the merch seller sells merch. -bd*
* ignore the subject line, unless you are Kelly, in which case, crack up accordingly
So, I heard this thing about WiP Amnesty Day.
Here's my contribution to the long-dead fic bin. *pets* Poor thing, you were supposed to be a PWP before I realized I can't write anything that's not heavy on the P #2 and light on the P #1. May you rest in peace.
Saturday Night Fever
“You know Ryan, before you showed up, my typical Saturday night entertainment was usually a video-store special feature accompanied by root-beer through a bendy straw.” Seth mumbles from his position half-draped across Ryan’s bare stomach.
“And this is different how?” Ryan smirks as his eyebrows do a quick jump.
Seth shoots Ryan a mock-withering glance. “Witness the lack of root beer!”
“And bendy straws.”
Seth raises his head and jabs an index finger in Ryan’s direction. “Hey. Don’t mock the bendy straw! It’s the third greatest invention of modern mankind, right behind sliced bread and the massaging showerhead.”
Ryan smiles knowingly, and with a firm press of palms to futon, shifts his body upwards, dislodging a disheveled Seth.
“Or so I’ve heard.” Seth mutters to the blankets as he rights himself, scratching at his ear with the tops of his curled fingertips while simultaneously tucking his feet under his thighs.
Seth never does anything without doing something else at the same time. His movements in any given hour would take three National Geographic researchers to catalogue.
Even after all these months, Ryan can’t help watching.
In the beginning, he’d watch out of the corner of his eyes, curiosity outweighing attraction, perfecting his sidelong glance technique. But lately, he’s resorted to staring. Long intense stares that make Seth gawk and squirm as heat grows in Ryan’s gut.
Seth is like playdoh, marshmallows, cotton candy, soft, sticky, and easily pliable. He has a give to him that the guys from Chino never had. But even though Seth is always first to break the stare, Seth is the only one who stuck around. After.
Ryan isn’t sure if this is good or bad.
Seth continues wriggling like a puppy that needs to be let out, balling and twisting the cotton sheets that Kirsten painstakingly picked out. Ryan is sure that she never intended them to be used under these circumstances.
“Seth.” His tone is a warning.
Seth stops momentarily and gazes at Ryan. “I just can’t get comfortable here,” he whines and cocks his head entreatingly, the dimple on his left cheek playing with the thought of emerging.
Ryan knows that this is a cheap ploy so Seth can touch him again, to lay his head back on Ryan, and he gives in, knowing that whatever can come will come.
He’s been going with the flow ever since he got to Newport. He just didn’t expect what would wash up. He isn’t complaining. He isn’t even surprised.
He’s just sort of shocked that he’s still here.
Seth presses up against Ryan again, pulling Ryan’s body flat on the bed as he places his head on Ryan’s pillow, eases his thigh over Ryan’s. Seth’s leg has weight, presence, and the hair tickles when he shifts slightly.
Seth knows how to announce himself with authority. Sometimes when Marissa clings to Ryan, he doesn’t feel like anyone is there at all.
“As I was *saying*. This is by far the superior way to spend a Saturday evening.”
“This is a superior way to spend any evening.” Ryan’s reply is muffled as Seth’s lips brush over his.
And, the truth of the matter is, it is.
--curtain--
So, I heard this thing about WiP Amnesty Day.
Here's my contribution to the long-dead fic bin. *pets* Poor thing, you were supposed to be a PWP before I realized I can't write anything that's not heavy on the P #2 and light on the P #1. May you rest in peace.
Saturday Night Fever
“You know Ryan, before you showed up, my typical Saturday night entertainment was usually a video-store special feature accompanied by root-beer through a bendy straw.” Seth mumbles from his position half-draped across Ryan’s bare stomach.
“And this is different how?” Ryan smirks as his eyebrows do a quick jump.
Seth shoots Ryan a mock-withering glance. “Witness the lack of root beer!”
“And bendy straws.”
Seth raises his head and jabs an index finger in Ryan’s direction. “Hey. Don’t mock the bendy straw! It’s the third greatest invention of modern mankind, right behind sliced bread and the massaging showerhead.”
Ryan smiles knowingly, and with a firm press of palms to futon, shifts his body upwards, dislodging a disheveled Seth.
“Or so I’ve heard.” Seth mutters to the blankets as he rights himself, scratching at his ear with the tops of his curled fingertips while simultaneously tucking his feet under his thighs.
Seth never does anything without doing something else at the same time. His movements in any given hour would take three National Geographic researchers to catalogue.
Even after all these months, Ryan can’t help watching.
In the beginning, he’d watch out of the corner of his eyes, curiosity outweighing attraction, perfecting his sidelong glance technique. But lately, he’s resorted to staring. Long intense stares that make Seth gawk and squirm as heat grows in Ryan’s gut.
Seth is like playdoh, marshmallows, cotton candy, soft, sticky, and easily pliable. He has a give to him that the guys from Chino never had. But even though Seth is always first to break the stare, Seth is the only one who stuck around. After.
Ryan isn’t sure if this is good or bad.
Seth continues wriggling like a puppy that needs to be let out, balling and twisting the cotton sheets that Kirsten painstakingly picked out. Ryan is sure that she never intended them to be used under these circumstances.
“Seth.” His tone is a warning.
Seth stops momentarily and gazes at Ryan. “I just can’t get comfortable here,” he whines and cocks his head entreatingly, the dimple on his left cheek playing with the thought of emerging.
Ryan knows that this is a cheap ploy so Seth can touch him again, to lay his head back on Ryan, and he gives in, knowing that whatever can come will come.
He’s been going with the flow ever since he got to Newport. He just didn’t expect what would wash up. He isn’t complaining. He isn’t even surprised.
He’s just sort of shocked that he’s still here.
Seth presses up against Ryan again, pulling Ryan’s body flat on the bed as he places his head on Ryan’s pillow, eases his thigh over Ryan’s. Seth’s leg has weight, presence, and the hair tickles when he shifts slightly.
Seth knows how to announce himself with authority. Sometimes when Marissa clings to Ryan, he doesn’t feel like anyone is there at all.
“As I was *saying*. This is by far the superior way to spend a Saturday evening.”
“This is a superior way to spend any evening.” Ryan’s reply is muffled as Seth’s lips brush over his.
And, the truth of the matter is, it is.
--curtain--