![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
stephanometraMostly ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
ailleann23's fault. Pot, exhibitionism, snowballing, no redeeming virtues whatsoever. You know the drill.
***
Ryan and Jon are very, very stoned.
Alex comes to this conclusion roughly a minute and a half after Ryan climbs into Jon's lap and they start kissing like it's going out of style.
It isn't really all that unusual for Ryan to be sitting in someone's lap; he has a fucking bony ass, but he weighs about sixteen pounds, so it balances out. And it isn't unusual for Ryan and Jon to be doing their thing, either, because Jon is a stealth cuddler and Ryan is about as subtle as a brick, which results in a lot of clumsy public displays of affection or amorousness. Amoribility. Amorosity. Alex doesn't know the word he wants.
Regardless, what's unusual is that they tend to keep most of this—Jon's hands low on Ryan's hips, Ryan's fingers tangled in Jon's too-long hair—behind closed doors, or at least they do when Alex is around. They don't act like strangers, but they don't generally start dry-humping on the couch, either. Thus they must be extremely stoned, because they're kissing like they don't even realize he's there, and that's not the kind of thing they'd do unless they were totally blitzed.
Anyway.
Ryan makes a demanding little sound, but the way he slants his mouth against Jon's is lazy and smooth, like they're blurring into each other a little at the edges, which Alex is not placing outside the realm of possibility, because Alex is also very, very stoned.
His reasoning for this is very straightforward: he can't feel his feet. If you can't feel your feet, you must be pretty fucking stoned. Or something like that, anyway.
Alex kind of misses his feet.
He feels like maybe he should say something, hey guys I'm right here or oh baby or something hilariously crude. But his brain feels fizzy, staticky; he suspects that it's not on any better terms with his mouth than it is with his feet, which makes talking difficult when he opens his mouth to speak.
Shit, that last bowl was probably a mistake.
He can't stop staring at the way Ryan's thighs are splayed wide over Jon's, the way Jon holds him open wider by spreading his own legs, so Ryan has to fall forward a little, has to put more of his weight into the slow, dirty grind of his hips against Jon's. They're both breathing too loud and too heavy in the still air of the living room—the ceiling fan isn't even on, because you can't keep a light with the fan on—and Alex is riveted by the sight and sound of it.
Ryan sits back a little, and Jon makes a pleased sound when Ryan's hands slide down his chest to toy with the button fly of his jeans, getting them down just far enough to stick his hand inside and, if Jon's gasp is any indication, wrap his hand around Jon's dick.
Alex doesn't even realize he's touching himself through his own jeans until Jon shoves Ryan's pants down, licks his palm obscenely, and wraps his fingers around Ryan's cock. But he is, his hand pressed between his legs, his hips moving in tiny little shifts, his own breath coming faster at the friction. And that's enough, for a while, for a moment or an hour as he watches and listens, but then Jon does something clever with his hand or his mouth, and Ryan cries out. Alex makes a breathy little sound—apparently arousal has taken over for the pot in the preventing-Alex-from-forming-words department—and his hips buck up hard against his hand.
Fuck it, he thinks distinctly, the needy throb of his dick making it difficult to think anything else, and then he tears open his own jeans, sliding his hand inside to curl around his cock. And oh, oh, that's fucking nice, the warm dry pressure of his fingers around himself, the sweet little ache of his ragged thumbnail pressing just behind the head. The high makes it seem like his nerves are capable of somehow feeling more or better or—whatever, it's been way too long since he's done this stoned.
He drops his head back against the back of his chair and lets his eyes flutter shut. His hips are still working, fucking up into his hand, and it feels so amazing that he doesn't even notice that Ryan and Jon have stopped until he hears Jon say his name, his voice rough with amusement and arousal.
Alex opens his eyes to find Ryan staring at him with dark eyes, looking almost astonished with lust, while Jon is just looking at Alex out of the corner of his eye, focused on Ryan.
"He must like watching us," Jon murmurs to Ryan, never slowing his strokes on Ryan's cock, and Ryan moans and full-out shakes on Jon's lap, turning his head again to kiss him hard.
Staring back, Alex thinks it's really unfair that Jon can talk right now.
"Think I'm going to let him watch me suck you off," Jon continues. "Would you like that?" Ryan moans his agreement against Jon's temple as Jon finally turns his head to look at Alex. "Pretty sure he would."
Alex opens his mouth, and then closes it again. It's really, really unfair that Jon can talk right now. He'd even bet that Jon can feel his feet.
Jon eases Ryan off his lap and pushes him back onto the couch, sliding to the floor and taking Ryan's pants with him. He settles on his knees on the floor and pushes Ryan's legs apart again, exposing the pale of his inner thighs, and leans forward to bite at the lean curve of muscle.
Ryan's hips buck up off the couch, his cock trailing slick over the hem of his shirt. "Jon," he moans, but he's looking at Alex when he says it, that same shocked expression on his face contorting into a look of absolute pleasure when Jon leans in and closes his lips around the head of his cock.
And Jesus, Alex can't look away from that, the red stretch of Jon's lips around Ryan's dick. He only goes halfway down, making up the difference with his hand, but halfway is enough to make Jon choke a little when Ryan rocks his hips up into the heat of Jon's mouth, like he can't help it. Alex doesn't think he'd be able to help it, either. The curl of his hand around his dick is still almost overwhelmingly good, but Alex doesn't lose himself to it, not when Ryan is groaning and flexing his thighs against the urge to thrust, not when Alex can hear the slick sounds of Jon's mouth moving on Ryan's cock because it's happening just an arm's reach away.
"Fuck," Alex chokes out, his brain and his mouth finally connecting again. "Fuck, Ryan, you're so—"
Ryan moans again, nodding like he knows what Alex was going to say (which would be creepy, since Alex's brain isn't that functional as of yet). He reaches down to tangle his fingers in Jon's hair, tugging gently to urge him to go faster, rougher, and Jon just takes it, lets himself be led. The sound of Jon's mouth gets louder, sloppier; everything about it is obscene, right down to the way Ryan is looking at Alex again through half-lidded eyes, his cheeks flushed with arousal. And while Alex is still really, really fascinated by Jon's mouth, it's only after Alex meets Ryan's gaze and holds it that Ryan really lets himself go, wrapping his legs around Jon's back and using the extra leverage to thrust up into Jon's mouth, and Ryan gets barely a dozen strokes in before he's coming with a choked-off gasp.
For a long moment none of them moves, the only sound in the room the harsh rasp of their breathing, the rustle of Alex's jeans as he keeps jerking off, steady but slower now, trying to draw it out. Then Jon ducks out from under Ryan's legs and unsteadily stands—yeah, he can definitely feel his feet, the bastard—and sits down on the arm of Alex's chair, turning and tilting up Alex's head with gentle fingers curved around his jaw.
"Say yes," Ryan says, sounding gravelly and fucked-out.
Alex thinks that's a weird thing for Ryan to say. He opens his mouth to tell Ryan so, but then Jon's sealing his lips against Alex's, and fuck, Jon is definitely feeding Alex Ryan's come and Alex is definitely letting him. Holy shit they are so fucking stoned, but that doesn't stop him from greedily sucking the taste from Jon's tongue.
"God, yeah," Alex hears Ryan say, and then Ryan's spindly fingers are pulling Alex's hand away from his cock, and before Alex can even muster up a protesting sound against Jon's lips, Ryan's mouth is on him, going down, down, taking him all the way, and of all the things Alex didn't know about Ryan Ross, the fact that he could deep-throat was one of them.
He moans, caught between sensations, the bitter tang of come and the heat of Jon's mouth, the sweet way that Ryan's throat opens around him. He flails a little, fisting a hand in Jon's t-shirt and curving the other around the back of Ryan's neck.
Ryan pulls off long enough to hum his approval and then goes straight back down, and Alex just moans helplessly as he comes, yanking on Jon's shirt until Jon is falling half into his lap, wedged between Alex's thigh and the edge of the chair, narrowly missing sitting on Ryan's head as he swallows. But Ryan beats a hasty retreat just before Alex's dick becomes uncomfortably oversensitive, and then Jon can lean back a little so Alex can reach his hand into Jon's still-open jeans.
Jon's cock is hard and thick in his hand, his lips still moving on Alex's, more insistent now, tasting more like himself and less like Ryan, and Alex finds that he likes that just as well. He slicks his thumb over the head of Jon's cock and answers Jon's demanding kisses by moving his hand more purposefully, trying to find the rhythm that will make Jon come. And he does—find it, that is, because Jon groans and spills between them.
There's another one of those awkward pauses while everybody catches their breath, Alex reluctantly letting Jon pull back from their kiss.
"Shit," Ryan says to break the silence, with characteristic eloquence. "Jon, you just—"
Alex looks down at the smears of come on his arm and t-shirt. "Oh," he says stupidly.
Jon has the decency to look sheepish. "Sorry," he says.
"It's alright," Alex says, and then he sighs. "I still can't feel my feet."
"I can," Ryan chimes in, although it's unclear whether he means Alex's feet or Ryan's own, at least until he pokes purposefully at Alex's big toe.
Fuck, they are so stoned.
ailleann23's fault. Pot, exhibitionism, snowballing, no redeeming virtues whatsoever. You know the drill.Ryan and Jon are very, very stoned.
Alex comes to this conclusion roughly a minute and a half after Ryan climbs into Jon's lap and they start kissing like it's going out of style.
It isn't really all that unusual for Ryan to be sitting in someone's lap; he has a fucking bony ass, but he weighs about sixteen pounds, so it balances out. And it isn't unusual for Ryan and Jon to be doing their thing, either, because Jon is a stealth cuddler and Ryan is about as subtle as a brick, which results in a lot of clumsy public displays of affection or amorousness. Amoribility. Amorosity. Alex doesn't know the word he wants.
Regardless, what's unusual is that they tend to keep most of this—Jon's hands low on Ryan's hips, Ryan's fingers tangled in Jon's too-long hair—behind closed doors, or at least they do when Alex is around. They don't act like strangers, but they don't generally start dry-humping on the couch, either. Thus they must be extremely stoned, because they're kissing like they don't even realize he's there, and that's not the kind of thing they'd do unless they were totally blitzed.
Anyway.
Ryan makes a demanding little sound, but the way he slants his mouth against Jon's is lazy and smooth, like they're blurring into each other a little at the edges, which Alex is not placing outside the realm of possibility, because Alex is also very, very stoned.
His reasoning for this is very straightforward: he can't feel his feet. If you can't feel your feet, you must be pretty fucking stoned. Or something like that, anyway.
Alex kind of misses his feet.
He feels like maybe he should say something, hey guys I'm right here or oh baby or something hilariously crude. But his brain feels fizzy, staticky; he suspects that it's not on any better terms with his mouth than it is with his feet, which makes talking difficult when he opens his mouth to speak.
Shit, that last bowl was probably a mistake.
He can't stop staring at the way Ryan's thighs are splayed wide over Jon's, the way Jon holds him open wider by spreading his own legs, so Ryan has to fall forward a little, has to put more of his weight into the slow, dirty grind of his hips against Jon's. They're both breathing too loud and too heavy in the still air of the living room—the ceiling fan isn't even on, because you can't keep a light with the fan on—and Alex is riveted by the sight and sound of it.
Ryan sits back a little, and Jon makes a pleased sound when Ryan's hands slide down his chest to toy with the button fly of his jeans, getting them down just far enough to stick his hand inside and, if Jon's gasp is any indication, wrap his hand around Jon's dick.
Alex doesn't even realize he's touching himself through his own jeans until Jon shoves Ryan's pants down, licks his palm obscenely, and wraps his fingers around Ryan's cock. But he is, his hand pressed between his legs, his hips moving in tiny little shifts, his own breath coming faster at the friction. And that's enough, for a while, for a moment or an hour as he watches and listens, but then Jon does something clever with his hand or his mouth, and Ryan cries out. Alex makes a breathy little sound—apparently arousal has taken over for the pot in the preventing-Alex-from-forming-words department—and his hips buck up hard against his hand.
Fuck it, he thinks distinctly, the needy throb of his dick making it difficult to think anything else, and then he tears open his own jeans, sliding his hand inside to curl around his cock. And oh, oh, that's fucking nice, the warm dry pressure of his fingers around himself, the sweet little ache of his ragged thumbnail pressing just behind the head. The high makes it seem like his nerves are capable of somehow feeling more or better or—whatever, it's been way too long since he's done this stoned.
He drops his head back against the back of his chair and lets his eyes flutter shut. His hips are still working, fucking up into his hand, and it feels so amazing that he doesn't even notice that Ryan and Jon have stopped until he hears Jon say his name, his voice rough with amusement and arousal.
Alex opens his eyes to find Ryan staring at him with dark eyes, looking almost astonished with lust, while Jon is just looking at Alex out of the corner of his eye, focused on Ryan.
"He must like watching us," Jon murmurs to Ryan, never slowing his strokes on Ryan's cock, and Ryan moans and full-out shakes on Jon's lap, turning his head again to kiss him hard.
Staring back, Alex thinks it's really unfair that Jon can talk right now.
"Think I'm going to let him watch me suck you off," Jon continues. "Would you like that?" Ryan moans his agreement against Jon's temple as Jon finally turns his head to look at Alex. "Pretty sure he would."
Alex opens his mouth, and then closes it again. It's really, really unfair that Jon can talk right now. He'd even bet that Jon can feel his feet.
Jon eases Ryan off his lap and pushes him back onto the couch, sliding to the floor and taking Ryan's pants with him. He settles on his knees on the floor and pushes Ryan's legs apart again, exposing the pale of his inner thighs, and leans forward to bite at the lean curve of muscle.
Ryan's hips buck up off the couch, his cock trailing slick over the hem of his shirt. "Jon," he moans, but he's looking at Alex when he says it, that same shocked expression on his face contorting into a look of absolute pleasure when Jon leans in and closes his lips around the head of his cock.
And Jesus, Alex can't look away from that, the red stretch of Jon's lips around Ryan's dick. He only goes halfway down, making up the difference with his hand, but halfway is enough to make Jon choke a little when Ryan rocks his hips up into the heat of Jon's mouth, like he can't help it. Alex doesn't think he'd be able to help it, either. The curl of his hand around his dick is still almost overwhelmingly good, but Alex doesn't lose himself to it, not when Ryan is groaning and flexing his thighs against the urge to thrust, not when Alex can hear the slick sounds of Jon's mouth moving on Ryan's cock because it's happening just an arm's reach away.
"Fuck," Alex chokes out, his brain and his mouth finally connecting again. "Fuck, Ryan, you're so—"
Ryan moans again, nodding like he knows what Alex was going to say (which would be creepy, since Alex's brain isn't that functional as of yet). He reaches down to tangle his fingers in Jon's hair, tugging gently to urge him to go faster, rougher, and Jon just takes it, lets himself be led. The sound of Jon's mouth gets louder, sloppier; everything about it is obscene, right down to the way Ryan is looking at Alex again through half-lidded eyes, his cheeks flushed with arousal. And while Alex is still really, really fascinated by Jon's mouth, it's only after Alex meets Ryan's gaze and holds it that Ryan really lets himself go, wrapping his legs around Jon's back and using the extra leverage to thrust up into Jon's mouth, and Ryan gets barely a dozen strokes in before he's coming with a choked-off gasp.
For a long moment none of them moves, the only sound in the room the harsh rasp of their breathing, the rustle of Alex's jeans as he keeps jerking off, steady but slower now, trying to draw it out. Then Jon ducks out from under Ryan's legs and unsteadily stands—yeah, he can definitely feel his feet, the bastard—and sits down on the arm of Alex's chair, turning and tilting up Alex's head with gentle fingers curved around his jaw.
"Say yes," Ryan says, sounding gravelly and fucked-out.
Alex thinks that's a weird thing for Ryan to say. He opens his mouth to tell Ryan so, but then Jon's sealing his lips against Alex's, and fuck, Jon is definitely feeding Alex Ryan's come and Alex is definitely letting him. Holy shit they are so fucking stoned, but that doesn't stop him from greedily sucking the taste from Jon's tongue.
"God, yeah," Alex hears Ryan say, and then Ryan's spindly fingers are pulling Alex's hand away from his cock, and before Alex can even muster up a protesting sound against Jon's lips, Ryan's mouth is on him, going down, down, taking him all the way, and of all the things Alex didn't know about Ryan Ross, the fact that he could deep-throat was one of them.
He moans, caught between sensations, the bitter tang of come and the heat of Jon's mouth, the sweet way that Ryan's throat opens around him. He flails a little, fisting a hand in Jon's t-shirt and curving the other around the back of Ryan's neck.
Ryan pulls off long enough to hum his approval and then goes straight back down, and Alex just moans helplessly as he comes, yanking on Jon's shirt until Jon is falling half into his lap, wedged between Alex's thigh and the edge of the chair, narrowly missing sitting on Ryan's head as he swallows. But Ryan beats a hasty retreat just before Alex's dick becomes uncomfortably oversensitive, and then Jon can lean back a little so Alex can reach his hand into Jon's still-open jeans.
Jon's cock is hard and thick in his hand, his lips still moving on Alex's, more insistent now, tasting more like himself and less like Ryan, and Alex finds that he likes that just as well. He slicks his thumb over the head of Jon's cock and answers Jon's demanding kisses by moving his hand more purposefully, trying to find the rhythm that will make Jon come. And he does—find it, that is, because Jon groans and spills between them.
There's another one of those awkward pauses while everybody catches their breath, Alex reluctantly letting Jon pull back from their kiss.
"Shit," Ryan says to break the silence, with characteristic eloquence. "Jon, you just—"
Alex looks down at the smears of come on his arm and t-shirt. "Oh," he says stupidly.
Jon has the decency to look sheepish. "Sorry," he says.
"It's alright," Alex says, and then he sighs. "I still can't feel my feet."
"I can," Ryan chimes in, although it's unclear whether he means Alex's feet or Ryan's own, at least until he pokes purposefully at Alex's big toe.
Fuck, they are so stoned.
