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There’s a lot of words Simon can use to describe Ryland Grace. He’s quick-thinking and condescending and obnoxiously altruistic, spoiled sweet and hopelessly brilliant, and so, so submissive Simon wanted to bend him over the nearest flat surface as soon as they get a chance to look at each other face to face. Not that Grace is a pushover - that’s one word that doesn’t apply. But Simon’s never met someone else who argued so caustically but been willing to backtrack based on Simon’s word. Certainly no one else who melted at just the feeling of a hand on his waist. It’s just a bonus that they turned out to have similar body configurations; Simon would have taken him biologic, but he knows how to pull his own strings well enough, he’s confident he can ruin Grace for any other person.
He hasn’t felt the urge to pray to any divinity for anything in a long time. But sometimes, when he gets a glimpse of the stars, there’s a needy, faithful part of himself that wants to drop to his knees and give thanks. Thank God the universe had seen fit to let him live, and thank God the universe had dumped him in the lap of this equally needy mess of a man, because the thought of someone else getting to be where he is makes him sick.
Where he is right now is on the floor, back against the bedframe, while Ryland’s back is to his chest, legs spread between his. Simon’s still dressed, Ryland only half, but the thin fabric of Ryland’s sleeping pants are doing fuck all to hide the motion of Simon’s fingers screwing into Ryland. It’s a terrible angle, but by now even the rough shove of four fingers is enough to wring a gut-punch sound out of Ryland. Simulated night is pouring through the tall windows. Only Simon and this house know that when Simon had woken up that morning he looked over at Ryland, muzzy and lazy against his mound of pillows in the dawn light, and decided that he was going to make him cry tonight.
“You can give me another one, can’t you?” Simon says, deliberately low against Ryland’s jaw. He would have said Ryland was talkative, first and foremost, once upon a time; he is that, but now Simon knows Ryland Grace just loves the sound of any voice, including his own. He likes to listen to even disharmonious thrums, he smiles when Simon gets a song stuck in his head and can’t stop humming it, and he can come and cry with nothing but one slowly rubbing finger and the right command. Just that one sentence earns Simon a needy rock of his hips, trying desperately to work Simon’s fingers deeper into his hole. His prick is hard again, bunting against Simon’s wrist, but Simon’s played with it enough to know it’s gone sore and needs to be touched carefully. “I know you can.”
Ryland lets out a groan that’s more of a sob. He’s come three times that Simon’s counted. Simon withdraws his fingers, just a bit, to rub at the textured skin above Ryland’s hole. It wrings him another trickle of wetness over his fingers, already saturated, and he tightens his other arm around Grace’s chest so he can feel the shudder it induces.
“Guh. Hhh. Can’t.” Ryland’s voice is a rasp, thready with those tears Simon had dreamed about.
“You’re lying. I can feel you wanting it. Squeezing around me, you can’t even control it.” Simon presses his fingers back inside, as deep as they can go, and Ryland’s body proves him right.
The next noise might have been an affirmation, badly strangled. Simon isn’t usually one for rituals in bed, the protocols and fetishes some people needed to get off, but Ryland’s are easy and strangely sweet, in their way.
“You’ve come too much to be thinking straight, sweetheart,” he continues. “Your needy cunt wants to come again. Say it for me.”
At first there’s only panting to fill the humid air. Then: “I - I wanna come.” Ryland squirms under Simon’s arm, repositioning; he had been grabbing at the bed, the carpet - but now Ryland is grabbing his own legs by the ankle, holding them open for him. “I wanna come again.”
“Uh-uh,” Simon exhales. “Say it right.”
Ryland gushes slick over his knuckles. “Mm. My. M-my cunt wants to come again.”
“That’s right.” Simon squeezes the soft flesh of Ryland’s chest. “How should I make it come, huh?”
“With your fingers,” Ryland says - and this he manages to say clearly, almost demandingly. “Deeper, please.”
“Greedy. If I get any deeper, you’re going to end up fucking my fist. Is that what you want?”
A nervous laugh spills out of Ryland. “Oh god, yes.”
“Yeah?” It’s not a difficult request. They’ve done that before. But they’ll need to reposition, and he wants Ryland to think about it a little longer first, to want it a little more. “You sure you can take it? I can make you come just like this. Or do you need something bigger that badly?”
Ryland humps his fingers again, and Simon helps him by crooking them against the rhythm, so that his fingertips grind against the soft wall of Ryland’s cunt. Ryland moans loudly. “I - hah - I can take it.”
Yeah, he can. Simon kisses the side of Ryland’s neck and pushes his fingers as deep as they can go, ignoring both Ryland’s sounds and the the strain in his wrist as he curls them again and again, savoring how Ryland’s cunt flutters and squeezes around his fingers.
When he finally withdraws to push Ryland up onto his knees, Ryland protests with only a groan, rocking up onto his hands and knees sweet as anything. The position is tempting enough to make Simon’s mouth water. It’s been a long day, though, and instead Simon guides Ryland up and back onto the bed, where he strips off Ryland’s pants and consigns them to the quasi-eternal laundry pile alongside the bed. Ryland stares up at him, expression dreamy and floating, as Simon strips to match him and kneels beside him on the bed. The look in his eyes makes Simon’s heart twist. Thank God, thank God.
“Show me where you want it,” he instructs, and Ryland spreads his legs eagerly, tilting his hips up towards Simon like an offering. He’s still soaked and open, shining pink through the thick hair of his groin, and Simon’s fingers slide right back home with hardly any friction at all, all four swallowed right to the knuckle.
“So desperate,” Simon says, letting the warmth bleed through his voice. He braces his other hand on Ryland’s sternum, feeling the breath hitch in his lover’s chest. It’s easier to pump his fingers in and out of Ryland in this position, twisting them and pressing the ridge of his knuckles against Ryland’s rim. Ryland shivers and sags back into the sheets.
“Hah - come on, I need it…”
“Be patient.” Simon smoothes his hand over Ryland’s chest, brushing over skin both smooth and scarred. “Breathe deep and slow, yeah? Show me how good you can be.”
Ryland tenses and shivers. His next exhale is gusty and slow, and Simon’s reward for him is a series of deep thrusts, angling his fingers upwards. A new trickle of wetness is already winding its way down the back of Simon’s hand and off his wrist. Unlike Simon, Ryland rarely needs lube; despite years of hormone treatment, he still gets gushingly wet and stays that way as long as they don’t drag things out for hours at a time. Simon really should have put a towel down before they moved to the bed, but that’s a problem for later and also laundry day.
Now that he can, he speeds up, pumping his fingers in as deep as they can go. Carefully, pushing his hand together, he bullies the breadth of his palm against Ryland’s entrance until his knuckles are pressing into it. He eases more of himself inside, withdraws, then pushes in again, until Ryland is grunting and whining below him, tossing his head from side to side. “Thumb next,” Simon reminds him, looking down at where they’re joined. God, it’s already obscene how his cunt looks when it’s stuffed full of fingers; the memory of how it had looked around his wrist makes his own prick throb, almost hard enough to twitch under its hood.
“Jesus,” Ryland says emphatically. He lets his head fall back. “God, I wish we’d met when I was more flexible.” He brings his hand up to cover the one Simon has braced on his chest, twining their fingers together. “Can I do something? For you, I mean?”
Simon smiles. “You know I don’t need much.” He grants Ryland a moment of relief by bending down, pulling his fingers free with a wet squelch as he kisses Ryland, closed mouthed and brief. Ryland chases after his mouth when he pulls back, and Simon grants him another, sinking his fingers back in as Ryland moans into their kiss.
“If you’re sure - “ Simon trails his mouth down Ryland’s jaw, dragging his teeth over the skin as he tucks his thumb into his palm, thrusting his aching hand into Ryland like it’s his cock. “Because - agh - I have two hands free and…and…oh, oh fuck - !“
Simon huffs out a laugh as slowly, inexorably, the thickest part of his hand sinks into Ryland. One of those free hands comes up to claw at Simon’s back; the other clutches desperately at his other hand as Ryland squeezes his eyes shut. “Only you,” Simon says, “would have a fist in your cunt and still worry about making others feel good.”
Ryland’s only answer is an inarticulate groan. Ever so gradually, the rest of Simon’s hand slips inside - is pulled inside, almost, by the clutch of Ryland’s muscles. It feels just as good as he remembers: a slick, hot squeeze that bears down on his hand like a vise, creeping down and down towards his wrist. He’s asked Ryland how being fisted feels before, and the sensation Ryland describes sounds closer to pain than anything else; it’s not the sort of thing Simon fantasizes about. But he certainly can’t deny how obviously Ryland’s body, as well as his brain, loves it.
Simon doesn’t push it. Time passes, slow and dripping, as Ryland pants and twitches and grips on tight to Simon. And fraction by fraction, Simon’s hand disappears into Ryland, down the broad heel of his palm and slimming of his wrist. Every time Simon prompts him if it’s still feeling good, he gets a hasty nod. If he slows down, he gets a whine of protest, or even a sobbing plea of “More, more.” That’s what turns him on the most now: listening to Ryland cry. Sometimes he doesn’t feel the need to touch himself, even when he’s hard or wet; he just lets the sounds Ryland makes fill his head up, with no room for any pleasure or pain other than inducing more.
Simon’s kind of a freak. Every voice inside him agrees, selfish to shameful, but that doesn’t matter right now: right now, that’s just fine, because that’s what Ryland needs.
When Ryland finally thumps his hand against Simon’s shoulder, he knows he’s reached his limits. Simon waits as Ryland adjusts around his wrist, breathing evening out as much as it can; as Simon watches, Ryland squeezes his eyes shut, tips his head back, and exhales, like he’s savoring the moment. Eventually he raises his head. “Hngh. Okay. You’re good.”
“You’re sure?”
Ryland throbs faintly around him. “Yeah. Please.”
Well, far be it for Simon to make a man wait. Slowly, slowly, he curls his hand into a fist, every movement brushing Ryland’s walls. Ryland pants, open-mouthed, staring down at himself like Simon is. He’s bigger than Simon, and he’s put on more weight compared to his unhealthy lankiness when they first met, but when Simon carefully curls his fingers and turns his hand, the motion of it is just visible through the flesh of Ryland’s stomach, as deep in him as anything can go.
“H-Holy shit,” Ryland breathes out. “Simon. Simon…”
“Yeah?” Simon responds, though even his voice sounds distracted and dazed with lust. “How do you feel?”
“L-like you’re punching me in my throat,” Ryland says weakly. “God, I forgot…” His hips twitch, and the movement shifts him around Simon’s fist, a tight wet sheathe. He hiccups. “I can’t fucking think like this, oh my God.”
Simon chuckles roughly. “Poor baby.” He pulls his other hand away from Ryland’s hold to trail it downwards, sliding over Ryland’s neglected prick and fastening on his thigh instead, holding him in place. “Guess you’re gonna have to stop thinking, huh?”
He rotates his fist slowly to the right, and instinctively Ryland’s body tries to follow him, legs twisting along with the subtle bulge in his stomach. Simon holds him in place and continues to move, pulling his hand back against the resistance of the rim until Ryland gasps and squeezes his thighs together, which of course just results in a pained little moan. Each pump of his fist leads to another, and another, and another. Every time he fucks into Ryland Simon’s gifted with another wonderful noise, and Simon can’t resist steadying himself on the bed so he can bend down and press a kiss to Ryland’s stomach, nuzzling his face against soft, overgrown skin. He curls his wrist upward, and Ryland cries out again as Simon’s knuckles drag against his walls. When Simon glances up, he can see the glint of tears welling in his eyes.
Gently, Simon buries his teeth in the flesh, encouraged by the sobbing whine Ryland emits. Then, with one last press of his lips to the mark he leaves behind, he straightens up so he can sweep his other hand over Ryland’s belly, through the hair of his groin, down to his cock, still hard and untouched. He twists his fist again, and as Ryland pushes his hips up, following him, he plants his other hand on Ryland’s hip and rubs his thumb over the shaft of Ryland’s cock: not even the head, peeking out hard and red from under its hood, but the thick ridge of nerves where it begins to rise from the skin. It still makes Ryland shout.
“Ask for it again,” Simon says. He brings two of his fingers down in a vee to catch Ryland’s cock between them, applying firm pressure on both sides and speeding up his strokes. “C’mon, be a good boy.”
Ryland shudders so hard it’s like he’s been electrocuted. He grinds down against Simon’s hand, around Simon’s hand, and good God the Father Simon’s so hard he feels like he could come right now just feeling Ryland clench around his fist. “I want it! Please make my cunt come again - I need it, Simon, please…”
“You do, you will,” Simon promises. He can feel Grace’s heartbeat thundering against the inside of his wrist, climbing hard and fast; Simon just has to steer him over the edge. It’s only a matter of keeping his hands steady, clenching his fist and moving his fingers, Ryland slick and hot and throbbing all around him. “Give it to me, Ry, let me see you come again.”
Ryland’s orgasm rolls through his body like an explosion. His cunt, already wet and gripping, squeezes tight like he’s trying to pop Simon’s hand off, and he shouts, pitchy and cracked. When Simon flexes his fist, he trembles so hard it looks like it hurts, legs spasming and back arching, but he pushes back against Simon anyway, shoving his hips down like he wants Simon’s whole forearm.
“That’s it,” Simon exhales, too distracted to make his voice sound any less dizzy with want. He keeps going, avoiding touching the head of Ryland’s cock, just the right way to draw out his torment. “Take it, take it, you’re such a good boy,” for me, for me, just for me.
Like he said: needy.
Simon keeps moving with Ryland’s writhing, thrusting and stroking, until finally Ryland grunts and his body goes limp. One hand flails forward to grab for Simon’s wrist. Simon pauses. “Too much?”
Ryland shakes his head. There are tear tracks along his cheekbones. He pulls on Simon’s free arm, tugging until Simon gets with the program and bends forward, bringing their faces close together while Ryland pulses around his fist. His hair falls forward, making a curtain around them, and Ryland’s pupils widen slowly and darkly as he looks up at Simon in the shadow.
It’s easier to accept pain when you have a better place to look at it from. It might be wrong, but it’s easy, and in that moment Simon thinks it was worth it, all of it, to be here, safe and healed, with someone holding onto him like he’s the last solid thing in the universe, slick and messy and so, so wonderful. Love fills up Simon’s mouth like blood. He kisses it away, up the side of Ryland’s neck, his face, into Ryland’s mouth as he says, “Simon, Simon,” until Simon muffles him with his lips.
Thank God.