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The problem with Ryan is his phone. (The real problem with Ryan is his hands, but Oliver doesn’t have time for that right now.)
Ryan’s splayed out on the living room couch, device in his hands, attention fully on his phone, which is never a good sign. It’s Oliver’s couch because he comes to Oliver’s house; Oliver doesn’t go to his place. Oliver would think about it more except he doesn’t care. Not in a way that matters. Ryan’s wearing basketball shorts and a tank top because he’s the kind of guy who does that – comes to Oliver’s house half-dressed and thinks nothing of it.
He thinks nothing of the hints of soft skin of his inner thighs showing to the world. Thinks nothing of the roping veins in his forearms being on display because he came from the gym and his heart is still filling his muscles and veins with too much blood. Thinks nothing of the dark chest hair visible over the top of his tank, patterning towards his collarbones, awaiting someone’s heated touch.
But Oliver’s thinking about it. How Ryan’s in his house again, on his couch again. Eating Oliver’s food that he set out without complaint and bringing his own beer to share. And Oliver’s thinking about what Ryan’s probably doing on his goddamn phone right then. The thing they argue about more than anything these days.
There’s a college football game on the TV, the reason Ryan ostensibly gave to come over, but he hasn’t been watching it for the last twenty minutes. He’s been on his phone. Oliver can’t tell what he’s doing, but it can’t be good. It’s rarely good. Maybe Ryan’s watching a video he shouldn’t be. Maybe he’s reposting some lame inspirational quote Oliver will tease him about later even though Oliver’s not immune to that shit either. Maybe he’s putting up some photos he took that he really should have run past Oliver first. Whatever it is, it doesn’t matter. It can’t be good. He should probably be stopped.
Oliver kneels down next to the couch, even though his knee protests the hard floor. Ryan doesn’t look away from his phone.
Oliver puts his hands on Ryan’s knees, on the warm, bare skin, feeling the coarse hair under his palms. Ryan doesn’t look down.
Oliver pushes up the fabric of Ryan’s shorts, exposing his thighs, tanned from his summer adventures, mottled with a few fading bruises from training sessions. Oliver can already smell him – the bland soap from the gym showers, his weirdly cheap laundry detergent, one too many spritzes of cologne. And underneath, the heat of his skin.
Leaning in, leaning down, Oliver runs his nose against the inside of Ryan’s knee and then up the soft inside of his bare thigh. Above him, he thinks he hears Ryan swallow.
“What are you doing?” Ryan asks. There’s a catch in his throat.
Oliver doesn’t answer. His lips follow the same path, brushing feather light against the vulnerable skin, sparse hair tickling his lips. He can’t get a taste of Ryan like this, just feels the heat of his skin, the animal recognition of flesh against flesh. Heat on heat.
Ryan shifts on the couch, legs spreading, thighs making room. Oliver grins to himself, self-satisfied, and shoulders his way deeper between them. He licks his lips and puts them back on Ryan’s inner thigh, higher up now, and damp. He can feel the deep pulse coming from Ryan’s femoral and his cock gives a faint throb in answer.
But Ryan is still on his phone – Oliver can tell because his hands aren’t in Oliver’s hair or clutching at his shoulders, blunt nails leaving marks behind. He isn’t petting frantic, abstract patterns wherever he can reach. And that’s not good enough.
Oliver wraps an arm underneath Ryan’s leg, holding him in place, holding him open, and bites his teeth into the soft flesh of Ryan’s inner thigh.
Ryan’s leg jerks and a breathy grunt escapes his throat. Oliver bites him again, half an inch from the first spot, and deeper, digging his teeth in and leaving them there for a long breath. He lets his tongue rest against the caught flesh.
“Fuck,” Ryan groans and Oliver lets go. When he pulls back, angry red indentations in the clear outline of his teeth are left behind. Heat fills his stomach at the sight of them and his cock hardens further, starting to strain against his zipper.
“Jesus Christ, Ollie.”
“Not my thing,” Oliver reminds him, breath hot against Ryan’s thigh. He runs his tongue soothingly over the bite, leaving a streak of spit in his wake. Oliver blows cooler air across the mark and watches gooseflesh rise. Ryan shivers, muscles contracting.
But he’s still not looking at Oliver; when Oliver rests his chin on Ryan’s leg and looks up, Ryan’s eyes are on his phone. There’s a blush high in his cheeks, a gorgeous dark pink, and the first hints of sweat on his brow, but his focus is on that goddamn phone.
Oliver narrows his eyes. He can’t get where he wants with Ryan still wearing his shorts; he could, but it’s annoying and less fun than being able to get his whole face where he wants it. Oliver reaches for the waist of Ryan’s shorts and tugs. Ryan doesn’t look at him, but his hips lift enough that Oliver can get them down and off and tossed aside.
This is better. Ryan on his couch in tight black boxer-briefs, cock half-hard behind the fly, breathing hard. Tank top pushed up to expose the lines of his abs, clearer now than they’ve been before, and the dark hair disappearing down and down. Thighs spread open and inviting.
Oliver shifts, ignoring the twinge in his knee, and presses his face to the warm juncture of Ryan’s hip and thigh, breathing in. The scent of him has grown stronger, heady. Rising salt and musk. Sweat. Oliver bites the taut flesh over the edge of Ryan’s hip bone and Ryan’s legs spasm, clenching against his shoulders.
“Oliver.” His voice is deeper, catching a hint of roughness.
“What?”
Ryan’s hard now, curving towards his belly, held in place by his underwear. Oliver bends low and breathes hot and open-mouthed over the covered head of Ryan’s cock. Ryan groans and his hips hitch up, seeking friction. Oliver lets him find it, running the flat of his tongue up the underside of Ryan cock, tasting cotton and bitter salt where he’s starting to leave a wet spot.
Oliver has tricks and stunts available to him. He can lift his partner against the wall mid-fuck and keep going. He can hold someone down for a considerable amount of time without breaking rhythm. He can pull underwear off with his teeth with decent finesse. But that takes a minute, and is really more about building tension and suspense, making things a little flirty, a little sexy. Ryan’s already tense, the muscles in his thighs taut when Oliver gets his hands back on them. He opts for the quicker route of hooking his fingers under the waistband of Ryan’s boxer-briefs and tugging them down.
Ryan’s cock bounces against his belly, leaving a streak of precome against his skin. His foreskin has pulled back, revealing the shiny, wet head – redder than the dusky rest of him. Saliva fills Oliver’s mouth.
He doesn’t mind being on his knees – whatever gives him pleasure is pleasing and whatever’s pleasing to his partners gives him pleasure. Oliver’s just enough younger that he doesn’t really think about the complications of labels anymore where it feels like Ryan is desperately trying to cling to his. Oliver lives. He laughs. He fucks women and he feels up men whenever the opportunity arises, which is not often as of late.
But there’s Ryan.
Ryan with a bead of sweat sliding through his chest hair and down between his pecs. Ryan with his abs flexing with every breath. Ryan who shouldn’t be in his house at all. Ryan who is still looking at his godforsaken phone.
Okay, fine then.
Oliver takes a breath and takes the head of Ryan’s cock wholly into his mouth. Bitter salt bursts on his tongue and Oliver closes his eyes, reveling in the taste and the heat and satisfying weight of a cock reaching for his throat. He sinks lower and lower, taking Ryan deep and deeper, one hand covering what his mouth can’t, and Ryan groans, low and aching. Distantly, something thuds faintly on the floor.
The phone. Oliver would smile but he can’t. When he glances up through his lashes, Ryan’s head is tipped back against the cushions, mouth open and panting, exposing the points of his teeth, the column of his throat. Pulse fluttering in the notch of his throat. Neck muscles straining with every filthy wet pull of Oliver’s mouth up the hard length of his cock. Ryan’s hands are fisted at his hips, like he’s struggling not to bury his hands in Oliver’s hair. He’s fucking decadent.
Oliver’s own lips must look obscene, stretched wide and pink around Ryan’s cock, spit trailing down his chin to catch in Ryan’s pubic hair. He’s good at this – likes doing this – wrapping his tongue around the ridge of Ryan’s cock, soft, clever strokes to counter the rhythm of the slide of his mouth.
He pulls back, slowly, savoring every inch, every vein. The silky heat. The way it’s all so unmistakably male.
“You taste like meat again,” Oliver comments, stroking a loose fist up Ryan’s cock. Ryan’s hips lift with the movement, seeking friction, chasing heat.
Ryan lifts his head. His eyes are so dark, wild. “Apologies, Mr. Stark. I didn’t know I was gonna be on the menu.”
Oliver grins. His mouth already feels rubbed raw and bruised and he likes that too. Likes that even when Ryan leaves, he’ll feel this for a bit. He likes the way Ryan will have his teeth marks in his thigh for a few days and the mottled bruise of it for a few days after that. He’ll have to be careful with the length of his shorts at the gym and around his sparing buddies unless he wants to answer the kinds of questions he’s not even willing look at alone.
“The kitchen’s always open.”
Ryan snorts. “That doesn’t make any s-” The rest of his sentence collapses into a moan as Oliver sinks another bruising bite into Ryan’s other inner thigh while twisting his fist over the wet head of Ryan’s cock.
“Fuck.”
Oliver shivers hard when Ryan’s hands finally land on him, one hand clutching his shoulder, the other gripping fingers tight in his hair. Oliver runs the flat of his tongue over the reddened flesh and hopes the bruise turns purple.
“You can’t be leaving marks,” Ryan pants.
“Who else is looking here?” Oliver counters, something like jealously warring with the hunger burning low in his belly. He not expecting an answer; it just makes him want to bite down harder.
Instead, he takes Ryan inside, as deep as he can without wrecking his voice, nose not quite reaching the coarse hair at Ryan’s groin. Ryan’s thighs spasm and his fingers tighten in his hair; pleasure-pain sparks along Oliver’s scalp and down the back of his neck. When Oliver reaches out, he can span the distance between Ryan’s sternum and his bellybutton with the stretch of his hand. He holds Ryan down with the touch, keeping him from thrusting too deep into his throat.
Oliver’s own cock is still so hard behind his fly, and he shifts on his knees until he can press his hips into the side of the couch, trying to find just a bit of friction to ease the ache.
It’s not going to take Ryan long – Oliver can tell by the way he can’t stop moving, the way his pulse is pounding against Oliver’s tongue, the way he’s steadily leaking precome, making a mess of Oliver’s lips and chin.
Oliver gets a hand under Ryan’s balls, feels how tight and drawn up they already are. The skin here is so soft, paper-thin, and Oliver could spend an hour just feeling his way around, marveling at the differences between their bodies and the sameness too. Maybe another time.
Oliver flicks his tongue under the crown of Ryan’s cock, because he can and he knows Ryan likes it, while pressing a dry fingertip to the tight whorl of Ryan’s hole and Ryan comes. He grunts half of Oliver’s name and curls forward off the cushion and floods Oliver’s mouth with enough spend Oliver can’t swallow it all before it trickles sticky out of the corner of his mouth.
He gentles Ryan through the last spasms, the last shudders of pleasure. There’s time for exquisite-sweet overstimulation, time for sucking at him until he stays hard despite himself and comes again at Oliver’s insistence. But not today. Not when Oliver’s knee is making itself known and they only have so much time to spend.
Ryan’s hand eases from his hair, unwinding from the curls, and caresses down his face, terribly gentle despite the fine tremble still lingering. His thumb slides across Oliver’s swollen lower lip, swiping through the mess of warm come and spit. Oliver draws the thumb into his mouth, curling his tongue around Ryan’s knuckle. Ryan’s cock gives a weak pulse where it’s softening against the crease of his thigh.
“What about you?” Ryan asks. His cheeks are high red, strands of hair damp against his forehead. Oliver hates how beautiful he is sometimes.
“‘m good,” Oliver answers.
Ryan blinks, brows furrowing. “What? Get up here.”
Oliver shakes his head, but he’s smiling and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I’m good,” he repeats. Because he is. He came in his pants seconds before Ryan came in his mouth, orgasm blindsiding him after a generally unmemorable thrust against the side of the couch. But there’s everything inherently memorable about Ryan falling apart on his tongue, under his hands.
Somehow Ryan’s blush darkens. “Oh.” He grins then, all sharp canines glinting in the bright light of the living room. A drop of sweat trails down his temple. Oliver wants to lick it off him.
“Was this just to get me off my phone?” Ryan asks.
“Get you off the phone. Get you off,” Buck shrugs. “Same thing.”
Together, they get Ryan’s shorts tugged back up over his hips and his softening cock tucked away. Oliver wipes his damp fingers in the furrow of Ryan’s hip, leaving a tacky streak behind that Ryan crinkles his nose at.
“Get up here,” Ryan orders. “I know your knee hurts.”
Oliver pushes himself to his feet. His underwear is starting to stick uncomfortably to his dick and pubic hair; a wet spot shows on the front of his pants. The back of his shirt is damp with sweat and there’s beer on the table, but he wants water and to change his clothes.
He can feel Ryan watching him leave the living room and there’s something powerful about that. It makes the back of his neck tingle.
When he comes back, fresh underwear on and two bottles of cold water in hand, Ryan hasn’t picked his phone up off the floor. He’s resettled himself on the couch and put himself back together as best as possible, tank top straightened and hair brushed back from his face. Oliver could bring him a washcloth, but he doesn’t want to.
There are other places to sit, comfortable places, but Oliver plops himself down on the couch next to Ryan, close enough their thighs touch. This is his house and his couch, and he can do that. He hands Ryan one of the bottles of water while simultaneously chugging down half of the other one. It doesn’t quite wash the taste of Ryan from his mouth.
The football game is still on, but Oliver didn’t care about it before, and he still doesn’t. He cares about this time and these hours he gets with Ryan and doesn’t have to explain to anyone else. No scripts, no cameras, no lines. And when he gets his way, no fucking phones.
“I’m still gonna get you off later,” Ryan says after a few quiet minutes, taking the last slices of red bell pepper off the plate Oliver had set out because he doesn’t like the orange ones as much.
Oliver rolls his eyes. “Fine.” He sinks deeper into couch, settling in, relaxing. Not quite leaning his head on Ryan’s shoulder.
“Fine,” Ryan parrots, but Oliver can hear the smile in his voice.
And it is fine, for now it’s fine enough.