ryan slips away, and when he surfaces, Ryan's on the deck, water dripping everywhere.
Michael paddles over to him in two strokes. "No fucking in the pool during the day when the neighbors can see," Ryan says in a mock-serious tone, right before turning on his heel, yanking off his shirt and wandering into the house.
Michael watches the shirt go flying back into the pool with a wet slap, and then he's scrabbling out of the water and following Ryan into the house.
Ryan's not in the dining room, but there're wet footprints on the carpet leading into the living room. Ryan's not in the living room either, but his pants are, which causes Michael to pause and look around very closely. "I know you're around here somewhere," he calls out. Nothing.
Common sense says Ryan's gone upstairs, but when Michael goes upstairs, Ryan's not in his room. Or the guest room. Or any of the other three bedrooms, which makes no fucking sense.
"Where the hell are you, asshole?!" Michael hollers.
"Awesome! Dirty talk!" Ryan's voice taunts from downstairs. The stairs thud loudly as Michael races back the way he came. There's water on the kitchen floor, but there's still no Ryan.
"When the fuck did we start playing Hide-n-Seek?" Michael grouses.
He stumbles when something hard and wet is slapped across the back of his skull. "Tag, you're it!" Ryan shouts from behind him, and when Michael reaches up, he comes away with Ryan's wet underwear in his hand.
Games weren't like this when he was little, too bad.
Michael takes off, following Ryan's thundering steps up the stairs to where all five bedroom doors are shut. Michael has a moment of disorientation, because he only ever finds Ryan's bedroom by the fact that he can see the mess inside it.
His best guess is … wrong
And his second best guess is locked. Michael doesn't remember a locked door. He pushes a little harder and the door gives just that little bit. "Ryaaaaan," he calls out in a sing-song voice.
"That's just fucking creepy," Ryan chides from the other side of the door. "Don't do that Jack Nicholson shit."
"You are so gonna get it." Michael slips on his own wet footprints as he tries to charge the door.
"I thought I was getting some dirty talk. What happened to that? C'mon, give me, like, your best porno voice."
"I'm going to beat your ass until you're begging me for it," Michael threatens, giving the door one last shove and going flying into the closet as it opens easily.
All of Ryan's clothes smell like Ryan. Shocking.
When he emerges, Ryan's standing in the middle of the room holding a pair of dry boxer shorts. "Your sex talk needs work."
"Why are you getting dressed?" Michael complains.
"Why are you tracking water all over my house?" Ryan retorts. Michael narrows his eyes, he only begins stripping off his clothes when Ryan tosses his boxers on the bed. "Don't drop your wet shit on my sneakers."
Michael pauses with his wet boxers pooling around his ankles. "Seriously?"
Ryan's smile is all teeth, and Michael's pinned against the wall before he quite realizes that Ryan's moved. "Are you clean?" Ryan asks him, pool-clammy thigh pressed between Michael's legs.
Michael's balls try to retreat into his body and away from the cold, as he tries to figure out what Ryan's talking about. "Am I clean from what?"
Ryan's skin is cool from the pool, but his breath is hot on Michael's face. "I'm not stupid, MP. If you're banging groupies that's your business, but you better not be-"
Michael scoffs loudly and then collapses against Ryan in hysterical laughter.
He winces when Ryan grabs his hair and yanks his head up to eye-level. "I'm serious, I know how people are like, 'yeah, I'm totally clean except for that one person I banged and didn't tell you about'."
Michael blinks because this is the second time today that Ryan's been serious serious. Jesus. People win a few medals and decide what they want to do with their lives and -- fuck, that's hot.
Ryan makes this surprised noise when Michael kisses him, which is totally understandable, because it's pretty damn surprising to Michael too. He brushes his mouth against Ryan's lips lightly, nuzzling, checking and then pressing the advantage when Ryan's fingers tighten in his hair.
They kiss twice with closed mouths, Michael pulling back to breathe once, and then his tongue flickering against Ryan's when Ryan's mouth opens up for him. Michael dives in hard, his tongue brushing Ryan's palate, his teeth, only pulling back to tug on Ryan's lower lip with his teeth.
He wraps an arm around Ryan's waist to keep him close, heat flaring under his skin where Ryan's body presses him into the wall. Ryan's fingers tighten in his hair as Michael surges forward, trying to deepen the kiss.
Ryan's tongue strokes against his and their teeth clash as they try to find the best angle, Ryan pulling away to breathe and then diving back in to steal the little air that Michael has left. They're loud, and Michael can hear the wet panting in his ears, can feel his body tuning in to what's going on. He shifts his weight and his dick rubs against Ryan's hip, which leads to a whole new set of noises.
The arm around Ryan's waist becomes Michael's hands groping Ryan, his fingers sliding up and down the crease of Ryan's ass. Ryan moans loudly against Michael's mouth, using the fingers in Michael's hair to hold him still, to fuck Michael's mouth with his tongue.
Yeah, Michael's got no complaints.
Especially not with the way he's trying to ride Ryan's thigh, and the way Ryan keeps making these dirty noises when Michael's fingers rub against his entrance. Michael can feel the pre-come smearing and spreading between then, the sweat starting to form along his biceps from the burn of holding Ryan exactly where he wants him so he can grind against Ryan's thigh.
If you asked Michael why he pushes Ryan away, he wouldn't be able to tell you. Ryan's clearly confused too if his parted, wet lips, unfocused glare and straining erection are anything to go by. "What?"
Michael takes a huge step forward, pressing right against Ryan, who still looks dazed, and then with another huge step he propels them both on the bed. Ryan's hot and slick underneath him, writhing to get back to that place where he was happy, so when Michael pulls away again, Ryan is not feeling it.
"What the hell is going on?" Ryan bitches when Michael grabs his hips and rolls him onto his stomach, and then Michael's pulling Ryan up on his hands and knees and Ryan seems much happier. Almost.
"I'm serious about the clean thing," Ryan says haltingly as Michael spreads him with the fingers of one hand and sucks on the index and middle finger of his other hand.
Ryan can't see him, but he clearly feels it when Michael rubs two wet fingers against his asshole. "Whoa," Ryan says, his whole body tensing up.
"Whoa no, or whoa fuck yes?" Michael asks, pausing.
"Fuck yes, god, you are a fucking idi-"
"I'm not fucking anybody else," Michael says, going back to using his fingers on Ryan. "I kissed some random girls, had some fans try to put their hands down my pants, groped a few strippers and actually had somebody follow me into the bathroom in Vegas, but the only thing I've been fucking is my hand, okay?" And then Michael leans down and flicks his tongue over Ryan's asshole.
It's… strange. Not bad or wrong, just strange.
"Oh Jesus fuck," Ryan moans, pushing back against Michael's mouth. "You should've done this on Saturday Night Live. They'd want you every week."
Michael makes a noncommittal noise; he's busy. He's had one or two very adventurous girlfriends try this and he wasn't game, but, well, what does he know besides swimming?
"Do you have any idea what you're doing?" Ryan gasps.
Michael stops and looks up, Ryan's watching him over his shoulder. "Everything I know I learned from porn."
Ryan looks stunned. "Huh."
"Is that a problem?"
"No, just making conversation."
"How about we talk after?" Michael offers before going back to the task at hand.
Michael spits and licks, his tongue pushing further harder, and Ryan makes this noise like he's dying. Michael laves with his tongue, just like in all that porn he's been watching lately, and well, Ryan seems to like it. As least he does if the way he keeps pushing back at Michael's mouth is anything to go by.
The bed shifts a lot while Michael's experimenting, and when Michael backs off slightly he can see Ryan's trying to jerk himself off. Oh. Michael wants to watch this. "Roll over."
Ryan groans loudly but does as Michael asks. "You came down here to kill me, didn't you?" he says, rolling onto his back. "First, you try to drown me, and then you try to make me stupid with sex." His cock slaps against his stomach obscenely, leaving wet spatters. His face is flushed and there's blood on his bottom lip. He must've bitten himself. Wow.
"I think the stupid part is too late," Michael teases.
"Fuck you." Ryan kicks at him with his left foot; Michael grabs his ankle and just holds it for a minute.
"Touch yourself," Michael coaxes, "I wanna watch."
Ryan's eyes narrow for a minute and then he pulls his foot free from Michael, bends his knees and puts his feet on the bed. Taking his dick in hand he strokes himself slowly a few times, spreading sweat and pre-come, and then he picks up speed, jerking off hard and fast. Michael just stares.
"I wish porn were this hot," Michael mumbles, and Ryan licks his lips and begins thrusting up into his fist.
Michael doesn't think he needs to participate, but his fingers stroking along the inside of Ryan's thighs clearly disagree.
"Fuck," Ryan pants, right before his whole body goes rigid and he comes all over himself and Michael's forearms.
Michael blinks as Ryan sprawls out on the bed. "Wow."
Ryan groans, wiping his hands on the thick comforter. "Did you eat your Wheaties this morning or something? I mean, damn, dude."
Michael's still staring so it takes him a minute to realize his body is not pleased about his neglect. He begins jerking himself off because the pressure is enough to cause permanent injury. A few strokes in, though, Ryan's sitting up and pushing his hands away.
"Don't even," he says, pushing Michael back on the bed, crawling between his legs and mouthing the head of Michael's dick.
"This is gonna be a short-"
Ryan lifts his head. "Dude, shut up." And then he goes to work, licking the length of Michael's cock and slurping him down very wetly. Michael thrusts up automatically, but Ryan's fingers splay along his hip, pushing him down.
Michael whimpers, trying to follow along every time Ryan pulls off with a slick, filthy pop. Ryan hums and sucks hard, and there's spit sliding behind Michael's balls. When he spreads his legs, Ryan rubs his thumb along the wet line and just the hint of Ryan's thumb against his hole is more than enough to make Michael come.
He hasn't felt this good since Beijing.
Afterwards, Ryan climbs up next to him and collapses on the bed. "Now that was a booty call," he says around a yawn.
"Would you believe I didn't come here for sex?" Michael offers, yawning in reply.
Ryan snorts. "No."
"Oh, okay," Michael shrugs, closing his eyes. He flinches when Ryan pokes him in the face, apparently trying to pry open his eye. "What?" he asks, batting Ryan away and opening his eyes.
"You came here for sex, right?"
Michael smiles. "Sure."
"Nothing else?"
"Nothing else like what?"
"I dunno, you're the one who just showed the fuck up."
Michael raises an eyebrow. "Are you having a girlfriend moment?"
Ryan bristles. "Fuck you."
"Maybe later."
Ryan rolls over, poking Michael in the ribs with his elbow. "Fucking douchebag."
Michael laughs as Ryan slings his left arm across Michael's chest. "Yeah, I missed you too," he admits to the back of Ryan's head.
Ryan's fingers curl around his waist slightly. "I know you did. Everybody misses my ass."
Ryan's still laughing when Michael slaps him in the back of the head. "Asshole."
Ryan turns his head. "Don't call me things you can't spell." Michael opens his mouth. "Don't even try, you'll only embarrass yourself."
Michael scowls and Ryan shifts onto his side, his right hand brushing damp hair out of his eyes. "I'm glad you came, though, f'real."
The tightness in Michael's jaw slips away. "Oh, okay."
"We good?"
"Jeah?"
"You sure?"
"Didn't I just say 'jeah'?"
"Yeah."
"Okay then."
Ryan closes his eyes, and Michael exhales. After several moments Ryan's breathing evens out; he always falls asleep first. Michael wishes he knew how to let go like that.
"I really did miss you," Michael says quietly.
Ryan doesn't say anything in reply, but he opens one eye and his mouth twists into a smile.
-end-
Huge thanks to metrosex, smilingskull and thorne_scratch for providing a lot of the information contained herein, and to serialkarma because she loves me.
Happy early birthday amberlynne!!
Everybody have a Happy Wednesday! (Or at least not an unhappy Wednesday).