actual fic!
Mar. 25th, 2006 01:16 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
arualmsAnother of those multi-purpose-posts.
This is for Brandy's prompt as well as for the ABC-challenge. Five pieces of Ryan fic than can, but don't absolutly have t go together. Angst, angst, Cohens+1, student!Ryan, hot!Ryan.
disclaimer: If I owned him, we wouldn’t know each other, because I don’t think I’d be willing to share.
AN: This is for the letter_love challenge, and also forbrandywine421 ’s writing prompt. Thanks to Brandy for beta reading the second and the fifth part and encouraging me to post what has to be the closest thing to smut I ever wrote (Though definitely not smut according to flist-standards. Still, you’ve got to start somewhere, right?) I'm afraid I stretched the definition of "moment" a little, especially with the last one. Also, I exceeded the word-limit by at least a hundred with each one. Who cares?
Q is for Questions
1.
Ryan looks at her and clenches his fists. It’s not the first time he has seen her like this, her face a mess of blue-purple-brown, dried blood caking in her hair and on her split lip. It’s not the first time, but it never gets easier and right now, he can’t remember it ever being this hard.
His nails are biting into his skin, probably drawing blood but he doesn’t care. The smell of disinfectant is ever present and increases the nausea that nearly overwhelmed him when he first saw her. He can still taste the bile in his mouth, mixing with the coppery tang of blood that is the result of his desperate need not to loose it.
The soft lifting of her chest every time she breathes in should be reassuring, but his eyes can’t stop focussing on anything but the white of the cast on her arm. White is supposed to be the colour of innocence. He reminds himself that it’s the weird light making it look grey.
The cheap linoleum squeaks when he turns around abruptly, not wanting to face her any more and therefore slightly grateful for the distraction provided by the clicking of the door being opened. The movement makes his ribs protest but he refuses to react visibly to the pain. Never show weakness to a stranger.
One look at the doctor that enters the room is enough to let Ryan know that this is nothing out of the ordinary to him. He watches the woman’s eyes focus on his face, which considering the constant throbbing has to be looking rather nasty and colourful as well. He doesn’t care, and he will not let her talk him into having it looked at. He is not the one who passed out, he doesn’t need medical attention. She seems to gather as much from his expression, if the resignation is any indication, and he represses a chuckle at the thought that at least the free clinic has the upside of people knowing when not to ask questions.
He lifts his defiantly, hoping that she also knows not to question the fact that the only one waiting for news is the patient’s fifteen-year-old. His eyes don’t even sting any more at the reminder that the day AJ moved in was the day Trey moved out. He swallows once; bile and blood still the dominant taste in his mouth.
“Will she be ok?”
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2.
Ryan hears the phone ring and quickly turns off his shower. The persistent shrilling noise causes him to hurry, sounding particularly loud after the strangely deafening effect of the scalding hot water splashing down onto his warm skin. Being careful not to slip on the tiles with his wet feet, he grabs a towel from the rack and slings it loosely around his hips. As always, the material is almost unnaturally soft, due to the amount of expensive fabric softener the Cohens use. He can feel how the drops of water running down his back get soaked up by it.
He opens the bathroom door, the clink warmed by the same fog that has condensated on the mirror, causing his image to be little more than a vague shape. The comparably cool night air in the poolhouse lets goosebumps rise on his still glistening skin, an effect heightened by the way his fast pace makes the air rush over him.
He reaches the phone with a couple of steps, pushing the green speak button and lifting it to his ear in one fluid motion. “Hello?”
There is no answer, the silence even more pronounced now that neither the shower nor the phone produce any sound. Ryan shifts his weight onto the other leg a little, the fabric of the towel sliding against the slightly tense muscles of his abdomen. “Hello?”
The person on the other line takes a deep breath, audibly trying to gather strength, though Ryan has no idea what for. “Hey man, how, ehrm, how are you?”
The voice is hesitant and has the roughness that comes from too many cigarettes in a row. The slight slur indicates a certain amount of alcohol intake. Ryan suddenly feels like he can’t breathe, the cold and the silence of the poolhouse multiplied tenfold, giving him an unknown feeling of claustrophobia despite all the glass and the fact that one of the windows is opened, allowing a soft breeze of salty ocean air into the room.
He knows that voice, has countless memories of that voice teasing him, yelling at him, comforting him, blaming him. Now he is the one to take a shuddering breath, gulping down fresh air in a desperate attempt to get a grip on himself. There is an invisible force pressing painfully against his ribs. He hasn’t heard that voice in almost a year.
“Trey?”
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3.
Ryan enjoys the short moment of silence, letting his eyes wander around the living room from his place on the comfy couch. He grins, remembering how Seth insisted that each of them has his own place on it, because it changed to fit them perfectly. Considering just how good he can relax here, Seth was probably right.
His eyes come to rest on the picture frames that are proudly displayed on the mantle, letting everyone know that this is the home of a family. He hasn’t believed in the term “perfect family” for quite some time, but family is at least half of that, right?
The sunlight reflects from the glass covering the picture of Kirsten and Sandy on their last anniversary, blinding him for a moment and forcing him to close his eyes. The warmth of the sun remains, reflected onto his face and soaking his back with comfort.
With his eyes closed, the smell of the fresh flowers Kirsten put everywhere is even stronger. She went all out in her insistence that their leaving is a new beginning that needs to be celebrated. Sandy had chuckled that she was overcompensating already, but Ryan is happy she is coping by redecorating. Not that he would ever say this out loud, just like he will never admit to anyone that he is secretly glad Marissa didn’t get into Berkeley.
He opens his eyes again, turning slightly to avoid the blinding reflection and gets a glimpse of one of the other pictures. He knows this one well, but looks again, secretly proud that his smile does not seem fake, even though nether Dawn nor Trey had made it to his graduation. When his brother had written to apologize and asked for a picture, this was the one he sent.
He should really get up and make himself useful, the dishes from the two-hour good bye brunch are still on the table as they ran late and had to hurry to get Seth and Summer to the airport, the smell of left-over bacon mixing with that of pancakes and waffles and the flowers. But it’ll be his turn soon, and he wants to take this moment.
The blond boy on those pictures doesn’t look like a kid from Chino who steals cars, not on first sight. But Ryan knows the kid is still there, and that actually makes all this even better.
Sandy comes in, interrupting his quiet contemplation. He looks at him as if somehow, he can see inside him and tell what he is thinking. He at least seems to be trying.
"You know we expect you back here soon; Thanksgiving at the latest, right?
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4.
The chair is hard and not particularly comfortable, but Ryan tries to relax as much as possible. He will be here a while.
The book in front of him seems impossibly thick, and the knowledge that for now, he doesn’t have to read everything does nothing to reassure him, as he will have to read the rest eventually. Despite the daunting task ahead of him, he can’t help but enjoy the feel of the pages as turns the, searching for the starting point. The unique smell of a new book has not passed yet, and neither has the mind-blowing quality of the fact that this is something he is studying to become an architect.
He starts taking notes, the pen scraping audibly against the paper. In the silence of the library, every sound seems to be multiplied. That’s why the chair beside him being drawn back loudly causes him to look up startled.
The girl sitting down beside him is in one of his math courses, but so far they haven’t talked to each other and this is the first time he sees her up close. Even from afar, he had been able to admire her petite, well-shaped body. No protruding bones are always good. Apparently, she has a beautiful face to go with it.
Her dark hair seems to shine and invokes the sudden urge to touch it and see if it feels as soft as it looks. Her lips are red with out any lipstick- at least he is pretty certain that she’s not wearing any. The most likeable feature, however, are the dimples on her cheeks. She looks like someone who loves to laugh.
“You don’t mind if I sit here, do you?” She sounds like it, too, a hint of joking in her voice.
She lifts her eyebrows questioningly, and there is a sparkle in her eyes that tells him he got caught staring. Slightly embarrassed, he just shakes his head.
She isn’t surrounded by the dominant smell of too much expensive perfume, something that Ryan has always appreciated, even more so after Marissa. Throwing a sideways glance at her, he sees that her dimples deepen when she grins, which she is doing. At him.
He can feel the heat of his cheeks darkening with the embarrassment of being found out yet again, but does not acknowledge the knowing glimmer of barely concealed amusement in her eyes. The sight of her unconsciously (is it unconsciously?) wetting her lips with her tongue really shouldn’t affect him like this. It’s been far to long.
“So, are you going to invite me out for coffee?”
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5.
Ryan runs his hand through her dark hair, feeling the tresses part to let him comb it with his fingers. Even in the dimly lit room, it seems as if her hair is shining, reflecting what little light the lamp on the bedside table offers. It’s not as if he really needs his eyes to know what he is doing.
She lifts her head to his, her slightly opened mouth giving him the only invitation he needs and he leans down, balancing his weight on his arms to keep from crushing her, and finds her lips with his. His mind is on overload, trying to take everything in at once. Her lips are even softer than her skin, meeting his without hesitation. She smells like chocolate, and when she opens her mouth a little wider, allowing his tong to enter and explore, he realizes that he can still taste the chocolate cake he baked for her.
A quiet little moan accompanies the movement of one of his hands towards her breasts, gaining in volume when he reaches his destination and exudes the pressure she seems to like. He enjoys the feel of it in his hand, the fullness and warmth.
They are still kissing hungrily when he feels the scrape of her perfectly manicured nails along his back, followed by the sensation of air on his skin when she pulls up his shirt. He sits back long enough for her to pull it of and then takes the opportunity to rid her of her own top. She mirrors his smile at the discovery that she isn’t wearing a bra.
When they lay down again, she is the one on top and he revels in the weight of her and the way she presses against him. Her breathing is as laboured as his, gushes of hot air across his skin.
He revels in the feel of her skin against his, without the barriers. She is soft everywhere, and the thin sheet of perspiration that both of them are covered with makes it even easier to glide against each other. He can taste it on her lips now, her taste now stronger than the chocolate.
The press of her leg against his groin becomes more insistent, the denim of his jeans not giving him nearly enough room. Her’s have to be just as uncomfortable now, if she is as sensitized as the mewing noises she gives off are making him believe.
He glides his hands down her sides, enjoying the fact that her ribs are far from prominent, and then lets them run down over the seam of her jeans. The material seems especially rough in contrast to the velvet of her hot skin. He takes a shuddering breath, forcing himself to ask the question that he feels he has to ask, despite not knowing what he will do if the answer is “No”. But they have only been going out for a couple of weeks, and his previous relationships have left him rather confused as to what the normal timing is. He doesn’t want to screw this up.
He hesitantly pulls away from the warmth of her mouth and meets her eyes. The desire and trust in them is an incredible turn on, the love he believes to see almost too much to comprehend.
“Are you sure?”
She lifts her eyebrows questioningly, creating the creases on her face that he always found inexplicably cute. It’s actually answer enough; he knows she doesn’t want to stop even before she says anything.
“That’s a rhetorical question, right?”
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Review? Please?
AN: This is for the letter_love challenge, and also for
brandywine421 ’s writing prompt. Thanks to Brandy for beta reading the second and the fifth part and encouraging me to post what has to be the closest thing to smut I ever wrote (Though definitely not smut according to flist-standards. Still, you’ve got to start somewhere, right?) I'm afraid I stretched the definition of "moment" a little, especially with the last one. Also, I exceeded the word-limit by at least a hundred with each one. Who cares?Q is for Questions
1.
Ryan looks at her and clenches his fists. It’s not the first time he has seen her like this, her face a mess of blue-purple-brown, dried blood caking in her hair and on her split lip. It’s not the first time, but it never gets easier and right now, he can’t remember it ever being this hard.
His nails are biting into his skin, probably drawing blood but he doesn’t care. The smell of disinfectant is ever present and increases the nausea that nearly overwhelmed him when he first saw her. He can still taste the bile in his mouth, mixing with the coppery tang of blood that is the result of his desperate need not to loose it.
The soft lifting of her chest every time she breathes in should be reassuring, but his eyes can’t stop focussing on anything but the white of the cast on her arm. White is supposed to be the colour of innocence. He reminds himself that it’s the weird light making it look grey.
The cheap linoleum squeaks when he turns around abruptly, not wanting to face her any more and therefore slightly grateful for the distraction provided by the clicking of the door being opened. The movement makes his ribs protest but he refuses to react visibly to the pain. Never show weakness to a stranger.
One look at the doctor that enters the room is enough to let Ryan know that this is nothing out of the ordinary to him. He watches the woman’s eyes focus on his face, which considering the constant throbbing has to be looking rather nasty and colourful as well. He doesn’t care, and he will not let her talk him into having it looked at. He is not the one who passed out, he doesn’t need medical attention. She seems to gather as much from his expression, if the resignation is any indication, and he represses a chuckle at the thought that at least the free clinic has the upside of people knowing when not to ask questions.
He lifts his defiantly, hoping that she also knows not to question the fact that the only one waiting for news is the patient’s fifteen-year-old. His eyes don’t even sting any more at the reminder that the day AJ moved in was the day Trey moved out. He swallows once; bile and blood still the dominant taste in his mouth.
“Will she be ok?”
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
2.
Ryan hears the phone ring and quickly turns off his shower. The persistent shrilling noise causes him to hurry, sounding particularly loud after the strangely deafening effect of the scalding hot water splashing down onto his warm skin. Being careful not to slip on the tiles with his wet feet, he grabs a towel from the rack and slings it loosely around his hips. As always, the material is almost unnaturally soft, due to the amount of expensive fabric softener the Cohens use. He can feel how the drops of water running down his back get soaked up by it.
He opens the bathroom door, the clink warmed by the same fog that has condensated on the mirror, causing his image to be little more than a vague shape. The comparably cool night air in the poolhouse lets goosebumps rise on his still glistening skin, an effect heightened by the way his fast pace makes the air rush over him.
He reaches the phone with a couple of steps, pushing the green speak button and lifting it to his ear in one fluid motion. “Hello?”
There is no answer, the silence even more pronounced now that neither the shower nor the phone produce any sound. Ryan shifts his weight onto the other leg a little, the fabric of the towel sliding against the slightly tense muscles of his abdomen. “Hello?”
The person on the other line takes a deep breath, audibly trying to gather strength, though Ryan has no idea what for. “Hey man, how, ehrm, how are you?”
The voice is hesitant and has the roughness that comes from too many cigarettes in a row. The slight slur indicates a certain amount of alcohol intake. Ryan suddenly feels like he can’t breathe, the cold and the silence of the poolhouse multiplied tenfold, giving him an unknown feeling of claustrophobia despite all the glass and the fact that one of the windows is opened, allowing a soft breeze of salty ocean air into the room.
He knows that voice, has countless memories of that voice teasing him, yelling at him, comforting him, blaming him. Now he is the one to take a shuddering breath, gulping down fresh air in a desperate attempt to get a grip on himself. There is an invisible force pressing painfully against his ribs. He hasn’t heard that voice in almost a year.
“Trey?”
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
3.
Ryan enjoys the short moment of silence, letting his eyes wander around the living room from his place on the comfy couch. He grins, remembering how Seth insisted that each of them has his own place on it, because it changed to fit them perfectly. Considering just how good he can relax here, Seth was probably right.
His eyes come to rest on the picture frames that are proudly displayed on the mantle, letting everyone know that this is the home of a family. He hasn’t believed in the term “perfect family” for quite some time, but family is at least half of that, right?
The sunlight reflects from the glass covering the picture of Kirsten and Sandy on their last anniversary, blinding him for a moment and forcing him to close his eyes. The warmth of the sun remains, reflected onto his face and soaking his back with comfort.
With his eyes closed, the smell of the fresh flowers Kirsten put everywhere is even stronger. She went all out in her insistence that their leaving is a new beginning that needs to be celebrated. Sandy had chuckled that she was overcompensating already, but Ryan is happy she is coping by redecorating. Not that he would ever say this out loud, just like he will never admit to anyone that he is secretly glad Marissa didn’t get into Berkeley.
He opens his eyes again, turning slightly to avoid the blinding reflection and gets a glimpse of one of the other pictures. He knows this one well, but looks again, secretly proud that his smile does not seem fake, even though nether Dawn nor Trey had made it to his graduation. When his brother had written to apologize and asked for a picture, this was the one he sent.
He should really get up and make himself useful, the dishes from the two-hour good bye brunch are still on the table as they ran late and had to hurry to get Seth and Summer to the airport, the smell of left-over bacon mixing with that of pancakes and waffles and the flowers. But it’ll be his turn soon, and he wants to take this moment.
The blond boy on those pictures doesn’t look like a kid from Chino who steals cars, not on first sight. But Ryan knows the kid is still there, and that actually makes all this even better.
Sandy comes in, interrupting his quiet contemplation. He looks at him as if somehow, he can see inside him and tell what he is thinking. He at least seems to be trying.
"You know we expect you back here soon; Thanksgiving at the latest, right?
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
4.
The chair is hard and not particularly comfortable, but Ryan tries to relax as much as possible. He will be here a while.
The book in front of him seems impossibly thick, and the knowledge that for now, he doesn’t have to read everything does nothing to reassure him, as he will have to read the rest eventually. Despite the daunting task ahead of him, he can’t help but enjoy the feel of the pages as turns the, searching for the starting point. The unique smell of a new book has not passed yet, and neither has the mind-blowing quality of the fact that this is something he is studying to become an architect.
He starts taking notes, the pen scraping audibly against the paper. In the silence of the library, every sound seems to be multiplied. That’s why the chair beside him being drawn back loudly causes him to look up startled.
The girl sitting down beside him is in one of his math courses, but so far they haven’t talked to each other and this is the first time he sees her up close. Even from afar, he had been able to admire her petite, well-shaped body. No protruding bones are always good. Apparently, she has a beautiful face to go with it.
Her dark hair seems to shine and invokes the sudden urge to touch it and see if it feels as soft as it looks. Her lips are red with out any lipstick- at least he is pretty certain that she’s not wearing any. The most likeable feature, however, are the dimples on her cheeks. She looks like someone who loves to laugh.
“You don’t mind if I sit here, do you?” She sounds like it, too, a hint of joking in her voice.
She lifts her eyebrows questioningly, and there is a sparkle in her eyes that tells him he got caught staring. Slightly embarrassed, he just shakes his head.
She isn’t surrounded by the dominant smell of too much expensive perfume, something that Ryan has always appreciated, even more so after Marissa. Throwing a sideways glance at her, he sees that her dimples deepen when she grins, which she is doing. At him.
He can feel the heat of his cheeks darkening with the embarrassment of being found out yet again, but does not acknowledge the knowing glimmer of barely concealed amusement in her eyes. The sight of her unconsciously (is it unconsciously?) wetting her lips with her tongue really shouldn’t affect him like this. It’s been far to long.
“So, are you going to invite me out for coffee?”
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
5.
Ryan runs his hand through her dark hair, feeling the tresses part to let him comb it with his fingers. Even in the dimly lit room, it seems as if her hair is shining, reflecting what little light the lamp on the bedside table offers. It’s not as if he really needs his eyes to know what he is doing.
She lifts her head to his, her slightly opened mouth giving him the only invitation he needs and he leans down, balancing his weight on his arms to keep from crushing her, and finds her lips with his. His mind is on overload, trying to take everything in at once. Her lips are even softer than her skin, meeting his without hesitation. She smells like chocolate, and when she opens her mouth a little wider, allowing his tong to enter and explore, he realizes that he can still taste the chocolate cake he baked for her.
A quiet little moan accompanies the movement of one of his hands towards her breasts, gaining in volume when he reaches his destination and exudes the pressure she seems to like. He enjoys the feel of it in his hand, the fullness and warmth.
They are still kissing hungrily when he feels the scrape of her perfectly manicured nails along his back, followed by the sensation of air on his skin when she pulls up his shirt. He sits back long enough for her to pull it of and then takes the opportunity to rid her of her own top. She mirrors his smile at the discovery that she isn’t wearing a bra.
When they lay down again, she is the one on top and he revels in the weight of her and the way she presses against him. Her breathing is as laboured as his, gushes of hot air across his skin.
He revels in the feel of her skin against his, without the barriers. She is soft everywhere, and the thin sheet of perspiration that both of them are covered with makes it even easier to glide against each other. He can taste it on her lips now, her taste now stronger than the chocolate.
The press of her leg against his groin becomes more insistent, the denim of his jeans not giving him nearly enough room. Her’s have to be just as uncomfortable now, if she is as sensitized as the mewing noises she gives off are making him believe.
He glides his hands down her sides, enjoying the fact that her ribs are far from prominent, and then lets them run down over the seam of her jeans. The material seems especially rough in contrast to the velvet of her hot skin. He takes a shuddering breath, forcing himself to ask the question that he feels he has to ask, despite not knowing what he will do if the answer is “No”. But they have only been going out for a couple of weeks, and his previous relationships have left him rather confused as to what the normal timing is. He doesn’t want to screw this up.
He hesitantly pulls away from the warmth of her mouth and meets her eyes. The desire and trust in them is an incredible turn on, the love he believes to see almost too much to comprehend.
“Are you sure?”
She lifts her eyebrows questioningly, creating the creases on her face that he always found inexplicably cute. It’s actually answer enough; he knows she doesn’t want to stop even before she says anything.
“That’s a rhetorical question, right?”
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Review? Please?
