Fic : "Addiction" : Swim Slash : NC17 (Phelps/Lochte/Peirsol)
Happy Hump Day!
:: Michael Phelps/Ryan Lochte/Aaron Peirsol, US Men's Swimming, (sorta)nc-17. Unbeta'ed.
09.17.2008
"Addiction"
All the adrenaline has to go somewhere. It's an itch left under the skin, a ghost of burning muscles that aches like withdrawal.
Michael gets shoved against the wall; the force closes his eyes and lets him exhale, lets him really breathe out for the first time since he crawled out of the pool with his eighth medal ten minutes from his fingertips. He clutches at Ryan's hair.
The bump and friction of hips is enough to bruise. When he looks there are two pairs of eyes waiting for him, each the color of still, shallow water. Aaron's close. Dark lashes sweep the pale skin of his cheeks, cover the light bruises they've all cultivated in the last week. Aaron presses his mouth to Ryan's shoulder as Michael watches and he feels the reactionary tremble in the broad, tan body pressed against him. Ryan breathes out and bitten fingernails scrape white lines into Michael's back. It feels like the burn of deck across his shoulderblades.
The bed dips under their weight. It creaks toward a settling point and Ryan laughs; the sound splashes against the walls before Michael cuts it off with his mouth-it tastes sweet, and cool. Ryan's body arches into his, ignoring the protests of the furniture.
Fingers thinner than Michael's, longer than Ryan's, twist between them. They wrap Ryan's hips and pull him back until air conditioned air takes his place. The way Ryan's body moves back and up toward Aaron's kneeling figure reminds Michael of a wave breaking; Aaron waits for it, absorbs the motion with fingers and hips and a curve of his shoulders.
There's a sound like the catch of breath between strokes and one of Ryan's hands floats up blindly as the other stretches to dig fingers into Aaron's short hair. His knees slide and bunch sheets, spreading legs. Michael leans forward and catches fingers; there are no calluses for his tongue to find. Ryan arches again without sound. He rises and drops. Surge and ebb and Aaron follows.
Fingers fall from Michael's mouth; he leaves them spit-shiny and climbs Ryan's body, unsure of whose skin he's touching. Unsure if he cares. It's all smooth, all covering hard lines of trained muscle. Aaron feels cooler to the touch than Ryan but they're both moving now in lazy shifts that make Michael burn for something faster.
His hands skim, fall away. Grab. Impatient with the itch that climbs through his muscles and ties him to habit.
Over Ryan's shoulder, Aaron's mouth finds Michael's. There is a moment of teeth and chin but it's not Aaron and little by little Michael matches the slower pace. Takes the time to feel the ridges across the top of the other man's mouth and the hard, slick rows of teeth. The sting of leftover mouthwash. His hands settle behind Ryan's hips, Aaron's stomach grazing the backs of his knuckles.
Michael's body moves to the pace of Aaron and Ryan together, it isn't something that he can effect, isn't something he wants to lose by trying. He fits into the well of Ryan's hip, their dicks lining up and rubbing with each slow thrust by Aaron. Michael wraps a hand around them both. Ryan's teeth write senseless nothings on his shoulder that are wiped away a moment later by a warm tongue.
Aaron's mouth is wet. Ryan's body is hot. The pace of the pool is forgotten and the burn becomes a smolder. It is low and deep and crawls along Michael's nerves, eclipsing the itch entirely. The new rhythm matches his heartbeat and pushes heat and blood through his veins.
Ryan falls apart without ever needing something faster. Warm, thick splatters against Michael's stomach echo the clenching stutters of Ryan's body; there's no sound but his breath skips across the skin of the shoulder under his mouth.
Michael swallows Aaron's moan and scrapes teeth over suddenly slack lips. Fingers lurch across his sides, slip in the sheen of sweat, dig in as Aaron's head falls back and his hips rock with enough force to move Michael's handful of now-slick skin into a short, sweet friction.
The smolder shouldn't be enough; he's unused to anything less than the burn. But the roar in his ears is sudden and Michael shakes as his muscles clench and his throat closes, keeping him from voicing his surprise.
He has to learn to breathe all over again; now the pulls of air are long and deep and slow.
:: Michael Phelps/Ryan Lochte/Aaron Peirsol, US Men's Swimming, (sorta)nc-17. Unbeta'ed.
09.17.2008
"Addiction"
All the adrenaline has to go somewhere. It's an itch left under the skin, a ghost of burning muscles that aches like withdrawal.
Michael gets shoved against the wall; the force closes his eyes and lets him exhale, lets him really breathe out for the first time since he crawled out of the pool with his eighth medal ten minutes from his fingertips. He clutches at Ryan's hair.
The bump and friction of hips is enough to bruise. When he looks there are two pairs of eyes waiting for him, each the color of still, shallow water. Aaron's close. Dark lashes sweep the pale skin of his cheeks, cover the light bruises they've all cultivated in the last week. Aaron presses his mouth to Ryan's shoulder as Michael watches and he feels the reactionary tremble in the broad, tan body pressed against him. Ryan breathes out and bitten fingernails scrape white lines into Michael's back. It feels like the burn of deck across his shoulderblades.
The bed dips under their weight. It creaks toward a settling point and Ryan laughs; the sound splashes against the walls before Michael cuts it off with his mouth-it tastes sweet, and cool. Ryan's body arches into his, ignoring the protests of the furniture.
Fingers thinner than Michael's, longer than Ryan's, twist between them. They wrap Ryan's hips and pull him back until air conditioned air takes his place. The way Ryan's body moves back and up toward Aaron's kneeling figure reminds Michael of a wave breaking; Aaron waits for it, absorbs the motion with fingers and hips and a curve of his shoulders.
There's a sound like the catch of breath between strokes and one of Ryan's hands floats up blindly as the other stretches to dig fingers into Aaron's short hair. His knees slide and bunch sheets, spreading legs. Michael leans forward and catches fingers; there are no calluses for his tongue to find. Ryan arches again without sound. He rises and drops. Surge and ebb and Aaron follows.
Fingers fall from Michael's mouth; he leaves them spit-shiny and climbs Ryan's body, unsure of whose skin he's touching. Unsure if he cares. It's all smooth, all covering hard lines of trained muscle. Aaron feels cooler to the touch than Ryan but they're both moving now in lazy shifts that make Michael burn for something faster.
His hands skim, fall away. Grab. Impatient with the itch that climbs through his muscles and ties him to habit.
Over Ryan's shoulder, Aaron's mouth finds Michael's. There is a moment of teeth and chin but it's not Aaron and little by little Michael matches the slower pace. Takes the time to feel the ridges across the top of the other man's mouth and the hard, slick rows of teeth. The sting of leftover mouthwash. His hands settle behind Ryan's hips, Aaron's stomach grazing the backs of his knuckles.
Michael's body moves to the pace of Aaron and Ryan together, it isn't something that he can effect, isn't something he wants to lose by trying. He fits into the well of Ryan's hip, their dicks lining up and rubbing with each slow thrust by Aaron. Michael wraps a hand around them both. Ryan's teeth write senseless nothings on his shoulder that are wiped away a moment later by a warm tongue.
Aaron's mouth is wet. Ryan's body is hot. The pace of the pool is forgotten and the burn becomes a smolder. It is low and deep and crawls along Michael's nerves, eclipsing the itch entirely. The new rhythm matches his heartbeat and pushes heat and blood through his veins.
Ryan falls apart without ever needing something faster. Warm, thick splatters against Michael's stomach echo the clenching stutters of Ryan's body; there's no sound but his breath skips across the skin of the shoulder under his mouth.
Michael swallows Aaron's moan and scrapes teeth over suddenly slack lips. Fingers lurch across his sides, slip in the sheen of sweat, dig in as Aaron's head falls back and his hips rock with enough force to move Michael's handful of now-slick skin into a short, sweet friction.
The smolder shouldn't be enough; he's unused to anything less than the burn. But the roar in his ears is sudden and Michael shakes as his muscles clench and his throat closes, keeping him from voicing his surprise.
He has to learn to breathe all over again; now the pulls of air are long and deep and slow.