Nasty
Title: Nasty
Pairing: MPhelps/RLochte;
Fandom: RPF ;
Rating: M (Suggestive)
Warnings: Real person fiction; Real person slash;
Summary: A drabble I wrote randomly about a week ago
Notes: 469 words!
Michael Phelps has a very serious problem.
He's supposed to be eating a very nutritious, delicious, expensive meal with his publicity agent. He's wearing a Versace suit that's straight out the paper bag and a new silk tie. It's blue, and he keeps looking down at it and picturing another familiar blue.
"Michael, are you listening to me?"
He reaches for his rum and Coke and accidentally drags his sleeve through the creme sauce drizzled over his half-eaten chicken. He doesn't answer because, no, he's not listening at all. He hasn't been listening for the past thirty minutes.
She wrinkles her nose, "Nasty." She tosses him a napkin to clean up the mess.
Nasty.
Michael closes his eyes and behind his lids, all he can see is Ryan Lochte, licking a line down his left hipbone that leaves a streak of rainbow colors from the Skittles in his mouth. His blunt nails trail pale lines of pressure down Michael's bare thighs and up again, skirting around the back to dig into the soft flesh of his ass. Then he lifts his hand up and smacks it hard, so that Michael's hips jerk forward and he inhales sharply.
"Bitch."
Ryan just grins, and that's what nasty is. The way he sucks Michael into his mouth and doesn't stop, no matter how many times the fucking phone keeps ringing, playing the same tune over and over, until Michael comes.
"Michael-" His agent is saying, taking a small sip of her lemon water.
Nasty.
He thinks back to the weekend before last, and shots of tequila in Ryan's bathtub. The water splashing over onto the floor, lemons floating past his toes, salt crusted in the space between his fingertips. Ryan tipping his head back to take shots from the bottle, the muscles in his neck flexing with the effort of one long swallow.
Ryan bit him as he came, and the salt on his dry lips burned where his canines broke the skin.
Michael opens his eyes and wipes the sauce off his sleeve. He stands up and pulls his wallet out of his satin-lined pocket and throws a hundred dollar bill down on the table. She says something, but he doesn't hear it. He walks out of the restaurant and out onto the street. The daylight is bright and his skin is tingling from the rum and Cokes.
He pulls out his phone and makes the call before he can regret it.
"Welcome to American Airlines, my name is Stacy, can I help you?"
"Yeah, I need to book a flight from Baltimore to Miami. The soonest one possible, please."
"Okay. Do you need to schedule a return flight as well, sir?"
He pulls at the knot on his tie, yanking it off and dropping it into a trash can as he walks, weaving in and out of the other pedestrians, "No. I don't think that will be necessary."
Pairing: MPhelps/RLochte;
Fandom: RPF ;
Rating: M (Suggestive)
Warnings: Real person fiction; Real person slash;
Summary: A drabble I wrote randomly about a week ago
Notes: 469 words!
Michael Phelps has a very serious problem.
He's supposed to be eating a very nutritious, delicious, expensive meal with his publicity agent. He's wearing a Versace suit that's straight out the paper bag and a new silk tie. It's blue, and he keeps looking down at it and picturing another familiar blue.
"Michael, are you listening to me?"
He reaches for his rum and Coke and accidentally drags his sleeve through the creme sauce drizzled over his half-eaten chicken. He doesn't answer because, no, he's not listening at all. He hasn't been listening for the past thirty minutes.
She wrinkles her nose, "Nasty." She tosses him a napkin to clean up the mess.
Nasty.
Michael closes his eyes and behind his lids, all he can see is Ryan Lochte, licking a line down his left hipbone that leaves a streak of rainbow colors from the Skittles in his mouth. His blunt nails trail pale lines of pressure down Michael's bare thighs and up again, skirting around the back to dig into the soft flesh of his ass. Then he lifts his hand up and smacks it hard, so that Michael's hips jerk forward and he inhales sharply.
"Bitch."
Ryan just grins, and that's what nasty is. The way he sucks Michael into his mouth and doesn't stop, no matter how many times the fucking phone keeps ringing, playing the same tune over and over, until Michael comes.
"Michael-" His agent is saying, taking a small sip of her lemon water.
Nasty.
He thinks back to the weekend before last, and shots of tequila in Ryan's bathtub. The water splashing over onto the floor, lemons floating past his toes, salt crusted in the space between his fingertips. Ryan tipping his head back to take shots from the bottle, the muscles in his neck flexing with the effort of one long swallow.
Ryan bit him as he came, and the salt on his dry lips burned where his canines broke the skin.
Michael opens his eyes and wipes the sauce off his sleeve. He stands up and pulls his wallet out of his satin-lined pocket and throws a hundred dollar bill down on the table. She says something, but he doesn't hear it. He walks out of the restaurant and out onto the street. The daylight is bright and his skin is tingling from the rum and Cokes.
He pulls out his phone and makes the call before he can regret it.
"Welcome to American Airlines, my name is Stacy, can I help you?"
"Yeah, I need to book a flight from Baltimore to Miami. The soonest one possible, please."
"Okay. Do you need to schedule a return flight as well, sir?"
He pulls at the knot on his tie, yanking it off and dropping it into a trash can as he walks, weaving in and out of the other pedestrians, "No. I don't think that will be necessary."