Work Text:
Ryan actually did clean pools for a living, once. It didn't pay nearly as well as modeling, but he liked it a lot more - namely, because he could get a lot more work for it. The modeling gig had been extremely short-lived. He was good-looking, yeah, with a strong jaw and broad shoulders and an itty bitty waist, but he was absolutely useless as a performer of any kind; he couldn't vogue to save his life, and his blue steel was more constipated than sexy or alluring. After a disastrous runway show in Milan involving a mushroom stool, he decided to call it quits and move on to something else.
Unfortunately, modeling had eaten up half of his undergrad education. Ryan was smart, and he may have liked reading Kant and Milton for fun, and his 2200 SAT score was nothing to sneeze at, but returning to the prison of exams and dorms and shitty food was not something he was really keen on, and neither was he looking forward to the daily grind of a nine-to-five. So when Ryan saw an ad for a pool cleaner in one of the ritziest parts of town, he called upon his half-finished chemistry degree and his summer of lifeguarding as a teenager, and he waltzed his way into the charming, opulent residence like he actually knew what he was doing. And then he cleaned their pool - for dirt cheap, and with a lot of trial and error, but he cleaned the damn pool, with just enough grit and dirt and unfinished business left over for a necessary second cleaning about a week later. It was a good scam, but only viable for a month, maybe two if the couple were really stupid.
So he continued his semi-illegal pool cleaning venture, seeking out the next one, and the next one, upping his prices bit by bit, and boy, there were a lot of fucking pools in the ritzy, upper class neighborhood of Los Angeles; giant, resort-sized ones with marble stairs and jacuzzi add-ons and scantily-clad older women lounging under large umbrellas, eyeing him like a piece of meat, twirling red cherries between equally red lips.
Not that Ryan minds. For fuck's sake, he bought a special pair of booty shorts for the occasion. It's how he floundered his way into the modeling business in the first place - even if he sucked, he's still handsome, people want him, and he's willing to play dirty and practically whore himself out to get what he wants. Besides, it's not like he's averse to the idea of crazy kinky sex with a married older woman, so if the lonely hearts club wants to ogle him, that's fine. If she wants to invite him into the house for a martini and watch him drink it while she leans over the counter, cleavage falling out of her bathing suit, it's no problem. If she even wants to ride him on the window seat cushion, Ryan's back plastered against the hot glass as she cries and moans and squirms on top of him, it's not a big deal. Hell, it's even a pleasure. The way he sees it, he's going above and beyond the call of duty.
Her husband didn't see it that way, of course, and he was summarily ejected from the residence, and his job, but not without a brief exchange of fists.
Thing is, Ryan had gotten used to his swanky, downtown apartment, and his exorbitant salary for the pitifully small amount of work he did, and he really wasn't interested in giving that up. What did he have on his resume, anyway? A half-finished degree, some failed modeling, and a couple of months of scamming rich idiots out of their money. This con was all he had. So he threw his name at every ad he could get his hands on, desperate for any kind of work. But word traveled fucking fast among the rich and bored, apparently. Once he lost that house, he lost them all; no one with an ounce of sense would hire him ever again as a pool cleaner. Fuck.
Four AM on a Tuesday and kind of drunk, he never realized that he was filling out an application for a "pool boy," rather than a "pool cleaner." In retrospect, he should have noticed that something was up when the application asked for a headshot, any history of film or photography, and a clean bill of sexual health, but sleeplessness and gin made even walking to the bathroom and taking a piss a herculean task, so maybe he can be forgiven for not noticing this one, small, incredibly significant detail.
Besides, that was how he met the Ramseys.
*~*~*
Ryan Haywood was googling Griffon Ramsey, his next assignment in his job as a professional pool boy - he wasn’t kidding when he said he was willing to whore himself out for his cushy lifestyle, nailing lonely wives while their husbands were out full time, rather than just on the side.
And he got great reviews, too: "highly recommended," "no stone figuratively unturned," "attentive to every detail." They forgot to mention “will try anything once” and "fantastic at anal,” but he'll let that slide.
He downed the rest of his coke and clicked on her website. Mrs. Griffon Ramsey was a world-class artist, apparently, specializing in chainsaw sculpture (holy shit) with works in every modern art gallery across the globe and dotting the college campuses of America, including his own, he realized. Married to Geoff Ramsey, tattoo enthusiast and connoisseur of obscure liquor, they had two children, a daughter, Steffi, age eight, and adopted son Gavin, age eighteen. Both kids were pretty cute. Steffi definitely took after her mother, and Gavin even looked a little bit like Ramsey, if you took a shot and squinted. There was definite affection there, too, Ramsey's arm slung over the kid's shoulder, drinks clutched in their free hands, a whiskey for Ramsey Senior and a Redbull for the little tyke, mouths open in laughter watching Griffon at work.
Looking at Mr. Ramsey, he could see why they hired a pool boy. Ramsey was somehow both weedy and chubby, with a ridiculous Mr. Monopoly mustache and droopy eyes. There wasn't a single photo of him without a handle of some foreign alcohol, sometimes accompanied by his wife, mostly alone. Griffon, on the other hand, was the definition of punk princess - half shaved head, shiny septum piercing, and not anywhere near the vicinity Ryan's kind of hot. She was beautiful, of course, something classic and sublime lingering in her smile and the sparkle of her eyes, and probably in certain crowds she was the end-all, but she was posing with a chainsaw in almost every photo he could find, and she kind of scared the crap out of him, if he was being honest. “Try anything once” be damned, if she was bringing that monster into the bedroom, he was getting the fuck out of dodge.
He took a Viagra before leaving his apartment, anyway, just in case. He didn’t want to disappoint.
Imagine his surprise when, upon arriving at the Ramsey house, husband and wife and daughter were all going out together.
"We're heading out!" Ramsey shouted inside the house. Then he turned to Ryan. "Pool's past the living room, down the hallway, and left, the security code is 4948. We'll be home before midnight, so, you know, take as long as you like, but vacate sometime before that. How long does it take to clean a pool?"
"Uh - "
"Whatever. Gav's here if you need anything." Griffon and their daughter were already bundling into the car, the little girl bouncing around with excitement. Apparently, they were late for something. Ramsey bounded off down the driveway, Ryan watching as he clambered into the car, and shared a long kiss with his wife, his hand coming up to cup her cheek, before driving away. Huh.
If this were any other situation, he would have just gotten in his car and left, taking advantage of his unexpected free day, but the kid was still here - Ryan at least had to make a show of doing something, or he could kiss his paycheck goodbye. He stepped inside the house, closing the door that had been left open in Ramsey's haste to get out. The foyer was enormous, white enough to blind a man, and so aggressively modern with so many staircases it may as well have been an Escher painting. He was getting dizzy just standing there. "Um." He called into the air. "Hello?" He needed help navigating the house, badly, otherwise he was going to throw up.
A head poked out of a door on his right. "Yeah?"
"Um... Are you Gav?"
"I'm Gavin," he said, not moving from the doorway. Whatever Ryan was expecting, it certainly wasn't a lanky kid barely out of his teens with a strong British accent. It was basically twink city with this one, reedy like his dad and hair sticking up all over the place. The kid was equally scrutinizing, raking eyes up and down Ryan’s polo and shorts, squinting suspiciously at the bucket full of cleaning supplies he carried and the skimmer slung over his shoulder.
Wait.
Was. Was he hired to nail the Ramseys' kid? No. No fucking way. There was a screening process, the kid was barely legal, there was absolutely no way he was hired to fuck Junior here. "Nice to meet you. I'm Ryan." The kid just stared at him. That wasn’t a look of seduction, or if it was, it was clearly missing its mark by at least ten miles. So if the kid wasn’t the mark...
He couldn't believe it. Some fucking dumbshit rich couple had hired him to actually clean their pool. What do you know, human stupidity was infinite and unimaginably amazing.
"Hi Ryan." He made no move to come out and greet him, staring a hole through him from behind the door.
"So... where's your pool? I'll probably get lost in here if I try to find it."
The kid sighed sharply through his nose. Big nose. Probably made kissing really awkward. Wait, what? "Through here, come on. Don't touch anything."
It was fair warning; the kid had camera equipment strewn all over the carpet, hard drives stacked on the desk, the giant, flatscreen monitor paused in the middle of a shot of a cat jumping. "Are you a filmmaker?" Ryan asked, following behind. The kid wasn’t quite as thin as he had first thought, but lean, with the promise of broad shoulders to come, filling out his frame of overgrown arms and large hands and long, skinny legs. He couldn’t help but draw his eyes up and down, skinny jeans not quite tight enough to be painted on, but still more than adequate to show off every curve. He had more of an ass than most of the women he’d fucked in the last six months, not that that was saying much.
"Yes. No. Kind of." He brought a hand up to rub at the back of his neck, fingers sliding through dirty blond hair. Ryan's fingers twitched. "I like filming things in slow motion."
"Oh yeah? You ever see that video of the guy jumping onto a giant, six foot water balloon?"
He looked back over his shoulder, a reluctant grin pulling at the corners of his wide mouth, falling back to walk almost beside Ryan, rather than in front. "Yeah I did. I made it."
Holy crap. "That was you?"
"Yeah!" he huffed out a laugh. "That was me and my friend Dan, in the backyard. We made a bunch more, too." His jaw twitched, words trapped inside of his mouth, and he quickly shuffled to the front again. He could spend all day talking his ear off about his slow motion hobby, given the chance.
“So… what else have you got in the works?” The kid stopped, and when he turned, his whole face was lit up. Suddenly, what should have been a forty second walk transformed into a ten minute show-and-tell, Gavin showing off every inch of his camera to Ryan, detailing his processes and the specs of each very expensive piece of equipment. He loved this stuff. Gavin was almost more interesting than the tech, hands flapping animatedly, bubbling over with excitement.
He didn't know why he was carrying on conversation like this. It was probably wildly inappropriate but he had gotten so used to having his clients hanging all over him from the moment he stepped into the house that conversation was a natural second step. But Gavin wasn't his client, he was the kid of a couple who had made a huge mistake in hiring Ryan, a conman and a prostitute, who had popped himself a Viagra because he thought he was going to be fucking the chainsaw queen. Dear God. Hopefully the kid would get bored and go back to fucking around with his camera, because otherwise, he was getting an eyeful of Ryan’s boner.
Gavin, with an uninterrupted view of Ryan’s dick, looking up at him with those big, adorable eyes, pouty mouth snug around his cock… fuck, Ryan was so fucking fucked. Going for appointments pretty much jumpstarted his arousal at this point - stupid Pavlovian bullshit arousal - and his brain was supplying all of these totally inappropriate fantasies without his permission in lieu of actual sexual contact. Fuck.
“Hey, Gavin? Sorry to interrupt, but, uh, I should probably start with the, uh… cleaning.” Yes, cleaning. Not furiously jacking off in a bathroom that probably cost more than his apartment. Not molesting the barely legal son of a woman who worked with chainsaws for a living.
“Oh, yeah, of course, hey!” He turned to Ryan, hands out, before turning to disassemble his tripod, “I just got a new camera for underwater, can I use it on you?”
No. “Uh, sure.” Fuck! “But, what are you going to film?”
He shrugged, tripod tucked under one arm, incredibly expensive-looking camera clutched by the other. “I dunno. Water’s always good for a video. Wait right here, let me put this outside, I’ll grab a tennis ball and my trunks. Oh, this’ll be top!”
---
“And… three, two, one, drop!” Ryan dipped his skimmer into the water, adding a swish, like he had been asked, and fished out the ball. It was the fourth time they’d filmed the shot, and it wasn’t getting any easier to hide his discomfort.
Gavin hadn’t been able to resist a quick dive into his pool before they started shooting, coming up out of the water like a goddamn movie, mouth open, dripping water, hair plastered to his forehead and neck, and Ryan’s dick twitched in a way that had nothing to do with Viagra and everything to do with the cute, British twink that had been slapped down in front of him. If afterwards his movements were stiff instead of graceful, if he had been somewhat reticent and aloof while Gavin had set up the shot, it was only because he could tell that he was going to pop a boner literally any second, and wouldn’t that be awkward to explain away.
Not that Ryan had an issue with fucking twinks. He didn’t discriminate; he liked almost everybody. After weeks of sleeping with desperate moms and wrinkly trophy wives in the sunset days of their beauty, the occasional twenty-something coed or barely legal boy threw in some much-needed variety. Any other day, any other place, he would have gotten Gavin into his bed yesterday. The only problem? Professionalism. Ryan knew better than to let people he was actually attracted to get in the way of his transactions, even if those transactions didn’t exactly pan out. He had a job to do, and dammit, he was going to do it.
But, then again, what job was there to be done? Griffon Ramsey seemed to be doing just fine without him. She obviously didn’t need his expertise or his dick. What else was he going to do but sit on his ass all afternoon, trying to ignore a Viagra-boner and the extremely attractive kid with the wide mouth just inside the house? He needed to vacate, stat, or he was going to go insane.
Wrapped up in his thoughts, he didn’t notice Gavin calling his name until about the third time. “What? Do we need to do the shot again?”
“Um. No, it’s, uh… your…” Oh. The penny dropped and his pants grew tighter. Oh. Well, shit.
Feet rooted to the spot, he let the skimmer droop, one hand coming up to scratch his neck. “Yeah… sorry.” He could see the next few minutes playing out in his head - Gavin would call him a freak, storm away disgusted, and Ryan could skip out early, like he wanted to. The Ramseys probably wouldn’t hire him again, not if the kid told his parents that their pool cleaner was a creepy motherfucker who got hard around little boys, but that was probably for the best. Removing temptation out of his path, and all.
Gavin pointed at Ryan’s crotch. “That for me?”
Well look at that. The second surprise of the day. It was either say yes, or admit that he took a Viagra thinking he was going to bang the kid’s adopted mom, but neither option seemed viable. Ryan had no intention of doing either until he heard the words tumble out of his mouth without permission - “Might be.”
Gavin grinned, all teeth. “Awesome.”
Which is how Ryan finds himself sitting on the edge of the Ramsey’s pool, legs dangling in the water, the hot, California sun beating down on him as Gavin sucks his dick like he’s the prostitute in the equation. He’s not half-bad, either, enthusiasm making up for any deficit in technique. It’s wet, it’s tight, and it’s warm enough to send Ryan into a comfortable lull, one hand on the back of Gavin’s head, fingers curling around his neck, scratching at the skin there, and Gavin arches like a cat, humming happily around his cock. He wonders if this is his first. It’s certainly uncoordinated enough - Ryan’s tempted to ask him, but he lets it go. Another time, maybe.
Ryan could sit here all damn day getting his dick wet, but the sun is hot and the concrete deck is itchy, not to mention the sweet, tight ass that is surely waiting for him. He thumbs across the bridge of Gavin’s nose, drawing a line down to his cheek, tapping at the bulge of his own cock with a grin. “Hey Gav,” he says, and the nickname sends a sharp chill down his spine, like he’s got his hands on something forbidden, just about to make off with it, “you doing alright down there?” He can’t really talk with his mouth stuffed full of dick, but the long moan and the extra hard suck do most of the talking for him. “How about a change of pace, eh, kiddo?”
Gavin pulls off with a wet, gross, pornstar pop, “But I like sucking your cock.” He sounds positively crushed, but the upward curve of his mouth betrays all of his curiosity.
“And I like it when you suck my cock. But trust me, you’ll like this even more. Come on, get out of there.” Gavin, like the perfect sub he’s bound to be, does his best to scramble out of a pool, like one of his slow motion videos, to Ryan, who’s stationed himself on the deck’s fabric sunlounger, protected from the California afternoon by a wide beach umbrella. He pulls the kid on top of him, limbs flying everywhere, and stops his squawk with a kiss. They haven’t actually kissed until now. Gavin tastes like spit and chlorine and precome, and Ryan is vindicated - the nose does make everything awkward. It’s just about the hottest kiss of his life. There is something very newly-minted about him, a fresh packaging over the treat beneath that Ryan wants to rip away bloody, leave claw marks and bruises and bites that Gavin will poke at later, his breath catching in his throat as he remembers how each one got there.
Ryan goes to work, biting the top of his lip, hard enough to draw blood, and Gavin gasps sharply. A pinch here or there, a tug of a nipple and a soft bite to the jugular are more than enough distraction to get the kid under him, hands and knees, ass backing up perfectly into Ryan’s crotch. He hasn’t even taken off Gavin’s shorts, just pulled them down far enough to slide the front of his cock against that cute, little hole. Ryan’s got a condom and some lube in his back pocket - a consummate professional, with more in his bucket of supplies - but he spits into his hand anyway, partially for effect, and partially for the way that Gavin tenses at the sound. “D-do you think you’ll be able to fit?” He stammers, turning his head around.
How sweet. Ryan swoops down, swallows his nerves and fucks his mouth with his tongue. “You’ll be fine,” he whispers against skin. Gavin shivers, eyes fluttering closed. “Just relax, and let me take care of things back here.”
He’s tight inside, just like Ryan had hoped, a hot bundle of teenage energy ready for the wasting. Gavin is nearly useless at this point, wet pants punched out of him by every stab of Ryan’s one finger. One! Damn. “Just wait till you get to two,” he promises, smirk curling his tone into something sharper, almost crueler than he meant, but Gavin eats it up, hands clawing at the fabric. “You ever had something up your ass, Gav? You like to stuff yourself full, is that it?”
“Just m-my fingers, but, oh - God! Unh, I always w-wanted to… to…”
“To get fucked?” Ryan asks, slipping in another finger, curling and poking and prodding until he finds the spot that makes Gavin lose all conscious thought, his arms giving out and his ass pushing back for more. “To get some random guy you don’t even know,” twist, “to hold you down and finger you open,” jab, “for a nice, fat cock? Is that what you wanted?” Gavin shudders around him, a full body shake from his toes to his breath. “Mmm, that’s pretty dirty, Gav. Little fuckin’ slut we’ve got in the works, haven’t we? Gonna grow up to be a whore, are you, giving it up for anyone who even looks your way?”
“Yes,” he slurs, the words sliding out of his slack mouth, “Yes, yes, yes!”
Fucking Gavin is an absolute joy. He squeezes at all the right places, he squirms and cries at every thrust, he lets Ryan push and pull him into the best possible position until he ends up with his ass in the air, face buried in the crook of his arms as Ryan fucks him into stupidity. There’s no warning when he finishes, just the crunch of Ryan’s name through clenched teeth, and then a tight squeeze as he comes all over the sunlounger. He slumps against his own wet spot, but Ryan pulls him back against his chest, sweat slick skin sliding against his own as Gavin lets his head fall back on his shoulder. He licks his lips once, twice, and blinks his eyes open, glassy and dazed like he can’t even remember his own name.
Ryan can’t possibly resist that face. For all that he likes rough, biting sex, there is something to be said about a gentle, lazy kiss in the afterglow, sharing breath and calm contentment. After a while, Gavin pulls away. “You… you didn’t come.”
Ryan shrugs. “It’ll happen. I can go a few more rounds, if needed.” He rolls his hips softly, almost lethargically, just to watch Gavin’s face split open in that wide smile as he tries to stifle a giggle, but lets slip a moan instead.
“Definitely needed. Just give me a few minutes? This is nice.” He lets his legs hang out, still impaled on Ryan’s dick, and settles back into the large chest supporting him with a happy little purr. Ryan strokes his hand up and down Gavin’s chest, winding a path to his flat stomach, his burgeoning happy trail, the tip of his spent dick.
“Sure.” Gavin turns his head into Ryan’s neck, pink tongue coming out to lick up the length of Ryan’s jugular. “Just tell me when.”