*taps microphone*
Not Your Average Damsel in Distress. Jon/Ryan. Porn. Warnings for consensual kink, focusing on control fantasies. ~7k. Full header here.
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"You want what?"
Feeling his cheeks heat, Ryan is suddenly glad for the darkness of the room, that he waited to ask until they were sated and spent, lying tangled in Ryan's sheets in the middle of the night. Jon may not have had much of a problem proposing this little trade scheme in the light of day, his eyes going dark as he confessed precisely how much he liked the thought of Ryan dressed up in satin and lace like Jon's own personal china doll, but Ryan is embarrassed enough about this without having Jon see him blush. "It's not a big deal if you don't want to," he says, rushing the words a little, hiding his face against Jon's shoulder.
"I didn't say no, man, I'm just trying to-did you read one too many romance novels as a kid, or something?" Jon's tone is joking, but underneath that he sounds honestly perplexed, like he doesn't understand where this desire of Ryan's possibly could have come from.
Ryan doesn't have to put up with that, refuses to. "You know what, just-just forget I said anything. I'll think of something else." He rolls over, turning his back on Jon and curling in on himself a little. He knows it's kind of weird, okay, but Jon fucking asked, and he has no right to make fun of Ryan for his answer.
"Ryan," Jon says gently, slipping his arm around Ryan's waist and fitting himself snugly against Ryan's back, hooking his chin over Ryan's shoulder so he can drop a chaste kiss on Ryan's jaw. "I'm not saying no."
They stay up too late that night, Ryan haltingly disclosing exactly what he wants and how far he's willing to go, Jon holding him close with an arm around his waist as he nods into Ryan's shoulder. Jon doesn't say a word about it the next morning, though; he acts like it's just another day, like the whole conversation never happened. With as busy as they are-caught up in the prep for their third album, trying to get as much planned as they can before Christmas comes and they're going to have to take a week off to spend with their families-Ryan almost forgets that they talked about it at all.
But the idea doesn't fade entirely, humming in the back of his brain when he and Jon hit the mall before practice, window shopping for something Jon can buy his mom that he probably couldn't get her in Chicago. It's hard not to remember when Jon stops in front of Frederick's, looking at one of the storefront mannequins in a solid silk cami and boyshorts, just a little bit of lace at the edges, and Ryan has to tug him away, trying not to notice the speculative look on Jon's face.
It's still a surprise though, when Jon puts the last of the dishes in the sink to soak and says, "I'm going over Brendon's. We're gonna watch a movie and smoke a little. You wanna come?" He leans against the counter with feigned casualness, and Ryan blinks at him.
He puts away the butter before he shrugs. "Sure. What are you guys going to watch?" If Brendon and Jon agreed on the movie, there's a good chance that he'll need to smoke up before they go over; left to their own devices, they have a tendency to pick movies like Mortal Kombat or Dragon Wars, and Ryan likes to be buzzed before the opening titles for those.
Jon doesn't answer though, shaking his head and frowning a little. He comes closer to Ryan, and his eyes are intent, almost earnest, when he looks up, like he's trying to get a point across without saying it. "Nothing you'd be interested in, probably. You should just stay home, maybe try and get some rest. You've been tired the past few days."
Ryan can't keep himself from frowning, because what the fuck? He's sleeping as much as Jon, and they've been working a mostly steady schedule. Even with Jon in town and the resultant upswing in Ryan's sexual activity level, they've been able to get plenty of sleep. He opens his mouth to say something about it, wanting to ask what the fuck Jon's talking about, but then Jon sighs and presses close, wrapping his arms around Ryan's waist.
He goes up on his toes a little, mouth running dry over Ryan's neck until his lips brush Ryan's ear. "Tonight, okay?" he whispers. "Be ready?"
And then it connects for Ryan, and he bites his lip on a grin, even though he can't stop his eyes from going wide. He nods once, and then Jon pulls away, sliding back into character like the moment didn't happen. "I don't know when I'll be home, so don't worry about waiting up," Jon says.
Ryan's throat goes a little dry. It could be any time, an hour from now, two, in the middle of the night. Jon doesn't want him to know what to expect. "Okay," he says, trying not to choke on the words and failing pretty hard. "You guys have fun."
Jon grins at him, a touch of nervousness shading his smile. The tips of his ears are pink. "We will."
Making sure that Jon sees his own smile, Ryan goes back to clearing the kitchen table.
Ryan jumps a little when the big clock chimes eleven. He sort of hates that clock. The interior decorator insisted that it was good for the feel of his study, dark wood that matches his bookshelf with the carved flowers that match his upholstery, but he always forgets it's there until it chimes, too loud for the quiet room. It's only remotely entertaining when he's stoned; it's just annoying when he's straining to hear the car pull up or the door open.
He shakes his head at himself a little before he flips the page of his book. It's not really late, not yet, but he debates if he wants to go upstairs and wait for Jon after this chapter, even though he's starting to move into the best part of the mystery, when everything starts to go insane. Truthfully, he hasn't been able to concentrate on the plot all night; he's glad it's a book he's read before.
The clock's still counting off the hour when a hand clamps down over his mouth, just this side of too tight, and he jumps again.
"Don't say a fucking word," someone growls in his ear, and it only takes him a second to realize that it's Jon, Jon's fingers curled tight over his mouth, but Jon doesn't sound like himself, voice too low and actually mean when he hisses, "You understand?"
Ryan breathes in sharply, and all he can smell for a moment is Jon's hand lotion. Jon's fingers tighten a little before Ryan remembers to nod. He doesn't relax, and the book falls out of his hands, slapping against the floor when it tumbles off the chaise.
"Good boy," Jon murmurs, his other hand coming around and running down Ryan's chest. It's different from the way Jon usually touches him, rougher, and Ryan tries to keep from smiling. He looks up at Jon, eyes wide with anticipation; a shiver goes through him when he realizes how much the expression must look like fear. He can't believe this is happening.
Jon smiles meanly as he pushes two fingers into Ryan's mouth, spreading them wide to force Ryan's jaw open, force Ryan's lips to stretch. He tastes like the lotion, like cigarettes and skin, and Ryan forgets for a brief second that he's supposed to be resisting, forgets that they've both got roles to play, here. He'll get to taste Jon's skin later, if that's what Jon wants, if that's what Jon demands from him.
Ryan bites down hard on Jon's fingers and jerks his head back, away from Jon's touch, relishing the genuine angry shock that flashes in Jon's eyes. "Who the fuck are you, and what the fuck are you doing in my house?" Ryan demands. "Get out before I call the police."
"You little-" Jon says. Ryan twists around to glare up at him, defiant, and Jon pulls his hand back, like he's going to smack the expression right off of Ryan's face. But then he just reaches out and fists a hand in Ryan's shirt instead, pulling hard enough that Ryan's collar digs into the back of his neck. "You don't want to piss me off, pretty." Jon's voice is low and dangerous as he gives Ryan an emphatic shake, pushing him against the back of the couch.
"You broke into my fucking house. Give me one good reason I shouldn't-ah!" He gasps in pain as Jon fists his hand in Ryan's hair, yanking his head back hard.
Jon leans down, his mouth close to Ryan's ear again. "I told you to keep quiet, didn't I?"
He drags Ryan up from the chaise by his hair, and Ryan tries not to seem too eager as he stands, pulling against Jon's grip even as he lets Jon manhandle him around and push him down again, bending him over the arm of the couch.
Jon presses close behind him, pinning Ryan in place with his hips, and Ryan bites back a moan as he grinds into the couch a little; it undoubtedly looks like he's trying to get away, even though nothing could be further from the truth. But Jon treats it like a serious attempt to throw him off, splaying the hand that's not still tangled in Ryan's hair between Ryan's shoulder blades and pressing down hard, mashing Ryan's forehead against the couch cushion. Ryan sucks in a breath through his teeth, fingers scrambling at the upholstery, already so turned on that his skin feels hot and tight.
Jon's hand slides out of his hair, down his neck, until it curls tight around Ryan's hip. "You know, I was just going to fuck your face," he says conversationally, and Ryan bites his lip, doesn't groan at the idea of Jon pushing Ryan down hard onto his knees and holding his head, in complete control. "But since you can't be trusted with your teeth..."
"Fuck you," Ryan spits, struggling against Jon's hand, but Jon doesn't give him an inch, just leans more of his weight on Ryan's ass. Ryan squirms, his hips pinned between the solid heat of Jon's body and the arm of the couch; what little friction he can get like this feels unreal.
Jon presses down harder, the heel of his hand incredibly heavy against Ryan's back. Then his fingers dip just below the waistband of Ryan's old sweats, the ones that barely stay up on their own, and he laughs a little. "You're dressed for it, aren't you, pretty?" He closes his eyes at the way Jon calls him pretty, his tone mean and possessive, the word just rolling out of his mouth like he knows Ryan hates it. "All easy access for me. You wanted this to happen, didn't you?"
Ryan's glad that Jon can't see his face, because he can't stop himself from smiling, fingers tight around the cushion. "No," he huffs angrily, rolling his shoulders to try and buck Jon off. He lashes out with his feet, but Jon's legs are between his, holding Ryan open and restricting the range of motion in his hips, so the only thing Ryan can do is kick at the air uselessly. "Get the fuck off of me!"
Jon slides his hand back a little, not pushing down as hard or as bruising, and Ryan frowns; Jon isn't actually supposed to stop. But then his breath catches as Jon reaches around with his other hand and undoes the tie on Ryan's sweats, pushing them down with one hand and stepping back so they drop to the floor, pooling around Ryan's ankles. Ryan's not wearing any underwear.
"Oh yeah, easy is right," Jon hisses, free hand palming at Ryan's ass. He presses close again, thumb dipping between Ryan's cheeks and touching him where he's already slick with lube.
Ryan knows it's coming, but he can't stop himself from crying out when Jon pushes two fingers in, like he's trying to force Ryan open just enough that it won't hurt Jon. There's enough lube that it's an easy slide, even though it's been a couple of hours since Ryan fucked himself open on his fingers, even though Jon's fingers are broader than Ryan's.
Huffing out another mean little laugh, Jon twists his fingers hard inside. "You waiting for your boyfriend, pretty?" he asks. "I bet he thinks you're a slut for him, doesn't he?" He leans down, his beard scratching at the back of Ryan's neck before he skims his teeth over Ryan's shoulder. "He doesn't know that you're just a slut."
"No," Ryan whimpers, but he can't stop the rock of his hips back against Jon's hand, trying to get get his fingers deeper, wanting more.
"Yeah, I think you are," Jon says. "Bet I could make you beg me for it."
He suddenly pulls his fingers free, and Ryan shudders as he hears the zipper on Jon's jeans go down. The sound is almost impossibly loud in the quiet room, even over the harsh sound of Ryan's own breathing, the steady ticking of the grandfather clock. "No," Ryan says again, his voice shaky, as Jon teases the blunt head of his cock over Ryan's rim; it's not enough pressure to breach him, but it's just enough to drive him insane.
Jon doesn't push in, but he doesn't pull back, and Ryan has to force himself not to shove himself backward, to fuck himself on Jon's cock. His hips twitch a little, because Jon's right there, so close, and Jon makes a noise low in his throat, cocky and sure of himself. "God, you want this, don't you? You want me to fuck you raw." He presses forward, the movement deliberate enough to make Ryan think that maybe, maybe he'll do it, but then he eases back, and Ryan has to bite his lip on a disappointed gasp. "You ready for it?"
Ryan's stomach clenches tight, and his skin feels like it's vibrating, pulsing warm under Jon's hands, because God, he's so ready, wants it so much. He wants Jon to fuck him open, to push in and take him hard, as fast and as brutal as Jon wants. But he can't say that; he won't upset the game. He moans brokenly into the cushions before he shakes his head as vigorously as he can.
"What's that, pretty?" Jon says, low enough to make the hair on the back of Ryan's neck stand up a little. "You don't want it, or you're not ready?" He shifts, and his cock slides forward a little, making room so Jon can touch Ryan where he's slick, easily pushing his fingertips just inside, like Ryan needs the reminder. "Because I know you do, and I think you are."
Ryan shivers again, and Jon rolls his hips forward, hard and insistent. Ryan squirms against the movement. "No," Ryan repeats, breathy, and his eyes flutter closed when Jon repositions his cock, feeling the hot press of it against his ass. It's almost enough. "Please, please, don't. Stop," he gasps out, his voice sounding strange to his ears, wrecked, giving way to a sharp cry when Jon finally, finally pushes forward, lets the head of his cock slowly stretch Ryan's hole until it slips in. Ryan can't stop the sounds he's making, high and pleased and desperate, the way his hips try to cant up and back. He wants more; he wants Jon to stop fucking teasing and just fuck him already. "No, please, it hurts."
He bites his lip again when Jon's hands move, anticipating the feel of Jon's hands bruising his hips as he fucks Ryan into the couch, but then Jon pulls back, pulls away, and turns Ryan over so he's on his back.
The position is hard on Ryan's spine, his shoulders digging into the couch cushions and his hips propped on the arm of the couch. He sinks into it, anyway, relishing the strain in his neck, the stretch in the long muscles of his thighs as he spreads them wide. He waits with eyes clenched shut for Jon to push in again, to jeeringly call him a slut as he gives Ryan exactly what Ryan so obviously wants.
He waits, but instead of fucking him, Jon gentles a hand over the inside of Ryan's thigh and says, "Ryan, hey."
Ryan opens his eyes and sees Jon looking down at him, all trace of the character gone as he awkwardly pets at Ryan's leg. "What," Ryan says, blinking. "Why'd you stop?"
Jon bites his lip. "You said-I was afraid I was hurting you."
Frowning, Ryan says, "I've got a safeword." And he doesn't say anything else, but he curls his neck up a little and looks pointedly at his dick, which is currently hard enough to pound nails and trailing sticky precome all over his stomach. Fuck, he's so fucking close, even though Jon was barely inside him, but now irritation is edging in on his arousal, pulling him back from the edge.
"Okay, okay, it's. We can start again, I just had to make sure you were okay," Jon says, and he gives Ryan a small smile, crooked and a little self-deprecating.
It's such a typically Jon expression, so utterly different from the role he was playing thirty seconds ago, that Ryan drops his head back and groans in frustration. Jesus, why did Jon have to stop? Everything was going so well, and then Ryan had to ruin it by forgetting that Jon absolutely wouldn't be able to deal with the thought of Ryan getting hurt. Most days, that knowledge makes him smile; right now it's really, really pissing him off.
Jon makes a surprised sound when Ryan lets his legs fall to the side, rolling off the chaise in a move that would probably be a lot more graceful if he weren't so annoyed.
"Ryan," Jon says, reaching out to touch Ryan's arm.
"We're done," Ryan replies curtly. He bends down and picks up his pants, but he doesn't put them back on; he just gathers them up and walks bare-assed out of the study and down the hall to the bedroom, not really caring if Jon follows him.
Ryan throws his sweats in the general direction of the hamper and yanks his shirt over his head, dropping it on the floor by the bathroom door. He glares at his reflection in the bathroom mirror as he kicks the door closed. He's still hard; he was worked up enough that he's still tense and uncomfortable with want. He looks appraisingly at the shower and then down at his dick, and decides that jerking off is probably the better plan.
He's barely got his hand wrapped around his cock, the other hand braced on the bathroom counter, when Jon knocks on the door. "Come on, Ryan," he says.
Tightening his grip a little, Ryan groans, "God, fuck off." How is he supposed to get himself off to thoughts of Jon pinning him down and fucking him mercilessly if Jon's going to be standing outside the bathroom wanting to chat?
Jon pushes the door open-it wasn't latched, just pushed to, and Ryan never locks doors anyway-and meets Ryan's eyes in the mirror. "I'm sorry, okay?" he says, watching Ryan's face as Ryan strokes himself.
Ryan grits his teeth a little and turns his face away, trying to pick up fragments of thoughts, images that he knows usually get him off when he's alone and only has a few minutes. "Don't want to talk about it." He refuses to be embarrassed about it, but he definitely doesn't want to talk about it now, not with the memory of Jon's voice, the way he pressed his weight onto Ryan, still fresh.
His hips twitch a little, and he flicks his wrist faster, trying to concentrate on the sound of his hand sliding over his dick and not on Jon breathing beside him, even when Jon leans more into his space and wraps his hand around Ryan's wrist, holding tight enough to stop the motion of Ryan's hand. He groans again, suppressing the urge to smack Jon to make him go away, to make him just leave it alone until later, when they can pretend this didn't happen.
"Hey," Jon says, tone still gentle and tentative. His thumb rubs against the underside of Ryan's wrist, tracing the letters of his tattoo, and Ryan sighs, turning his head; Jon is frowning, eyes wide and hurt. "Hey, no, okay?"
Ryan can feel himself giving over a little. "Jon, just..." he mutters. He doesn't know what he wants Jon to do, and the grip Jon's got on his wrist, firm and steady, is kind of distracting. He looks at the bathroom wall, at the weird pattern of the wallpaper, trying to sort through what he's thinking.
Jon shakes his head and leans up to kiss the corner of Ryan's mouth, his beard rubbing familiar and comfortable against his jaw. "Come to bed, please?" he asks, tugging at Ryan's arm, starting to pull him away from the counter and back towards the bedroom.
"Okay," Ryan murmurs, and lets himself be led.
Jon strips off his clothes and falls backward on the bed, pulling Ryan down on top of him. His hand cups the back of Ryan's neck, his fingertips tangling a little in Ryan's hair as he leans up for a kiss. They just make out for a little while, lazy and slow, Ryan settled between Jon's thighs, but then Jon rolls them over, centers his weight on Ryan's hips and grinds down a little. And it's not what Ryan asked for, but it feels good, the give of the mattress under his ass, the way his cock slides along Jon's belly. He makes a soft, needy noise into Jon's mouth, spreads his legs a bit wider so he has better leverage to rock his hips up against Jon's.
Sweeping his tongue deliberately over Ryan's lower lip, Jon pulls back a little, looks down at Ryan with his eyes half-lidded. He shifts his weight so he can get a hand between them, fingers brushing Ryan's balls and then reaching back to trace Ryan's rim. He's still wet, of course, and still stretched because it's only been a few minutes; Jon's fingertips sink in easily, opening him up again. "You still want...?" Jon asks quietly.
Ryan moans, the kind of sound that he couldn't let himself vocalize earlier. "Yeah," he says, and he tilts up his hips, asking Jon to give him more.
Jon smiles and pushes his fingers deeper, curling them deliberately to make Ryan moan again. "You really are kind of a slut for me."
Something about the way he says it-neither mocking nor fond, not the way he sounded when Ryan was face-down on the couch but not really a normal Jon-voice either-makes Ryan inhale sharply through his teeth, clenching down hard around Jon's fingers and shuddering when the tiny movement pushes Jon's fingertips hard against his prostate. Jon's tone is just knowing, like he's absolutely certain how much Ryan is enjoying this, how much Ryan wants. And thank God, he doesn't seem to want to make Ryan wait any longer for it; he slides his fingers out and reaches for the lube on the bedside table, slicking his cock up quickly and then pushing Ryan's thighs farther apart so he can line himself up.
He presses in steadily, one long stroke until he's all the way inside, fast enough to remind Ryan that Jon's been waiting, too.
Ryan arches off the bed, moaning, because the stretch burns a little. He's plenty prepped, but it's less than he's used to, just fingers and lube without Jon's mouth teasing him open before. "Shit," he gasps, opening his thighs more, trying to let Jon in.
Jon's breathing steadily through clenched teeth, eyes closed tight like he's trying to concentrate. Maybe he is; he doesn't so much as twitch once he's all the way inside, his hips keeping Ryan pinned to the bed, weight holding him down. "Fuck, you're tight," he murmurs, and it's still not Jon's normal voice. Ryan closes his eyes and lets his head loll to the side. Jon's cock feels so good inside, filling him, making Ryan's skin feel sensitive and hot even as Ryan's own cock lies ignored between them, because he doesn't want to touch himself until Jon's fucking him. He breathes slowly and waits for Jon to move.
Except that they just lie there, Jon's hips heavy over Ryan's, and Jon doesn't move and doesn't move. Ryan groans a little, trying to lift his body up enough to kiss Jon, to nip at his lips and remind him that he's supposed to be fucking Ryan. But he's not flexible enough to reach; Jon's leaning up and away from him, his knees tucked under the backs of Ryan's thighs, watching Ryan with dark eyes. Ryan's thighs are starting to burn a little from being held open this wide. He huffs out a breath and rolls his hips, trying to shift around, to coax Jon into moving; he doesn't understand this game, doesn't understand what Jon's trying to do.
"God, just fucking move," Ryan hisses. He rocks his hips up as much as he can and clenches down hard, just to drive the point home.
Jon groans a little and bites his lip, but he regains his composure quickly; he spends another long moment not moving before he leans down, his smile dark, and says, "I know you can beg prettier than that."
Ryan shivers, dick twitching against his belly, because fuck. He's not needy in bed, usually; on the rare occasions when he asks for something, Jon's happy to give it to him. He doesn't beg-has never had to beg-but with Jon over him, smiling down because he knows how much Ryan wants it, Ryan's mouth opens, and he can't help the soft sound that escapes. He tries to buck up again, but Jon is solid on top of him, still pressed hard inside, right up against his prostate.
Jon's hands skim along Ryan's arms until they're on his wrists, holding him down that way, too, with a grip that feels almost tight enough to bruise. Ryan bites his lip at the thought, that he'll go to practice tomorrow with Jon's bruises on his skin.
"Beg me for it, and I might just let you come," he adds, and his voice low and rough, almost like he sounded before in the study.
"Oh, God," Ryan moans, shaky. "Please."
Jon rolls his hips, one smooth thrust out and in; Ryan cries out and arches into it. "There you go," Jon says, "but I think you can still do better."
Ryan's almost panting already, just with Jon still on top of him and holding him down. He tugs hesitantly against Jon's grip, and Jon doesn't let him go, pushing his wrists down insistently, making it clear that Jon doesn't want him to move. He really could hold Ryan down like this; he's strong enough and has enough leverage that there's nothing that Ryan could do but lie there and take it.
He lets his head fall back against the bed and moans again, higher this time, and it turns into, "Please, please," his fingers flexing on the sheets. It's not exactly what he asked for, not everything he wanted, but it's enough.
Jon doesn't pull back or move or do anything that Ryan wants him to do, needs him to do. He's so close already, just riding the edge, that he's not sure he'll last if Jon starts to fuck him. "Please what, Ryan?" Jon asks.
Ryan bears down on Jon, mouth falling open as he gasps for air. "Please fuck me," he says, and even his voice is needy, desperate and alien. He opens his eyes to look at Jon, at that knowing smile. "Please let me come."
Jon laughs, leaning down close enough to kiss him, but Jon doesn't close the gap between their mouths, pressing his lips against the underside of Ryan's jaw instead. "If you can come like this," he tells Ryan's skin, before he pulls back and slams forward.
The rhythm is hard and fast from the start, and Ryan can't keep quiet, panting and whimpering as he wraps his legs around Jon's waist, arches into the force of his thrusts. Jon lets go of Ryan's wrists for a moment, but it's only so he can adjust their position, arranging Ryan's hands up by his shoulders and then covering Ryan's tattoos with his palms, pushing Ryan's wrists into the mattress.
The new position forces Ryan to tilt his hips up into the press of Jon's cock, makes it so that Jon's short, fast strokes are hitting Ryan just right inside, dragging steadily over his prostate and making him feel like his skin isn't strong enough to contain how incredibly fucking good it feels. He has never come without a hand on him, wouldn't even think it was possible if he hadn't seen Jon do it, seen him get off just being fucked, but Ryan really doesn't think it's out of the question for him now, not pinned like this with Jon moving inside him and making soft sounds low in his throat as he just takes.
When Jon leans in again, his belly brushing Ryan's cock, Ryan writhes, almost mindless with pleasure. "Fuck, you're so," Jon pants, breaking off into a groan as he presses a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss to Ryan's throat.
"Yeah." Ryan drops his head back with a moan, offering Jon more of his neck and shuddering when he feels Jon's teeth graze the pale, sensitive skin. "Jon, Jon, please, I need-"
"Do it," Jon urges. "Want you to come while I'm fucking you." He circles his hips almost viciously, rasps his beard over Ryan's collarbone, and Ryan is so fucking close he can feel it in his fingertips as his hands spasm uselessly, his wrists still trapped in Jon's grip.
He whines again, hooking his ankles together behind Jon's back and trying to pull Jon closer with his legs, like that will be enough to push him over the edge. "Please," he says again, loud over the steady sound of Jon fucking into him, the slap of skin against skin. "Fuck, I-"
Jon's mouth moves against his skin, over the sensitive spots where Ryan knows he's going to have beard burn tomorrow, skin pink and abused, an obvious reminder of how much Ryan wanted this. "Come on, pretty, come for me," Jon says, voice soft but clear, and that sets Ryan trembling. There's one slow, clear moment when Ryan's breath catches in his throat as Jon's stomach just barely brushes his cock again, and then Ryan's coming, hot and wet between them, almost sobbing with the intensity of it.
Ryan gasps for air as he comes down, but it isn't easy; Jon's still moving, fucking him through it. He sighs and melts into the mattress a little, riding the sensation; it's almost too much, something that's between pain and pleasure skittering along his nerves with each thrust, but he doesn't want it to stop.
"Fuck," Jon says again, and he hasn't come yet, rhythm faltering a little now that Ryan's loose and pliant beneath him. "Didn't-fuck, Ryan, didn't think you'd actually-" He lets go of Ryan's wrists and uses one hand to hike Ryan's thigh a little higher on his waist, curls the other around the back of Ryan's neck to drag him up for a messy, uncoordinated kiss. His hips stutter through a few last strokes as he pants into Ryan's mouth, and Ryan moans as he feels Jon's cock twitch inside him, the slick heat as he comes.
Jon kind of collapses on top of Ryan after he finishes, and Ryan likes the way that feels, Jon inside and covering him like a fucked-out, Jon-shaped blanket, still but for his rapid, steady breathing against the skin of Ryan's chest. He loosens the grip of his legs around Jon's hips, sighing faintly with pleasure as he lets the long muscles in his thighs go lax. Ryan's oversensitive, a little sore, but he doesn't want to move, just wants to lay like this for a little while.
He can feel the exact second Jon comes back to himself enough to realize that he's crushing Ryan a bit, can feel the way his thighs tense before he starts to pull out. Ryan makes a soft sound of protest and reaches up to clutch at Jon's shoulders, even though he feels kind of like his arms are made of lead.
"Stay," he says softly, trying to hold on as best he can with his arms half-asleep and liquid.
Jon smiles a little, his thumb stroking gently over the curve of Ryan's jaw. "Yeah, who needs to breathe, anyway?" he asks, the words muffled against Ryan's skin, but he settles again, tucking his head against Ryan's shoulder.
"Breathing is overrated," Ryan agrees, ducking his head so he can press a kiss to the sweaty hair at Jon's temple.
Jon lies on top of Ryan until it's just the wrong side of uncomfortable, when their sweat is starting to cool and the mess on Ryan's stomach is starting to dry. He doesn't pull back or out until Ryan relaxes his arms, and then he only moves away enough so he's pressed against Ryan's side, fingers tracing over Ryan's collarbone and the lines of his neck, the marks his beard left. He opens his mouth like he's going to say something, but then he kisses Ryan instead, sweet and slow, before he reaches down and runs a finger over one of Ryan's wrists.
"You okay?" he asks, voice soft but serious.
He glances at Jon, his eyes half-closing from sleepiness, everything in his body heavy from orgasm. "Clean me up?" he murmurs, instead of answering. He doesn't pull his hand back.
Jon draws Ryan's hand up, pressing a kiss against the ink before rolling off the bed and padding into the bathroom, his feet making soft, brushing sounds over the rug. Ryan doesn't fall asleep in the time between the sink running and Jon coming back to bed, running a warm washcloth over Ryan's belly and between his legs, but it's a close thing.
They don't talk until Jon's finished, tossing the washcloth over onto the bedside table, and he's settling back down next to Ryan, when Jon rests his arm over Ryan's chest and murmurs, "I guess I'll take that shit back," against his shoulder.
He blinks, curling up closer to Jon. He feels like he's moving through gelatin. "Hm?" he asks. He's too tired to talk or to completely concentrate on what Jon's saying. He wants to sleep like this, tucked up close to Jon with his skin still slightly buzzing.
"We had a deal, remember?" Jon sighs a little, settling down, voice sleep-gruff. He doesn't have to look to know that Jon's eyes are closed. "I'm sorry," he says, softer.
Ryan hums a little and turns just enough to press a kiss against the side of Jon's head. "We can talk in the morning," he whispers before he fumbles for the sheets they'd kicked away, so he can drag them up over their bodies and finally sleep.
The bed isn't quite cold when he blinks awake the next afternoon, his hand stretched across where Jon had been. The sheets are still warm; he lays there for a minute, listening to see if Jon's just in the bathroom, but he can smell the coffee on in the kitchen, which means Jon isn't coming back to bed, which means Ryan really should get up.
Ryan slides out from under the comforter and gets dressed quickly, a pair of old worn boxers that hang from his hips and one of Jon's shirts from the floor. It's stretched out loose and washed thin, and it sort of smells like Jon. He smiles a little when he smooths it onto place, before he walks out into the hall and down to the kitchen barefoot, where Jon's stirring a little bit more sugar into his coffee. His eyes are still mostly closed.
"Morning," Ryan mumbles, walking over and winding himself around Jon, nuzzling at the back of Jon's neck, breathing in the warm, sleepy scent of him.
"It's like two," Jon says, but Ryan can hear the smile in his voice. He turns around enough to face Ryan, leans up to press a quick kiss to the corner of Ryan's mouth before he takes a sip of his coffee. "Not really morning anymore."
Ryan huffs a little, mock-indignant, before he takes the coffee mug out of Jon's hands. "It's morning enough," he says, just holding onto the mug for a moment. It's warm in his hands, almost uncomfortably so, but it's just the right blend of cream and sugar.
"Right." Jon has a second coffee mug out on the counter, and he's turning back to pour himself another cup. They both know that first cup wasn't really for Jon, anyway; Jon takes his nearly black. Ryan leans down to hook his chin onto Jon's shoulder and watches him put the coffee pot back into place. There's enough for three more cups, maybe, which means there's probably a good hour that they can spend dicking around at Ryan's before they have to go out and make appearances or go to the studio. Ryan doesn't actually know what's on the schedule for today.
He backs up to lean against the kitchen counter and drinks his coffee, watching as Jon putters around the kitchen. He wipes stray sugar off the counter with a damp rag and puts the coffee back into the cupboard. Then he comes to stand next to Ryan, close but not crowding into his space, and runs a hand down Ryan's arm, turning his wrist over to look at it. There isn't much bruising, just shadows under the thin skin, but Jon frowns anyway.
"I'm fine," Ryan says, trying his best to sound reassuring.
"That's good," Jon says, but he doesn't let go of Ryan's wrist, barely brushing his thumb over the worst of the bruises, looking up at Ryan's face from under his lashes like he doesn't quite believe that Ryan's telling the truth.
"Really, it's-I'm okay, Jon." He twists his wrist a little, just until Jon lets go, and then catches Jon's hand in his, lacing their fingers together as he leans in and gently kisses Jon's mouth. Neither of them has brushed his teeth yet, but Jon mostly tastes like coffee as Ryan coaxes his lips apart and sweeps his tongue over his lower lip.
Jon kisses him back, easy, open, but he looks troubled when they break apart. "Are you going to ask me to do it again?" he asks. He's obviously trying to make it sound like a straightforward question, but Ryan knows Jon too well not to hear the thread of worry in his tone.
"I liked it," Ryan says, a little hesitantly. He bites his lip and looks sideways at Jon. "Did you really hate it that much?"
"I didn't hate it," Jon replies quickly, squeezing Ryan's hand. Then he pauses, taking a deep breath. "But when we started, in the study, that was..." He shrugs, uncomfortable, and shakes his head.
Ryan nods, because he figured that Jon felt that way. If he's honest with himself, he knew it at the time, too, even before Jon stopped, but Ryan wanted it too much to care. That wasn't fair to either of them; he's a little bit embarrassed now that he didn't think it through before, didn't stop to consider that Jon might not be ready to do whatever Ryan wanted just because Ryan wanted it. But later, maybe-"What about after?" he asks.
Jon smiles and goes to his toes for another kiss, slow and thorough and filthy enough that Ryan can feel his toes curling a little. "After, I liked," Jon says when he pulls away.
He grins and squeezes Jon's hand back. "Good to know you still like me when I'm needy," he says lightly.
"Fuck, you have no idea," Jon says, his tone going a little rough.
Ryan licks his lips, careful and deliberate, watching Jon watching him. "If I ask you for-so it was like after, would that be okay?" He wants everything laid out now, so there's no way he can miss anything.
Jon nods then, one hand around the back of Ryan's neck and sliding up into his hair. "Yeah," he murmurs. "That, we could do. I just didn't like..." He closes his eyes, and Ryan puts his hand on Jon's shoulder to keep him close. "I didn't like not being us."
Nodding, knowing Jon can feel the movement even though he's still got his eyes closed, Ryan leans in for another kiss, curling his tongue sweetly around Jon's. "Okay," he says when he pulls back. They're both smiling when Jon finally opens his eyes.
They don't talk any more as they both drink their coffee, but the quiet is comfortable, companionable. Jon's hand finds Ryan's again, and neither one of them lets go.
***
***
"You want what?"
Feeling his cheeks heat, Ryan is suddenly glad for the darkness of the room, that he waited to ask until they were sated and spent, lying tangled in Ryan's sheets in the middle of the night. Jon may not have had much of a problem proposing this little trade scheme in the light of day, his eyes going dark as he confessed precisely how much he liked the thought of Ryan dressed up in satin and lace like Jon's own personal china doll, but Ryan is embarrassed enough about this without having Jon see him blush. "It's not a big deal if you don't want to," he says, rushing the words a little, hiding his face against Jon's shoulder.
"I didn't say no, man, I'm just trying to-did you read one too many romance novels as a kid, or something?" Jon's tone is joking, but underneath that he sounds honestly perplexed, like he doesn't understand where this desire of Ryan's possibly could have come from.
Ryan doesn't have to put up with that, refuses to. "You know what, just-just forget I said anything. I'll think of something else." He rolls over, turning his back on Jon and curling in on himself a little. He knows it's kind of weird, okay, but Jon fucking asked, and he has no right to make fun of Ryan for his answer.
"Ryan," Jon says gently, slipping his arm around Ryan's waist and fitting himself snugly against Ryan's back, hooking his chin over Ryan's shoulder so he can drop a chaste kiss on Ryan's jaw. "I'm not saying no."
They stay up too late that night, Ryan haltingly disclosing exactly what he wants and how far he's willing to go, Jon holding him close with an arm around his waist as he nods into Ryan's shoulder. Jon doesn't say a word about it the next morning, though; he acts like it's just another day, like the whole conversation never happened. With as busy as they are-caught up in the prep for their third album, trying to get as much planned as they can before Christmas comes and they're going to have to take a week off to spend with their families-Ryan almost forgets that they talked about it at all.
But the idea doesn't fade entirely, humming in the back of his brain when he and Jon hit the mall before practice, window shopping for something Jon can buy his mom that he probably couldn't get her in Chicago. It's hard not to remember when Jon stops in front of Frederick's, looking at one of the storefront mannequins in a solid silk cami and boyshorts, just a little bit of lace at the edges, and Ryan has to tug him away, trying not to notice the speculative look on Jon's face.
It's still a surprise though, when Jon puts the last of the dishes in the sink to soak and says, "I'm going over Brendon's. We're gonna watch a movie and smoke a little. You wanna come?" He leans against the counter with feigned casualness, and Ryan blinks at him.
He puts away the butter before he shrugs. "Sure. What are you guys going to watch?" If Brendon and Jon agreed on the movie, there's a good chance that he'll need to smoke up before they go over; left to their own devices, they have a tendency to pick movies like Mortal Kombat or Dragon Wars, and Ryan likes to be buzzed before the opening titles for those.
Jon doesn't answer though, shaking his head and frowning a little. He comes closer to Ryan, and his eyes are intent, almost earnest, when he looks up, like he's trying to get a point across without saying it. "Nothing you'd be interested in, probably. You should just stay home, maybe try and get some rest. You've been tired the past few days."
Ryan can't keep himself from frowning, because what the fuck? He's sleeping as much as Jon, and they've been working a mostly steady schedule. Even with Jon in town and the resultant upswing in Ryan's sexual activity level, they've been able to get plenty of sleep. He opens his mouth to say something about it, wanting to ask what the fuck Jon's talking about, but then Jon sighs and presses close, wrapping his arms around Ryan's waist.
He goes up on his toes a little, mouth running dry over Ryan's neck until his lips brush Ryan's ear. "Tonight, okay?" he whispers. "Be ready?"
And then it connects for Ryan, and he bites his lip on a grin, even though he can't stop his eyes from going wide. He nods once, and then Jon pulls away, sliding back into character like the moment didn't happen. "I don't know when I'll be home, so don't worry about waiting up," Jon says.
Ryan's throat goes a little dry. It could be any time, an hour from now, two, in the middle of the night. Jon doesn't want him to know what to expect. "Okay," he says, trying not to choke on the words and failing pretty hard. "You guys have fun."
Jon grins at him, a touch of nervousness shading his smile. The tips of his ears are pink. "We will."
Making sure that Jon sees his own smile, Ryan goes back to clearing the kitchen table.
Ryan jumps a little when the big clock chimes eleven. He sort of hates that clock. The interior decorator insisted that it was good for the feel of his study, dark wood that matches his bookshelf with the carved flowers that match his upholstery, but he always forgets it's there until it chimes, too loud for the quiet room. It's only remotely entertaining when he's stoned; it's just annoying when he's straining to hear the car pull up or the door open.
He shakes his head at himself a little before he flips the page of his book. It's not really late, not yet, but he debates if he wants to go upstairs and wait for Jon after this chapter, even though he's starting to move into the best part of the mystery, when everything starts to go insane. Truthfully, he hasn't been able to concentrate on the plot all night; he's glad it's a book he's read before.
The clock's still counting off the hour when a hand clamps down over his mouth, just this side of too tight, and he jumps again.
"Don't say a fucking word," someone growls in his ear, and it only takes him a second to realize that it's Jon, Jon's fingers curled tight over his mouth, but Jon doesn't sound like himself, voice too low and actually mean when he hisses, "You understand?"
Ryan breathes in sharply, and all he can smell for a moment is Jon's hand lotion. Jon's fingers tighten a little before Ryan remembers to nod. He doesn't relax, and the book falls out of his hands, slapping against the floor when it tumbles off the chaise.
"Good boy," Jon murmurs, his other hand coming around and running down Ryan's chest. It's different from the way Jon usually touches him, rougher, and Ryan tries to keep from smiling. He looks up at Jon, eyes wide with anticipation; a shiver goes through him when he realizes how much the expression must look like fear. He can't believe this is happening.
Jon smiles meanly as he pushes two fingers into Ryan's mouth, spreading them wide to force Ryan's jaw open, force Ryan's lips to stretch. He tastes like the lotion, like cigarettes and skin, and Ryan forgets for a brief second that he's supposed to be resisting, forgets that they've both got roles to play, here. He'll get to taste Jon's skin later, if that's what Jon wants, if that's what Jon demands from him.
Ryan bites down hard on Jon's fingers and jerks his head back, away from Jon's touch, relishing the genuine angry shock that flashes in Jon's eyes. "Who the fuck are you, and what the fuck are you doing in my house?" Ryan demands. "Get out before I call the police."
"You little-" Jon says. Ryan twists around to glare up at him, defiant, and Jon pulls his hand back, like he's going to smack the expression right off of Ryan's face. But then he just reaches out and fists a hand in Ryan's shirt instead, pulling hard enough that Ryan's collar digs into the back of his neck. "You don't want to piss me off, pretty." Jon's voice is low and dangerous as he gives Ryan an emphatic shake, pushing him against the back of the couch.
"You broke into my fucking house. Give me one good reason I shouldn't-ah!" He gasps in pain as Jon fists his hand in Ryan's hair, yanking his head back hard.
Jon leans down, his mouth close to Ryan's ear again. "I told you to keep quiet, didn't I?"
He drags Ryan up from the chaise by his hair, and Ryan tries not to seem too eager as he stands, pulling against Jon's grip even as he lets Jon manhandle him around and push him down again, bending him over the arm of the couch.
Jon presses close behind him, pinning Ryan in place with his hips, and Ryan bites back a moan as he grinds into the couch a little; it undoubtedly looks like he's trying to get away, even though nothing could be further from the truth. But Jon treats it like a serious attempt to throw him off, splaying the hand that's not still tangled in Ryan's hair between Ryan's shoulder blades and pressing down hard, mashing Ryan's forehead against the couch cushion. Ryan sucks in a breath through his teeth, fingers scrambling at the upholstery, already so turned on that his skin feels hot and tight.
Jon's hand slides out of his hair, down his neck, until it curls tight around Ryan's hip. "You know, I was just going to fuck your face," he says conversationally, and Ryan bites his lip, doesn't groan at the idea of Jon pushing Ryan down hard onto his knees and holding his head, in complete control. "But since you can't be trusted with your teeth..."
"Fuck you," Ryan spits, struggling against Jon's hand, but Jon doesn't give him an inch, just leans more of his weight on Ryan's ass. Ryan squirms, his hips pinned between the solid heat of Jon's body and the arm of the couch; what little friction he can get like this feels unreal.
Jon presses down harder, the heel of his hand incredibly heavy against Ryan's back. Then his fingers dip just below the waistband of Ryan's old sweats, the ones that barely stay up on their own, and he laughs a little. "You're dressed for it, aren't you, pretty?" He closes his eyes at the way Jon calls him pretty, his tone mean and possessive, the word just rolling out of his mouth like he knows Ryan hates it. "All easy access for me. You wanted this to happen, didn't you?"
Ryan's glad that Jon can't see his face, because he can't stop himself from smiling, fingers tight around the cushion. "No," he huffs angrily, rolling his shoulders to try and buck Jon off. He lashes out with his feet, but Jon's legs are between his, holding Ryan open and restricting the range of motion in his hips, so the only thing Ryan can do is kick at the air uselessly. "Get the fuck off of me!"
Jon slides his hand back a little, not pushing down as hard or as bruising, and Ryan frowns; Jon isn't actually supposed to stop. But then his breath catches as Jon reaches around with his other hand and undoes the tie on Ryan's sweats, pushing them down with one hand and stepping back so they drop to the floor, pooling around Ryan's ankles. Ryan's not wearing any underwear.
"Oh yeah, easy is right," Jon hisses, free hand palming at Ryan's ass. He presses close again, thumb dipping between Ryan's cheeks and touching him where he's already slick with lube.
Ryan knows it's coming, but he can't stop himself from crying out when Jon pushes two fingers in, like he's trying to force Ryan open just enough that it won't hurt Jon. There's enough lube that it's an easy slide, even though it's been a couple of hours since Ryan fucked himself open on his fingers, even though Jon's fingers are broader than Ryan's.
Huffing out another mean little laugh, Jon twists his fingers hard inside. "You waiting for your boyfriend, pretty?" he asks. "I bet he thinks you're a slut for him, doesn't he?" He leans down, his beard scratching at the back of Ryan's neck before he skims his teeth over Ryan's shoulder. "He doesn't know that you're just a slut."
"No," Ryan whimpers, but he can't stop the rock of his hips back against Jon's hand, trying to get get his fingers deeper, wanting more.
"Yeah, I think you are," Jon says. "Bet I could make you beg me for it."
He suddenly pulls his fingers free, and Ryan shudders as he hears the zipper on Jon's jeans go down. The sound is almost impossibly loud in the quiet room, even over the harsh sound of Ryan's own breathing, the steady ticking of the grandfather clock. "No," Ryan says again, his voice shaky, as Jon teases the blunt head of his cock over Ryan's rim; it's not enough pressure to breach him, but it's just enough to drive him insane.
Jon doesn't push in, but he doesn't pull back, and Ryan has to force himself not to shove himself backward, to fuck himself on Jon's cock. His hips twitch a little, because Jon's right there, so close, and Jon makes a noise low in his throat, cocky and sure of himself. "God, you want this, don't you? You want me to fuck you raw." He presses forward, the movement deliberate enough to make Ryan think that maybe, maybe he'll do it, but then he eases back, and Ryan has to bite his lip on a disappointed gasp. "You ready for it?"
Ryan's stomach clenches tight, and his skin feels like it's vibrating, pulsing warm under Jon's hands, because God, he's so ready, wants it so much. He wants Jon to fuck him open, to push in and take him hard, as fast and as brutal as Jon wants. But he can't say that; he won't upset the game. He moans brokenly into the cushions before he shakes his head as vigorously as he can.
"What's that, pretty?" Jon says, low enough to make the hair on the back of Ryan's neck stand up a little. "You don't want it, or you're not ready?" He shifts, and his cock slides forward a little, making room so Jon can touch Ryan where he's slick, easily pushing his fingertips just inside, like Ryan needs the reminder. "Because I know you do, and I think you are."
Ryan shivers again, and Jon rolls his hips forward, hard and insistent. Ryan squirms against the movement. "No," Ryan repeats, breathy, and his eyes flutter closed when Jon repositions his cock, feeling the hot press of it against his ass. It's almost enough. "Please, please, don't. Stop," he gasps out, his voice sounding strange to his ears, wrecked, giving way to a sharp cry when Jon finally, finally pushes forward, lets the head of his cock slowly stretch Ryan's hole until it slips in. Ryan can't stop the sounds he's making, high and pleased and desperate, the way his hips try to cant up and back. He wants more; he wants Jon to stop fucking teasing and just fuck him already. "No, please, it hurts."
He bites his lip again when Jon's hands move, anticipating the feel of Jon's hands bruising his hips as he fucks Ryan into the couch, but then Jon pulls back, pulls away, and turns Ryan over so he's on his back.
The position is hard on Ryan's spine, his shoulders digging into the couch cushions and his hips propped on the arm of the couch. He sinks into it, anyway, relishing the strain in his neck, the stretch in the long muscles of his thighs as he spreads them wide. He waits with eyes clenched shut for Jon to push in again, to jeeringly call him a slut as he gives Ryan exactly what Ryan so obviously wants.
He waits, but instead of fucking him, Jon gentles a hand over the inside of Ryan's thigh and says, "Ryan, hey."
Ryan opens his eyes and sees Jon looking down at him, all trace of the character gone as he awkwardly pets at Ryan's leg. "What," Ryan says, blinking. "Why'd you stop?"
Jon bites his lip. "You said-I was afraid I was hurting you."
Frowning, Ryan says, "I've got a safeword." And he doesn't say anything else, but he curls his neck up a little and looks pointedly at his dick, which is currently hard enough to pound nails and trailing sticky precome all over his stomach. Fuck, he's so fucking close, even though Jon was barely inside him, but now irritation is edging in on his arousal, pulling him back from the edge.
"Okay, okay, it's. We can start again, I just had to make sure you were okay," Jon says, and he gives Ryan a small smile, crooked and a little self-deprecating.
It's such a typically Jon expression, so utterly different from the role he was playing thirty seconds ago, that Ryan drops his head back and groans in frustration. Jesus, why did Jon have to stop? Everything was going so well, and then Ryan had to ruin it by forgetting that Jon absolutely wouldn't be able to deal with the thought of Ryan getting hurt. Most days, that knowledge makes him smile; right now it's really, really pissing him off.
Jon makes a surprised sound when Ryan lets his legs fall to the side, rolling off the chaise in a move that would probably be a lot more graceful if he weren't so annoyed.
"Ryan," Jon says, reaching out to touch Ryan's arm.
"We're done," Ryan replies curtly. He bends down and picks up his pants, but he doesn't put them back on; he just gathers them up and walks bare-assed out of the study and down the hall to the bedroom, not really caring if Jon follows him.
Ryan throws his sweats in the general direction of the hamper and yanks his shirt over his head, dropping it on the floor by the bathroom door. He glares at his reflection in the bathroom mirror as he kicks the door closed. He's still hard; he was worked up enough that he's still tense and uncomfortable with want. He looks appraisingly at the shower and then down at his dick, and decides that jerking off is probably the better plan.
He's barely got his hand wrapped around his cock, the other hand braced on the bathroom counter, when Jon knocks on the door. "Come on, Ryan," he says.
Tightening his grip a little, Ryan groans, "God, fuck off." How is he supposed to get himself off to thoughts of Jon pinning him down and fucking him mercilessly if Jon's going to be standing outside the bathroom wanting to chat?
Jon pushes the door open-it wasn't latched, just pushed to, and Ryan never locks doors anyway-and meets Ryan's eyes in the mirror. "I'm sorry, okay?" he says, watching Ryan's face as Ryan strokes himself.
Ryan grits his teeth a little and turns his face away, trying to pick up fragments of thoughts, images that he knows usually get him off when he's alone and only has a few minutes. "Don't want to talk about it." He refuses to be embarrassed about it, but he definitely doesn't want to talk about it now, not with the memory of Jon's voice, the way he pressed his weight onto Ryan, still fresh.
His hips twitch a little, and he flicks his wrist faster, trying to concentrate on the sound of his hand sliding over his dick and not on Jon breathing beside him, even when Jon leans more into his space and wraps his hand around Ryan's wrist, holding tight enough to stop the motion of Ryan's hand. He groans again, suppressing the urge to smack Jon to make him go away, to make him just leave it alone until later, when they can pretend this didn't happen.
"Hey," Jon says, tone still gentle and tentative. His thumb rubs against the underside of Ryan's wrist, tracing the letters of his tattoo, and Ryan sighs, turning his head; Jon is frowning, eyes wide and hurt. "Hey, no, okay?"
Ryan can feel himself giving over a little. "Jon, just..." he mutters. He doesn't know what he wants Jon to do, and the grip Jon's got on his wrist, firm and steady, is kind of distracting. He looks at the bathroom wall, at the weird pattern of the wallpaper, trying to sort through what he's thinking.
Jon shakes his head and leans up to kiss the corner of Ryan's mouth, his beard rubbing familiar and comfortable against his jaw. "Come to bed, please?" he asks, tugging at Ryan's arm, starting to pull him away from the counter and back towards the bedroom.
"Okay," Ryan murmurs, and lets himself be led.
Jon strips off his clothes and falls backward on the bed, pulling Ryan down on top of him. His hand cups the back of Ryan's neck, his fingertips tangling a little in Ryan's hair as he leans up for a kiss. They just make out for a little while, lazy and slow, Ryan settled between Jon's thighs, but then Jon rolls them over, centers his weight on Ryan's hips and grinds down a little. And it's not what Ryan asked for, but it feels good, the give of the mattress under his ass, the way his cock slides along Jon's belly. He makes a soft, needy noise into Jon's mouth, spreads his legs a bit wider so he has better leverage to rock his hips up against Jon's.
Sweeping his tongue deliberately over Ryan's lower lip, Jon pulls back a little, looks down at Ryan with his eyes half-lidded. He shifts his weight so he can get a hand between them, fingers brushing Ryan's balls and then reaching back to trace Ryan's rim. He's still wet, of course, and still stretched because it's only been a few minutes; Jon's fingertips sink in easily, opening him up again. "You still want...?" Jon asks quietly.
Ryan moans, the kind of sound that he couldn't let himself vocalize earlier. "Yeah," he says, and he tilts up his hips, asking Jon to give him more.
Jon smiles and pushes his fingers deeper, curling them deliberately to make Ryan moan again. "You really are kind of a slut for me."
Something about the way he says it-neither mocking nor fond, not the way he sounded when Ryan was face-down on the couch but not really a normal Jon-voice either-makes Ryan inhale sharply through his teeth, clenching down hard around Jon's fingers and shuddering when the tiny movement pushes Jon's fingertips hard against his prostate. Jon's tone is just knowing, like he's absolutely certain how much Ryan is enjoying this, how much Ryan wants. And thank God, he doesn't seem to want to make Ryan wait any longer for it; he slides his fingers out and reaches for the lube on the bedside table, slicking his cock up quickly and then pushing Ryan's thighs farther apart so he can line himself up.
He presses in steadily, one long stroke until he's all the way inside, fast enough to remind Ryan that Jon's been waiting, too.
Ryan arches off the bed, moaning, because the stretch burns a little. He's plenty prepped, but it's less than he's used to, just fingers and lube without Jon's mouth teasing him open before. "Shit," he gasps, opening his thighs more, trying to let Jon in.
Jon's breathing steadily through clenched teeth, eyes closed tight like he's trying to concentrate. Maybe he is; he doesn't so much as twitch once he's all the way inside, his hips keeping Ryan pinned to the bed, weight holding him down. "Fuck, you're tight," he murmurs, and it's still not Jon's normal voice. Ryan closes his eyes and lets his head loll to the side. Jon's cock feels so good inside, filling him, making Ryan's skin feel sensitive and hot even as Ryan's own cock lies ignored between them, because he doesn't want to touch himself until Jon's fucking him. He breathes slowly and waits for Jon to move.
Except that they just lie there, Jon's hips heavy over Ryan's, and Jon doesn't move and doesn't move. Ryan groans a little, trying to lift his body up enough to kiss Jon, to nip at his lips and remind him that he's supposed to be fucking Ryan. But he's not flexible enough to reach; Jon's leaning up and away from him, his knees tucked under the backs of Ryan's thighs, watching Ryan with dark eyes. Ryan's thighs are starting to burn a little from being held open this wide. He huffs out a breath and rolls his hips, trying to shift around, to coax Jon into moving; he doesn't understand this game, doesn't understand what Jon's trying to do.
"God, just fucking move," Ryan hisses. He rocks his hips up as much as he can and clenches down hard, just to drive the point home.
Jon groans a little and bites his lip, but he regains his composure quickly; he spends another long moment not moving before he leans down, his smile dark, and says, "I know you can beg prettier than that."
Ryan shivers, dick twitching against his belly, because fuck. He's not needy in bed, usually; on the rare occasions when he asks for something, Jon's happy to give it to him. He doesn't beg-has never had to beg-but with Jon over him, smiling down because he knows how much Ryan wants it, Ryan's mouth opens, and he can't help the soft sound that escapes. He tries to buck up again, but Jon is solid on top of him, still pressed hard inside, right up against his prostate.
Jon's hands skim along Ryan's arms until they're on his wrists, holding him down that way, too, with a grip that feels almost tight enough to bruise. Ryan bites his lip at the thought, that he'll go to practice tomorrow with Jon's bruises on his skin.
"Beg me for it, and I might just let you come," he adds, and his voice low and rough, almost like he sounded before in the study.
"Oh, God," Ryan moans, shaky. "Please."
Jon rolls his hips, one smooth thrust out and in; Ryan cries out and arches into it. "There you go," Jon says, "but I think you can still do better."
Ryan's almost panting already, just with Jon still on top of him and holding him down. He tugs hesitantly against Jon's grip, and Jon doesn't let him go, pushing his wrists down insistently, making it clear that Jon doesn't want him to move. He really could hold Ryan down like this; he's strong enough and has enough leverage that there's nothing that Ryan could do but lie there and take it.
He lets his head fall back against the bed and moans again, higher this time, and it turns into, "Please, please," his fingers flexing on the sheets. It's not exactly what he asked for, not everything he wanted, but it's enough.
Jon doesn't pull back or move or do anything that Ryan wants him to do, needs him to do. He's so close already, just riding the edge, that he's not sure he'll last if Jon starts to fuck him. "Please what, Ryan?" Jon asks.
Ryan bears down on Jon, mouth falling open as he gasps for air. "Please fuck me," he says, and even his voice is needy, desperate and alien. He opens his eyes to look at Jon, at that knowing smile. "Please let me come."
Jon laughs, leaning down close enough to kiss him, but Jon doesn't close the gap between their mouths, pressing his lips against the underside of Ryan's jaw instead. "If you can come like this," he tells Ryan's skin, before he pulls back and slams forward.
The rhythm is hard and fast from the start, and Ryan can't keep quiet, panting and whimpering as he wraps his legs around Jon's waist, arches into the force of his thrusts. Jon lets go of Ryan's wrists for a moment, but it's only so he can adjust their position, arranging Ryan's hands up by his shoulders and then covering Ryan's tattoos with his palms, pushing Ryan's wrists into the mattress.
The new position forces Ryan to tilt his hips up into the press of Jon's cock, makes it so that Jon's short, fast strokes are hitting Ryan just right inside, dragging steadily over his prostate and making him feel like his skin isn't strong enough to contain how incredibly fucking good it feels. He has never come without a hand on him, wouldn't even think it was possible if he hadn't seen Jon do it, seen him get off just being fucked, but Ryan really doesn't think it's out of the question for him now, not pinned like this with Jon moving inside him and making soft sounds low in his throat as he just takes.
When Jon leans in again, his belly brushing Ryan's cock, Ryan writhes, almost mindless with pleasure. "Fuck, you're so," Jon pants, breaking off into a groan as he presses a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss to Ryan's throat.
"Yeah." Ryan drops his head back with a moan, offering Jon more of his neck and shuddering when he feels Jon's teeth graze the pale, sensitive skin. "Jon, Jon, please, I need-"
"Do it," Jon urges. "Want you to come while I'm fucking you." He circles his hips almost viciously, rasps his beard over Ryan's collarbone, and Ryan is so fucking close he can feel it in his fingertips as his hands spasm uselessly, his wrists still trapped in Jon's grip.
He whines again, hooking his ankles together behind Jon's back and trying to pull Jon closer with his legs, like that will be enough to push him over the edge. "Please," he says again, loud over the steady sound of Jon fucking into him, the slap of skin against skin. "Fuck, I-"
Jon's mouth moves against his skin, over the sensitive spots where Ryan knows he's going to have beard burn tomorrow, skin pink and abused, an obvious reminder of how much Ryan wanted this. "Come on, pretty, come for me," Jon says, voice soft but clear, and that sets Ryan trembling. There's one slow, clear moment when Ryan's breath catches in his throat as Jon's stomach just barely brushes his cock again, and then Ryan's coming, hot and wet between them, almost sobbing with the intensity of it.
Ryan gasps for air as he comes down, but it isn't easy; Jon's still moving, fucking him through it. He sighs and melts into the mattress a little, riding the sensation; it's almost too much, something that's between pain and pleasure skittering along his nerves with each thrust, but he doesn't want it to stop.
"Fuck," Jon says again, and he hasn't come yet, rhythm faltering a little now that Ryan's loose and pliant beneath him. "Didn't-fuck, Ryan, didn't think you'd actually-" He lets go of Ryan's wrists and uses one hand to hike Ryan's thigh a little higher on his waist, curls the other around the back of Ryan's neck to drag him up for a messy, uncoordinated kiss. His hips stutter through a few last strokes as he pants into Ryan's mouth, and Ryan moans as he feels Jon's cock twitch inside him, the slick heat as he comes.
Jon kind of collapses on top of Ryan after he finishes, and Ryan likes the way that feels, Jon inside and covering him like a fucked-out, Jon-shaped blanket, still but for his rapid, steady breathing against the skin of Ryan's chest. He loosens the grip of his legs around Jon's hips, sighing faintly with pleasure as he lets the long muscles in his thighs go lax. Ryan's oversensitive, a little sore, but he doesn't want to move, just wants to lay like this for a little while.
He can feel the exact second Jon comes back to himself enough to realize that he's crushing Ryan a bit, can feel the way his thighs tense before he starts to pull out. Ryan makes a soft sound of protest and reaches up to clutch at Jon's shoulders, even though he feels kind of like his arms are made of lead.
"Stay," he says softly, trying to hold on as best he can with his arms half-asleep and liquid.
Jon smiles a little, his thumb stroking gently over the curve of Ryan's jaw. "Yeah, who needs to breathe, anyway?" he asks, the words muffled against Ryan's skin, but he settles again, tucking his head against Ryan's shoulder.
"Breathing is overrated," Ryan agrees, ducking his head so he can press a kiss to the sweaty hair at Jon's temple.
Jon lies on top of Ryan until it's just the wrong side of uncomfortable, when their sweat is starting to cool and the mess on Ryan's stomach is starting to dry. He doesn't pull back or out until Ryan relaxes his arms, and then he only moves away enough so he's pressed against Ryan's side, fingers tracing over Ryan's collarbone and the lines of his neck, the marks his beard left. He opens his mouth like he's going to say something, but then he kisses Ryan instead, sweet and slow, before he reaches down and runs a finger over one of Ryan's wrists.
"You okay?" he asks, voice soft but serious.
He glances at Jon, his eyes half-closing from sleepiness, everything in his body heavy from orgasm. "Clean me up?" he murmurs, instead of answering. He doesn't pull his hand back.
Jon draws Ryan's hand up, pressing a kiss against the ink before rolling off the bed and padding into the bathroom, his feet making soft, brushing sounds over the rug. Ryan doesn't fall asleep in the time between the sink running and Jon coming back to bed, running a warm washcloth over Ryan's belly and between his legs, but it's a close thing.
They don't talk until Jon's finished, tossing the washcloth over onto the bedside table, and he's settling back down next to Ryan, when Jon rests his arm over Ryan's chest and murmurs, "I guess I'll take that shit back," against his shoulder.
He blinks, curling up closer to Jon. He feels like he's moving through gelatin. "Hm?" he asks. He's too tired to talk or to completely concentrate on what Jon's saying. He wants to sleep like this, tucked up close to Jon with his skin still slightly buzzing.
"We had a deal, remember?" Jon sighs a little, settling down, voice sleep-gruff. He doesn't have to look to know that Jon's eyes are closed. "I'm sorry," he says, softer.
Ryan hums a little and turns just enough to press a kiss against the side of Jon's head. "We can talk in the morning," he whispers before he fumbles for the sheets they'd kicked away, so he can drag them up over their bodies and finally sleep.
The bed isn't quite cold when he blinks awake the next afternoon, his hand stretched across where Jon had been. The sheets are still warm; he lays there for a minute, listening to see if Jon's just in the bathroom, but he can smell the coffee on in the kitchen, which means Jon isn't coming back to bed, which means Ryan really should get up.
Ryan slides out from under the comforter and gets dressed quickly, a pair of old worn boxers that hang from his hips and one of Jon's shirts from the floor. It's stretched out loose and washed thin, and it sort of smells like Jon. He smiles a little when he smooths it onto place, before he walks out into the hall and down to the kitchen barefoot, where Jon's stirring a little bit more sugar into his coffee. His eyes are still mostly closed.
"Morning," Ryan mumbles, walking over and winding himself around Jon, nuzzling at the back of Jon's neck, breathing in the warm, sleepy scent of him.
"It's like two," Jon says, but Ryan can hear the smile in his voice. He turns around enough to face Ryan, leans up to press a quick kiss to the corner of Ryan's mouth before he takes a sip of his coffee. "Not really morning anymore."
Ryan huffs a little, mock-indignant, before he takes the coffee mug out of Jon's hands. "It's morning enough," he says, just holding onto the mug for a moment. It's warm in his hands, almost uncomfortably so, but it's just the right blend of cream and sugar.
"Right." Jon has a second coffee mug out on the counter, and he's turning back to pour himself another cup. They both know that first cup wasn't really for Jon, anyway; Jon takes his nearly black. Ryan leans down to hook his chin onto Jon's shoulder and watches him put the coffee pot back into place. There's enough for three more cups, maybe, which means there's probably a good hour that they can spend dicking around at Ryan's before they have to go out and make appearances or go to the studio. Ryan doesn't actually know what's on the schedule for today.
He backs up to lean against the kitchen counter and drinks his coffee, watching as Jon putters around the kitchen. He wipes stray sugar off the counter with a damp rag and puts the coffee back into the cupboard. Then he comes to stand next to Ryan, close but not crowding into his space, and runs a hand down Ryan's arm, turning his wrist over to look at it. There isn't much bruising, just shadows under the thin skin, but Jon frowns anyway.
"I'm fine," Ryan says, trying his best to sound reassuring.
"That's good," Jon says, but he doesn't let go of Ryan's wrist, barely brushing his thumb over the worst of the bruises, looking up at Ryan's face from under his lashes like he doesn't quite believe that Ryan's telling the truth.
"Really, it's-I'm okay, Jon." He twists his wrist a little, just until Jon lets go, and then catches Jon's hand in his, lacing their fingers together as he leans in and gently kisses Jon's mouth. Neither of them has brushed his teeth yet, but Jon mostly tastes like coffee as Ryan coaxes his lips apart and sweeps his tongue over his lower lip.
Jon kisses him back, easy, open, but he looks troubled when they break apart. "Are you going to ask me to do it again?" he asks. He's obviously trying to make it sound like a straightforward question, but Ryan knows Jon too well not to hear the thread of worry in his tone.
"I liked it," Ryan says, a little hesitantly. He bites his lip and looks sideways at Jon. "Did you really hate it that much?"
"I didn't hate it," Jon replies quickly, squeezing Ryan's hand. Then he pauses, taking a deep breath. "But when we started, in the study, that was..." He shrugs, uncomfortable, and shakes his head.
Ryan nods, because he figured that Jon felt that way. If he's honest with himself, he knew it at the time, too, even before Jon stopped, but Ryan wanted it too much to care. That wasn't fair to either of them; he's a little bit embarrassed now that he didn't think it through before, didn't stop to consider that Jon might not be ready to do whatever Ryan wanted just because Ryan wanted it. But later, maybe-"What about after?" he asks.
Jon smiles and goes to his toes for another kiss, slow and thorough and filthy enough that Ryan can feel his toes curling a little. "After, I liked," Jon says when he pulls away.
He grins and squeezes Jon's hand back. "Good to know you still like me when I'm needy," he says lightly.
"Fuck, you have no idea," Jon says, his tone going a little rough.
Ryan licks his lips, careful and deliberate, watching Jon watching him. "If I ask you for-so it was like after, would that be okay?" He wants everything laid out now, so there's no way he can miss anything.
Jon nods then, one hand around the back of Ryan's neck and sliding up into his hair. "Yeah," he murmurs. "That, we could do. I just didn't like..." He closes his eyes, and Ryan puts his hand on Jon's shoulder to keep him close. "I didn't like not being us."
Nodding, knowing Jon can feel the movement even though he's still got his eyes closed, Ryan leans in for another kiss, curling his tongue sweetly around Jon's. "Okay," he says when he pulls back. They're both smiling when Jon finally opens his eyes.
They don't talk any more as they both drink their coffee, but the quiet is comfortable, companionable. Jon's hand finds Ryan's again, and neither one of them lets go.
***