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stephanometraHi! Have some porn!
Title: the rhythm of your nonsense tune
Pairing: Jon/Ryan
Rating: NC17
Summary: It's almost like Ryan's trying to fuse them together as one being, and that would be kind of fucked up but also pretty hot.
Warnings: Marijuana, porn, Boy Scout songs
Notes: The world can never have enough stoner porn, right? Right.![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
lyo is too good to me. 3400 words.
***
There's really nothing better than relaxing after a long day of...relaxing.
Jon has a hard time thinking about the work they're doing on this album at the moment in terms of actual work. The cabin, now—that was work. But crashing with Ryan, playing Guitar Hero with Brendon, sitting around at Spencer's while Haley yells at them about smoking in her kitchen, and still getting actual music out of it? It's a lot of things, but Jon wouldn't ever call it "work." That's for later, when they actually have enough material to take into the studio.
They won't be able to spend six hours a day stoned then, probably, which is both a good and a bad thing.
Jon and Ryan are home alone tonight, because it's Spencer and Haley's date night, and Shane is moping because Regan is out of town. They weren't really ready to put the music away when Spencer and Brendon went to their respective homes, so they didn't, sitting in Ryan's living room with their acoustics and Ryan's bong, turned toward each other with their legs tangled together. There's a notebook full of lyrics open on the coffee table, but they kind of stopped paying attention to them around the third bong load, which was actually before Brendon and Spencer left. Jon has pretty much entirely lost track of both time and their marijuana consumption since then, mostly because Brendon got them started riffing on Boy Scout songs right before he went home.
As it happens, the only way to make "Johnny Rebeck" more hilarious is to let a stoned Ryan Ross get his hands on it. Jon wonders if all of the rude, nonsensical camp songs he learned in Webelos would be so vastly improved by the addition of five-syllable words and badly accented French. Chances are probably good that they would.
"Sausages," Jon giggles for the fifth or sixth or twentieth time, hunched over his guitar. He's laughing and smiling so much that his face hurts. Or it would, if he could feel his face. Whatever.
"I like the Patagonia one better," Ryan muses, hitting a chord that maybe would have sounded like music an hour or two ago, before they started singing about cannibalism and stopped caring about being in tune, and Jon just laughs harder.
He looks up to see Ryan watching him with a dreamy, affectionate look on his face, his mouth wet and red, his tongue peeking out to wet his lower lip, and Jon suddenly can't think of any reason not to kiss him. The guitars make a hollow, discordant noise when they bump together, but Jon doesn't care. He just curls a hand around the back of Ryan's neck and opens Ryan's mouth with his tongue, sucking down the taste of music and pot and the orange soda Brendon left there that afternoon, and it's just good, so good, easy like breathing.
It's even better when Ryan wrangles the guitars out from between them and straddles Jon's lap on the couch.
Ryan settles his weight on Jon's thighs, nudging their hips together just a little, but there's no urgency in it. It's just comfortable, sweet. He holds on to Jon's biceps, the grip of his fingers precise and careful, and leans in to seal his mouth against Jon's again. Jon watches, fascinated, as his eyes flutter shut, watches the slow sweep of his lashes when he blinks.
His sense of time is kind of fucked up; it could be a minute or an hour later when Ryan sits back a little and makes a soft sound, touching his own mouth with a curious look on his face. His lips are even redder now, swollen and a little raw from pressing against Jon's. Jon should get him some Carmex, or something. He wonders what Carmex would taste like on Ryan's lips—it seems somehow inconceivable that he's gone this long without knowing.
"Inconceivable," he says, just because that's the kind of word he has to say once he's thought it.
Ryan blinks and then snickers, rocking forward to kiss the corner of Jon's mouth again. "Yeah, okay," he says, and then in an impressively athletic move, he twists around to grab the bong from the end table, hit it hard, and set it down again.
Jon settles his hands on Ryan's hips as Ryan kisses him again, sucking the sweetness of the hit from Ryan's mouth. Shotgunning hits from the bong isn't as fun as it would be with Jon's pipe, but he's not exactly complaining, especially when Ryan nips at the curve of his lower lip and slides a hand into his hair, holding him close so they can share air. It's almost like Ryan's trying to fuse them together as one being, and that would be kind of fucked up but also pretty hot. Jon can deal with that.
He thumbs over the jut of Ryan's hipbones, sharp through the skin-warm fabric of his pants. Fused, he thinks again, and sucks in a breath through his nose at the little wave of arousal that sneaks up on him, crashing over his chest, settling in his belly. That's kind of a stupid metaphor.
"You're kind of a stupid metaphor," Ryan mumbles against his mouth, and they both laugh, pressed tight together, sinking into the butter-soft leather of Ryan's couch.
Jon moves his hand to cup Ryan through his pants, just a question, not a demand. Ryan isn't hard, not yet, but he makes a sharp, gorgeous sound anyway, like it's the best thing he's ever felt, like it's already too much.
"Hey, hey," Jon says, slipping his fingers under the hem of Ryan's shirt to pet at his lower back, clumsy and soothing. Ryan's skin is always softer than Jon expects it to be. "It's alright. Yeah?"
Ryan's head drops forward, loose, easy. He nods against Jon's jaw, the tip of his nose cool through Jon's beard, and rocks his hips against the pressure of Jon's hand. "Yeah," he says.
"Cool," Jon says, grinning. He eases open the button on Ryan's stupid vintage trousers and pushes his hand inside.
Ryan's cock is warm and dry in his hand, pulsing and flushing fully hard as Jon gives him a few loose, gentle strokes. Jon's other hand is still spread across the soft, pale expanse of Ryan's lower back, and he can feel the muscles working under the skin, tensing and relaxing as Ryan moves. He slides his hand up a little further, feels the ridges of Ryan's ribs under his fingers. Jon forgets sometimes how small Ryan is, how insubstantial, just skin and bones and heat rocking gently back and forth in Jon's lap.
"You're so little," he says.
Ryan groans and circles his hips. "Fuck you, man."
And no, that's not what Jon meant at all; he knows full well that Ryan's not little in that respect. "I didn't—hey, fuck you, Ross." He digs his fingers pointedly into the thin skin covering Ryan's ribs.
"Hmm," Ryan says, contemplative. He braces one hand on Jon's chest and pushes two fingers of the other into Jon's mouth. "You could."
Jon blinks, licking slowly over the pads of Ryan's fingers, and murmurs, "Yeah?" around them. He shifts his thighs a little further apart at that, giving his dick a little breathing room. Shit, that's a really stupid metaphor.
"Yeah." Jon isn't sure whether Ryan is responding to the question, or if he's agreeing that Jon's metaphors are apparently uniformly retarded. Whatever. Ryan leans forward to kiss him again, tongue slipping in between his fingers before he pulls them free and uses them to hold Jon's jaw open instead, still careful, still precise. The saliva on his fingers is getting Jon's beard wet.
Jon doesn't really mind. "Okay," he says. To be perfectly honest, although his stoned-happy brain would probably like it just fine if he stayed here all night with Ryan's tongue in his mouth and Ryan's cock in his hand, his dick kind of wants in on the proceedings.
Making a soft, regretful sound, Ryan pulls back from Jon's mouth with one last, lingering touch of his spit-slick fingers to Jon's lower lip. "Not here, though," he says.
"Why?" Jon asks, clinging ineffectually as Ryan twists away and settles next to him on the couch, his dick hanging out of his pants, dark red and wet at the tip. He should look ridiculous, and maybe he does, but that doesn't stop Jon's mouth from watering. He wonders if his hand tastes like Ryan's cock.
Ryan watches with heavy-lidded eyes as Jon licks his fingers, just to check, and leans over to kiss away Jon's frown when he finds that he mostly just tastes like skin. "Come on," he says, sliding off the couch and tugging on Jon's sleeve, urging him up.
They stumble toward Ryan's room together, moving a lot slower than they probably should; neither of them is particularly inclined to stop touching the other, so their feet keep getting inadvertently tangled. Ryan loses his pants about four steps away from the couch, because he doesn't have anything to hold them up; he laughs and leaves them in a puddle on the floor. Jon smacks Ryan's bare ass playfully and wraps his arms around Ryan's waist, kissing his shoulder through his shirt. The soft, worn cotton feels good under his lips; he thinks he could probably spend a lot of time kissing Ryan's shirt, as long as Ryan was in it.
Ryan gets his attention again by groping his dick through his jeans, and shit, Jon could spend forever kissing Ryan's shirt if he also had Ryan's hand on his cock. "Bed, come on," Ryan repeats, grabbing Jon's wrist and pulling him along the rest of the way to the bedroom.
He pushes Jon down on the bed and goes to dig through the clutter on his dresser, presumably looking for supplies. That's another thing that should look ridiculous, Ryan walking around his room naked from the waist down with his silly floral shirt still buttoned, but there's something undeniably appealing about the way the curve of his shirttail frames the slight curve of his ass, the smooth length of his thighs. Jon idly touches himself through his jeans as he watches.
Tossing the lube and a condom on the bed, Ryan climbs into Jon's lap again, steadying himself on Jon's shoulders. They overbalance a little when Ryan leans forward to kiss Jon lazily, and they don't stop kissing as they tip backwards.
Ryan's weight traps Jon's hand between them, and he reaches down to circle his fingers around Jon's wrist again. "What've you got there?" he asks, wriggling a little as his other hand creeps down to Jon's hip, fingertips dipping beneath the waist of Jon's jeans. The buttons of his shirt scratch over the back of Jon's wrist.
"Too many clothes," Jon complains, twisting his wrist so he can fiddle ineffectually with Ryan's buttons.
"No, you," Ryan says. Then he giggles.
Jon leans up for another kiss, but he only gets a glancing touch of Ryan's lips before Ryan slides off the bed, knees hitting the carpet with a dull sound. He undoes Jon's jeans and drags them down his thighs, leaning in to lick thoughtfully over the head of Jon's dick when he's got it free. He doesn't bother pulling Jon's pants all the way off, just clambers back up onto the bed and straddles Jon's lap again. Jon thinks he must really like that position; Jon kind of likes it, too.
"Jon," Ryan says, rolling his hips down against Jon's, sliding their cocks together. They both grope for the lube at the same time, fingers tangling around the bottle. There's a brief tug-of-war for it; Jon wins, and he grins in triumph as he slicks up his fingers.
Ryan gasps at the first press of Jon's fingers against his ass, lifting up on his knees to give Jon more room, bracing his hands on the mattress next to Jon's shoulders. Jon can feel his own heartbeat in his fingertips as he opens Ryan up, can feel the answer of Ryan's own pulse in the hot clench around Jon's fingers. "Fuck, you feel," he starts, but he's distracted by the rhythm of it, by the way he's feeling it in every nerve. He drags Ryan down for another kiss instead of finishing the thought, and by the way Ryan moans into his mouth, he thinks Ryan probably gets it without him having to say it, anyway.
When Ryan's ready, he drops his hips to Jon's again, grinding down against the hollow of Jon's hip, smearing a sticky trail across Jon's belly and the hem of the t-shirt he's still wearing. He tears open the condom wrapper with his teeth, turning his head to spit out a scrap of plastic as he sits up again so he can roll it onto Jon's dick and holding him steady as he knee-walks up the bed just enough to line them up. He sinks down as soon as Jon slides his fingers free, taking Jon all the way in one hot slide.
And fuck, that rhythm is still there, the syncopation of their heartbeats, but bigger, louder, magnified. Jon moans and grips Ryan's hips, holding him down, fascinated, overwhelmed. Ryan doesn't struggle against Jon's hold, just leans down to slant their mouths together again and taps his fingers against Jon's collarbone, another beat, another sensation.
"You're everywhere," he murmurs into Jon's mouth, and Jon thinks he gets it.
"We're everywhere," Jon replies, and looses his hold on Ryan's hips enough for him to lift off and roll his hips in a deep, easy stroke.
"Yeah," Ryan breathes. "Yeah."
Jon curls one hand around Ryan's cock, slicking the wet at the tip over his palm to make it easier for Ryan to thrust into his fist, working himself on Jon's dick. He lets the other hand slide down to hold on to Ryan's thigh, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, but Ryan just makes a low, pleased noise, ass clenching around Jon's cock as his own jerks in Jon's hand. The muscles in his belly quiver as he moves, and Jon just watches, too enraptured even to put much energy into rocking up to meet Ryan's slow downward thrusts. The pot has made both of them lazy, content to just move together without urgency or hurry.
It's nice, comfortable, effortless, indescribably perfect for some totally unidentifiable length of time. It's everything that stoned fucking is supposed to be. But it doesn't last; Jon can feel Ryan's high wearing off a little in the way that Ryan gradually picks up the pace, moaning quietly as he grinds down in Jon's lap.
"Jon, I need—" he says, breaking off with a frustrated sound. The muscles of his thigh feel tight under Jon's hand.
The muscles in Jon's thighs, on the other hand, feel sort of like pudding; he's still pretty blitzed. He pets the faint finger-shaped marks on Ryan's leg and obligingly tilts his face up when Ryan folds forward to kiss him. "What d'you need?" he asks.
Ryan circles his hips. "More," he says.
Jon arches up as best he can, gets his body to cooperate enough to give Ryan a few unsteady thrusts. It would be easier if Ryan's weight weren't pressing him into the bed. "Yeah?"
"Harder, something, just—more." He clenches around Jon's dick, like he'll be able to get what he needs that way, and whines low in his throat when it's apparently not enough.
And oh, Ryan tightening around him is enough to tear through Jon's loose, languid high a little, waking up the part of his brain that suddenly isn't content to listen to their hearts beating out of sync and really, really wants to fuck Ryan through the mattress instead. "Okay," he says, sliding the hand on Ryan's thigh up Ryan's side. "Okay."
He pushes Ryan sideways until he topples over; Ryan makes a pathetic sound when Jon's dick slips free from his ass.
"Shh," Jon says. He kicks off his jeans and rolls over to covering Ryan's body with his, nudging Ryan's thighs further apart with his hips.
Ryan arches up, rubbing his dick against Jon's stomach, and wraps his legs around the backs of Jon's thighs. He pokes at the backs of Jon's knees with his toes. "Come on."
"Your feet are cold," Jon says. He sneaks a hand between Ryan's legs and pushes his fingertips just inside, simply because he can.
"Asshole," Ryan says, squirming a little. He puts a hand on Jon's shoulder, like he's going to shove Jon away or smack him in retribution, but he lets his fingers curl into the hair at the back of Jon's neck instead, tugging gently.
Jon pulls open the collar of Ryan's shirt so he can scrape his teeth gently over his collarbone as he settles his weight on Ryan's hips. "Yeah?" he asks, guiding his cock back into Ryan's ass.
"Yeah—fuck, yes." His head drops back on a pleased groan as Jon pulls halfway out and thrusts back in.
The first few thrusts are clumsy and uncoordinated, Jon trying to prop himself up so that his stoned-lazy arms will support him, Ryan rolling his hips and hugging Jon's sides with his thighs trying to find the right angle, but they figure it out. Jon lets the rhythm take over, watching rapt as Ryan arches and moans, one hand braced on the headboard, the other flying over his cock in fast, sure strokes.
"Jon, Jon, shit," Ryan whimpers when he comes, his ass clenching down hard around Jon's dick, his mouth falling open on a loud, wet gasp. Come spatters the hem of his shirt and drips down his knuckles as he strokes himself through it; he smears some on Jon's shirt, too.
"Messy," Jon says, shaking his head in mock disapproval. He snakes an arm around one of Ryan's thighs and pushes it up to his chest so he can sink in a little deeper.
Ryan looks up at him, eyes half-closed and sated, and lets Jon manhandle him; then he tightens around Jon's cock and twists his hips viciously. Jon cries out, startled, and comes.
Jon gets maybe thirty seconds of lying on top of a warm, pliant Ryan before Ryan becomes substantially less pliant and pushes him off.
He strips off the condom, drops it into the trash can under Ryan's nightstand, and rolls onto his back. The high's still got him, under the warmer, softer post-orgasmic haze; he stares up at the ceiling, a dopey smile on his face, and feels pretty fucking awesome, all things being considered.
Ryan, cursed with a much faster metabolism, is not so lucky. "Shower," he says, dragging himself off the bed.
"Later," Jon replies. He's totally good where he is.
"No. Now."
"Can't. Too stoned. I'll probably drown."
"Not in my shower, you won't." He finishes unbuttoning his shirt and finally slips it off, dropping it to the floor as he stretches and yawns. "Come on."
"Nah."
Ryan wrinkles his nose and gives Jon a disapproving look, too sleepy and satisfied for a full-blown glare. "You're a filthy individual."
Jon nods. "True. But at least I won't go to a watery grave."
Rolling his eyes, Ryan says, "We are never smoking that much ever again."
That's almost certainly an empty threat. "Empty threats, Ross."
"Heard you the first time."
Jon closes his eyes and listens to the shower running for a second before wriggles out of his t-shirt, tossing it into the corner. He manages to get under the covers without incident and listens to the cadence of his own breathing as he waits, lulled into half-sleep by his own rhythm.
When Ryan slides back into bed, Jon immediately snuggles up against his back, even though it's really too warm for it and his hair is damp on the pillow. "Mm," Jon says, pressing his lips to the back of Ryan's neck. "You're all wet."
Ryan's eyeroll is almost audible. "You're still filthy."
But he laces his fingers with Jon's when Jon wraps an arm around his waist, and Jon falls asleep to the sound of Ryan humming softly about dancing sausages.
***
Title: the rhythm of your nonsense tune
Pairing: Jon/Ryan
Rating: NC17
Summary: It's almost like Ryan's trying to fuse them together as one being, and that would be kind of fucked up but also pretty hot.
Warnings: Marijuana, porn, Boy Scout songs
Notes: The world can never have enough stoner porn, right? Right.
lyo is too good to me. 3400 words.There's really nothing better than relaxing after a long day of...relaxing.
Jon has a hard time thinking about the work they're doing on this album at the moment in terms of actual work. The cabin, now—that was work. But crashing with Ryan, playing Guitar Hero with Brendon, sitting around at Spencer's while Haley yells at them about smoking in her kitchen, and still getting actual music out of it? It's a lot of things, but Jon wouldn't ever call it "work." That's for later, when they actually have enough material to take into the studio.
They won't be able to spend six hours a day stoned then, probably, which is both a good and a bad thing.
Jon and Ryan are home alone tonight, because it's Spencer and Haley's date night, and Shane is moping because Regan is out of town. They weren't really ready to put the music away when Spencer and Brendon went to their respective homes, so they didn't, sitting in Ryan's living room with their acoustics and Ryan's bong, turned toward each other with their legs tangled together. There's a notebook full of lyrics open on the coffee table, but they kind of stopped paying attention to them around the third bong load, which was actually before Brendon and Spencer left. Jon has pretty much entirely lost track of both time and their marijuana consumption since then, mostly because Brendon got them started riffing on Boy Scout songs right before he went home.
As it happens, the only way to make "Johnny Rebeck" more hilarious is to let a stoned Ryan Ross get his hands on it. Jon wonders if all of the rude, nonsensical camp songs he learned in Webelos would be so vastly improved by the addition of five-syllable words and badly accented French. Chances are probably good that they would.
"Sausages," Jon giggles for the fifth or sixth or twentieth time, hunched over his guitar. He's laughing and smiling so much that his face hurts. Or it would, if he could feel his face. Whatever.
"I like the Patagonia one better," Ryan muses, hitting a chord that maybe would have sounded like music an hour or two ago, before they started singing about cannibalism and stopped caring about being in tune, and Jon just laughs harder.
He looks up to see Ryan watching him with a dreamy, affectionate look on his face, his mouth wet and red, his tongue peeking out to wet his lower lip, and Jon suddenly can't think of any reason not to kiss him. The guitars make a hollow, discordant noise when they bump together, but Jon doesn't care. He just curls a hand around the back of Ryan's neck and opens Ryan's mouth with his tongue, sucking down the taste of music and pot and the orange soda Brendon left there that afternoon, and it's just good, so good, easy like breathing.
It's even better when Ryan wrangles the guitars out from between them and straddles Jon's lap on the couch.
Ryan settles his weight on Jon's thighs, nudging their hips together just a little, but there's no urgency in it. It's just comfortable, sweet. He holds on to Jon's biceps, the grip of his fingers precise and careful, and leans in to seal his mouth against Jon's again. Jon watches, fascinated, as his eyes flutter shut, watches the slow sweep of his lashes when he blinks.
His sense of time is kind of fucked up; it could be a minute or an hour later when Ryan sits back a little and makes a soft sound, touching his own mouth with a curious look on his face. His lips are even redder now, swollen and a little raw from pressing against Jon's. Jon should get him some Carmex, or something. He wonders what Carmex would taste like on Ryan's lips—it seems somehow inconceivable that he's gone this long without knowing.
"Inconceivable," he says, just because that's the kind of word he has to say once he's thought it.
Ryan blinks and then snickers, rocking forward to kiss the corner of Jon's mouth again. "Yeah, okay," he says, and then in an impressively athletic move, he twists around to grab the bong from the end table, hit it hard, and set it down again.
Jon settles his hands on Ryan's hips as Ryan kisses him again, sucking the sweetness of the hit from Ryan's mouth. Shotgunning hits from the bong isn't as fun as it would be with Jon's pipe, but he's not exactly complaining, especially when Ryan nips at the curve of his lower lip and slides a hand into his hair, holding him close so they can share air. It's almost like Ryan's trying to fuse them together as one being, and that would be kind of fucked up but also pretty hot. Jon can deal with that.
He thumbs over the jut of Ryan's hipbones, sharp through the skin-warm fabric of his pants. Fused, he thinks again, and sucks in a breath through his nose at the little wave of arousal that sneaks up on him, crashing over his chest, settling in his belly. That's kind of a stupid metaphor.
"You're kind of a stupid metaphor," Ryan mumbles against his mouth, and they both laugh, pressed tight together, sinking into the butter-soft leather of Ryan's couch.
Jon moves his hand to cup Ryan through his pants, just a question, not a demand. Ryan isn't hard, not yet, but he makes a sharp, gorgeous sound anyway, like it's the best thing he's ever felt, like it's already too much.
"Hey, hey," Jon says, slipping his fingers under the hem of Ryan's shirt to pet at his lower back, clumsy and soothing. Ryan's skin is always softer than Jon expects it to be. "It's alright. Yeah?"
Ryan's head drops forward, loose, easy. He nods against Jon's jaw, the tip of his nose cool through Jon's beard, and rocks his hips against the pressure of Jon's hand. "Yeah," he says.
"Cool," Jon says, grinning. He eases open the button on Ryan's stupid vintage trousers and pushes his hand inside.
Ryan's cock is warm and dry in his hand, pulsing and flushing fully hard as Jon gives him a few loose, gentle strokes. Jon's other hand is still spread across the soft, pale expanse of Ryan's lower back, and he can feel the muscles working under the skin, tensing and relaxing as Ryan moves. He slides his hand up a little further, feels the ridges of Ryan's ribs under his fingers. Jon forgets sometimes how small Ryan is, how insubstantial, just skin and bones and heat rocking gently back and forth in Jon's lap.
"You're so little," he says.
Ryan groans and circles his hips. "Fuck you, man."
And no, that's not what Jon meant at all; he knows full well that Ryan's not little in that respect. "I didn't—hey, fuck you, Ross." He digs his fingers pointedly into the thin skin covering Ryan's ribs.
"Hmm," Ryan says, contemplative. He braces one hand on Jon's chest and pushes two fingers of the other into Jon's mouth. "You could."
Jon blinks, licking slowly over the pads of Ryan's fingers, and murmurs, "Yeah?" around them. He shifts his thighs a little further apart at that, giving his dick a little breathing room. Shit, that's a really stupid metaphor.
"Yeah." Jon isn't sure whether Ryan is responding to the question, or if he's agreeing that Jon's metaphors are apparently uniformly retarded. Whatever. Ryan leans forward to kiss him again, tongue slipping in between his fingers before he pulls them free and uses them to hold Jon's jaw open instead, still careful, still precise. The saliva on his fingers is getting Jon's beard wet.
Jon doesn't really mind. "Okay," he says. To be perfectly honest, although his stoned-happy brain would probably like it just fine if he stayed here all night with Ryan's tongue in his mouth and Ryan's cock in his hand, his dick kind of wants in on the proceedings.
Making a soft, regretful sound, Ryan pulls back from Jon's mouth with one last, lingering touch of his spit-slick fingers to Jon's lower lip. "Not here, though," he says.
"Why?" Jon asks, clinging ineffectually as Ryan twists away and settles next to him on the couch, his dick hanging out of his pants, dark red and wet at the tip. He should look ridiculous, and maybe he does, but that doesn't stop Jon's mouth from watering. He wonders if his hand tastes like Ryan's cock.
Ryan watches with heavy-lidded eyes as Jon licks his fingers, just to check, and leans over to kiss away Jon's frown when he finds that he mostly just tastes like skin. "Come on," he says, sliding off the couch and tugging on Jon's sleeve, urging him up.
They stumble toward Ryan's room together, moving a lot slower than they probably should; neither of them is particularly inclined to stop touching the other, so their feet keep getting inadvertently tangled. Ryan loses his pants about four steps away from the couch, because he doesn't have anything to hold them up; he laughs and leaves them in a puddle on the floor. Jon smacks Ryan's bare ass playfully and wraps his arms around Ryan's waist, kissing his shoulder through his shirt. The soft, worn cotton feels good under his lips; he thinks he could probably spend a lot of time kissing Ryan's shirt, as long as Ryan was in it.
Ryan gets his attention again by groping his dick through his jeans, and shit, Jon could spend forever kissing Ryan's shirt if he also had Ryan's hand on his cock. "Bed, come on," Ryan repeats, grabbing Jon's wrist and pulling him along the rest of the way to the bedroom.
He pushes Jon down on the bed and goes to dig through the clutter on his dresser, presumably looking for supplies. That's another thing that should look ridiculous, Ryan walking around his room naked from the waist down with his silly floral shirt still buttoned, but there's something undeniably appealing about the way the curve of his shirttail frames the slight curve of his ass, the smooth length of his thighs. Jon idly touches himself through his jeans as he watches.
Tossing the lube and a condom on the bed, Ryan climbs into Jon's lap again, steadying himself on Jon's shoulders. They overbalance a little when Ryan leans forward to kiss Jon lazily, and they don't stop kissing as they tip backwards.
Ryan's weight traps Jon's hand between them, and he reaches down to circle his fingers around Jon's wrist again. "What've you got there?" he asks, wriggling a little as his other hand creeps down to Jon's hip, fingertips dipping beneath the waist of Jon's jeans. The buttons of his shirt scratch over the back of Jon's wrist.
"Too many clothes," Jon complains, twisting his wrist so he can fiddle ineffectually with Ryan's buttons.
"No, you," Ryan says. Then he giggles.
Jon leans up for another kiss, but he only gets a glancing touch of Ryan's lips before Ryan slides off the bed, knees hitting the carpet with a dull sound. He undoes Jon's jeans and drags them down his thighs, leaning in to lick thoughtfully over the head of Jon's dick when he's got it free. He doesn't bother pulling Jon's pants all the way off, just clambers back up onto the bed and straddles Jon's lap again. Jon thinks he must really like that position; Jon kind of likes it, too.
"Jon," Ryan says, rolling his hips down against Jon's, sliding their cocks together. They both grope for the lube at the same time, fingers tangling around the bottle. There's a brief tug-of-war for it; Jon wins, and he grins in triumph as he slicks up his fingers.
Ryan gasps at the first press of Jon's fingers against his ass, lifting up on his knees to give Jon more room, bracing his hands on the mattress next to Jon's shoulders. Jon can feel his own heartbeat in his fingertips as he opens Ryan up, can feel the answer of Ryan's own pulse in the hot clench around Jon's fingers. "Fuck, you feel," he starts, but he's distracted by the rhythm of it, by the way he's feeling it in every nerve. He drags Ryan down for another kiss instead of finishing the thought, and by the way Ryan moans into his mouth, he thinks Ryan probably gets it without him having to say it, anyway.
When Ryan's ready, he drops his hips to Jon's again, grinding down against the hollow of Jon's hip, smearing a sticky trail across Jon's belly and the hem of the t-shirt he's still wearing. He tears open the condom wrapper with his teeth, turning his head to spit out a scrap of plastic as he sits up again so he can roll it onto Jon's dick and holding him steady as he knee-walks up the bed just enough to line them up. He sinks down as soon as Jon slides his fingers free, taking Jon all the way in one hot slide.
And fuck, that rhythm is still there, the syncopation of their heartbeats, but bigger, louder, magnified. Jon moans and grips Ryan's hips, holding him down, fascinated, overwhelmed. Ryan doesn't struggle against Jon's hold, just leans down to slant their mouths together again and taps his fingers against Jon's collarbone, another beat, another sensation.
"You're everywhere," he murmurs into Jon's mouth, and Jon thinks he gets it.
"We're everywhere," Jon replies, and looses his hold on Ryan's hips enough for him to lift off and roll his hips in a deep, easy stroke.
"Yeah," Ryan breathes. "Yeah."
Jon curls one hand around Ryan's cock, slicking the wet at the tip over his palm to make it easier for Ryan to thrust into his fist, working himself on Jon's dick. He lets the other hand slide down to hold on to Ryan's thigh, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, but Ryan just makes a low, pleased noise, ass clenching around Jon's cock as his own jerks in Jon's hand. The muscles in his belly quiver as he moves, and Jon just watches, too enraptured even to put much energy into rocking up to meet Ryan's slow downward thrusts. The pot has made both of them lazy, content to just move together without urgency or hurry.
It's nice, comfortable, effortless, indescribably perfect for some totally unidentifiable length of time. It's everything that stoned fucking is supposed to be. But it doesn't last; Jon can feel Ryan's high wearing off a little in the way that Ryan gradually picks up the pace, moaning quietly as he grinds down in Jon's lap.
"Jon, I need—" he says, breaking off with a frustrated sound. The muscles of his thigh feel tight under Jon's hand.
The muscles in Jon's thighs, on the other hand, feel sort of like pudding; he's still pretty blitzed. He pets the faint finger-shaped marks on Ryan's leg and obligingly tilts his face up when Ryan folds forward to kiss him. "What d'you need?" he asks.
Ryan circles his hips. "More," he says.
Jon arches up as best he can, gets his body to cooperate enough to give Ryan a few unsteady thrusts. It would be easier if Ryan's weight weren't pressing him into the bed. "Yeah?"
"Harder, something, just—more." He clenches around Jon's dick, like he'll be able to get what he needs that way, and whines low in his throat when it's apparently not enough.
And oh, Ryan tightening around him is enough to tear through Jon's loose, languid high a little, waking up the part of his brain that suddenly isn't content to listen to their hearts beating out of sync and really, really wants to fuck Ryan through the mattress instead. "Okay," he says, sliding the hand on Ryan's thigh up Ryan's side. "Okay."
He pushes Ryan sideways until he topples over; Ryan makes a pathetic sound when Jon's dick slips free from his ass.
"Shh," Jon says. He kicks off his jeans and rolls over to covering Ryan's body with his, nudging Ryan's thighs further apart with his hips.
Ryan arches up, rubbing his dick against Jon's stomach, and wraps his legs around the backs of Jon's thighs. He pokes at the backs of Jon's knees with his toes. "Come on."
"Your feet are cold," Jon says. He sneaks a hand between Ryan's legs and pushes his fingertips just inside, simply because he can.
"Asshole," Ryan says, squirming a little. He puts a hand on Jon's shoulder, like he's going to shove Jon away or smack him in retribution, but he lets his fingers curl into the hair at the back of Jon's neck instead, tugging gently.
Jon pulls open the collar of Ryan's shirt so he can scrape his teeth gently over his collarbone as he settles his weight on Ryan's hips. "Yeah?" he asks, guiding his cock back into Ryan's ass.
"Yeah—fuck, yes." His head drops back on a pleased groan as Jon pulls halfway out and thrusts back in.
The first few thrusts are clumsy and uncoordinated, Jon trying to prop himself up so that his stoned-lazy arms will support him, Ryan rolling his hips and hugging Jon's sides with his thighs trying to find the right angle, but they figure it out. Jon lets the rhythm take over, watching rapt as Ryan arches and moans, one hand braced on the headboard, the other flying over his cock in fast, sure strokes.
"Jon, Jon, shit," Ryan whimpers when he comes, his ass clenching down hard around Jon's dick, his mouth falling open on a loud, wet gasp. Come spatters the hem of his shirt and drips down his knuckles as he strokes himself through it; he smears some on Jon's shirt, too.
"Messy," Jon says, shaking his head in mock disapproval. He snakes an arm around one of Ryan's thighs and pushes it up to his chest so he can sink in a little deeper.
Ryan looks up at him, eyes half-closed and sated, and lets Jon manhandle him; then he tightens around Jon's cock and twists his hips viciously. Jon cries out, startled, and comes.
Jon gets maybe thirty seconds of lying on top of a warm, pliant Ryan before Ryan becomes substantially less pliant and pushes him off.
He strips off the condom, drops it into the trash can under Ryan's nightstand, and rolls onto his back. The high's still got him, under the warmer, softer post-orgasmic haze; he stares up at the ceiling, a dopey smile on his face, and feels pretty fucking awesome, all things being considered.
Ryan, cursed with a much faster metabolism, is not so lucky. "Shower," he says, dragging himself off the bed.
"Later," Jon replies. He's totally good where he is.
"No. Now."
"Can't. Too stoned. I'll probably drown."
"Not in my shower, you won't." He finishes unbuttoning his shirt and finally slips it off, dropping it to the floor as he stretches and yawns. "Come on."
"Nah."
Ryan wrinkles his nose and gives Jon a disapproving look, too sleepy and satisfied for a full-blown glare. "You're a filthy individual."
Jon nods. "True. But at least I won't go to a watery grave."
Rolling his eyes, Ryan says, "We are never smoking that much ever again."
That's almost certainly an empty threat. "Empty threats, Ross."
"Heard you the first time."
Jon closes his eyes and listens to the shower running for a second before wriggles out of his t-shirt, tossing it into the corner. He manages to get under the covers without incident and listens to the cadence of his own breathing as he waits, lulled into half-sleep by his own rhythm.
When Ryan slides back into bed, Jon immediately snuggles up against his back, even though it's really too warm for it and his hair is damp on the pillow. "Mm," Jon says, pressing his lips to the back of Ryan's neck. "You're all wet."
Ryan's eyeroll is almost audible. "You're still filthy."
But he laces his fingers with Jon's when Jon wraps an arm around his waist, and Jon falls asleep to the sound of Ryan humming softly about dancing sausages.
