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bigfoot hunting on the farm

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Ryan was still upset with Shane.

It had been two days since the hayloft incident and everytime Shane tried to bring it up, Ryan shut him down just as fast.

The green light that had filled the loft had scared and excited Ryan terribly, jumping up and exclaiming wildly that for once he was right about something, looking like a miner who just struck gold, was not what Ryan thought it was.

Shane, however, knowing exactly what it was, keeled over with laughter and wiped the tears from his eyes, and once he regained himself, walked swiftly to the light and plucked it from the ground like an apple.

Ryan stopped his gyrating.

It had been a Skyball, green with lights in it that lit up when hit hard enough, that a kid had with him during a tour Shane was giving, a birthday party event that would end with petting the goats. The kid had slammed it against one of the wooden walls and it went flying, getting lodged in a rafter; Shane was relieved, the kid was a brat, and now he didn’t have to worry about being pelted in the back of the head while he tried to do his job.

It had fallen down, triggering the lights, and Ryan had assumed it was the aliens he had seen.

Shane giggled wildly.

Ryan scowled and went, silently, over to the camera to disassemble the tripod and head into the house.

 

 

It was noontime of the 2nd day, Shane was in the kitchen, uncharacteristically making salad while watching Ryan from the window over the sink. He was tending their garden, knelt down in worn overalls, spreading fresh mulch around the edges.

Shane made lemonade, mixing in extra sugar like Ryan liked. He’d set everything up on the table, salad and lemonade, and oatmeal cookies, soon, once they were done, and call Ryan in. Cooking was one of his favorite forms of nonsexual intamcy, he liked to cook for Ryan and see his face light up at the gesture.

If he had had rose petals to spread on the table top, he would’ve.

 

 

Shane called Ryan in from the front door and Ryan came on in, peeling off his dirty gloves and hanging them on a white rack meant for hats.

He smiled, still standing in the mudroom, having noticed the set up, and Shane’s heart blossomed. He had missed that smile, big and toothy.

“All this for me?” Ryan asked, fluttering his eyelashes overdramatically. He looked like he belonged on a soap opera.

“All this for you, Ryan Bergara, one and only,” Shane answered. He was drying his hands on a hand towel with a rooster printed on it, wringing it over and over more times than needed. A weird anticipation.

Ryan sat and sipped his drink first, thirsty from being hunched over in the sun, from hauling wheelbarrows of bright red mulch to and from the storage shed. He wrinkled his nose, delighted at the taste, and full on beamed at his husband.

“Is this your way of seducing men? Cooking for them?” Ryan teased, wedging half a cookie into his mouth.

Shane nodded and smiled, like suddenly he was bashful.

Swallowing, Ryan added, “Or maybe-maybe you get off on this… You like feeding boys for-for some kinda fetish, huh?”

Shane scoffed, rolled his eyes, still twisting the hand towel into rat tails. “Yeah, that’s my kink, no doubt. I’m overwhelmingly aroused right now, watching you coat yourself in a cascade of cookie crumbs.”

“Nice alliteration, asshole.”

Ryan finished his cookie, took another big gulp of lemonade, then looked up at Shane and waved him over, pulling out a chair next to him. “Don’t just watch, then I’ll really think it’s your kink.”

Shane set the hand towel on the sink and sat next to his husband, his knees pulled up and in so they almost touched the bottom of the table. In all honesty, he really did like to just watch Ryan eat what he had made. It felt weird to be at the table with him.

Ryan crunched his salad, eating the crooked cucumber slices first, grown from their garden.

Shane poured a glass of lemonade for himself and cradled it in his hands.

“What’re ya thinkin’ about, Big Guy?” Ryan asked with a small, wiry smile.

“That we should go Bigfoot hunting sometime; see if he camps out on our property.”

“So aliens are all hocus pocus bullshit, but Bigfoot, Bigfoot, is plausible…,” Ryan stated slowly.

Shane shrugged. “Hair samples and footprints are plausible, dude. Shitty footage that is seldom ever proved real? Just sliiiightly less so…”

 

 

It was night and Ryan was showering down the hall, the door to the bathroom and bedroom both left open so him and Shane could talk.

“Also, back to the Bigfoot idea,” Shane called out, looking through dresser drawers for a clean towel.

Ryan groaned comically then let out a laugh, the water drowning out his voice just a bit. “What about it? Finally come to your-come to your senses that it’s bullshit?” Ryan called back.

Shane went down the hall, a towel holstered over his shoulder, and into the bathroom, plumes of steam rising from under the shower curtain. “No, I was just considering what to bring along, ya know, like, flashlights, water bottles, condoms, if need be.”

Ryan exploded with laughter and there was a heavy thud, like he had launched a shampoo bottle at top speed (more likely it had slipped from his hands). “You’re implying y-you’re gonna fuck Bigfoot or fuck me while Bigfoot hunting…,” he started, wheezing between every other word.

“Whatever happens, happens, darling,” Shane interrupted. He shimmied out of his jeans, peeled off his shirt, letting them sit in a heap with Ryan’s discarded clothes.

Shane pulled back the curtain and Ryan, unabashedly, smiled at his husband, his wet hair flopping into his eyes in dark waves, and Shane stepped in, his hand taking place on Ryan’s bare shoulder.

The laughter they were sharing had slowed, but the same sense of happiness, the general contentment and comfortability still persisted, in the air.
Ryan slotted his body against Shane’s, back pressed to his front, Shane trailing kisses from his neck to his shoulders, arms slung around Ryan’s stomach.

“You’re gonna waste all the hot water,” Ryan whispered, teasingly, “if you stand here kissing me instead of getting washed up.”

Shane chuckled, pressed another painfully soft kiss to Ryan’s neck, and muttered, “Maybe the idea is to get dirty in here.”

“Oh, is it, Big Guy? No dice with me tonight, not when you’re secretly thinking about Bigfoot the whole time.”

Shane tried to swallow a giggle and failed, imagining the pure look of horror he’d receive if he made the Bigfoot mating call while feeling Ryan up. What a horrible way to kill Ryan’s boner. What a creative way to spend the night alone on the couch.

“Jeez, Ryan, jealous much? Bigfoot and I, for your information, are just friends.”

Ryan turned and faced his husband, the water hitting his back now in thick jets, getting a fine mist to rise between their faces, speckling their skin with small droplets.
Something about it was weirdly intimate, much more so than what it was before, charged with this sexual power that hadn’t been present moments ago.

Shane licked his lips.

Ryan, in response to this, slightly hard and hoping it wasn’t too noticable, swallowed.

Shane leaned in, swooping his head down at an angle, and pressed his lips to Ryan’s neck, soft as satin, then, without warning, blew air out, blowing raspberries against him, and Ryan spasmed wildly, throwing his arms at Shane and erupting with shrieks.

The water was turned off and they both stepped out, once Ryan was done trying to shove Shane, which was the equivalent of him trying to move a mountain. Even with strong, hay baling arms, Shane was an immovable object.

They dried off, shared a few kisses (or maybe more), pulled on some boxers, and crawled into bed together.

Ryan rested his head on Shane’s bare chest, seeming to have completely forgot about the hayloft alien incident, and asked, “Tomorrow?”

Shane made an intrigued hum. “Tomorrow?” he echoed.

“I’ll go Bigfoot hunting with you tomorrow.”