Control; Ian/Michael
Control
Ian/Michael. Definately NC-17. Shower!sex. Angry!Michael. 1972 words.
Michael gets tired of putting up with Ian's control issues.
My first entry up here is a bit of a prequel, but it really isn't necessary at all to read it before this. Don't let that stop you.
"Oh God, oh God," Michael pants, and he means it almost religiously, because Ian's teasing, graceful fingers playing over his bare skin seem no less tempting as the devil and just as cruel.
"What," Ian asks, but Michael reflects that he doesn't even need to ask, for God's sake, as his fingers delicately brush over Michael's flat, shivering stomach, which ripples with sensation. Ian laughs lowly and Michael lets out a breath of frustration because Ian knows exactly where Michael wants those fingers right now.
Michael is on his back, now, laying on the wet tile floor, shivering as the cool standing water, cold now from his earlier shower, seems to seep into the flesh of his back, infusing him with a chill that only leaves his skin as Ian's fingers brush over it. Ian's straddling his thighs, trailing cruel, cruel hands over his body, and Michael wonders exactly how he got to this position when only minutes before he'd been washing the chlorine from his hair after yet another early-morning swim in the practice pool.
Ian always knows right where to find him, always knows what time he goes for this isolated swims, and Michael really can't decide whether it's a blessing or a curse that the last few days he's ended up in positions similar to the one he's in now. He shudders as Ian's fingers tweak a nipple, remembering the last night when he had Ian pressed up against the shower wall, his fingers surrounded in tight heat as Ian moans softly.
He gets angry with the memory, because goddamn it, Ian had been in control then when Michael so desperately wanted to be, and Michael couldn't even let himself go and fuck Ian without Ian's express permission, which he knew he would not recieve. So he'd contented himself with coming all over his hand, Ian smiling infuriatingly at him like he'd known a secret Michael didn't.
Then Michael is brought back into the present, and he lets out a breathy, stuttering gasp of godgodgod as Ian's fingers brush against his straining cock, and Ian smiles down at him, beautiful lips stretched wide over his perfect white teeth. Michael stares up at him desperately and he knows that he probably looks ridiculous, eyes wide and mouth open and gasping, but he can't find it in himself to care. He can't find it in himself to care, because all of a sudden he's imagining what Ian would look like on his back with Michael looking down at him, what Ian's face would look like if Michael was teasing him this way, how Ian would sound if Michael shoved into him hard and fast, like Ian liked to fuck, and God help him but Michael knows those sounds would be just as beautiful as Ian's goddamn perfect lips.
Lips which were sliding down his abdomen now, and how the hell did Michael miss that part wrapped up in his little fantasy? He has to bite down hard on his lip to keep from shouting when those lips wrap around the tip of his cock, still teasing, because Ian can't stop teasing for five fucking seconds so Michael can come.
He has to muffle his cries in his arm as Ian licks a long, slow line from the base to the tip, and he looks down incredulously when Ian stops. Glittering eyes look up at him.
"What do you want," Ian asks like he's some 1-900 number girl, his voice sultry and low.
"What the hell do you think?" Michael replies, feeling his face flush in anger because he was never good at baiting with words like Ian, preferring to go the more simple route. He would never be able to bandy words around like Ian, who is a master at it and could cut Michael down with just a few well-aimed blows. Ian smiles a little, and it isn't kind.
Ian rests his chin on one of Michael's thighs and looks up at him mock-seriously. "Tell me what you want," he says, and Michael is so tired of the game that Ian's trying to play.
Suddenly Michael is fucking furious, because he's tried to put up with Ian's sick little mind-games before but now he's aching and breathing hard and wanting so badly for just a touch. Ian's sitting there with his smug little smile, the same little smile he gave Pieter yesterday on the deck before they'd walked into the locker room together, and Michael had been left feeling sort of achy inside, wondering if Pieter and Ian would fuck up against the wall in the same spot where Michael and Ian had fucked the day before.
Michael props himself up on his elbows and tries to slow his breathing so he could actually talk. He grabs Ian's shoulders and hauls him up so they were face to face. Ian looks surprised but intrigued, as if he had never really seen Michael as anything but an interesting diversion before, something to be anticipated, and suddenly the diversion is doing something that Ian hadn't anticipated.
"Did you let Pieter fuck you yesterday," Michael says, and it wasn't really what he'd meant to say but it would work all the same. Ian raises an eyebrow.
"Would it upset you if I did?" he asks smoothly, and he's goddamn right because even the thought of Pieter and Ian makes him angry, and the thought that Ian would let someone else do that to him when he'd never given Michael the green light himself is absolutely infuriating.
Ian looks suddenly as if a light had gone on in his head, and he smiles mockingly.
"You want to do that to me, Michael," he says as if the thought had never occured to him, and the use of Michael's name is vaguely patronizing. "You can't stand the thought of Pieter fucking me because you've never done it yourself." The word "fucking" comes out of Ian's mouth in a sibilant hiss, and Ian looks so smug that Michael wants to punch his expression off of his face. Ian's eyes are shining with knowledge of imminent victory, as if he expects Michael to grab his calves and give up. Michael, feeling a mix of desire and fierce, burning anger, has an intense urge to wipe that smile off Ian's face.
He knows Ian's not expecting it, so he grabs Ian's shoulders and flips them over, and now Ian's eyes are wide and his beautiful lips are parted a little in surprise -- but only for a moment, but now there's a little light of anger in Ian's eyes, as if he's shocked that Michael would dare act in this manner.
Michael doesn't say a word, but he smiles in Ian's manner, mocking him, and he can see Ian get a little angrier. Somewhere along the line their relationship had deviated into a power struggle of let's-see-how-far-I-can-push, and up until now it had mostly been one-sided, but Michael vows to remedy that immediately.
He scoops up shampoo from a pile on the floor, probably from a leak in one of the dispensers, and sees Ian's nose wrinkle a little like he's some fucking Roman patriarch and Michael's a plebian, using dirty shampoo from off the floor.
Well, the shampoo was about to go up Ian's ass whether he liked it or not.
Michael coats his fingers and sees Ian's eyes widen, sees Ian ready himself to try and reverse their positions, but before Ian can even move Michael rams two fingers into tight, wet heat, and Ian lets out a choked, shocked cry.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing," Ian hisses, his fingers splayed out on the tile floor to either side of him as if to stabilize himself, but Michael can see his lips part and his eyes glaze when Michael rubs the tips of his fingers against the little gland in Ian's body. Ian whimpers a little when Michael continues to rub single-mindedly, and Michael crows inside at the victory. He hardly notices that his cock is dripping by now in anticipation, but he does notice that he was right, that the noises Ian makes are beautiful.
As if in afterthought he adds another finger, and now Ian's eyes are snapping with anger and indignation, as if he wants to ask how dare Michael touch him in this way without his express say-so. Michael imagines Pieter shoving his cock where Michael has his fingers now and gets angrier, imagines the sorts of noises Pieter had heard from Ian.
And now Ian's lips are almost white from being pressed together, and he's whimpering deep in the back of his throat. His hands are no longer on the floor but are gripping Michael's shoulders so hard that Michael wonders how he'll explain those bruises tomorrow.
"Goddamn you," Ian chokes out, and Michael almost comes because Ian's voice is so unguarded, cracking. Michael pulls out his fingers and Ian makes a noise that Michael could interpret as either relief or impatience, but he can't be bothered because he's too busy lathering shampoo on his cock and grabbing Ian's calves, setting them on his shoulders. Ian's almost sinfully flexible, stretching without a word of protest, his spine bending as if it is made of liquid.
Michael presses his cock to the tight entrance, feels it pulse against him, and hears Ian say, "Don't you dare, Michael, damn it --" but he cuts off Ian's protest with a hard thrust and Ian's words end with a sharp, pained moan. Ian tosses his head to the side and shuts his eyes, biting his lip, as Michael sinks into the hilt in tight heat.
"Jesus, Ian," he pants, feeling sweat drip into his eyes, and trails a hand across Ian's milky smooth, sweat-slick stomach. The skin trembles beneath his fingers. Ian's biting his lower lip so hard it bleeds, and Michael has a perverse urge to take the lower lip between his own teeth and worry it, soothe it, so he does. Ian whimpers into his mouth, and Michael feels as if he's almost degraded Ian somehow.
He starts to move, a little roughly, because he knows he's not hurting Ian -- Ian's hard against Michael's stomach, Ian's moaning with each thrust, Ian's hands are roaming Michael's back as if looking for something to hold on to. Michael wants to bite Ian's neck so badly, because he feels heat pooling in his stomach and he almost can't contain his cries, but he's afraid of what questions will be asked. Then he remembers the type of suit Ian wears and decides the hell with it, and sinks his teeth into the meaty part of Ian's shoulder, where it connects with Ian's neck, and Ian breathes out with a noise that almost sounds pained.
Ian's writhing beneath him and panting, clenching around Michael, and finally Ian cries, "Goddamn you, damn you, oh God," and whimpers and comes, wetly, between their bodies. He clamps down on Michael so hard that Michael lets out a surprised cry and comes so hard that he almost can't breathe.
Ian scoots out from underneath him as if Michael's touch burns. He looks a little startled, spooked, as if he cannot believe that he had just given over control like he did. Michael stares at him and glances pointedly down at the cooling liquid on Ian's stomach. Ian bares his teeth at the look. Michael finds himself suddenly thankful that Ian wears a full-body suit to swim, because the finger-shaped bruises on Ian's hips would be hard to ignore otherwise.
Ian gets up, a little shakily, and Michael wonders if it was the first time Ian had ever gotten fucked, but he dismisses that instantly because somehow he knew otherwise, just from Ian's manner, the way he moved, the way he had writhed on Michael's fingers during their last encounter.
Michael sits on the floor and watches Ian get dressed.
"I didn't fuck Pieter," Ian says quietly, and leaves.