Work Text:
It's late when Ryan gets back to the motel.
He's been in San Andreas for the past week, tying up loose ends for Geoff—it's running errands, really, and Ryan's pretty aware that this is just a passive aggressive punishment for going on a little murder spree last month, which is not only irritating but entirely unfair; Ryan killed maybe three people, and it barely stirred up any trouble at all.
But he didn't argue about getting sent out to the ass end of San Andreas (much), because he does sort of like the opportunity to work alone.
And for the first couple of days, it'd been nice. Around the crew, everything's loud and chaotic—and there's nothing wrong with that, but up until Geoff brought him in, he'd worked solo. It had taken some time to get used to, and even now the moments he can steal away for himself are like a breath of fresh air.
But. It's been a week.
Ryan hadn't realized he'd actually start to miss the disorder, the organization hidden deep under spur-of-the-moment plans and yelling and laughing, the never-serious "we're invincible, just you try and take us, motherfuckers" mentality.
And he's not really going to admit it to himself, let alone the others, let alone Gavin.
Once he's got the skull mask off and the face paint scrubbed off at the sink, he collapses on the bed, exhaustion a dull ache behind his eyes. He's never been one to sleep particularly well, but it's been worse the past few days—and that's for a bunch of reasons, like the shitty bed quality and the sounds of the highway and the fact that he hasn't fooled around with Gavin in a goddamn week.
He grabs the remote from the bedside table and turns the television on, keeps the sound at a barely-audible background noise, and digs his phone from his pocket to see if he's missed any texts in the past few hours.
Sure enough, there's one from Gavin; he'd been expecting it, not only because Gavin's been texting him incessantly since he left (usually just things like "Jack just told a joke and Geoff snorted straight vodka out his nose" or "Michael and Ray are hogging the Xbox like absolute plebs," and if he's honest, he sort of appreciates it), but also because Geoff had them run a heist today.
He brings the message up. Gavin sent it a couple hours ago.
'Settled in the safe house. Heist more or less wrapped up. Wish you'd been there. Had to ride with Michael out of the city. Boi drove like an absolute maniac.'
He smiles, imagining it: Michael taking dangerous turns, nearly sideswiping telephone poles, all careful chaos just to get Gavin screaming and clutching at whatever he can grab onto. Yawning a little, he gets comfortable on the bed and taps out a reply.
'I'm finished for the night. You can call if you want?'
It takes a couple minutes for his phone to buzz.
'I wish. Everyone's asleep and the place is the size of a damn lunch box.'
Ryan frowns, sends off, 'Why aren't you asleep?' even though he's pretty sure he knows the answer, and sure enough:
'Wanted to talk to you, you doughnut. I'm out on the balcony.'
Ryan smiles faintly. 'Which is the size of ?'
'Smaller lunch box.'
That coaxes a laugh from him, and some tension he didn't know he'd been carrying leaches from his shoulders, slow but sure. He knows the safe house they're at, can picture Gavin out on the little balcony, sunk into the chair Ray dragged out there a few months back, feet probably up on the railing. And he wants to keep talking, but: 'You should get some sleep,' he sends reluctantly. 'I'll be back in town in a few days.'
The reply takes a few minutes, long enough for Ryan to think Gavin actually did go to sleep, but then: 'Wish you were here now.'
'So do I,' he taps out, and means it. 'This side of San Andreas is a shit hole.'
'What would you do?'
That makes Ryan frown, brow furrowed. 'What would I do?' he sends.
'If you were here,' comes the reply, immediate, and he sighs, because they're not doing this, are they? Sexting? Really?
'Sleep,' he responds, a flat shut down. He gets the appeal of phone sex, maybe, because that's vocal, that can be hot, but words on a screen? Where's the fun in that? Plus, it's late, and he's tired, and he's just— No. Not indulging Gavin in B-grade erotica roleplay.
His phone buzzes. 'Aw, Ryan, no.'
'Aw, Ryan, yes.'
'You wanna know what I'd do if I were there?'
Ryan snorts. 'I have a few guesses.'
His phone buzzes with a media message this time. Ryan opens it, raising an eyebrow, and is presented with an image of Gavin sulking at the camera. Ryan's never been one to be guilt-tripped, definitely not by Gavin, definitely not with puppy-dog eyes, but.
Fuck it. 'Alright. I'll bite: What would you do if you were here, Gavin?'
The response takes a moment, but then: 'Kiss you.'
Well. That's tame. Ryan's actually surprised. 'That's it?' he types, not sure exactly what he's trying to convey—genuine surprise, or teasing, or coaxing for something a little more involved.
An immediate response. 'Let me get bloody warmed up!'
Ryan grins despite himself, imagining the sulking, vaguely insulted expression on Gavin's face. 'Sorry. By all means. Take your time.'
'Send me a pic,' is Gavin's reply. 'Wanna picture where you are. Make it real.'
Ryan glances around. The bed's unmade, the room is half-dark, and weird shadows are thrown over everything from the light of the television. 'It's a motel room. They all look the same.'
'Ryan.'
He rolls his eyes. Apparently, Gavin's committed to this. 'You and your specific fantasies,' he taps out, and then he pulls up the camera on his phone and sends off a picture of himself sitting on the bed, hoping he looks at least a little more put-together than he feels. Less exhausted, at least.
It takes a couple of minutes for the response to come, but when it does, Ryan's phone buzzes a few times in quick succession. Three messages pop up.
'I'd get on the bed there with you.'
'Get my knees on either side of your waist and get my hands in your hair and kiss you'
'I'd make it last a really long time, till it's hard to breathe and you have to pull me away.'
And. Oh. The mental images come as easy as anything, the phantom sensation of Gavin's fingers in his hair, pulling a bit, the way the mattress would dip with his weight. Tracing Gavin's lower lip with his tongue, little teasing things to make them both half desperate. Getting lightheaded in the best way, knowing he needs to pull Gavin back to get in a full breath, but—
'I wouldn't want to,' he sends off, fingers working before he even realizes what he's doing, which is indulging Gavin in something stupid. Ryan lets out a faintly irritated noise. All this is doing is making him want Gavin here, with him, in the bed.
But that doesn't stop him from opening the reply when it comes.
'No?'
Of course he wouldn't want to. 'I haven't kissed you in a week. Haven't touched you in a week.'
The response is near-instant. 'So you'd touch me.'
Ryan stares at that message for a long time, imagining the way Gavin's probably smirking a little right now, smug, proud of himself for dragging him into this weird roleplay thing, and it's idiotic and adolescent, but, So you'd touch me—
Ryan groans, exasperated, and reluctantly starts pulling at his belt. It's harder to type one-handed, but not by much. 'I'd put my hands all over you until you started to whine.'
Another immediate response, one that makes him laugh, maybe a little fond, with one hand on his fly: 'I don't whinge!' He can picture Gavin's indignant expression as clear as anything.
'You whine every goddamn time.' And that's true. Gavin's vocal and responsive, more than anybody Ryan's ever been with before.
'Ryan, don't be terrible.'
'I like it,' he sends back, and that's true, too. The little desperate sounds Gavin makes are pretty much the sole reason Ryan teases him.
After a few moments, Gavin's response pops up: 'Oh.' Like he's surprised. Flustered, Ryan hopes.
And so he's doing this, apparently. Well into his thirties and sexting. He can't deny it's turning him on; he's got his fly open, and he's getting harder with every message that comes in. If some weird Pavlovian response happens after tonight where he pops a semi every time his phone goes off, he's going to kick Gavin's ass.
It's not the words that are doing it, really—he doesn't think so, anyway—it's more like the words are kicking his imagination into overdrive. Can't help but fantasize. And it's easy, suddenly, to play along. 'I'd drag it out until you're begging me to get a hand on your dick.'
For a couple of minutes, there's nothing, and then another rapid-fire set of replies comes in:
'Christ'
'I want to fuck you'
'Are you touching yourself right now?'
Ryan swallows a surprised, bordering-on-pathetic noise, and a pulse of heat goes straight to his dick. Okay. Okay. He shifts until he's less propped up against the headboard and more horizontal, head on the too-flat motel pillows, and lets his free hand wander down to tug at his jeans a little as he texts back. 'Not yet.'
He doesn't even manage to set the phone down before Gavin's response comes in.
'Do it.'
Ryan's fingers are shaky now, and so it takes a few tries, backspacing with an annoyed breath of air before he manages to send out an 'Okay' as he gets his free hand wrapped around his cock. He closes his eyes then, hips rolling up with a sort of instinctive quickness he has to quell. Taking his time suddenly seems like the best idea he's had in days.
And with how long it took him just to type a four-letter response, he's probably going to need to drag it out a little bit.
'Show me,' comes Gavin's reply, and Ryan finds himself shifting automatically, one arm extended, to get the best possible shot of the way he's jacking himself off.
In the tiny part of his mind that's not hazy and dumb with arousal, he's aware that once he comes and cleans himself up, he's going to look at this entire exchange and either submerge his phone in the sink, or lie down on the floor of the motel room and just sort of die.
But Present Ryan is pretty content with fucking over Future Ryan despite that. He's only human.
When his phone goes off again, it takes a few moments of fumbling around to find where he'd dropped it. He squints a little in the sudden bright light of his screen, and what he reads punches a sharp exhale from him.
'I want to sit on that bed and watch you work yourself open for me.'
'Toss off while you get three fingers inside yourself.'
And he wants to, abruptly, wants to kneel on the bed and stroke himself off with one hand while he fucks himself on his fingers; his dick throbs with the mental image, and he bites down hard on his lower lip, eyes shutting. But he doesn't have anything to slick his fingers with, isn't particularly interested in sucking on his fingers to get the job done, and besides—
He needs to keep a hand free to text.
He looks back at the messages, shuts his eyes again to picture Gavin watching from the other end of the bed, hand around his cock, eyes wide and dark as he watches, breathing hard and fast, and it's a near perfect image, except.
'No,' he sends.
The response comes within seconds. 'No?'
And Ryan's hand slows on his cock as he texts back with clumsy fingers, quick as he can manage without littering the messages in typos.
'You don't get to touch. Not me, or yourself. You'll keep your hands on the bed.'
'Fisted in the sheets because it's that hard to restrain yourself.'
'And you'll wait until I'm ready.'
'I'll make you wait until you're so worked up from watching me you can't keep still.'
It's a long couple of minutes before Gavin replies, and at this point Ryan's half edging himself, working himself up until he's at the precipice of climax and then slowing, backing off, the best and worst kind of self-torture.
His phone lights up. 'Please don't.'
Ryan laughs, breathless. 'I could. I will.' It's easy to imagine Gavin's pleading, desperate expression, imagine him whimpering a little. Ryan thinks maybe he's trying to keep his hands off himself even now but can't help it, gives in with a shaky breath and works himself up with needy little gasps, eyes screwed shut, and—fuck, Ryan wants to be there, wants to be touching him, needs it, needs it more than anything, more than he needs to come, more than he needs air.
Another series of messages come in—and Ryan's right, Gavin's as desperate as he'd imagined.
'Ryan, please don't'
'I want you on my cock'
'Riding me until you're shaking and biting your lip to stay quiet'
He frowns a little. 'I don't do that.'
An immediate response, phone buzzing four times in quick succession:
'You absolutely do.'
'Like you don't want me to know how bad it's affecting you'
'You're all about control'
'You'll hold my hips down and set your own pace until you shake all apart.'
A pulse of arousal goes straight through him, and he shudders, a full-bodied thing, as a groan rises in his throat. He can see it, can practically feel it, sinking down on Gavin's cock and riding him, rhythm so slow it's torture for them both, so slow Gavin's writhing and Ryan's legs are shaking and—
'Send me a picture,' he taps out, needing it, needing to see him, and then, 'Now,' when Gavin's response doesn't come immediately.
And then the image does come, and Ryan breathes out something incomprehensible to his own ears. Gavin's sprawled out on that chair on the balcony, limbs all gangly and hanging off the edges, and he's got a hand wrapped around his cock. He's expecting Gavin to have his eyes closed, head thrown back the way he does when he's close to coming, worked up to the point where there's too many sensations and he needs to block one of them—but Gavin's eyes are open, half-lidded and dark, and he's looking straight at the camera.
"God," Ryan mutters. It comes out a little broken, hitched on an exhale. And he gives up, now, stops trying to take it slow—pulls out all the stops, all the little tricks to send himself as quickly to the edge as possible.
His phone vibrates.
'Are you going to come?'
And now there's a dozen images flicking through his mind like snapshots, like film clips, a dozen scenarios for right there in the motel room on top of disheveled sheets—Gavin kneeling over him, his hand where Ryan's is right now, jacking him off with clever pickpocket's fingers; both of them pressed flush together, fully dressed and rutting like desperate, primal things, too impatient to bother undressing; working Gavin open with slick fingers, then pushing his face into the bed and fucking into him until he's howling, grasping white-knuckled at the sheets.
He's fucking up into his fist, rhythm falling all to pieces between putting half his focus into texting and how close he is to spilling over his hand, and so—
'Yeah.'
'Can I?' comes Gavin's response, and of course he's fucking asking for permission, like he just knows that's gonna make Ryan lose it.
He barely manages to send off an affirmation before he's tossing his head back against the pillows and biting his lower lip almost painfully to keep from crying out as he comes hard, arching up off the bed, hips jerking up helplessly as he works himself through it.
And for a few minutes after, there's nothing, just the sound of Ryan breathing as he comes down from it, and blood rushing in his ears, and flickering shadows from the television.
His knees nearly buckle when he stands. In the bathroom he makes a halfhearted attempt at cleaning up—in the mirror his face is red, eyes bright—and he strips out of his shirt and jeans on his way back to the bed. There's a text from Gavin on his phone when he picks it up.
'You alright?'
He laughs, a little breathless still, and it sounds too loud in the quiet dark of the room. 'I'm alright,' he types out, quick and easy now that he's got both thumbs, and fuck, he's never going to take texting with two hands for granted ever again. 'I'm good. Are you?'
'I'm wonderful,' comes Gavin's reply, immediately.
Ryan smiles faintly, thumbs hovering over the keypad. He hesitates, and then, 'Thanks for that.'
A minute or so goes by before Gavin's response comes in, and by then Ryan's got the television off and the sheets peeled back.
'Back in town in three days?'
'Three days,' Ryan promises, and as an afterthought sends, 'Get some sleep, Gavin.'
There's a few minutes of silence, screen staying dark, and he figures Gavin's gone back inside to crash for a few hours. He’s relaxed, impossibly relaxed, more so than he’s been in the past week. Tomorrow, he’ll pull up those messages and roll his eyes, probably, but.
He’s good. For right now, he’s good.
Ryan barely gets his eyes shut, body lax on the mattress, before he feels the vibration of his phone through the bed. He fumbles for the phone blindly, squinting in the light when he brings it to his face—and then he snorts, tossing his phone down and rolling over without responding when he reads the text.
'Proper phone sex tomorrow, then?'