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When Bob falls, Bucky is there, cheering him on, yelling for him to get back up, sending out so much energy it is all Bob can do to keep from running straight up the vert ramp and completing the run with more enthusiasm than he started out with.
When he falls again, spectacularly and messily, Bucky is there, beating the actual medical professional to his sprawled body. No one else notices as quickly as Bucky just how hurt Bob really is. The red seeps down his leg, the bruise already rising, darkening. Before anyone can approach him, Bucky slides an arm under Bob's, wrapping it around his back and pulling him upright. The older man flashes a winning smile at the crowd, and Bob waves as he's slowly walked off the ramp, his broken board left behind.
They head to the bus, the crowd and other skaters falling behind. Bob grits his teeth and tries not to limp until they are safely away, then he leans heavily on Bucky. Bucky nearly carries him into the bus and lays him down on one of the benches. Bob stretches out on his side, facing the back of the bench, taking the pressure off his wounded leg. It feels so swollen, it's going to burst.
Very carefully, Bucky rolls up the leg of his short pants. They were lucky the fabric was black, hiding the spreading wetness and the six inch cut down his thigh. The flesh around it is dark, smudged red and bruised from slamming into the broken edge of the board. Bucky touches it lightly with two fingers, running the length of the wound.
Bob hisses in a breath, the fluted edges of the cut stinging. He turns in time to catch Bucky bringing his fingers to his mouth. Bucky looks up, catching Bob's eye, before he opens his mouth and sucks his fingers inside. Bucky's eyes flutter closed for a moment as his throat works, swallowing the thickened, fresh blood from his own skin.
There is a part of Bob that thinks he shouldn't think it is so hot, so sexy, so incredibly RIGHT to watch someone drink blood. But that little voice gets quieter and quieter the more times he watches the simple ecstasy animate Bucky's features, they way he'd shiver against Bob as though he was the one being sucked so gently.
"Bucky..." The name came out a moan, but Bucky's eyes open to stare up at Bob. Slowly his fingers slip out of his mouth.
"Please?" Bucky says through reddened lips, showing a flash of long, white teeth. His eyes seem wounded as he asks, as he's asked every time since the first, as though he's waiting for the one time Bob will tell him no.
Bob's breath catches in his throat. He swallows, then nods.
Bucky lays his hands on either side of the wound, sliding in the blood that's already coating his skin, and bends his head. Before his mouth can touch Bob's skin, he stops.
"Say it. Aloud. I want to hear you."
"Yes." It comes out a whisper, and when Bucky still doesn't move, Bob says it louder. And again. And when Bucky's tongue laps at his skin, Bob nearly screams it.
He can't stop watching, his eyes drawn to the sight of Bucky lapping at the glittering traces of sticky blood on his thigh, the way his hands kneed the muscle around it like a kitten feeding. He cleans around the cut first, catching each fresh spasm of redness as it flows from the jagged mark. It stings, but something else gathers under Bob's skin, making his hips jerk with every touch of that cool, wet tongue.
Bucky presses a kiss to the middle of the wound--a touching of lips, a little sucking--and Bob has to turn away, dig his fingers into the bus seat, bite his knuckles to keep from crying out. He can't tell if its pain or something else as Bucky follows the long line up his thigh, the rough tip sliding just inside the skin. Bob doesn't need to see it, he can feel every movement, every tiny pore and bud of his tongue as he cleans Bob's skin.
Bucky just barely sucks on the edges of the wound. He doesn't need to pull hard to bring the blood rushing to the surface. The wound tingles, a different kind of burn that Bob can't identify. Bucky's hands start moving on his thigh, caressing more and more skin. One hand slides up under his pants to touch the sensitive curve where his leg meets his body. His other hand moves down to his knee, pulling his leg up and open. Then that hand slides back down, following the bottom curve of his thigh, until Bucky could slip his hand under Bob's ass.
Bob holds as still as he can, his breath panting against his fist as he grips the back of the seat harder. He can feel Bucky pausing as well, his mouth immobile against his skin, the slight movement of cool breath on his thigh, his hands just resting where they were touching him so intimately.
Bucky twitches his thumb, scratching the hem of Bob's shorts just where it pressed into his balls. The vibration travels up Bob's spine at the same time Bucky's other hand slips forward that last little bit to just barely touch the hard, heated flesh of his erection.
Bob's moans are muffled as he bites into his hand, his mouth filling with iron as his hips shudder uncontrollably.
Then Bucky is rolling him over onto his back, carefully peeling his hands off the bench. Bob opens his eyes as Bucky pulls his hand away from his mouth. Bucky's own lips are crimson and cinnamon, shining with it like too much lipstick. The sight doesn't disturb him anymore, even as Bucky brings Bob's hand to his mouth and kisses the bloodied mark left from Bob's blunted teeth.
Then, making sure that Bob is watching, Bucky opens his mouth wide, showing off his bloodstained teeth. He sticks out his tongue, wetly red, and presses it against a fang, tearing a long, deep line through the delicate flesh. Darker blood wells up immediately, almost dripping from the tip of his tongue.
Then Bucky bends his head again and licks the bitemarks on Bob's hand.
That now familiar sting and swelling burn flashes across Bob's senses. It's there for a moment, then gone. Bucky rubs a thumb across Bob's knuckles, wiping away the red enough that Bob can see the wounds are completely healed, just small white marks on his skin where it was torn and bloodied just a second before.
Bob twists, looking down to find the same on his leg. The long thigh wound is closed, pink-white and fresh against a bruise fading under blood-tinged skin.
"It's not so bad," Bucky says softly, almost shyly, in the silence of the bus. "Being a vampire."
Bob looks up at Bucky's face to see that same wounded look in his eyes. Bucky's still holding his hand, so Bob squeezes his tightly, then smiles. "Thanks."
Bucky flashes a large, bright, toothy grin through his reddened lips, then he darts forward. His lips are wet and soft against Bob's mouth, clumsy in a way that makes it not so much a kiss as it is a mashing of lips, a clinking of teeth, and a bumping of noses. Before he can react, Bucky pulls away, smiling and licking his lips fastidiously. Quickly, the rouge disappears and once again he's the same old Bucky, best vert skater this side of Tony Hawk.
"Get cleaned up. They're waiting for you."
Bucky disappears out the door, leaving Bob to deal with the stickiness inside and out of his shorts.