Love Is Ǝvil

20 Gangsta. #01

The curve was almost invisible. The dark jeans didn't care about the form of his crisp ass, neither did the dark t-shirt that hid the muscles of his back too well. A slender body beneath the heavy fabric and it toned down how impressive he actually was. Every time he saw the man naked, he was surprised again. Even though he had slept next to him and touched every patch of skin, felt the muscles underneath his fingertips, Nicolas still couldn't believe how stunning he was. Even less, why he hid it underneath clothes that had no form and no color.

Not that he himself was a good example of well dressed, not by a long shot. He didn't actually care about clothes. Most of his attire was for work or belonged to Worick - or maybe he just took back from his roommate what was rightfully his, who knew at this point. But he could get behind caring, if he had something this gorgeous to look at. The ass alone was like perfection. The curve fell at the right angle, the cheeks firm and so sensitive, it was a delight. Nicolas wondered how it'll look with a bright red imprint of his hand on the lightly tanned flesh.

But he had a feeling, that would need to wait. The man was fickle like a cat. One moment he was distant and aloof, the next moment he demanded all the attention. Moody as hell, too. Relaxed now, annoyed immediately after and a second after that he was sweet like strawberries or cracking a joke. He wanted to be petted but not touched at the same time, and got pissed if things didn't go his way. Often he tried to show a laid-back, disinterested exterior, but he was a feisty little minx underneath. Though, if the moment was just right, he'd have this satisfied, blessed expression on his face that just warmed your body and soul.

Luckily, Nicolas liked cats.

Marshall bend down to pick something up from the floor. A piece of green vegetable that had fallen out of the pan. One leg half stretched to keep balance while the other stood firmly on the ground, his upper body bending down, a tattooed arm reaching for the floor and fine fingers picking up the offending piece of food. Nicolas couldn't help the image, that formed in his mind: Marshall bend over the kitchen table, those same fine fingers clinging to the wood for dear life until the knuckles would shine through. He would take that for dinner.

Also something he was surprised by: He actually cooked, again. Nicolas would've been fine with a sandwich or just something to drink, but Marshall insisted on cooking their meal. He did look good in front of a stove, Nicolas had to give him that. Although, he had the feeling, Marshall wouldn't appreciate the wording of this compliment. In general he seemed rather apprehensive when complimented, almost shy even, despite the confident poker face he put on most of the time. A delicious sight, when it fell apart. But Marshall still stood there and cooked, regardless that an act this caring clashed with the image of ice and steel he tried to portrait in most of his songs. Nicolas took it as a sign, that he was allowed to see more.

Which he found also surprising. Almost everything this man did surprised him, which peaked his curiosity even more. Then again, they hardly knew each other and he made his assumptions on rather weak grounds. But he was very sure, Marshall guarded his true self harsh and fierce. Often he bit down a smile, an adorable gesture but also one that told a sad story. A story his songs captured well but perhaps not fully and Nicolas hadn't looked into it too much. He had looked up a handful of songs to be prepared. Marshall's eyes had practically glowed when he'd said musician and Nicolas was sure, that was something the man would love to talk about. He seemed rather talkative, gabby even - which made it all the more sweet when he was at a loss for words. But music wasn't Nicolas's thing, besides the occasional concert Worick dragged him to. The translations he found for Marshall's songs though, intense. The man undeniably had a way with words.

Now said man turned around and brought the food over to the table and when Marshall stood close to put a plate in front of Nicolas, he could see the greenish-yellow tint on the man's neck. The remnants of a hand, that wasn't Nicolas's and by now he'd come around to admit, the tight knot in his stomach was jealousy. Marshall's neck seemed so fragile. Often obscured by the hood of a sweater, but now it wasn't. Just that beautiful, fragile neck and the short cropped hair, that revealed more than it hid. If Nicolas raised his hand, he could touch the soft skin, lay his fingers around the wiry throat and squeeze, press his thumb into the triangle of muscles and feel the struggle for air.