This is actually the way my brain works.

[linzeestyle]

rain_dances posted this picture on her friendslist:



Because my brain does not function like a normal person's, this was the end thought of a series of thoughts that the picture set off:

If I wrote a drabble tonight where Ryan Ross masturbated while fantasizing about John McCain, do you think I'd have any friends when I woke up tomorrow morning?

...it's probably better I don't find out the answer to that.

ETA:

I am so, so sorry.

Ryan frowns and sets his book on his stomach, shifting a little. His hand drops to the waistband of his boxers and fuck, his usual jerk-off material just seems kind of dull tonight. Oh well; he's a guy, he can deal with this. He clears his mind, content to let it wander where it may.

This package has transparency in it. It has to have accountability and oversight. It has to have options for...

Ryan's eyes snap open because jesus fucking hell, what? Seriously, he lets his mind wander and the best it can end on is politics? Not even like, sexy politics. John McCain politics. If Ryan's unconscious was going to bring him a Maverick, he'd really prefer it be James Garner. Ryan always wanted to go through a Western phase. John McCain...is not James Garner. He's not even like, Mel Gibson. Also, he's kind of old.

Ryan's hand stays in his pants.

Foreign policy, huh. Or oh, man, economy. Ryan stares at the ceiling and grips his cock loosely, jerking in lazy counter-rhythm to the ceiling fan and the batting of his half-lidded eyes. It's not...not-working, Ryan guesses; he is sorta hard. Maybe he'll suspend his campaign for a pie-eating contest, his somewhat-creepy brain continues; Ryan settles further into his pillows and thumbs a line down the vein on the underside of his dick. Didn't I see that on Saturday Night Live?

"Actually yeah," Ryan says out loud to no one in particular, twisting his hand in earnest. His hips are moving now, getting into the action, and this is probably one of those masturbatory things he's going to look back on and pretend didn't happen later, but shit, for the time being, there's not much else to do right now. It feels good, breaks his voice off on a breathy sigh and he'd probably have to kill anyone if they actually heard him make that noise; fortunately Hobo's in the other room, so Ryan's feeling pretty secure right now. Something about being naked, too. And Ryan really doesn't want to think about the fact that transparent body stockings combined with the oldest presidential candidate (like, ever) actually get him off, but another couple of thrusts and he's coming in his palm, semen coating his hand and sliding down onto his boxers and leaving him panting and boneless against a huge mound of pillows.

"I," he says again to the ceiling fan and whoever's listening, "would so not have sex with John McCain."

As if begging to differ, his cell phone rings. Ryan wipes his hand daintily on his comforter and picks up on the third ring. On the other end of the phone, Pete's voice is breathy and rough.

"You've totally been jerking off," Ryan sighs into the speaker. Pete laughs in response.

"So have you. I have ways, Ross. I know this."

"So do I Wentz. Or oh, wait, that's just you getting a hard-on every time your boycrush gets on-stage."

"Oh man, did you see him tonight? He totally owned. I would hit that so hard Ryan Rossy. So hard. I met him at a fundraiser once. He touched me. Not like, sexually, but still. It was hot." There's a pause, like there always is when Pete is coming down from a fanboy moment, and then:

"So what got you all excited?"

"I'm pretty sure you can guess," Ryan coos, fairly confident Pete never, ever will.

Linzee