[bob takes longer than usual to respond, and corry isn't usually bothered, but -- there's half a dozen empty fifth in the trash that have sanded away his careful edges, and he sits on the edge of the bed and scrolls back through what he'd revealed, and it's -- fucking terrifying, actually, because that's half his life someone else knows. but there's no backtracking, not now.
and then bob is so -- bob about it, baffled at the concept of his own effect, and corry knows damn well everyone feels it, everyone can see it. bob can't, he's the only one, the emptiness that lives inside him eating up anything good, an endless hungry mouth. a mouth sated, for the moment, only temporarily banished. and maybe corry’s selfish, but he thinks of sprawling sleepy-limbed and warm, one hand tucked up under bob’s shirt, absently petting along his spine while something mindless plays on the fuck-off-huge television, and he craves it like water, like rest.]
Hm. Never seen that, y'know. You've never made shit worse for me. One of the very few parts of this place I like.
[you, i like you.
corry flops back onto the bed, the unmade sheets, one arm slung above his head and his mouth is tucked into that sleepy-eyed smile and -- so what? who's watching that he gives a shit about?]
Make you watch reruns of Law and Order. Criminal Minds, maybe. You ever seen Breaking Bad? I'd say Monopoly, but I'm an asshole when I play board games.
[ reading corry’s messages makes him ache. a good-pain, workout-worn kind of feeling. you’ve never made shit worse for me, a gift, blinking up at him. bob arcs his thumb over the message, waiting for it to disappear.
he supposes that even when the void had drawn out corry’s worst memories, he hadn’t pulled away. not for long. ]
hey i’m not arguing with the guy describing my ideal night i like being around you too even more now than i did before
[ because corry has revealed more of himself, his thoughts, his hurts since they met. ]
[there's a balancing act, the very real potential that bob could (when he's himself again) pull out the shit that's even worse than father, missouri winter, five years in grimy motel beds, a man clawing his own throat bloody and dying in agony. there's another almost twenty years to account for, and corry doesn't come out nearly as sympathetic there. it weighs against the heated nights in saltburnt, the sex and the submission and the meeting of jagged edges like putting the last piece of the puzzle on place.
when corry’s alone, dark thoughts and silent phone, he thinks about the inevitable moment when bob pulls away, when it's too much. when he's here, messages and promises and i like being around you he can almost delude himself into believing it won't matter. that all the blood on his hands won't make a difference. you get it to a madman sounds like you can't drive me away, if he listens just right.]
Cable procedurals and room service are your ideal night in? Keep talking dirty to me, baby, damn.
Yeah. So. How long is your shift again? Cause I'm not opposed to throwing gold privilege around. Carry you outta the mines if I gotta. Over my shoulder.
[ and bob would feel Normal about it, thank you. ]
a few more hours so keep hitting that request button and see if it gets me outta here early i’ll come straight there
[ and he will, unbothered about things like, well, things when he can throw something of corry’s on for twice the comfort, if needed (probably needed, given everything, though less so when he has the real deal wrapped around him, fingers splayed under his shirt or tangling in the short hair at the nape of his neck). it’s that contact he’s after now, curls strung out, eyes shadowed because they can be, for the first time in months — tired lines in place of perfect, unblemished skin. and yet the whole of him, from his weary features to his hunched shoulders, lifts when corry opens the door.
bob reaches for him without hesitation for the second time that month, an instinct driven more by the assurance corry offers than an innate confidence. he slips through the door quick, tugged shut behind him in favour of what little privacy remains, so he bumps up against corry immediately, hands on his shoulders, then bracketing his throat. no longer dangerous, meant only for this, thumbs stroking along the sharp angles of his jaw. wonder keeps his eyes wide, even as they dart up, around, checking corry for injury (or, perhaps, for proof of what he claims — that bob makes things better for him, when he can’t hear his heartbeat to know it for certain). ]
Hey. [ softly startled, as ever, by his own boldness and corry’s presence both, pressing him into the door. familiar warmth crinkles the corners of his mouth, though there’s heat simmering low, too. there always is, with corry. ]
[like corry is, self-indulgent fantasies painted in romcom-technicolor, officer and a gentleman, maybe a touch of possessiveness in the idea of sweeping bob up and physically carrying him away. very primal caveman of him, enough to prompt a huffing laugh, a thumbs up to the last suggestion -- then corry's swiping over to voyeur, to bob's page, obligingly starting to tap at the request button. he'll crash the damn app if he's gotta.
cause there's still too much time before bob's in his doorway, in his room, and it's time that has new tightness around his mouth, his brow, weariness and stress and corry's pissed off at him all over again for dropping, because bronze is gonna be brutal if he doesn't have that invincible stamina back. corry hears the click, the close of the door, gladly moves forward, crowds bob up against the door and tips his head down. bad angle, uninteresting, though he's sure the cameras will linger until it's clear they're not about to rip each other's clothes off.
which -- always there, always on a low murmur in the back of corry's mind, like a sweet sort of ache, imagining just that, maybe up against the door, arms under bob's knees, bending him in half like that first night, flushed and blushing and pinned and taking corry inside him. it'll never not be like that, corry imagines, smiling at bob's hands on his shoulders, his neck, bob's big eyes scanning his face.
but, the priority:] Hey, handsome. [murmured, corry reaching up to cover one of bob's hands with his own, holding still so he can turn and press a kiss against the cup of a palm. murmuring into it:] How're you doin'? [the drawl is deeper now, and corry's eyes are bloodshot and deeply shadowed, strain and exhaustion writ all over his face. still: he kisses bob's wrist, drops his hand, slips both arms around him, tugging him closer.]
Silver treatin' you all right? [tugtug, until bob's held against his chest, a full-body, broad-shouldered, thick-armed embrace that corry insists upon, resting his chin on top of messy curls with a sigh that comes from deep in his chest.] Nobody better be fuckin' with you up there. I'll kick their ass.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
and then bob is so -- bob about it, baffled at the concept of his own effect, and corry knows damn well everyone feels it, everyone can see it. bob can't, he's the only one, the emptiness that lives inside him eating up anything good, an endless hungry mouth. a mouth sated, for the moment, only temporarily banished. and maybe corry’s selfish, but he thinks of sprawling sleepy-limbed and warm, one hand tucked up under bob’s shirt, absently petting along his spine while something mindless plays on the fuck-off-huge television, and he craves it like water, like rest.]
Hm. Never seen that, y'know.
You've never made shit worse for me. One of the very few parts of this place I like.
[you, i like you.
corry flops back onto the bed, the unmade sheets, one arm slung above his head and his mouth is tucked into that sleepy-eyed smile and -- so what? who's watching that he gives a shit about?]
Make you watch reruns of Law and Order. Criminal Minds, maybe.
You ever seen Breaking Bad?
I'd say Monopoly, but I'm an asshole when I play board games.
no subject
he supposes that even when the void had drawn out corry’s worst memories, he hadn’t pulled away. not for long. ]
hey i’m not arguing with the guy describing my ideal night
i like being around you too
even more now than i did before
[ because corry has revealed more of himself, his thoughts, his hurts since they met. ]
you get it
[ a sentiment worth reiterating. ]
no subject
when corry’s alone, dark thoughts and silent phone, he thinks about the inevitable moment when bob pulls away, when it's too much. when he's here, messages and promises and i like being around you he can almost delude himself into believing it won't matter. that all the blood on his hands won't make a difference. you get it to a madman sounds like you can't drive me away, if he listens just right.]
Cable procedurals and room service are your ideal night in? Keep talking dirty to me, baby, damn.
Yeah.
So. How long is your shift again?
Cause I'm not opposed to throwing gold privilege around.
Carry you outta the mines if I gotta. Over my shoulder.
no subject
[ and bob would feel Normal about it, thank you. ]
a few more hours
so keep hitting that request button and see if it gets me outta here early
i’ll come straight there
[ and he will, unbothered about things like, well, things when he can throw something of corry’s on for twice the comfort, if needed (probably needed, given everything, though less so when he has the real deal wrapped around him, fingers splayed under his shirt or tangling in the short hair at the nape of his neck). it’s that contact he’s after now, curls strung out, eyes shadowed because they can be, for the first time in months — tired lines in place of perfect, unblemished skin. and yet the whole of him, from his weary features to his hunched shoulders, lifts when corry opens the door.
bob reaches for him without hesitation for the second time that month, an instinct driven more by the assurance corry offers than an innate confidence. he slips through the door quick, tugged shut behind him in favour of what little privacy remains, so he bumps up against corry immediately, hands on his shoulders, then bracketing his throat. no longer dangerous, meant only for this, thumbs stroking along the sharp angles of his jaw. wonder keeps his eyes wide, even as they dart up, around, checking corry for injury (or, perhaps, for proof of what he claims — that bob makes things better for him, when he can’t hear his heartbeat to know it for certain). ]
Hey. [ softly startled, as ever, by his own boldness and corry’s presence both, pressing him into the door. familiar warmth crinkles the corners of his mouth, though there’s heat simmering low, too. there always is, with corry. ]
no subject
[like corry is, self-indulgent fantasies painted in romcom-technicolor, officer and a gentleman, maybe a touch of possessiveness in the idea of sweeping bob up and physically carrying him away. very primal caveman of him, enough to prompt a huffing laugh, a thumbs up to the last suggestion -- then corry's swiping over to voyeur, to bob's page, obligingly starting to tap at the request button. he'll crash the damn app if he's gotta.
cause there's still too much time before bob's in his doorway, in his room, and it's time that has new tightness around his mouth, his brow, weariness and stress and corry's pissed off at him all over again for dropping, because bronze is gonna be brutal if he doesn't have that invincible stamina back. corry hears the click, the close of the door, gladly moves forward, crowds bob up against the door and tips his head down. bad angle, uninteresting, though he's sure the cameras will linger until it's clear they're not about to rip each other's clothes off.
which -- always there, always on a low murmur in the back of corry's mind, like a sweet sort of ache, imagining just that, maybe up against the door, arms under bob's knees, bending him in half like that first night, flushed and blushing and pinned and taking corry inside him. it'll never not be like that, corry imagines, smiling at bob's hands on his shoulders, his neck, bob's big eyes scanning his face.
but, the priority:] Hey, handsome. [murmured, corry reaching up to cover one of bob's hands with his own, holding still so he can turn and press a kiss against the cup of a palm. murmuring into it:] How're you doin'? [the drawl is deeper now, and corry's eyes are bloodshot and deeply shadowed, strain and exhaustion writ all over his face. still: he kisses bob's wrist, drops his hand, slips both arms around him, tugging him closer.]
Silver treatin' you all right? [tugtug, until bob's held against his chest, a full-body, broad-shouldered, thick-armed embrace that corry insists upon, resting his chin on top of messy curls with a sigh that comes from deep in his chest.] Nobody better be fuckin' with you up there. I'll kick their ass.