This is my first slash story. *sigh* I tried. It's a Tryan, and they are OOC too some extent. I see this as the other side of Troy. Haha. Enjoy.
Life is just fucking awesome. In fact, your life is so fucking awesome that you need something else to take your mind off of how fucking awesome your life is. You pace in the locker room, the sweat from a hard day's worth of practice creating a suction that glues your jersey to your body. Your hair is a disarray, and you've fingered your hair more times than you can count.
You snicker to yourself when the word fingered pops up unexpectedly in your vocabulary. Your light laughter echoes in the spacious room.
You're such a dirty bastard, and you take pride in that.
Now, that's just fucking hilarious. Despite your parents getting married eleven months after a quick fuck and your two-month-old-birthday, you're still a bastard. Your wonderful bowl of vocabulary is like the whip cream crumbled with those dirty mini oreos on top of that steaming hot apple pie your mother worked her ass off to cook.
When the whip cream will begin to melt because of that searing pie, you and the cream-of-the-whipped will become one in the same: bastards. Life is so beautiful…so tantalizing, you could dry hump it without a second thought—in the metaphorical sense, of course.
Practice has been over, and you've told your dad that you preferred to walk home just because. You can't stand your father's breathing pattern. Of course, the dislike is quite anal, now that you think about it. A wiry smirk snakes its way upon your face, and it gradually turns into a full blown smile. Damn you and your clever mind.
It's aggravating. That bitch—known as Sharpay Evans—just keeps Ryan cornered like he's some forgotten extra. Never before have you had this much pent up anger—hatred—at a girl. The cunt brought it on herself, you think bitterly as your resentment for her intrudes on your thoughts of her twin.
You're hard now. The bulging sword downstairs pulsates with a longing when you imagine the delicate Ryan Evans trapped in a corner by you. It's blissful because in the heat of your thoughts, you're interrupted by black leather shoes—completely out of place on a weekday for the locker room—followed by lavender cuffed pants.
You release an exasperated sigh because you just know that your unrequited lover is going to dazzle you with his outfit of choice today. Now you sound like a fucking love struck teenager off of Twilight because that's just what you are. Love-stoned.
"Hey… Bolton!" Ryan calls as he steps into your full view. Oh, God, the man is beautiful. His bold-ass yellow shirt momentarily blinds you, but it's okay because you know you look sexy when you squint. You cocky son of a bitch. Ryan had the nerve to add a violet hat thingy on his head that just made you want to take him right there in the locker room.
And so you did.
You shoved Ryan against the crimson midget lockers and pressed your lips on his angular jaw. While one hand was keeping him pinned to the lockers, your other hand was busy rudely discarding the thingy atop his head and forcefully running your fingers through his brilliantly blonde hair.
You both slid to the cold, tiled floor in one fluid movement, and from then on, your make-out session with the guy you often masturbated to…in the dark night of your room. Fuck the Montez chick and everyone else who never would have assumed you were gay. Let them fuck each other while you took on your prey.
It was all so quick.
It happened so fast, Ryan was stunned that you had the audacity to do this to him. He couldn't gather enough words to express how he felt. Ryan was so stunned, he had a celebratory release in his pants.
Ryan had willingly ripped the buttons of his shirt off, exposing a pale-as-hell torso. It didn't matter to you. He was obviously going along with your spontaneous stunt. Maybe he felt the same way.
Now you couldn't call yourself the desperate unrequited lover anymore. Such a damn shame.
He gasped when he was caught off guard by you attaching their lips together. The momentary opening in his mouth was long enough for you to make the split decision to slide your tongue into his mouth. Almost awkwardly, you took notice that Ryan's breath resembled those cinnamon Altoids. Hell yes.
You straddled Ryan and drug your member—still fully clothed, of course—across his now bare chest. Ryan's hips bucked happily at the slight touch of your erect penis, and you gazed at his half-lidded eyes.
"I love you," you huskily murmur against his ear. You don't mean it. The only people you "love" (as far as a four letter word can stretch) are your parents, and you doubt that it's truly love. You'd like to think of it as immense appreciation for your life. Not love.
His eyes widen in shock, and you hear him stutter, "I—I love you too." His tone is a high pitched whisper, and, God, he just sounds so fucking vulnerable and innocent.
You can't take his naïve perspective from him—even though you're both several months into being seventeen. You're just so fucking advanced. You don't take pride in that.
Grade 'A' whore without getting the 'A' grades. Damn it all.
Your muscular arms find themselves on opposite sides of Ryan's head. Your palms ground themselves into the rigid tiled floor, and you slothfully inch your head closer to his. Your hair limply falls into your line of vision, and you move it out of your way with a simple flip—almost twitch—of your neck.
Your lips crash onto his, and you suck his bottom lip almost pleadingly. You don't want to stop, but you know that it's for the best if you do. It's a battle of the tongues, and you can tell that Ryan is getting into it. Too bad you're going to have to stop so soon.
After counting a sixty-nine seconds internally, your mouth pops off of his, and you stare down, longingly, at his swollen pink lips.
"Ugh," you groan aloud, "Ryan, God, I can't do this…at least, not now." You cautiously ease yourself off of him, and just sit on the floor, facing him.
"It was unexpected," he began uneasily, "but it was quite enjoyable nonetheless. Who knew Troy Bolton was gay?"
Dumb fuck, you think crossly, don't ask me a question about myself. Obviously, I know the answer. Your eyebrow furrows, and you squint your eyes in that sexy (you think) fashion.
"Well, don't tell anyone, okay?" you snap at him. You take your hand and push back the hair that has fallen into your face.
He nods and gives you a careful smile. "You're a good fuck buddy, Troy. See you tomorrow," Ryan states nonchalantly as he picks up his violet thingy and proceeds to straighten out his slightly wrinkled shirt and pants. He pats his clothes a couple of times to get off any unwanted dust. With that, Ryan turns on the balls of his feet, gives a slight wave, and exits the locker rooms without sparing a glace back.
Shit, you think. You're right back where you started: sweaty, an unrequited lover, with one hell of a pulsating erection. Fuck you, Ryan Evans.
Oh, gosh, how was it? I tried to make it not so cliche and cheesy...more humorous, but my humour is dry. I'm sorry.
Would you mind reviewing?
I appreciate you reading this! Thank you so much!
-Jia Marie