stephanometra (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
stephanometra) wrote2009-04-21 09:12 am
stephanometra) wrote2009-04-21 09:12 am
fic: "shine on," jon/ryan, nc17
Once upon a time, I received the following text message:
![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
lyo: ryan rossy and his jon walker went hiking! ryan only fell 10 times!! \o/
And then there was much discussion of the possibility of outdoor sex and getting grass in their hair and generally being ridiculous together while out actually enjoying nature. I, being the hopeless optimist that I am, said that I hoped we got lots and lots of porn out of this.lyo, however, said:
lyo: my reaction was more "the thing that makes me more >:( is that people are going to read that and write two dozen fics about why brendon and spencer didn't come and no jon/ryan have makeouts with grass in their hair"
In b4 "lol come."
Anyway, this isn't that fic, and it also took me about two months longer than it really should have, but I think it'll do.
Title: shine on, shine on, shine on
Pairing: Jon/Ryan
Rating: NC17
Summary: In which our heroes go to the beach.
Warnings: Utterly self-indulgent OTP porn (she says, like that's something you have to warn for)
Notes: Forlyo. I clicked my heels and wished for you, sweetheart. ♥ Thanks to boweryd and anoneknewmoose for the encouragement and to fiddleyoumust for the beta. And all interested parties might want to listen to this song, from whence the title comes: Radiation Vibe // Fountains of Wayne. 5300 words.
***
"Come on," Jon murmurs, brushing his lips against the back of Ryan's neck. His arm rests solid and warm around Ryan's waist. "Time to get up."
It would be so nice, except for the way Jon's toes are poking at the backs of Ryan's calves, and also the insistence on the whole "getting up" thing. Ryan stubbornly keeps his eyes shut and doesn't move a muscle, even when Jon starts stroking his ribs in that way that's just shy of tickling and it gets really difficult for him to stay still.
Ryan doesn't have to get up yet. Ryan is strong; Ryan's desire to sleep is far greater than any petty annoyance or persuasion Jon might manage to bring against it. Ryan is immovable, like a large immovable thing.
Ryan can totally pass off the way his arm just spasmed to elbow Jon in the stomach as a reflex.
Jon laughs softly, his voice low and still a little rough from sleep. "I know you're awake."
He tickles Ryan's side again, and Ryan can't help making a small sound and twitching away from it. For fuck's sake, he just wants to sleep. "You can't prove that," he grumbles, shifting.
"Of course I can't," Jon says, and kisses the back of Ryan's neck again. Mercifully, he stops jabbing his toes into Ryan's legs, pressing his thighs against Ryan's instead, sliding one foot between Ryan's ankles like he's trying to get as close as possible, and Ryan isn't so grumpy that he doesn't automatically relax into it, into being tangled up together. He would still rather be sleeping, really, but this is a pretty nice way to wake up.
They lie like that, comfortable and quiet, for a few minutes, and then Jon says, "We're still going to the beach today, right?"
He sounds so hopeful that Ryan can't help but smile, which he covers by rubbing his cheek against the pillow and making a disapproving noise. "That is not the way to get me up."
Jon sighs in mock exasperation. "I made coffee," he offers.
Ryan slowly stretches out his arms, trying to get his blood moving. "Now that," he yawns, "is more like it."
"Ow," Ryan says, every step in the dry, shifting sand a painful reminder of how sore he is after their hiking adventure yesterday. "Ow, ow, ow, ow—"
"You are such a wuss," Jon says, and then scampers ahead a few steps, whirls around, and snaps a picture of Ryan scowling at him.
"I hurt," Ryan states. "We descended a canyon yesterday, in case you forgot." And then ascended it. Slowly. Fuck, his legs are killing him.
"And again I say: wuss." Jon turns, looking out over the water with a serene look on his face, and then smiles brightly. He kicks off his flip-flops and then bends down to pick them up, dangling them from two fingers as he offers them to Ryan.
Ryan looks down at the shoes and then back up at Jon's smiling face. He wishes he weren't wearing his sunglasses; he's spent a lot of time perfecting his supremely unimpressed expression, and it loses a lot when there's polarized polycarbonate in the way.
Jon rolls his eyes. "I packed you a blanket, Ryan. You can, I don't know, sit down somewhere. Rest your poor out-of-shape legs," he says.
Automatically, Ryan pats the bag that Jon told him to grab from the car, feeling the squashy give of the blanket inside. There are several hard book-shapes in there, too, which accounts for why the thing is so damned heavy.
He spends another long moment trying to stare down Jon's good humor and then sighs and takes Jon's shoes; Jon's smile widens. "Thanks for this," he says.
Ryan shrugs. "I said we'd go to the beach today, didn't I?"
"Yeah, you did," Jon says, and then he lifts up on his toes and quickly kisses the corner of Ryan's mouth. "I'm going to take some pictures."
"Go on, then," Ryan says. There's a nice empty stretch of sand a couple hundred feet away that looks like prime beach-blanket real estate, and Ryan trudges determinedly toward it as Jon heads for the shoreline, his hands already curled around his camera again.
He takes a long time getting the blanket laid out just right and then flops down on it, pulls off his shoes and rolls onto his back. The sand is warm underneath him, and the sun feels good on his face; as long as he doesn't move, he can forget about the ache in the long muscles of his legs. He spreads his arms out, lazily reaching for the book he set out at one corner of the blanket, but when he opens it, letting the bookmark flutter onto his chest, he discovers that he has no desire to read. He puts the book aside again and laces his fingers behind his head, staring up at the blue, blue sky through slitted eyes.
It's a weekday in February and it's barely 65 out—Jon might be running around in a t-shirt, but Ryan is shivering in his long sleeves whenever the breeze picks up—so the beach is peaceful, quiet but for the crash of the surf and the cries of the seagulls wheeling overhead. It's incredibly relaxing, and Ryan's last thought before he dozes off is that he's glad he let Jon talk him into getting up this morning.
Ryan wakes up sputtering when Jon pulls the blanket out from under him, rolling him unceremoniously into the sand. He cries out and grabs for where he left his book, horrified at the thought of sand getting in the binding, but Jon's too quick for him, tossing the blanket to the side and dropping to his knees on the ground. They tumble around together for a minute, but Jon is clearly after nothing less than Ryan's total submission, and he gets it by throwing his leg over Ryan's hips and pinning Ryan's hands to the ground by his shoulders, callused palms covering Ryan's tattoos and pushing Ryan's wrists into the sand.
"Hi," he says, a little bit breathless, grinning so wide that his eyes are crinkling at the corners.
"My book," Ryan says plaintively, and Jon laughs and sits back a little, letting go of Ryan's wrists.
"I put it away already. You were kind of dead to the world."
Ryan blinks behind his sunglasses. "Huh," he says, and rests his hands on Jon's thighs. Jon has his jeans rolled up to his knees, and his legs are wet with seawater and filthy with sand; Ryan imagines that he can feel the grime soaking into his pants wherever Jon's skin is touching him, and he can feel the heat of the sun-drenched sand in the small of his back where his shirt rode up a little. But he opens for it easily when Jon folds forward and slants their mouths together, warm and unhurried. Ryan wonders how long Jon watched him sleep, if he listened to the rhythm of the waves and thought about kissing Ryan in the sand and the sun, and he isn't surprised when he starts to get hard. He's even less surprised when Jon makes a soft noise against his mouth and rolls his hips, encouraging.
But there's sand down the back of Ryan's pants, now, too, and he can feel the uncomfortable tightness in his face that signals a sunburn in the making. He needs to get out of the sun, and out of his clothes, and fuck, now he's thinking about getting naked, and that is not helping matters at all.
He moves his hands from Jon's hips to his shoulders, plucking at the fabric of Jon's t-shirt until Jon pulls back a little, eyes unfocused and gaze flicking down to Ryan's mouth as he sits up.
"I forgot sunscreen," Ryan says.
"I see that," Jon says. He reaches out and runs his fingertips over Ryan's cheekbone. "We could put some on you now."
Ryan's breath catches; his skin is thin and hot from the sun, oversensitive, and the light, teasing touch is almost too much. "Or," he says, struggling to concentrate. "Or we could go home."
"Are you hurting?" Jon frowns, shifts so he's not resting so much of his weight on Ryan's thighs, which—yeah, that helps the sore muscles in Ryan's legs, but doesn't do much to help the situation with his dick.
"Well—uh. I'm okay, I just." He looks up at Jon from under his lashes, trusting that Jon is close enough to see the look in his eyes even through the sunglasses, and walks his fingers down to splay warm over Jon's thigh, thumb brushing the inseam of Jon's jeans in obvious invitation. "We should go somewhere with less sand."
And Jon grins at that, wicked and wide. "I like the way you think, Ross."
Jon insists on driving them back, and Ryan doesn't even care about the implicit insult to his driving; he wants to be home as quickly as possible, too. He taps his fingers against his armrest impatiently as Jon drives, his book sitting pristine and forgotten in his lap, and thinks about kissing the spot just behind Jon's ear. Jon didn't forget his sunscreen, and something about the way his hair curls dark over the winter-pale of his skin makes Ryan want to put his mouth there, to feel wind and salt and warmth on his tongue.
"What?" Jon asks, amused, after the third time he catches Ryan looking.
Ryan flushes under his sunburn. "Drive faster," he commands.
Jon laughs and leans on the gas.
"God," Ryan moans as Jon reaches up to curl his hand around the back of Ryan's neck and drag him down for a kiss, flailing to shut Ryan's front door behind them.
Jon stumbles backward in the general direction of Ryan's bedroom, pulling Ryan along, almost totally unwilling to stop kissing him long enough to navigate the maze of furniture on the way there. But Ryan digs in his heels and drags them to a stop when they get to the guest bathroom, soothing away the impatient noise Jon makes with the touch of his tongue against Jon's lower lip.
"C'mon," Jon urges against his mouth, one hand gentle against the small of Ryan's back, urging him toward the bedroom.
Ryan shakes his head. "You're filthy," he says.
He doesn't mean for it to sound like an endearment or a tease—seriously, Jon is tracking sand all over Ryan's house—but that's how it comes out, and Jon's eyes darken a little. He looks up at Ryan and licks his lips, and then obediently ducks into the bathroom, pulling his shirt over his head and bending to turn on the water. Ryan spends an endless moment standing in the open doorway, staring at the movement of the muscles of Jon's shoulders, and then shakes it off, hip-checking the door shut and skimming out of his clothes.
Jon hums contentedly when Ryan steps into the shower behind him, pressing against his back and wrapping his arms around Jon's waist from behind. "You smell like sunscreen," Ryan murmurs.
"Yeah," Jon agrees, leaning back into Ryan, tilting his head to the side.
"I don't like it." He dips his head to kiss Jon's shoulder, the side of his neck, nosing aside Jon's hair to get at that tempting little bit of skin he was staring at earlier.
"You don't say," Jon deadpans, turning his head and reaching up to stroke a fingertip down the pink slope of Ryan's nose.
Ryan can't help smiling, even though it pulls at the sunburned skin of his face. He pushes Jon under the showerhead in retribution and then watches greedily as Jon tilts his face up into the spray, letting the water run through his hair and down his back. Sand creeps toward the drain in a pale slurry, sliding off Jon's skin under the water. Ryan really doesn't really remember why he thought it would be a good idea to stop touching him.
He puts his hand on Jon's hip, gently turning him around, and steps in close so they're touching in as many places as possible. He leans down for another kiss, and Jon's arms come around him, hands spread in the small of Ryan's back. The skin there feels gritty, reminding Ryan that he should probably rinse off, too.
"Here, let me—" Ryan turns them both around again so he takes Jon's place under the water, and Jon smiles into the kiss as he helpfully slicks water down Ryan's back, washing the sand away. "Stupid sand," Ryan mutters.
"Going to the beach was your idea," Jon points out.
"Yeah, like, last week," Ryan counters. He only really suggested it in the first place to get Jon onto a plane, anyway; Ryan can take or leave the beach, but he knows Jon loves it. "I didn't even want to get out of bed today."
"Poor baby." Jon kisses Ryan's neck, tongue following a trickle of water running down from Ryan's hair. "I'm glad you did, though," he says.
"Are you really?" Ryan reaches down and wraps his hand around Jon's cock, presses an open-mouthed kiss against Jon's temple.
Jon moans softly as he hardens in Ryan's hand, rocking his hips forward into the surety of Ryan's grip. "Yeah," he breathes, turning his head so their mouths collide again. He slides his hand between them, too, slicking his palm over the head of Ryan's dick before taking him in hand.
Ryan muffles his groan by sealing their mouths together again, pressing his body against Jon's, even though it's so warm in the tiny bathroom that Ryan can feel himself sweating at the temples on top of the wet from the shower, and for a long moment everything is just hot and wet and skin, Ryan's leg sliding between Jon's, Jon's free hand clutching at Ryan's hip to pull him even closer. It's good, it's really fucking good, Jon's hand sure and practiced on his cock, the steamy air heavy and soothing on his throat as he pants roughly into Jon's mouth.
Then Jon pulls back with a whimper, fighting to stop the stuttering of his hips as his cock pulses in Ryan's hand. "No," he says. "Want you to fuck me."
"Jesus," Ryan moans, hand squeezing unconsciously around Jon's cock, and Jon's answering moan has an almost-desperate edge to it. He lets go of Ryan's dick and grabs for his wrist instead, pulling Ryan's hand away in a clear attempt to keep himself from coming, and there is no reason at all that should be so hot.
Ryan steps forward, crowding Jon against the tile wall, pushing his cock against Jon's belly as he curls a hand around the back of Jon's thigh, pressing his fingers into Jon's crease, kissing a bruise into the side of Jon's neck when Jon moans again and shifts his weight, wrapping his leg around the back of Ryan's thighs. "Here," Jon says, "want it like this."
And fuck, yes, that's a good plan, that's the best plan, except for the way Ryan's legs shake when he hooks his arm under Jon's leg to hold him open, Ryan's sore muscles protesting at having to support some of Jon's weight as well as his own. "Fuck," he groans, banging his forehead against the cool tile over Jon's shoulder, feeling the tremors in his thighs, his abs. Resting for most of the day helped a lot, but his body is still punishing him for overdoing it yesterday. If they try to do this here, like this, they'll probably both end up with broken necks. He sighs and gently sets Jon's leg down, kissing away Jon's bemused look. "Too sore, I can't hold you."
Jon looks disappointed for a fraction of a second, but then he brightens. "Bed?" he asks.
"Sore," Ryan says again, sounding pathetic even to his own ears, but even the thought of fucking Jon in bed makes his thighs scream in preemptive protest. "Want to, but—"
"I know." Jon edges around him to shut off the water, and then pushes Ryan out of the shower. "I can do all the work."
Ryan pauses in halfheartedly drying himself off, looking at the dirty, determined smile on Jon's face. "Jon."
Jon doesn't say anything else, just finishes scrubbing his towel through his hair and then prods Ryan out of the bathroom and all the way down the hall, not stopping until Ryan topples into bed, naked and still more wet than dry. The air in his room is cool enough to raise goosebumps on his arms, but he barely feels it; his skin feels hot everywhere, and he can't even tell the difference anymore between the heat from the sunburn and the heat from the shower and the heat from the arousal that has his cock throbbing against his belly.
He watches Jon hunt for supplies, and breathes in sharply when Jon climbs onto the bed and straddles Ryan's hips, just like he did at the beach. It feels a lot better without the clothes. And the sand.
Jon grins like he's reading Ryan's mind. "No sand here," he says, his voice sex-rough and low, and falls forward onto Ryan's chest, cradling Ryan's face with one hand as they kiss, fumbling open the lube with the other and trying to reach back and get himself ready one-handed.
Ryan stops him, tangling his dry fingers with Jon's slick ones, grabbing for the bottle with the other hand. "I'm not too sore for that," he says, affronted.
"Are you sure?" Jon asks, teasing, but his laugh cuts off with a breathy gasp when Ryan slides a finger inside him. He stays still for a moment, letting Ryan fuck him shallowly with one finger, and then rocks his hips back impatiently. "More."
"Pushy," Ryan says, sliding his finger free and coming back with two, breath coming faster at the tight clench of Jon's body around his fingers.
Jon moans and drops his head, pressing a sloppy open-mouthed kiss against Ryan's throat. "Want you."
"Christ, Jon." Ryan tangles his free hand in Jon's wet hair and tugs his head back up so their mouths meet again, pushing his tongue into Jon's mouth at the same pace he's setting with his fingers, smiling into the kiss when Jon moans again. His dick drags against Ryan's stomach, trailing precome over Ryan's skin as Ryan strokes him inside, nudging purposefully against Jon's prostate as he works him open.
When Ryan teases the tip of a third finger against Jon's rim, Jon breaks the kiss and sits up a little, pushing at Ryan's arm until Ryan pulls his fingers out. "Enough," he says, his voice low and rough as he tears open a condom, cursing when it slips out of fingers still wet with lube.
"Are you sure?" Ryan asks, hips arching up off the bed as Jon rolls the condom on him and gets him wet, his hands clumsy with haste.
Jon kneels up atop Ryan's hips, the muscles in his thighs flexing hard as he curls his fingers around Ryan's cock and holds him steady, and looks down at Ryan with his eyes half-lidded with anticipation. "Not waiting," he says, and starts to lower himself onto Ryan's dick, slowly at first until the head breaches him and then faster—too fast, fuck.
"Fucking—oh my God, slow down," Ryan cries. Jon is almost painfully tight around him, and Ryan can't pull back or slow down to give Jon some time to adjust, pinned to the mattress by Jon's weight.
Jon cries out, but he doesn't stop until he's seated fully in Ryan's lap, Ryan buried to the hilt inside him. His head lolls, eyes closed and mouth hanging open; his erection flags a little as he tries to breathe through the stretch. Ryan keeps his hips very still and gently pets at Jon's thighs, like that will soothe away the ache of it.
"Hey," he says softly, one hand stroking up the inside of Jon's thigh and wrapping loosely around Jon's dick.
Jon's eyes open slowly, his gaze hot and unfocused. "Told you," he says thickly, and gives a tiny roll of his hips, still whimpering as Ryan's dick shifts inside him. His cock twitches in Ryan's loose grip, pulsing as it fills again, and Jon shudders when Ryan rubs his thumb encouragingly over the ridge behind the head.
Ryan groans softly. "So tight."
Splaying his hands over Ryan's ribs, Jon smiles and ducks his head. His cock is fully hard again, heavy and flushed in Ryan's hand, and the clench of his body around Ryan's cock eases a little more; he sighs in satisfaction as he circles his hips. "So full," he says, and Ryan can't keep the smirk from his face; Jon rolls his eyes and digs his fingers into Ryan's side in retribution.
Ryan lets out a startled laugh, jerking a little, and Jon moans in answer.
"Fuck, that's—" Jon says, head tipping back as he rocks in Ryan's lap.
"Yeah?" Ryan says, still smiling. He moves his hands to cradle Jon's hips, pressing his thumbs gently against Jon's hipbones.
Looking down at Ryan with heavy-lidded eyes, Jon grins back. "Yeah."
Jon starts to move, rolling his hips in slow, deep thrusts. He keeps the pace unhurried and steady and groans low in his throat when Ryan's cock drags over his prostate, totally open in his pleasure. But while it's obviously good for Jon, the lazy rhythm is torture for Ryan, held down by Jon's weight, Jon's thighs caging his hips, and the soreness in his own legs. He has no leverage, no real strength to move, nothing to do but lie there and let Jon ride him.
"Jon," Ryan moans as Jon slowly lifts his hips, pulling off until only the head of Ryan's cock is still inside him. He digs his fingers into Jon's hips, trying to pull him down again, a wordless demand that Jon pick up the pace.
But Jon doesn't give in, just gives a breathless little whimper at the bite of Ryan's fingers on his skin as he keeps his own rhythm, sliding down tortuously slow. "No," he says as he settles his hips against Ryan's, and he reaches for Ryan's hands, pulling them away from his hips with fingers curled insistently around Ryan's wrists. He leans down a little, presses Ryan's arms into the bed at his side and uses his weight to hold Ryan down even more, as he slowly fucks himself down on Ryan's cock again. "I said I'd do all the work, didn't I?"
"You're just punishing me for being too sore to hold you up in the shower," Ryan accuses, biting his lip as Jon grinds down in his lap.
"Am not," Jon says, lifting up and sinking down again, still going so slow, too slow, grinning wickedly when Ryan flexes his forearms and groans in frustration. "Okay, maybe a little."
Ryan narrows his eyes, fairly certain that he doesn't deserve this kind of treatment. "Tease."
"Pushy," Jon counters, somehow making it sound like an endearment even as he throws Ryan's own word back at him. He rubs his thumbs over the pulse points in Ryan's wrists, still wearing that dirty little smile, and then lets go, so he can fold forward a little more and press his lips against Ryan's jaw, the corner of his mouth.
"Tease," Ryan insists, the word muffled against Jon's lips. He slides his hands up Jon's thighs, stopping far short of the red marks his fingers left on Jon's hips before, trying to make the point with gentleness in hopes that Jon will just move.
Humming thoughtfully, Jon sucks delicately on Ryan's lower lip for just a moment before he sits up. He takes hold of Ryan's right wrist again and moves his hand the last few inches to his dick. "Well, if you really want to make yourself useful, I guess you could touch me."
"Oh, fuck you," Ryan says, but he obediently wraps his fingers around Jon's cock, circling the pad of his thumb over the tip until Jon hisses with pleasure.
"Yeah," Jon breathes out, and Ryan groans as Jon lifts up and rocks back down, the muscles of his thighs moving under his skin, flexing so hard that Ryan's own legs ache even more in sympathy. But it's easy to ignore that when Jon's picking up the pace, working himself on Ryan's cock, head tipping back as he moans when he finds just the right angle. Jon's hand is still wrapped around his wrist, urging Ryan to speed up his strokes; he moans when Ryan twists his fingers over the head of Jon's cock, and his hips spasm forward into Ryan's hand.
"You're gonna come," Ryan says, his voice low, and Jon chokes out a breath as he nods, slamming down one last time and grinding down hard. His muscles clutch at Ryan's dick as Jon comes gasping, spilling thick and white over Ryan's fingers. It's so hot, so incredibly fucking hot to see and hear and feel that Ryan shudders with his own arousal. Jon basically just held Ryan down and used him to get himself off, and Ryan doesn't even care so long as he gets to come.
"Fuck," Jon says, panting, loosing his grip on Ryan's wrist, blinking sluggishly as he comes down, and yes, Ryan agrees entirely.
Ryan moves his hand to Jon's hip again, hopeful, and then whimpers, bereft, when Jon lifts up again and pulls off entirely. "Jon, come on," he says, his whine turning into a groan as Jon pushes his thighs apart. "I can't—"
"Shh," Jon soothes, kneeling between Ryan's legs. He wraps his hand around Ryan's cock and pulls off the condom in one slick stroke, and practically the next thing Ryan's brain registers is the tight heat of Jon's throat opening around him, Jon's hands warm and sure on his hips.
"Oh, God," Ryan whimpers, his hands flailing out to touch Jon's shoulders and then sliding into Jon's hair, still wet from the shower, when Jon pulls off just long enough to make a little affirmative sound.
Jon doesn't fuck around, taking Ryan in all the way on every stroke, letting Ryan control the pace with fingers tangled in his hair. He lets the head of Ryan's cock ride against the roof of his mouth a little while his tongue works the underside, even though it makes him gag a little before he can get coordinated enough to swallow again, just because he knows Ryan likes it, just because he knows it will make Ryan tremble under his hands.
"Jon, fuck, I'm," Ryan pants when he gets close, but he knows he doesn't have to; he knows that Jon knows, can feel it and hear it in the rasp of Ryan's breathing and the jerking of his hips. He's so close that he doesn't even notice Jon's hands sliding down to his thighs, fingers pressing hard into the ache in Ryan's quads, and Ryan doesn't even know if the bright flare of sensation is pleasure or pain; he just cries out and comes, emptying himself down Jon's throat, and Jon doesn't stop touching him, just keeps sucking gently and kneading at the muscles of Ryan's thighs as Ryan shakes through it.
Just before it gets to be too much, Jon gives the head of Ryan's cock one last slow, affectionate lick and pulls back. He shifts so he can rest his forehead against Ryan's hip and takes a deep, slow breath.
Ryan's fingers are still threaded in his hair, and he smooths out the tangles a little, frowning when he realizes that his hand is still sticky with come. "You have come in your hair," he says absently. He doesn't bother mentioning that it's Jon's, because that's kind of obvious, or that it's Ryan's fault that it got there, because that's obvious as well.
Jon shakes with quiet laughter and rasps his beard over the smooth skin of Ryan's belly. "Yeah, well, your dick tastes like latex," he says, his voice sounding rough and used. He pushes himself up onto hands and knees and crawls up the bed, dips his head to touch his lips to Ryan's.
"Sorry," Ryan says, because he feels like it's what he should say. He wipes the rest of Jon's come on his hand off onto the sheet and turns his head to yawn, squinting at the numbers on his bedside clock without really reading them. "Shower?"
"In a minute," Jon says. He kisses Ryan again and then rolls out of bed, pads naked into the bathroom and crouches down and starts making noise. It sounds like he's digging through the box of random crap that used to be in Ryan's medicine cabinet in his condo in Vegas, and has since moved to the under-sink cabinet of his new house. From his vantage point on the bed, Ryan can just see the smooth line of Jon's lower back, the curve of his ass; he enjoys the view through lazy, half-lidded eyes until Jon makes a triumphant sound and emerges again with a bright green bottle of aloe.
"I don't know if that's still good," Ryan says. He's pretty sure that he hadn't touched most of the stuff in that box between putting it up in Vegas when he first moved in and dumping it off the shelves into the box to take it to Los Angeles. Some if it is probably even toxic by now.
"How can you tell?" Jon asks. He pops the cap of the bottle and sniffs at it cautiously.
Ryan shrugs, shoulders sliding on the sheets, and Jon mirrors the gesture before kneeling up on the bed again. He squeezes some of the gel out into his hand and then swipes his fingers through it.
"Hold still," he says, and Ryan lets his eyes slide shut as Jon paints the aloe over his sunburned face, sighing at the blessed cool of it.
"Don't have to do this," he says, even as he turns his head slightly so Jon can get at the hollow of his cheek, the curve of his jaw.
Jon snorts. "I am not going to listen to you bitch all day tomorrow about how much your face hurts and how awful you're going to look when you're out with Pete."
"I would say no such thing," Ryan protests.
"Sure you wouldn't," Jon replies easily, and Ryan hears him close the bottle and set it on the nightstand. "Now go take some aspirin."
Cracking open an eye, Ryan says, "Still sore."
"Aspirin would probably help with that, too."
Ryan tries again. "Get some for me?"
"I would love to help you, Ross," Jon says very sincerely, getting up out of bed again, "but I have to go shower now, because some asshole got come in my hair."
"I said I was sorry!"
"Go take some aspirin!" Jon fires back from the bathroom, and then the sound of the shower effectively kills any further discussion.
Ryan sighs and closes his eyes again. He'll get up in a minute.
He wakes up to Jon curled around him with his hair messy from drying on the pillow, dozing peacefully as the sunset lights Ryan's room in red and gold. There are two aspirin and a bottle of water sitting out on the nightstand.
Ryan snuggles a little closer to Jon and smiles as he slides back into sleep.
***
lyo: ryan rossy and his jon walker went hiking! ryan only fell 10 times!! \o/And then there was much discussion of the possibility of outdoor sex and getting grass in their hair and generally being ridiculous together while out actually enjoying nature. I, being the hopeless optimist that I am, said that I hoped we got lots and lots of porn out of this.
lyo, however, said:lyo: my reaction was more "the thing that makes me more >:( is that people are going to read that and write two dozen fics about why brendon and spencer didn't come and no jon/ryan have makeouts with grass in their hair"In b4 "lol come."
Anyway, this isn't that fic, and it also took me about two months longer than it really should have, but I think it'll do.
Title: shine on, shine on, shine on
Pairing: Jon/Ryan
Rating: NC17
Summary: In which our heroes go to the beach.
Warnings: Utterly self-indulgent OTP porn (she says, like that's something you have to warn for)
Notes: For
lyo. I clicked my heels and wished for you, sweetheart. ♥ Thanks to boweryd and anoneknewmoose for the encouragement and to fiddleyoumust for the beta. And all interested parties might want to listen to this song, from whence the title comes: Radiation Vibe // Fountains of Wayne. 5300 words."Come on," Jon murmurs, brushing his lips against the back of Ryan's neck. His arm rests solid and warm around Ryan's waist. "Time to get up."
It would be so nice, except for the way Jon's toes are poking at the backs of Ryan's calves, and also the insistence on the whole "getting up" thing. Ryan stubbornly keeps his eyes shut and doesn't move a muscle, even when Jon starts stroking his ribs in that way that's just shy of tickling and it gets really difficult for him to stay still.
Ryan doesn't have to get up yet. Ryan is strong; Ryan's desire to sleep is far greater than any petty annoyance or persuasion Jon might manage to bring against it. Ryan is immovable, like a large immovable thing.
Ryan can totally pass off the way his arm just spasmed to elbow Jon in the stomach as a reflex.
Jon laughs softly, his voice low and still a little rough from sleep. "I know you're awake."
He tickles Ryan's side again, and Ryan can't help making a small sound and twitching away from it. For fuck's sake, he just wants to sleep. "You can't prove that," he grumbles, shifting.
"Of course I can't," Jon says, and kisses the back of Ryan's neck again. Mercifully, he stops jabbing his toes into Ryan's legs, pressing his thighs against Ryan's instead, sliding one foot between Ryan's ankles like he's trying to get as close as possible, and Ryan isn't so grumpy that he doesn't automatically relax into it, into being tangled up together. He would still rather be sleeping, really, but this is a pretty nice way to wake up.
They lie like that, comfortable and quiet, for a few minutes, and then Jon says, "We're still going to the beach today, right?"
He sounds so hopeful that Ryan can't help but smile, which he covers by rubbing his cheek against the pillow and making a disapproving noise. "That is not the way to get me up."
Jon sighs in mock exasperation. "I made coffee," he offers.
Ryan slowly stretches out his arms, trying to get his blood moving. "Now that," he yawns, "is more like it."
"Ow," Ryan says, every step in the dry, shifting sand a painful reminder of how sore he is after their hiking adventure yesterday. "Ow, ow, ow, ow—"
"You are such a wuss," Jon says, and then scampers ahead a few steps, whirls around, and snaps a picture of Ryan scowling at him.
"I hurt," Ryan states. "We descended a canyon yesterday, in case you forgot." And then ascended it. Slowly. Fuck, his legs are killing him.
"And again I say: wuss." Jon turns, looking out over the water with a serene look on his face, and then smiles brightly. He kicks off his flip-flops and then bends down to pick them up, dangling them from two fingers as he offers them to Ryan.
Ryan looks down at the shoes and then back up at Jon's smiling face. He wishes he weren't wearing his sunglasses; he's spent a lot of time perfecting his supremely unimpressed expression, and it loses a lot when there's polarized polycarbonate in the way.
Jon rolls his eyes. "I packed you a blanket, Ryan. You can, I don't know, sit down somewhere. Rest your poor out-of-shape legs," he says.
Automatically, Ryan pats the bag that Jon told him to grab from the car, feeling the squashy give of the blanket inside. There are several hard book-shapes in there, too, which accounts for why the thing is so damned heavy.
He spends another long moment trying to stare down Jon's good humor and then sighs and takes Jon's shoes; Jon's smile widens. "Thanks for this," he says.
Ryan shrugs. "I said we'd go to the beach today, didn't I?"
"Yeah, you did," Jon says, and then he lifts up on his toes and quickly kisses the corner of Ryan's mouth. "I'm going to take some pictures."
"Go on, then," Ryan says. There's a nice empty stretch of sand a couple hundred feet away that looks like prime beach-blanket real estate, and Ryan trudges determinedly toward it as Jon heads for the shoreline, his hands already curled around his camera again.
He takes a long time getting the blanket laid out just right and then flops down on it, pulls off his shoes and rolls onto his back. The sand is warm underneath him, and the sun feels good on his face; as long as he doesn't move, he can forget about the ache in the long muscles of his legs. He spreads his arms out, lazily reaching for the book he set out at one corner of the blanket, but when he opens it, letting the bookmark flutter onto his chest, he discovers that he has no desire to read. He puts the book aside again and laces his fingers behind his head, staring up at the blue, blue sky through slitted eyes.
It's a weekday in February and it's barely 65 out—Jon might be running around in a t-shirt, but Ryan is shivering in his long sleeves whenever the breeze picks up—so the beach is peaceful, quiet but for the crash of the surf and the cries of the seagulls wheeling overhead. It's incredibly relaxing, and Ryan's last thought before he dozes off is that he's glad he let Jon talk him into getting up this morning.
Ryan wakes up sputtering when Jon pulls the blanket out from under him, rolling him unceremoniously into the sand. He cries out and grabs for where he left his book, horrified at the thought of sand getting in the binding, but Jon's too quick for him, tossing the blanket to the side and dropping to his knees on the ground. They tumble around together for a minute, but Jon is clearly after nothing less than Ryan's total submission, and he gets it by throwing his leg over Ryan's hips and pinning Ryan's hands to the ground by his shoulders, callused palms covering Ryan's tattoos and pushing Ryan's wrists into the sand.
"Hi," he says, a little bit breathless, grinning so wide that his eyes are crinkling at the corners.
"My book," Ryan says plaintively, and Jon laughs and sits back a little, letting go of Ryan's wrists.
"I put it away already. You were kind of dead to the world."
Ryan blinks behind his sunglasses. "Huh," he says, and rests his hands on Jon's thighs. Jon has his jeans rolled up to his knees, and his legs are wet with seawater and filthy with sand; Ryan imagines that he can feel the grime soaking into his pants wherever Jon's skin is touching him, and he can feel the heat of the sun-drenched sand in the small of his back where his shirt rode up a little. But he opens for it easily when Jon folds forward and slants their mouths together, warm and unhurried. Ryan wonders how long Jon watched him sleep, if he listened to the rhythm of the waves and thought about kissing Ryan in the sand and the sun, and he isn't surprised when he starts to get hard. He's even less surprised when Jon makes a soft noise against his mouth and rolls his hips, encouraging.
But there's sand down the back of Ryan's pants, now, too, and he can feel the uncomfortable tightness in his face that signals a sunburn in the making. He needs to get out of the sun, and out of his clothes, and fuck, now he's thinking about getting naked, and that is not helping matters at all.
He moves his hands from Jon's hips to his shoulders, plucking at the fabric of Jon's t-shirt until Jon pulls back a little, eyes unfocused and gaze flicking down to Ryan's mouth as he sits up.
"I forgot sunscreen," Ryan says.
"I see that," Jon says. He reaches out and runs his fingertips over Ryan's cheekbone. "We could put some on you now."
Ryan's breath catches; his skin is thin and hot from the sun, oversensitive, and the light, teasing touch is almost too much. "Or," he says, struggling to concentrate. "Or we could go home."
"Are you hurting?" Jon frowns, shifts so he's not resting so much of his weight on Ryan's thighs, which—yeah, that helps the sore muscles in Ryan's legs, but doesn't do much to help the situation with his dick.
"Well—uh. I'm okay, I just." He looks up at Jon from under his lashes, trusting that Jon is close enough to see the look in his eyes even through the sunglasses, and walks his fingers down to splay warm over Jon's thigh, thumb brushing the inseam of Jon's jeans in obvious invitation. "We should go somewhere with less sand."
And Jon grins at that, wicked and wide. "I like the way you think, Ross."
Jon insists on driving them back, and Ryan doesn't even care about the implicit insult to his driving; he wants to be home as quickly as possible, too. He taps his fingers against his armrest impatiently as Jon drives, his book sitting pristine and forgotten in his lap, and thinks about kissing the spot just behind Jon's ear. Jon didn't forget his sunscreen, and something about the way his hair curls dark over the winter-pale of his skin makes Ryan want to put his mouth there, to feel wind and salt and warmth on his tongue.
"What?" Jon asks, amused, after the third time he catches Ryan looking.
Ryan flushes under his sunburn. "Drive faster," he commands.
Jon laughs and leans on the gas.
"God," Ryan moans as Jon reaches up to curl his hand around the back of Ryan's neck and drag him down for a kiss, flailing to shut Ryan's front door behind them.
Jon stumbles backward in the general direction of Ryan's bedroom, pulling Ryan along, almost totally unwilling to stop kissing him long enough to navigate the maze of furniture on the way there. But Ryan digs in his heels and drags them to a stop when they get to the guest bathroom, soothing away the impatient noise Jon makes with the touch of his tongue against Jon's lower lip.
"C'mon," Jon urges against his mouth, one hand gentle against the small of Ryan's back, urging him toward the bedroom.
Ryan shakes his head. "You're filthy," he says.
He doesn't mean for it to sound like an endearment or a tease—seriously, Jon is tracking sand all over Ryan's house—but that's how it comes out, and Jon's eyes darken a little. He looks up at Ryan and licks his lips, and then obediently ducks into the bathroom, pulling his shirt over his head and bending to turn on the water. Ryan spends an endless moment standing in the open doorway, staring at the movement of the muscles of Jon's shoulders, and then shakes it off, hip-checking the door shut and skimming out of his clothes.
Jon hums contentedly when Ryan steps into the shower behind him, pressing against his back and wrapping his arms around Jon's waist from behind. "You smell like sunscreen," Ryan murmurs.
"Yeah," Jon agrees, leaning back into Ryan, tilting his head to the side.
"I don't like it." He dips his head to kiss Jon's shoulder, the side of his neck, nosing aside Jon's hair to get at that tempting little bit of skin he was staring at earlier.
"You don't say," Jon deadpans, turning his head and reaching up to stroke a fingertip down the pink slope of Ryan's nose.
Ryan can't help smiling, even though it pulls at the sunburned skin of his face. He pushes Jon under the showerhead in retribution and then watches greedily as Jon tilts his face up into the spray, letting the water run through his hair and down his back. Sand creeps toward the drain in a pale slurry, sliding off Jon's skin under the water. Ryan really doesn't really remember why he thought it would be a good idea to stop touching him.
He puts his hand on Jon's hip, gently turning him around, and steps in close so they're touching in as many places as possible. He leans down for another kiss, and Jon's arms come around him, hands spread in the small of Ryan's back. The skin there feels gritty, reminding Ryan that he should probably rinse off, too.
"Here, let me—" Ryan turns them both around again so he takes Jon's place under the water, and Jon smiles into the kiss as he helpfully slicks water down Ryan's back, washing the sand away. "Stupid sand," Ryan mutters.
"Going to the beach was your idea," Jon points out.
"Yeah, like, last week," Ryan counters. He only really suggested it in the first place to get Jon onto a plane, anyway; Ryan can take or leave the beach, but he knows Jon loves it. "I didn't even want to get out of bed today."
"Poor baby." Jon kisses Ryan's neck, tongue following a trickle of water running down from Ryan's hair. "I'm glad you did, though," he says.
"Are you really?" Ryan reaches down and wraps his hand around Jon's cock, presses an open-mouthed kiss against Jon's temple.
Jon moans softly as he hardens in Ryan's hand, rocking his hips forward into the surety of Ryan's grip. "Yeah," he breathes, turning his head so their mouths collide again. He slides his hand between them, too, slicking his palm over the head of Ryan's dick before taking him in hand.
Ryan muffles his groan by sealing their mouths together again, pressing his body against Jon's, even though it's so warm in the tiny bathroom that Ryan can feel himself sweating at the temples on top of the wet from the shower, and for a long moment everything is just hot and wet and skin, Ryan's leg sliding between Jon's, Jon's free hand clutching at Ryan's hip to pull him even closer. It's good, it's really fucking good, Jon's hand sure and practiced on his cock, the steamy air heavy and soothing on his throat as he pants roughly into Jon's mouth.
Then Jon pulls back with a whimper, fighting to stop the stuttering of his hips as his cock pulses in Ryan's hand. "No," he says. "Want you to fuck me."
"Jesus," Ryan moans, hand squeezing unconsciously around Jon's cock, and Jon's answering moan has an almost-desperate edge to it. He lets go of Ryan's dick and grabs for his wrist instead, pulling Ryan's hand away in a clear attempt to keep himself from coming, and there is no reason at all that should be so hot.
Ryan steps forward, crowding Jon against the tile wall, pushing his cock against Jon's belly as he curls a hand around the back of Jon's thigh, pressing his fingers into Jon's crease, kissing a bruise into the side of Jon's neck when Jon moans again and shifts his weight, wrapping his leg around the back of Ryan's thighs. "Here," Jon says, "want it like this."
And fuck, yes, that's a good plan, that's the best plan, except for the way Ryan's legs shake when he hooks his arm under Jon's leg to hold him open, Ryan's sore muscles protesting at having to support some of Jon's weight as well as his own. "Fuck," he groans, banging his forehead against the cool tile over Jon's shoulder, feeling the tremors in his thighs, his abs. Resting for most of the day helped a lot, but his body is still punishing him for overdoing it yesterday. If they try to do this here, like this, they'll probably both end up with broken necks. He sighs and gently sets Jon's leg down, kissing away Jon's bemused look. "Too sore, I can't hold you."
Jon looks disappointed for a fraction of a second, but then he brightens. "Bed?" he asks.
"Sore," Ryan says again, sounding pathetic even to his own ears, but even the thought of fucking Jon in bed makes his thighs scream in preemptive protest. "Want to, but—"
"I know." Jon edges around him to shut off the water, and then pushes Ryan out of the shower. "I can do all the work."
Ryan pauses in halfheartedly drying himself off, looking at the dirty, determined smile on Jon's face. "Jon."
Jon doesn't say anything else, just finishes scrubbing his towel through his hair and then prods Ryan out of the bathroom and all the way down the hall, not stopping until Ryan topples into bed, naked and still more wet than dry. The air in his room is cool enough to raise goosebumps on his arms, but he barely feels it; his skin feels hot everywhere, and he can't even tell the difference anymore between the heat from the sunburn and the heat from the shower and the heat from the arousal that has his cock throbbing against his belly.
He watches Jon hunt for supplies, and breathes in sharply when Jon climbs onto the bed and straddles Ryan's hips, just like he did at the beach. It feels a lot better without the clothes. And the sand.
Jon grins like he's reading Ryan's mind. "No sand here," he says, his voice sex-rough and low, and falls forward onto Ryan's chest, cradling Ryan's face with one hand as they kiss, fumbling open the lube with the other and trying to reach back and get himself ready one-handed.
Ryan stops him, tangling his dry fingers with Jon's slick ones, grabbing for the bottle with the other hand. "I'm not too sore for that," he says, affronted.
"Are you sure?" Jon asks, teasing, but his laugh cuts off with a breathy gasp when Ryan slides a finger inside him. He stays still for a moment, letting Ryan fuck him shallowly with one finger, and then rocks his hips back impatiently. "More."
"Pushy," Ryan says, sliding his finger free and coming back with two, breath coming faster at the tight clench of Jon's body around his fingers.
Jon moans and drops his head, pressing a sloppy open-mouthed kiss against Ryan's throat. "Want you."
"Christ, Jon." Ryan tangles his free hand in Jon's wet hair and tugs his head back up so their mouths meet again, pushing his tongue into Jon's mouth at the same pace he's setting with his fingers, smiling into the kiss when Jon moans again. His dick drags against Ryan's stomach, trailing precome over Ryan's skin as Ryan strokes him inside, nudging purposefully against Jon's prostate as he works him open.
When Ryan teases the tip of a third finger against Jon's rim, Jon breaks the kiss and sits up a little, pushing at Ryan's arm until Ryan pulls his fingers out. "Enough," he says, his voice low and rough as he tears open a condom, cursing when it slips out of fingers still wet with lube.
"Are you sure?" Ryan asks, hips arching up off the bed as Jon rolls the condom on him and gets him wet, his hands clumsy with haste.
Jon kneels up atop Ryan's hips, the muscles in his thighs flexing hard as he curls his fingers around Ryan's cock and holds him steady, and looks down at Ryan with his eyes half-lidded with anticipation. "Not waiting," he says, and starts to lower himself onto Ryan's dick, slowly at first until the head breaches him and then faster—too fast, fuck.
"Fucking—oh my God, slow down," Ryan cries. Jon is almost painfully tight around him, and Ryan can't pull back or slow down to give Jon some time to adjust, pinned to the mattress by Jon's weight.
Jon cries out, but he doesn't stop until he's seated fully in Ryan's lap, Ryan buried to the hilt inside him. His head lolls, eyes closed and mouth hanging open; his erection flags a little as he tries to breathe through the stretch. Ryan keeps his hips very still and gently pets at Jon's thighs, like that will soothe away the ache of it.
"Hey," he says softly, one hand stroking up the inside of Jon's thigh and wrapping loosely around Jon's dick.
Jon's eyes open slowly, his gaze hot and unfocused. "Told you," he says thickly, and gives a tiny roll of his hips, still whimpering as Ryan's dick shifts inside him. His cock twitches in Ryan's loose grip, pulsing as it fills again, and Jon shudders when Ryan rubs his thumb encouragingly over the ridge behind the head.
Ryan groans softly. "So tight."
Splaying his hands over Ryan's ribs, Jon smiles and ducks his head. His cock is fully hard again, heavy and flushed in Ryan's hand, and the clench of his body around Ryan's cock eases a little more; he sighs in satisfaction as he circles his hips. "So full," he says, and Ryan can't keep the smirk from his face; Jon rolls his eyes and digs his fingers into Ryan's side in retribution.
Ryan lets out a startled laugh, jerking a little, and Jon moans in answer.
"Fuck, that's—" Jon says, head tipping back as he rocks in Ryan's lap.
"Yeah?" Ryan says, still smiling. He moves his hands to cradle Jon's hips, pressing his thumbs gently against Jon's hipbones.
Looking down at Ryan with heavy-lidded eyes, Jon grins back. "Yeah."
Jon starts to move, rolling his hips in slow, deep thrusts. He keeps the pace unhurried and steady and groans low in his throat when Ryan's cock drags over his prostate, totally open in his pleasure. But while it's obviously good for Jon, the lazy rhythm is torture for Ryan, held down by Jon's weight, Jon's thighs caging his hips, and the soreness in his own legs. He has no leverage, no real strength to move, nothing to do but lie there and let Jon ride him.
"Jon," Ryan moans as Jon slowly lifts his hips, pulling off until only the head of Ryan's cock is still inside him. He digs his fingers into Jon's hips, trying to pull him down again, a wordless demand that Jon pick up the pace.
But Jon doesn't give in, just gives a breathless little whimper at the bite of Ryan's fingers on his skin as he keeps his own rhythm, sliding down tortuously slow. "No," he says as he settles his hips against Ryan's, and he reaches for Ryan's hands, pulling them away from his hips with fingers curled insistently around Ryan's wrists. He leans down a little, presses Ryan's arms into the bed at his side and uses his weight to hold Ryan down even more, as he slowly fucks himself down on Ryan's cock again. "I said I'd do all the work, didn't I?"
"You're just punishing me for being too sore to hold you up in the shower," Ryan accuses, biting his lip as Jon grinds down in his lap.
"Am not," Jon says, lifting up and sinking down again, still going so slow, too slow, grinning wickedly when Ryan flexes his forearms and groans in frustration. "Okay, maybe a little."
Ryan narrows his eyes, fairly certain that he doesn't deserve this kind of treatment. "Tease."
"Pushy," Jon counters, somehow making it sound like an endearment even as he throws Ryan's own word back at him. He rubs his thumbs over the pulse points in Ryan's wrists, still wearing that dirty little smile, and then lets go, so he can fold forward a little more and press his lips against Ryan's jaw, the corner of his mouth.
"Tease," Ryan insists, the word muffled against Jon's lips. He slides his hands up Jon's thighs, stopping far short of the red marks his fingers left on Jon's hips before, trying to make the point with gentleness in hopes that Jon will just move.
Humming thoughtfully, Jon sucks delicately on Ryan's lower lip for just a moment before he sits up. He takes hold of Ryan's right wrist again and moves his hand the last few inches to his dick. "Well, if you really want to make yourself useful, I guess you could touch me."
"Oh, fuck you," Ryan says, but he obediently wraps his fingers around Jon's cock, circling the pad of his thumb over the tip until Jon hisses with pleasure.
"Yeah," Jon breathes out, and Ryan groans as Jon lifts up and rocks back down, the muscles of his thighs moving under his skin, flexing so hard that Ryan's own legs ache even more in sympathy. But it's easy to ignore that when Jon's picking up the pace, working himself on Ryan's cock, head tipping back as he moans when he finds just the right angle. Jon's hand is still wrapped around his wrist, urging Ryan to speed up his strokes; he moans when Ryan twists his fingers over the head of Jon's cock, and his hips spasm forward into Ryan's hand.
"You're gonna come," Ryan says, his voice low, and Jon chokes out a breath as he nods, slamming down one last time and grinding down hard. His muscles clutch at Ryan's dick as Jon comes gasping, spilling thick and white over Ryan's fingers. It's so hot, so incredibly fucking hot to see and hear and feel that Ryan shudders with his own arousal. Jon basically just held Ryan down and used him to get himself off, and Ryan doesn't even care so long as he gets to come.
"Fuck," Jon says, panting, loosing his grip on Ryan's wrist, blinking sluggishly as he comes down, and yes, Ryan agrees entirely.
Ryan moves his hand to Jon's hip again, hopeful, and then whimpers, bereft, when Jon lifts up again and pulls off entirely. "Jon, come on," he says, his whine turning into a groan as Jon pushes his thighs apart. "I can't—"
"Shh," Jon soothes, kneeling between Ryan's legs. He wraps his hand around Ryan's cock and pulls off the condom in one slick stroke, and practically the next thing Ryan's brain registers is the tight heat of Jon's throat opening around him, Jon's hands warm and sure on his hips.
"Oh, God," Ryan whimpers, his hands flailing out to touch Jon's shoulders and then sliding into Jon's hair, still wet from the shower, when Jon pulls off just long enough to make a little affirmative sound.
Jon doesn't fuck around, taking Ryan in all the way on every stroke, letting Ryan control the pace with fingers tangled in his hair. He lets the head of Ryan's cock ride against the roof of his mouth a little while his tongue works the underside, even though it makes him gag a little before he can get coordinated enough to swallow again, just because he knows Ryan likes it, just because he knows it will make Ryan tremble under his hands.
"Jon, fuck, I'm," Ryan pants when he gets close, but he knows he doesn't have to; he knows that Jon knows, can feel it and hear it in the rasp of Ryan's breathing and the jerking of his hips. He's so close that he doesn't even notice Jon's hands sliding down to his thighs, fingers pressing hard into the ache in Ryan's quads, and Ryan doesn't even know if the bright flare of sensation is pleasure or pain; he just cries out and comes, emptying himself down Jon's throat, and Jon doesn't stop touching him, just keeps sucking gently and kneading at the muscles of Ryan's thighs as Ryan shakes through it.
Just before it gets to be too much, Jon gives the head of Ryan's cock one last slow, affectionate lick and pulls back. He shifts so he can rest his forehead against Ryan's hip and takes a deep, slow breath.
Ryan's fingers are still threaded in his hair, and he smooths out the tangles a little, frowning when he realizes that his hand is still sticky with come. "You have come in your hair," he says absently. He doesn't bother mentioning that it's Jon's, because that's kind of obvious, or that it's Ryan's fault that it got there, because that's obvious as well.
Jon shakes with quiet laughter and rasps his beard over the smooth skin of Ryan's belly. "Yeah, well, your dick tastes like latex," he says, his voice sounding rough and used. He pushes himself up onto hands and knees and crawls up the bed, dips his head to touch his lips to Ryan's.
"Sorry," Ryan says, because he feels like it's what he should say. He wipes the rest of Jon's come on his hand off onto the sheet and turns his head to yawn, squinting at the numbers on his bedside clock without really reading them. "Shower?"
"In a minute," Jon says. He kisses Ryan again and then rolls out of bed, pads naked into the bathroom and crouches down and starts making noise. It sounds like he's digging through the box of random crap that used to be in Ryan's medicine cabinet in his condo in Vegas, and has since moved to the under-sink cabinet of his new house. From his vantage point on the bed, Ryan can just see the smooth line of Jon's lower back, the curve of his ass; he enjoys the view through lazy, half-lidded eyes until Jon makes a triumphant sound and emerges again with a bright green bottle of aloe.
"I don't know if that's still good," Ryan says. He's pretty sure that he hadn't touched most of the stuff in that box between putting it up in Vegas when he first moved in and dumping it off the shelves into the box to take it to Los Angeles. Some if it is probably even toxic by now.
"How can you tell?" Jon asks. He pops the cap of the bottle and sniffs at it cautiously.
Ryan shrugs, shoulders sliding on the sheets, and Jon mirrors the gesture before kneeling up on the bed again. He squeezes some of the gel out into his hand and then swipes his fingers through it.
"Hold still," he says, and Ryan lets his eyes slide shut as Jon paints the aloe over his sunburned face, sighing at the blessed cool of it.
"Don't have to do this," he says, even as he turns his head slightly so Jon can get at the hollow of his cheek, the curve of his jaw.
Jon snorts. "I am not going to listen to you bitch all day tomorrow about how much your face hurts and how awful you're going to look when you're out with Pete."
"I would say no such thing," Ryan protests.
"Sure you wouldn't," Jon replies easily, and Ryan hears him close the bottle and set it on the nightstand. "Now go take some aspirin."
Cracking open an eye, Ryan says, "Still sore."
"Aspirin would probably help with that, too."
Ryan tries again. "Get some for me?"
"I would love to help you, Ross," Jon says very sincerely, getting up out of bed again, "but I have to go shower now, because some asshole got come in my hair."
"I said I was sorry!"
"Go take some aspirin!" Jon fires back from the bathroom, and then the sound of the shower effectively kills any further discussion.
Ryan sighs and closes his eyes again. He'll get up in a minute.
He wakes up to Jon curled around him with his hair messy from drying on the pillow, dozing peacefully as the sunset lights Ryan's room in red and gold. There are two aspirin and a bottle of water sitting out on the nightstand.
Ryan snuggles a little closer to Jon and smiles as he slides back into sleep.