"winter driving" for gimme_proonz
Holiday fic continues. gimme_proonz requested Nate Robertson/Mike Maroth porn, so, this.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. It is in no way a reflection on the actual life, behavior, or character of any of the people featured, and there is no connection or affiliation between this fictional story and the people or organizations it mentions. It was not written with any intent to slander or defame any of the people featured. No profit has been or ever will be made as a result of this story: it is solely for entertainment. And again, it is entirely fictional, i.e. not true.
winter driving
The day after the day after Christmas, Robertson shows up on Maroth’s front doorstep, his wife a half-stride behind.
It startles Maroth into something like shock, opening the door and expecting the responsible brown suit of the UPS man, or maybe a neighbor, and there’s Robertson, all huge toothy grin and wearing socks with his sandals. Robertson should be in Michigan, that’s where he lives, the brightness of his teeth wholly out of place in Orlando. Maroth stands in the doorway and gapes while Kristin cuts her eyes between them, finally sighing dramatically, “Nate, you said you told him we were coming.”
Brooke comes to the door to see what’s taking Maroth so long and she is, of course, just delighted to see Kristin. The two of them hug and laugh and Brooke pulls Kristin into the house, “Oh, I had no idea you were coming! What a surprise!”
“Nate said he told Mike, but you know how they are.”
The two of them look back at Maroth, who is still shock-solid in the dooway, and Robertson, still grinning. Maroth doesn’t know how they are, so he’s not sure how their wives would know, but he looks at their twin feminine smiles and somehow doesn’t doubt it.
Brooke and Kristin and the bags disappear into the house, probably to coo over Nolan and Tate and all things small-child-related. Maroth knows he should follow them, invite Robertson in politely, something, but he still can’t quite wrap his mind around this strange, incongruous appearance of the baseball season at his warm Florida home.
“Hey,” Robertson says, like that’s supposed to answer everything.
“What are you. Nate. It’s. You’re here? Why, I, what?”
Robertson laughs out loud, so unrestrained that Maroth is momentarily afraid of his neighbors, imagining old ladies behind lace curtains calling the cops because of some rowdy young kids. Robertson leans in close to peer around Maroth, looking for their wives.
He puts a hand on Maroth’s waist to steady himself as he looks in. It’s casual but familiar and it absolutely takes Maroth’s breath away. It’s December. It’s the offseason, this does not happen during the offseason, he spends the offseason with his wife and his sons and he does not do some of the things that he does during the season, because the season is a sovereign time with its own set of rules. Things that make sense in the summer don’t make sense in the winter, but Robertson’s here, right here, settling back on his heels to look at Maroth but not moving his hand from Maroth’s waist, and it’s. Weird. Wrong. Something.
“Kristin? Brooke?”
“They’re probably.” Maroth has to pause to swallow, his throat weirdly thick. “In the living room. Probably. With Nolan and Tate.”
“Good.”
Robertson closes his hand around the bottom of Maroth’s shirt, leans back in and kisses him hard, like he never stopped, and suddenly it’s not December anymore, it’s the end of April and the middle of June and the start of October. Life is counted in three and four day intervals, everyone’s hair always wet, always coming straight out of the shower.
Baseball season is Robertson and Robertson is right here, right now. This is going to fuck Maroth up in so many ways. Their wives are both here, in the house, and he can’t even bring himself to care.
Robertson shuffles forward enough for Maroth to shut the door. He still can’t believe this. December, and Robertson’s right here with his back up against the door and his fingers tugging at Maroth’s shirt.
“I was gonna call. I did tell Kristin I was gonna call. But.” Robertson cocks his head at Maroth, smile turning just s shade sheepish around the corners. “Was afraid you’d say no.”
Maroth snorts and shakes his head, looking down at the white fabric of his tshirt curling between Robertson’s fingers. “Nate. Don’t think I can.”
“Good.” Tapping at Maroth’s stomach now, his eyes darkening a little, sheepishness smoothed out into nothing. “So. Uh. Bedroom?”
“Nate. Brooke, Kristin.”
Robertson laughs again, a little too loud in the narrow hallway. He rubs his knuckles briefly over Maroth’s cheek, hot embarrassed blush swiping over Maroth’s face because he’s still kind of afloat here, unable to get his footing in a world where Robertson can show up as December tails off and act like they’ve just finished a mid-season series at home.
“We’re gonna go for a drive, catch up some! See you ladies later!” Maroth winces again at the loudness of Robertson’s voice echoing in his house. There’s a small chorus of female admonishment from down the hall, don’t be gone too long, out too late, spend too much money, but Robertson is already pulling him out the door and Maroth’s already automatically reaching into his pocket for his car keys.
“Nate, I.”
“Drive, Mike.”
Maroth gets in the car, wonders if it’s safe to drive with his heart hammering happily away like this.
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He makes it onto the highway before it gets dangerous. He navigates around elderly drivers with annoyance, shifting into the slow lane to let souped-up Cadillacs with illegally tinted windows shoot past him. It’s a delicate kind of balancing act, not unlike pitching, and Maroth always does kind of like driving in Florida. It takes a certain sort of skill to do it well, something of which he’s a little perversely proud. In the companionable silence he can concentrate on the road and it’s easy to forget, get lulled into a sense of security.
An Escalade comes up behind him at a very reckless speed and Maroth, many things but not at all reckless, eases back into the slow lane. He’s not thinking about anything except for the other maniacs on the road, muttering softly to himself about crazy people, what if there are kids in some of these cars, Jesus look after the poor things. He really has nearly forgotten about Robertson until he sees movement out of the corner of his eye and a hand, bigger than his own, settles on his thigh.
“Nate.”
“Just watch the road.”
The hand crawls up his leg and works across to his fly. Maroth is struggling to swallow around the constriction in his throat again. When Robertson works his hand into Maroth’s pants the whole car jerks, Maroth’s foot skittering on the gas pedal.
“Calm down, man, c’mon, or I won’t be able to do this.”
“Nate,” Maroth is hysterical, just a little, “Nate, this is dangerous, it’s probably illegal, you’re going to get us killed.”
“Just keep on drivin’. I know you know what you’re doing up there.”
Robertson unbuckles his seatbelt and Maroth opens his mouth to yell at him for that, because that’s also illegal, but he doesn’t have time to get the words out before Roberston leans down, awkwardly curved and hunched so as to avoid knocking the car into neutral or something, and licks.
The car jerks again, and a passing SUV with ridiculous custom detailing honks its annoyance at them.
“Nate.”
Robertson doesn’t answer, probably because now he’s got his mouth full. It’s all Maroth can do to keep breathing in short, ever-more hysterical bursts, his leg jumping like a live wire and the car jerking so much he’s certain they’re going to get pulled over, and then they’ll really be in trouble.
Maroth’s eyes cross and the road fuzzes. He drops a hand from the wheel into Robertson’s hair, just long enough for his fingers to dig into, and the feel of it wakes him up enough to guide the car along, try to keep his feet under control. He blinks rapidly to clear his eyes as best he can and he can’t look down. One glance and that would be it. He’s seen Robertson’s head bobbing enough times to know what it does to him, but usually he sees it during the season, in a hotel room or, memorably, an airplane bathroom. Never during the winter and certainly never when he’s trying to drive down the highway and not end up dead, but the rules are apparently all shot by the strangeness of Robertson being here in the first place.
In his lap, Robertson starts to hum.
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When Maroth becomes aware of the world again, there’s a terrible grinding kind of noise filling the car. It takes him a full minute to realize that it’s the sound his tires make as they roll over the grooved shoulder of the road, and another full minute to realize that this means he’s drifted over to the side and needs to merge back into traffic.
Everyone on the entire Florida highway system, it seems, honks at him, but he does manage to get back on the road eventually. Robertson is back in his own seat but is slouched down. Maroth looks over to tell him to sit up, get in a crash sitting like that and your head will come clean off, and Robertson has a hand buried down the front of his own pants, licking his lips over and over like he’s savoring a taste. Which he probably is.
Maroth swallows hard and glues his eyes to the road again, Kristin and Brooke are waiting, and if he looks at Robertson they’ll never get home.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. It is in no way a reflection on the actual life, behavior, or character of any of the people featured, and there is no connection or affiliation between this fictional story and the people or organizations it mentions. It was not written with any intent to slander or defame any of the people featured. No profit has been or ever will be made as a result of this story: it is solely for entertainment. And again, it is entirely fictional, i.e. not true.
winter driving
The day after the day after Christmas, Robertson shows up on Maroth’s front doorstep, his wife a half-stride behind.
It startles Maroth into something like shock, opening the door and expecting the responsible brown suit of the UPS man, or maybe a neighbor, and there’s Robertson, all huge toothy grin and wearing socks with his sandals. Robertson should be in Michigan, that’s where he lives, the brightness of his teeth wholly out of place in Orlando. Maroth stands in the doorway and gapes while Kristin cuts her eyes between them, finally sighing dramatically, “Nate, you said you told him we were coming.”
Brooke comes to the door to see what’s taking Maroth so long and she is, of course, just delighted to see Kristin. The two of them hug and laugh and Brooke pulls Kristin into the house, “Oh, I had no idea you were coming! What a surprise!”
“Nate said he told Mike, but you know how they are.”
The two of them look back at Maroth, who is still shock-solid in the dooway, and Robertson, still grinning. Maroth doesn’t know how they are, so he’s not sure how their wives would know, but he looks at their twin feminine smiles and somehow doesn’t doubt it.
Brooke and Kristin and the bags disappear into the house, probably to coo over Nolan and Tate and all things small-child-related. Maroth knows he should follow them, invite Robertson in politely, something, but he still can’t quite wrap his mind around this strange, incongruous appearance of the baseball season at his warm Florida home.
“Hey,” Robertson says, like that’s supposed to answer everything.
“What are you. Nate. It’s. You’re here? Why, I, what?”
Robertson laughs out loud, so unrestrained that Maroth is momentarily afraid of his neighbors, imagining old ladies behind lace curtains calling the cops because of some rowdy young kids. Robertson leans in close to peer around Maroth, looking for their wives.
He puts a hand on Maroth’s waist to steady himself as he looks in. It’s casual but familiar and it absolutely takes Maroth’s breath away. It’s December. It’s the offseason, this does not happen during the offseason, he spends the offseason with his wife and his sons and he does not do some of the things that he does during the season, because the season is a sovereign time with its own set of rules. Things that make sense in the summer don’t make sense in the winter, but Robertson’s here, right here, settling back on his heels to look at Maroth but not moving his hand from Maroth’s waist, and it’s. Weird. Wrong. Something.
“Kristin? Brooke?”
“They’re probably.” Maroth has to pause to swallow, his throat weirdly thick. “In the living room. Probably. With Nolan and Tate.”
“Good.”
Robertson closes his hand around the bottom of Maroth’s shirt, leans back in and kisses him hard, like he never stopped, and suddenly it’s not December anymore, it’s the end of April and the middle of June and the start of October. Life is counted in three and four day intervals, everyone’s hair always wet, always coming straight out of the shower.
Baseball season is Robertson and Robertson is right here, right now. This is going to fuck Maroth up in so many ways. Their wives are both here, in the house, and he can’t even bring himself to care.
Robertson shuffles forward enough for Maroth to shut the door. He still can’t believe this. December, and Robertson’s right here with his back up against the door and his fingers tugging at Maroth’s shirt.
“I was gonna call. I did tell Kristin I was gonna call. But.” Robertson cocks his head at Maroth, smile turning just s shade sheepish around the corners. “Was afraid you’d say no.”
Maroth snorts and shakes his head, looking down at the white fabric of his tshirt curling between Robertson’s fingers. “Nate. Don’t think I can.”
“Good.” Tapping at Maroth’s stomach now, his eyes darkening a little, sheepishness smoothed out into nothing. “So. Uh. Bedroom?”
“Nate. Brooke, Kristin.”
Robertson laughs again, a little too loud in the narrow hallway. He rubs his knuckles briefly over Maroth’s cheek, hot embarrassed blush swiping over Maroth’s face because he’s still kind of afloat here, unable to get his footing in a world where Robertson can show up as December tails off and act like they’ve just finished a mid-season series at home.
“We’re gonna go for a drive, catch up some! See you ladies later!” Maroth winces again at the loudness of Robertson’s voice echoing in his house. There’s a small chorus of female admonishment from down the hall, don’t be gone too long, out too late, spend too much money, but Robertson is already pulling him out the door and Maroth’s already automatically reaching into his pocket for his car keys.
“Nate, I.”
“Drive, Mike.”
Maroth gets in the car, wonders if it’s safe to drive with his heart hammering happily away like this.
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He makes it onto the highway before it gets dangerous. He navigates around elderly drivers with annoyance, shifting into the slow lane to let souped-up Cadillacs with illegally tinted windows shoot past him. It’s a delicate kind of balancing act, not unlike pitching, and Maroth always does kind of like driving in Florida. It takes a certain sort of skill to do it well, something of which he’s a little perversely proud. In the companionable silence he can concentrate on the road and it’s easy to forget, get lulled into a sense of security.
An Escalade comes up behind him at a very reckless speed and Maroth, many things but not at all reckless, eases back into the slow lane. He’s not thinking about anything except for the other maniacs on the road, muttering softly to himself about crazy people, what if there are kids in some of these cars, Jesus look after the poor things. He really has nearly forgotten about Robertson until he sees movement out of the corner of his eye and a hand, bigger than his own, settles on his thigh.
“Nate.”
“Just watch the road.”
The hand crawls up his leg and works across to his fly. Maroth is struggling to swallow around the constriction in his throat again. When Robertson works his hand into Maroth’s pants the whole car jerks, Maroth’s foot skittering on the gas pedal.
“Calm down, man, c’mon, or I won’t be able to do this.”
“Nate,” Maroth is hysterical, just a little, “Nate, this is dangerous, it’s probably illegal, you’re going to get us killed.”
“Just keep on drivin’. I know you know what you’re doing up there.”
Robertson unbuckles his seatbelt and Maroth opens his mouth to yell at him for that, because that’s also illegal, but he doesn’t have time to get the words out before Roberston leans down, awkwardly curved and hunched so as to avoid knocking the car into neutral or something, and licks.
The car jerks again, and a passing SUV with ridiculous custom detailing honks its annoyance at them.
“Nate.”
Robertson doesn’t answer, probably because now he’s got his mouth full. It’s all Maroth can do to keep breathing in short, ever-more hysterical bursts, his leg jumping like a live wire and the car jerking so much he’s certain they’re going to get pulled over, and then they’ll really be in trouble.
Maroth’s eyes cross and the road fuzzes. He drops a hand from the wheel into Robertson’s hair, just long enough for his fingers to dig into, and the feel of it wakes him up enough to guide the car along, try to keep his feet under control. He blinks rapidly to clear his eyes as best he can and he can’t look down. One glance and that would be it. He’s seen Robertson’s head bobbing enough times to know what it does to him, but usually he sees it during the season, in a hotel room or, memorably, an airplane bathroom. Never during the winter and certainly never when he’s trying to drive down the highway and not end up dead, but the rules are apparently all shot by the strangeness of Robertson being here in the first place.
In his lap, Robertson starts to hum.
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When Maroth becomes aware of the world again, there’s a terrible grinding kind of noise filling the car. It takes him a full minute to realize that it’s the sound his tires make as they roll over the grooved shoulder of the road, and another full minute to realize that this means he’s drifted over to the side and needs to merge back into traffic.
Everyone on the entire Florida highway system, it seems, honks at him, but he does manage to get back on the road eventually. Robertson is back in his own seat but is slouched down. Maroth looks over to tell him to sit up, get in a crash sitting like that and your head will come clean off, and Robertson has a hand buried down the front of his own pants, licking his lips over and over like he’s savoring a taste. Which he probably is.
Maroth swallows hard and glues his eyes to the road again, Kristin and Brooke are waiting, and if he looks at Robertson they’ll never get home.