Best Laid Plans (Bob/Brian)
Title: Best Laid Plans
Pairing: Bob/Brian
Wordcount: 1012
Summary: Add in the fact that Bob had suddenly decided it was his life's goal to take up as much space as humanly possible, and it seriously made it difficult to keep one's hands to oneself.
Author note: Ficlet for mahoni. See there's this meme that says: Give me between three and five first lines from your own fics, and I'll write a comment-length drabble using the same first line. mahoni gave me three. This one was: Brian hated watching movies at Bob's place. From Movie Night.
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Best Laid Plans
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Brian hated watching movies at Bob's place. Bob had somehow found the smallest apartment known to man, and the one with the weirdest floor plan ever. You had to go through the bedroom to get into the kitchen to start with, and through the kitchen to get to the bathroom. And every room was pretty much the size of a postage stamp. Brian had lived in better apartments back when he was still bumming around Detroit, and he'd pretty much just been squatting at that point.
But, Brian had to give Bob this, his entertainment system was top notch. Most of the venues they'd worked in hadn't had half the quality of speakers and receivers and shit that Bob had cobbled together to fit on the rickety stand next to the thirty-two inch television. With Bob's magpie-like collection of equipment watching movies or listening to records was quite an aural experience.
Granted, the experience would have been top-notch if it hadn't included a tube-like room that made Brian think of submarines and a ratty loveseat - the room was too narrow for a full-size couch - whose broken springs squished anyone seating in it together in the middle. Add in the fact that Bob had suddenly decided it was his life's goal to take up as much space as humanly possible, and it seriously made it difficult to keep one's hands to oneself.
Since that had been Brian's plan for the last several years, he really didn't like the temptation practically spitting in his face. Still, Brian knew that Bob was overly used to having people in his space 24/7, and that his body probably hadn't acclimated to not having skinny fuckers all up in his space, so Brian let it slide.
Most of the time.
"Fucking hell, Bryar," Brian grumbles. He twists so that he has his back against the arm of the loveseat, swinging his feet up to try and push Bob back over to his side of the damnably small piece of furniture. "You're a fucking octopus; stay on your own damn side."
"Considering I own the thing, all sides are mine," Bob points out. He probably means to sound reasonable, but all Brian hears is the smug undertone, and that has him jabbing Bob a little harshly under the ribs with his toes. "Ow, you skinny fucker, watch what you're doing."
Brian smirks at him. "Did that hurt, princess? Oh, I'm so sorry." He goes to kick Bob again, not as hard, mind, but enough so that Bob knows Brian means business.
"I'm sure you are, Brian." Bob grabs his foot before it can connect though. "Stop kicking me; what are you, twelve?"
He slides his hand up to Brian's ankle, tugging hard enough to slide Brian across the cushion a little. Brian grabs at the arm and back of the loveseat to stop the movement, and when that doesn't really work, digs his free foot against Bob's thigh. Bob, the fucker, just shifts so that Brian's foot slides under him a little and tugs harder at the leg in his hand.
Somehow their little tug-of-war game ends with Brian perched on Bob's thighs, with Bob's hands on Brian's hips, and Brian's own on the back of the loveseat next to Bob's head. Bob looks smug, a look that deepens to include a smirk when Brian's eyes go a little wide at the feel of Bob's right hand sliding under Brian's t-shirt to rub against his stomach.
"I am not a fucking pet, Bryar," Brian snaps, trying to shift off of Bob's lap. But between his inability to find any traction on the slippery cushions and the grip Bob has on his hip, all Brian manages to do is slide himself further onto Bob's lap. As nice as it feels, Brian knows this can't end well. "Bob, let go."
"No," Bob tells him. The hand under Brian's shirt slides around to the small of his back, leaving a trail of fire in its wake, and Brian doesn't cut off his gasp fast enough. Bob's smirk smoothes out into a softer smile and Brian has to blink at him, because Bob looks very satisfied with himself. "Don't want to."
Brian closes his eyes to try and put his head back together. He counts to ten twice before he can shove the feeling of Bob's hand on his bare skin to the back of his mind, and then he counts out another ten before he trusts himself to put his hands on Bob's shoulders so that he can push himself off of Bob's lap. "Seriously, Bob. Let me go."
"Seriously, Brian. No," Bob repeats. Brian can hear the sheer stubbornness in Bob's voice, and he opens his eyes to glare at him. "No, shut up, Brian. I want you."
Brian blinks again. He's pretty sure Bob didn't say that, but he's also pretty sure he hadn't fallen asleep - the Die Hard movies were a little too loud for naps - again. "What?"
"I want you, Brian. Have for years." Bob rolls his eyes. "For someone so fucking smart, Brian, sometimes you are the world's dumbest idiot."
Before Brian can point out how stupid that insult is, Bob pulls his hand out from under Brian's shirt to bury it in Brian's hair, tugging Brian's head to his. His lips are chapped and rough against Brian's, and Brian can't stop the whine that escapes him anymore than he could his gasp earlier.
Bob always had been the one to slip behind all of Brian's carefully erected walls.
"You know, you are fucking thick, Schechter," Bob says when they finally come up for air. "Also, you owe Stump two hundred bucks."
Brian decides that he'll take offense to that once he doesn't have Bob pinned under him. For now, he is much more interested in leaning in to kiss Bob again, feeling the sounds vibrate against, between, their chests, making out like a couple of teenagers who know there was other fun stuff they could be doing, but too caught up in the moment to care.
Pairing: Bob/Brian
Wordcount: 1012
Summary: Add in the fact that Bob had suddenly decided it was his life's goal to take up as much space as humanly possible, and it seriously made it difficult to keep one's hands to oneself.
Author note: Ficlet for mahoni. See there's this meme that says: Give me between three and five first lines from your own fics, and I'll write a comment-length drabble using the same first line. mahoni gave me three. This one was: Brian hated watching movies at Bob's place. From Movie Night.
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Best Laid Plans
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Brian hated watching movies at Bob's place. Bob had somehow found the smallest apartment known to man, and the one with the weirdest floor plan ever. You had to go through the bedroom to get into the kitchen to start with, and through the kitchen to get to the bathroom. And every room was pretty much the size of a postage stamp. Brian had lived in better apartments back when he was still bumming around Detroit, and he'd pretty much just been squatting at that point.
But, Brian had to give Bob this, his entertainment system was top notch. Most of the venues they'd worked in hadn't had half the quality of speakers and receivers and shit that Bob had cobbled together to fit on the rickety stand next to the thirty-two inch television. With Bob's magpie-like collection of equipment watching movies or listening to records was quite an aural experience.
Granted, the experience would have been top-notch if it hadn't included a tube-like room that made Brian think of submarines and a ratty loveseat - the room was too narrow for a full-size couch - whose broken springs squished anyone seating in it together in the middle. Add in the fact that Bob had suddenly decided it was his life's goal to take up as much space as humanly possible, and it seriously made it difficult to keep one's hands to oneself.
Since that had been Brian's plan for the last several years, he really didn't like the temptation practically spitting in his face. Still, Brian knew that Bob was overly used to having people in his space 24/7, and that his body probably hadn't acclimated to not having skinny fuckers all up in his space, so Brian let it slide.
Most of the time.
"Fucking hell, Bryar," Brian grumbles. He twists so that he has his back against the arm of the loveseat, swinging his feet up to try and push Bob back over to his side of the damnably small piece of furniture. "You're a fucking octopus; stay on your own damn side."
"Considering I own the thing, all sides are mine," Bob points out. He probably means to sound reasonable, but all Brian hears is the smug undertone, and that has him jabbing Bob a little harshly under the ribs with his toes. "Ow, you skinny fucker, watch what you're doing."
Brian smirks at him. "Did that hurt, princess? Oh, I'm so sorry." He goes to kick Bob again, not as hard, mind, but enough so that Bob knows Brian means business.
"I'm sure you are, Brian." Bob grabs his foot before it can connect though. "Stop kicking me; what are you, twelve?"
He slides his hand up to Brian's ankle, tugging hard enough to slide Brian across the cushion a little. Brian grabs at the arm and back of the loveseat to stop the movement, and when that doesn't really work, digs his free foot against Bob's thigh. Bob, the fucker, just shifts so that Brian's foot slides under him a little and tugs harder at the leg in his hand.
Somehow their little tug-of-war game ends with Brian perched on Bob's thighs, with Bob's hands on Brian's hips, and Brian's own on the back of the loveseat next to Bob's head. Bob looks smug, a look that deepens to include a smirk when Brian's eyes go a little wide at the feel of Bob's right hand sliding under Brian's t-shirt to rub against his stomach.
"I am not a fucking pet, Bryar," Brian snaps, trying to shift off of Bob's lap. But between his inability to find any traction on the slippery cushions and the grip Bob has on his hip, all Brian manages to do is slide himself further onto Bob's lap. As nice as it feels, Brian knows this can't end well. "Bob, let go."
"No," Bob tells him. The hand under Brian's shirt slides around to the small of his back, leaving a trail of fire in its wake, and Brian doesn't cut off his gasp fast enough. Bob's smirk smoothes out into a softer smile and Brian has to blink at him, because Bob looks very satisfied with himself. "Don't want to."
Brian closes his eyes to try and put his head back together. He counts to ten twice before he can shove the feeling of Bob's hand on his bare skin to the back of his mind, and then he counts out another ten before he trusts himself to put his hands on Bob's shoulders so that he can push himself off of Bob's lap. "Seriously, Bob. Let me go."
"Seriously, Brian. No," Bob repeats. Brian can hear the sheer stubbornness in Bob's voice, and he opens his eyes to glare at him. "No, shut up, Brian. I want you."
Brian blinks again. He's pretty sure Bob didn't say that, but he's also pretty sure he hadn't fallen asleep - the Die Hard movies were a little too loud for naps - again. "What?"
"I want you, Brian. Have for years." Bob rolls his eyes. "For someone so fucking smart, Brian, sometimes you are the world's dumbest idiot."
Before Brian can point out how stupid that insult is, Bob pulls his hand out from under Brian's shirt to bury it in Brian's hair, tugging Brian's head to his. His lips are chapped and rough against Brian's, and Brian can't stop the whine that escapes him anymore than he could his gasp earlier.
Bob always had been the one to slip behind all of Brian's carefully erected walls.
"You know, you are fucking thick, Schechter," Bob says when they finally come up for air. "Also, you owe Stump two hundred bucks."
Brian decides that he'll take offense to that once he doesn't have Bob pinned under him. For now, he is much more interested in leaning in to kiss Bob again, feeling the sounds vibrate against, between, their chests, making out like a couple of teenagers who know there was other fun stuff they could be doing, but too caught up in the moment to care.