They kissed hard against the front door, Bob’s back accidentally slamming a little painfully against the flat surface as Kevin lifted his hips and pressed their crotches together, squeezed one of the ginger’s covered thighs, whispered a faint ‘come here’ inside his mouth. Bob pushed his tongue in a demanding way against Kevin’s and it was just like he was trying to tell him something he himself struggled to, like the almost four months they didn’t see each other drove him a little bit mad but he wouldn’t admit that just as easy as it was to unzip Kevin’s jeans to hurry him up.
Bob could care about all sorts of things. About the thin walls he shared with the neighbors. About the wide open window of the small living room. About Connor who was in his room and could get out from there to grab some milk or something like that. The only thing he could care about in that moment, though, was that Kevin wasn’t close enough, not nearly enough, and even though his cock was trapped between their bellies, even if he could feel the heat of their flesh slamming loud and sweaty, Bob wrapped his legs tighter and tighter around him, ankles crossed behind Kevin’s back as he tried to pull him closer despite it being physically impossible.
“Come on, fuck—” Bob moaned, tilting his head back as Kevin mouthed his throat, the side of his neck. “Harder, Marley- like you mean it—”
And the next thrust made all his body shake, limbs losing balance in such a way he had to clutch Kevin’s shoulders. All his insides quivered and tightened as a reflex of the maybe too reckless rhythm and God, he liked it.
“Better?” Kevin asked, voice a little strangled and huskier, heels almost not touching the floor when he aimed for a deeper angle. He exhaled heavily when he felt Bob’s hands creeping over his back, when he felt the tight, trembling grip of one of them on his ass when he bucked his hips forward just like he, too, thought they weren’t close enough, not nearly.
“Yes. Yes.” His head was a blur. He thought he heard the click of a door knob. He didn’t care.
Bob was already forgetting how it was. The feeling of Kevin’s lean, careful fingers, his mouth that sucked on all the right places, the obnoxious way Kevin sometimes would look at him with eyes which sought for approval of the next touch, of the next leap of bare naked desire he had, as if for a moment he unlearned everything about not needing to hold back when he just didn’t want to.
“Damn it, Marley—fuck, Kevin” His lips were against the his temple, breath damp and heavy. He did the best he could to draw air into his lungs, whimpered something a little incomprehensible, trying to form words as he stroke his lips against his skin.
“I know” Kevin said, leveling his eyes to meet Bob’s, lips almost touching now. He cupped the right side of Bob’s ass and gave it a familiar squeeze, looking at him with that almost sheepish eyes of his. There was some sort of recognition on them. “I know.”
The window was open and the walls were thin and Connor could burst in anytime and Bob could thought he should care about all that in that moment.
He just didn’t.
When he enters the bar, everybody there looks at him for a quick moment. He is almost used to it by now – to people’s stare –, and it doesn’t bothers him anymore. He knows they are not looking at him because of his looks or anything. This is his right leg’s fault. And just because of it people look at him. He thinks that, during any other time, it would pass unnoticed. He’d be just a crippled as many other ones around. No one would even wonder why he limps as he walks. It could just be because he was born this way. He could have fallen off a horse when he was a kid. He could have got an illness that affected the movements of his body. It wasn’t something uncommon. People often don’t care about that and take care of their own business.
At times of war, however, people learn a bad leg is not bad because of an ordinary episode. It would be too much of a broken hope.
Kevin knows naivety isn’t something you can afford to have.
I love this honest, gorgeous eyes of his. It’s just— I can’t even—
He heard it when Bob shouted a ‘fucking Jesus—!’ as soon as he turned the shower on. He kept hearing the annoyed swearing of the redhead under the sound of the water. Bob sounded obviously pissed.
He was still trying to guess which fourteen letters word was to fit in the last item of his crossword magazine when Bob bursts out from the bathroom, all wet and trembling from head to toe. Bob looks obviously displeased, pursing his almost blue lips, tight grip on his white towel. When he is about to open his mouth to say the heater broke this afternoon and he is sorry for having forgotten to tell him that, that he was just so busy checking the last restaurant’s expenses that he couldn’t remember to tell, Bob throws himself at him, limbs all over, and the ginger’s skin feels so cold against his that he himself shivers from the thermal shock.
“I’m sorry”. He says, moving his magazine away so it won’t get wet. Bob tightens the grip of his thigh around his waist, naked from hips to feet, towel around his back and shoulders. “I forgot to tell you. I was—”
“Shut up, Marley.” Bob mumbles, placing his freezing lips against Kevin’s neck. It slowly starts to feel warm against his skin, despite the initial coldness. The redhead curls himself better over him, until he seizes all of Kevin, like he is his own particular pillow. “I’m cold.”
Bob is still complaining, mouth moving against his skin, hands gripping his arms and chest, making him almost as wet. He doesn’t mind, though. He brushes his fingers on Bob’s red hair and just shuts up.
Just because I’ve read this again and thought it was too worth reading to not post it.
(Written by sleepyshell and I)
Truth is Bob likes New York City, but everything there is too different from where he used to live, from the places to the people. Mostly the people. They don’t quite seem to care about others. And it’s not about the fact that they don’t find time to help strangers on the street. They literally don’t seem to give a fuck to what others will think about what they are and what they do.
It really came to Bob as a shock when he saw two men holding hands in a little restaurant he went to have lunch. They weren’t doing anything else besides that. No kissing or hugging or cuddling. Even so, it made his cheeks get a little heated up. They were in public, how could they? He looked around and no one seemed to really pay attention to that gesture. Bob thought it was strange. Just boys and girls do this kind of thing back at home. It’s not like there aren’t gay couples there, but it’s not like they can do this so freely. People send disgusted looks. People tell them to get the fuck out and get fixed. People don’t like it. People care too much.
He thought they shouldn’t be doing this so carelessly in front of others. It’s the kind of thing he always believed the likes of them should feel ashamed of. The likes of him.
Bob felt badly self-conscious when he found himself thinking about Kevin’s warm hand against his own, thinking that maybe, just maybe, when he came to New York—
He drank all his juice in a single gulp and cursed himself for being such an girl. New York was really messing with his head.
Bob is always paying attention to the way one of the guys in his class chews on his yellow pencil. The fact his classmate does that was one of the first things he ever noticed about him. Some people think it is kind of a disgusting habit, but he does have no opinion about that. He just observes. Math classes are boring - and who needs logarithms anyway - so Bob looks at the guy’s pencil chewing. He doesn’t think about it. Just looks at it.
His classmate is doing that right now, the ginger notices. Head resting on his hand, eyes focused on some math problem on the book. Bob knows it is a difficult one. It’s the way his classmate bites the pencil’s eraser. Not constantly, not rushing. He’s thinking about the problem. He’s thinking of what he can do to solve this. Then he bites a little strongly, lips wondering around the already damaged surface of the pencil. He’s upset. He’s upset because he can’t figure it out. He keeps like that until his teeth are firmly holding the edge of the yellow pencil and it means he thought about something— yeah. That’s it. He thought about a solution to the problem because now he’s almost playing with it, scratching the yellow part of the pencil with his upper teeth. He always does that when he knows what to do next. And just like that, as soon as Bob thinks about it, his classmate takes the object from his mouth and leans closer to his book, now too busy working on the solution he just pulled off.
It makes Bob realize he knows too much. Just for looking at the ways that guy chews on his pencil.
This is bad, he thinks and looks away, eyes staring at the soccer field through the window. This is bad.