[fic] ALSO I HAVE A NEW MOODTHEME.
Title: Where The One-Eyed Man Is King.
Authors: strangecreature & apiphile
Fandom: MCR
Word Count: 7,009
Rating: R.
Pairing: Bob/Frank.
Warnings: Nowt.
Disclaimer: This probably hasn't actually happened. Except in our heads.
Notes: Before I entered into this bandom thing I had barely cowritten with anyone. Now I can honestly say some of the most awesome writing experiences of my life have been with swear_jar, minervasolo and strangecreature. I <3 the fucking internet.
Bob hadn't actually noticed at first. He was used to playing with his hair in his face anyway, so it wasn't until a particularly enthusiastic headbang sent the bandana down over his other eye as well that Bob realized he'd inadvertently blindfolded himself. What the hell, he thought, and kept playing, grounded by his foot on the kick, the angle of his knee guiding him to the hi-hat like his kit was just another part of him. He shut his eyes behind the band of cloth and just went with it, buzzing with the feeling of moving inside the music.
The song crashed to a close on Gerard's wail and Bob sat back, shaking his head at himself and shoving the bandana up into his hair again.
And that was when he noticed Frank watching him. Well. Staring.
Bob, being a veteran of all kinds of band-related weirdness, stared back as if Frank was a pane of glass, and got himself into position for the start of the next song. If he wanted to play at deadpan staring contests, Bob was going to win. Since the infection even Mikey couldn't beat Bob for straight-faced blank stares. (you kind of had to think of it like that, because "I nearly died" still wasn't quite getting to his brain without the crushing weight of panic attached to it)
The song started slow and low, just a kick at first, and Frank was still staring. Bob began to weigh up the possibility that the Incredible Climbing Douchebag was sizing up the new kit for jumping on possibilities later in the song, shook his head in tired dismay, and groaned as the world once again went red-and-white.
Fine. He'd just do the entire fucking set blindfolded. Frankie did songs blindfolded, why shouldn't he? Admittedly Frank did it on purpose, but then was was rather Bob's life, wasn't it? Nothing ever seemed to happen because he'd decided on it happening. Things just sneaked up on him or leapt out at him...
... or fell over his eyes.
In a way it was easier, because there wasn't the flash of tiny snippets of crowd and band from under his hair, or the moments between songs where he could see just how many people were out there pointing cameraphones at the stage. All he could see with the blindfold was abstractions of red and white, like a fever, and the vibrations in his body. In fact, it was kinda nice.
He'd been poised for Frank to hurl himself onto the drums and leave him trying to complete the set with a floor tom and no marching drum or whatever, but there was no crash, no irritating interruption to him playing.
And just like that Gerard was in the periphery of his hearing, over his earplugs, yelling about how great the audience had been and how much they loved them and - well, probably, he couldn't hear the actual words but he'd played more than enough shows to know the kind of stuff Gee said to the fans - and it was over.
He put his hand to his face to push the bandana from his eyes, sweat sticking every inch of his clothing to his skin, and from surprisingly close to, Frank yelled, "DON'T TOUCH IT I WANT TO TAKE A PICTURE."
“Fuck off, no,” Bob said, his standard response to the phrase ‘take a picture’ getting thrown around by anyone other than Gee-approved fans. There was the telltale give of somebody scrambling up onto the drum stand and Bob made a grab for the bandana, but Frank had plastered himself against Bob’s back, catching his arms in a bear hug.
“I’m asking so so nicely,” Frank begged, despite obvious evidence to the contrary. Bob could feel him all jittery and twitching with post-show energy like Gerard was before shows, radiating body heat and pressing his sweaty forehead against Bob’s cheek. “Just one? One tiny, tiny one and I'll be your slave forever.”
It should’ve been much easier saying no to Frank like this, but somebody killed the stage lights like a big fucking metaphor for Bob’s resolve breaking - you had to choose your battles with Frank or you’d be dead of exhaustion within a month - so he groaned and said “Oh whatever”.
Bob could feel Frank’s sharp smile against his cheek as he wrapped his fingers around Bob’s wrist, tugging him to his feet. “Just need to find my phone,” Frank explained shortly (because Frank, unlike certain bassists, wasn’t in the habit of bringing his phone on stage and attempting to sneak out texts during Gerard’s banter) and guided Bob back from the drums with uncharacteristic care.
Blind leading the fucking blind, Bob thought hopelessly, and didn’t even try to figure out why his cheeks were burning.
Slippery with stage-sweat and stumbling around obstacles that weren't there, Bob felt Frank's hand slide back over his own and clasp at only the very tip of his fingers. He felt an irrational surge of panic at the idea of being abandoned and blind somewhere unknown, Frankie disappearing on him - which was fucking stupid, it wasn't like he couldn't just reach up and shove the bandana out of his eyes.
"Not long now," Frank trilled, tugging on Bob's fingers. Bob tried to strain for some sort of sound-clue to where the hell he was, but with the ear plugs still in there wasn't much he could pick up apart from a sudden blessed blast of air-con on his clothing that vanished again as they walked on.
"I could just take this off and put it back on later," Bob said, trying to sound reasonable, "it would be easier."
"You'll run off," Frank pointed out with an authority born of long experience. Bob couldn't really argue with that. He would run - well, wander - off given half the chance. Frank was, however, clearly not into giving him that half-chance.
"Where are we?" He said instead, trying to reach out with one hand to feel for the wall.
"Nearly there," Frank repeated with maddening levity, and there was a short jolt, a change of air pressure, and -- "Stop."
Bob stopped. Frank didn't, however, let go of his hand.
"Hi," Frank said, instead, sounding slightly breathier than Bob was used to.
"Hello," Bob said rather uncertainly. "What?" His face was hot again; wherever it was he was now, there was no air-con and it was stuffy.
"Don't move," Frank said, letting go his fingers and - Bob jerked - pressing his hand palm-down against the back of his neck.
The inside of the bandana was hot and sticky against his eyelids, and Bob thought, if I can't see it then it isn't happening, like he had when he'd woken to find himself swathed in tubes and surrounded by very scared-looking medical staff. Besides, he could see in his mind's eye that Frankie would have to stretch to grab him like that, and that meant he was probably within a hair's breadth of pressing his body into Bob's -
-- or, as it turned out, his mouth.
Salty, Bob’s brain supplied. Salt and heat and chapped lips; Frank tasted a bit like a sunburn felt, the side effect of screaming into a mic for the better part of an hour. His palm still burned at the back of Bob’s neck and Bob’s wrist was already sending a pitiful chorus of ice me ice me ice me throbbing up his arm, but this was all so different from Frank usual grope-and-flee tactics that Bob couldn’t figure out the right response. A close-range punch in the gut seemed unwarranted, everything considered.
Frank exhaled heavily through his nose, another wave of heat over Bob’s face, and Bob twitched, prickling all over with new sweat. “Mmph,” he said, universal indicator for ‘stop kissing me, I need to say something’, and pulled back against Frank’s hand. His own hand connected with something angular and unidentifiable behind him at thigh level. “Uh. What’re you doing?”
“Nothing?” Frank offered. His voice was strange and a little rough. He touched the bridge of Bob’s nose lightly through the cloth, then his closed eyes, gentle like Bob was made of… well, Bob couldn’t actually think of too many things Frank was this gentle with, except maybe his dogs.
“There’s no camera,” Bob said, more of a confirmation than a question.
“I’m taking pictures with my mind,” Frank assured him. That was actually kind of a relief, despite Frank still pressed in close enough that Bob was sharing his breath. “I like this,” Frank added quietly, and kissed him again, a little more insistent this time, a little bit hungry, his knee knocking against Bob’s as he wrapped his arm around Bob’s shoulders.
If he could speak, Bob would’ve asked if they were in a supply closet or a sound booth, but seeing as he couldn’t, he wrapped his fingers around the whatever-it-was behind him to balance Frank’s weight against his chest, and made the executive decision to let Frank do ‘nothing’ just a little while longer.
Door handle, his brain supplied when his fingers had got enough of the shape for it to make a connection. He was leaning on a door. That did absolutely nothing to help him work out where they were, but apart from a worrying sense that someone could see him, it didn't seem as important to know as it had been.
Frank's mouth was very soft, and after all these years around him Bob could see through the back of his eyelids how it looked; girly, curved lips almost invariably grinning or laughing. Currently brushing Bob's lip ring and gently prying his mouth open: admit one. One tongue.
There was something giddying about the quick, gone-in-a-second dart of Frankie's tongue against the tip of his, something that made Bob's blood race to his skin and made the room stuffier and his clothing heavier and his grip on the door handle all the more necessary. Something that made him flinch when Frank's thumb brushed the bottom of the bandana against his cheek, and cold metal touched his ear; Frank's wedding ring.
"Mmmmrnnn," he muttered, which was about as close to Frank's name as he could get with his mouth getting wetter and more tingly and Frank's sternum against his diaphragm. "Mmmnnnn."
Frank's only reply was to slip his wedding-ring finger into Bob's hair and stroke his finger tips against Bob's scalp, leaving him in the untenable position of trying to combine mild moral outrage with suddenly weak knees.
It wasn’t as though Frank had stopped speaking his language entirely; when Bob’s wrist brace got jostled against something beside them and his breath caught sharply, Frank even mumbled a little ‘sorry’ before returning to the apparently fascinating task of memorizing Bob’s mouth by touch.
But Bob’s clear (albeit non-verbal) articulation of ‘You’re going to go back to your wife with beard-burn on your face, you moron' seemed to be going pointedly unnoticed. As did the shifting of weight that should’ve automatically conveyed ‘People are going to think we’ve been kidnapped by fans’. Though to be fair to Frank, the clarity of that one was probably a bit muddled by Bob’s tongue meeting his own the next time his licked at Bob’s lip.
(It was an accidental movement, a… a blind touch, in every sense of the phrase. He couldn’t see, so he reached out for contact, and that was all.)
The thing was, when Frank had tugged his fingers back through Bob’s hair, things had shifted and the bandana was kind of slipping down in the back, much looser than it had been a minute ago. Bob found himself mentally willing it to stay in place, knowing only too well the feeling of having a bandage fall off to expose what was underneath and going oh shit, I didn’t know it was that bad…
But if he took he moved his hand to fix it, he was going to grab onto Frank in the same instinctive way that he’d let his tongue slide over Frank’s own. He tightened his grip on the doorknob, feeling it creak in his fist, and saw no evil with all his might.
He hadn't ever given much thought before to what it felt like to have someone accidentally tie a bandana to his hair while kissing him, but the universe liked to provide Bob with unconsidered new experiences fairly frequently when he was touring.
"Mmmfff, mmm, mmm," Frankie muttered, knocking teeth with Bob and nearly knocking him off-balance. Bob pulled back, but Frank lunged upwards, retying the strip of cloth too tight, digging it into his face, and trying it to his hair.
Bob considered pointing this out, or saying, "ow" or something along those lines, but as the thought reached him so did Frank's tongue, sliding over his like oil over water. Both of Frank's hands were caught in whatever of Bob's hair wasn't tied into the knot of his bandana, and ... Frank was probably on tip-toes, and ... Bob leaned on the door.
That was still solidly shut.
He relaxed into it as much as he dared, the door handle jabbing him incredibly uncomfortably in the spine: good, he thought as Frank's wedding ring caught him in the ear again, think about what you're doing, Bob.
And so Bob took his hand off the handle before he could crush it, and grabbed Frank's hip (it was squashier than the times he'd had to lift Frank off him before, and his fingers dimpled a little way into flesh, and somehow that made him less inclined to let go), to push him away. To pull him off Bob's mouth and put an end to the horrible two-beard friction. To say, "Frank, you jackass, you have a wife and this has stopped being hilarious and started being worrying."
Bob had every intention of doing all those things, but as Gee often said, intention and result were rarely the same thing.
And so what he actually did was to stick his finger through Frank's belt loops, and pull him closer until the seam of Frank's pants was pressed against Bob's thigh.
Frank exhaled in an uneven burst and went heavy against him. “Oh fuck, Bob,” he mumbled. “Oh fuck.”
Bob opened his mouth to point out that it had taken Frank long enough to come to his senses about all of this and got a mouthful of Frank’s tongue instead. Frank pressed up against him, and there was going to be one fucker of a bruise in his back from that handle but there was also enough interesting friction going on all of a sudden that he didn’t quite care.
He was trying to remember what Mikey’s big list of “It Doesn’t Count If…” had to say about impromptu blindfolded grinding with dudes backstage when Frank fumbled behind him and said “Okay, just… let’s just…” and opened the door that Bob was leaning on, sending Bob stumbling backwards. Bob grabbed onto Frank’s shirt, struck with the unpleasant feeling of falling into dark empty space, and wound up dragging Frank along with him.
“What the fuck,” he said, finding his balance.
“That worked,” Frank said with a crazy giggle, “Just wanted somewhere a little more private.”
Bob sputtered. “Where were we before?” he snapped.
“N-nowhere?”
Bob growled and reached for the blindfold because, semi-on or otherwise, there were limits to his Frank-induced insanity.
“Aw, wait, wait…” Frank grabbed his hands and pinned them between their chests like some sort of group prayer taken a turn for the suspiciously kinky. He kissed Bob’s scowl lightly in what was probably supposed to be a reassuring manner. “This is just more private. Okay? Are you going to take it off if I let go?”
“Yes,” Bob said flatly.
“Oh. Shit.” Frank fidgeted against him, up on his toes again to lean on him. “Will you leave it on if I blow you?” he asked into Bob’s ear, licking his cheek, and slowly, slowly letting go of Bob’s hands.
He might have had an answer for that, but Bob's imagination took a dive for the unexpectedly graphic and short-circuited his vocabulary, leaving him gaping like a landed fish, as Frank pressed the heel of his hand to Bob's crotch.
The weight of Frankie's body squashed Bob's hands (fortunately not at a bad enough angle to fuck with his wrist, which was either very lucky or very calculated and either way very unlike Frank), and shoved Frank's palm into Bob's groin with an insistence that was almost painful.
"Bob," Frank said, his mouth against Bob's neck while Bob tried in vain to process the previous sentence, "don't take the blindfold off."
"If I don't see what's happening it isn't happening," Bob mumbled, somehow managing to get a slight questioning inflection into it.
"Anything that works for you," Frank assured him, jerking his hips away and - Bob held his breath involuntarily - fumbling one-handed with Bob's belt.
"Frank--" he choked out as Frank finally succeeded in getting Bob's belt buckle undone.
"I'm going as fast as I can, shush," Frank growled, and Bob didn't quite move his head fast enough:
There was a moment of explosive pain as Frank's head made contact with his nose, followed by a confusing moment which was both painful and extremely nice as Frank started kissing him again, one hot eager hand thrust down the front of Bob's pants and probably doing as much for Frank as it was for him with how hard Frankie was leaning on it.
Just as well. He wasn't sure how much of his own hair he'd have to rip out to get the blindfold off by now anyhow.
Frank pulled back for long enough to say, "just so you know, you have a nosebleed," like Bob might somehow have not noticed the taste of copper over his lips, and dived straight back in; but by now, Bob was a little more concerned by the way Frank's fingertips were scrabbling over the elastic of his underpants' waistband, and the cold, wet-feeling slap of wedding ring on his lower belly like a flare.
There was a hot trickle drip-dripping over his upper lip, but if he moved to do anything about that, Frank might think he was going for the blindfold and stop. And he really, really didn’t want Frank to stop, not when had finally worked his fingers into Bob’s shorts and, awkwardly but eagerly, got his hand around Bob’s cock. So Bob swallowed the blood that was tickling in the back of his throat and made some sort of noise, just random sound caught up in his exhale, and Frank gave a breathy laugh that was reassuringly different from his usual giggle, but still...
“Bad etiquette,” Bob managed, in an effort to explain that you really shouldn’t be laughing when you had somebody’s dick in your hand, “Fucker.”
“You make me insane,” Frank said, like a sort of apology, and then made Bob flinch by unexpectedly reaching up and smearing the line of blood all over Bob’s lips. Which was pretty fucking gross, really, but Frank played his thumb over the head of Bob’s erection and gave it a tentative sweat-slick stroke that had no right to feel so good from such an awkward angle with Frank crowded up against him like this.
Bob put his head back against the wall, shutting his eyes tight behind the cloth and trying to picture what Frank was doing, without his blindfolded, bleeding, blushing self in the image making it ridiculous. Frank made a desperate noise and rocked hard against Bob’s thigh.
“Oh, I’m taking so many fucking brain-pictures,” Frank mumbled from the proximity of Bob’s chest, fingers sliding and twisting over Bob’s dick like he was getting himself off.
“Really good hands,” Bob blurted. (If they’d tied the bandana around his mouth, his life would be easier.)
He could feel Frank grinning, his face pressed suddenly into Bob's sternum, as he said, "Oh thanks, I dunno if you knew, but I like, play guitar in this rock band --"
"Shut uuup," Bob groaned, and he couldn't tell himself if the note in his own voice was from what Frankie was saying or what he was doing. He did however manage to avoid letting the 'kiss me again please kiss me again' out of his head, although that wasn't exactly going to negate the need for a gag or something to stop him saying something stupid and irreversible in the near future if Frank kept squeezing his dick like that.
It wasn't even like Frankie was moving his hand. There was no room for that. He was just squeezing and relaxing, his hot, sweaty palm, his fingers flexing and slithering in place, like Bob's when Bob was trying really hard not to jerk off but not hard enough to keep his hand out of his pants. And Frank's dick, hard and humping against Bob's thigh, was this horrible and not-horrible reminder that however this was getting to him, it was also apparently getting to Frank.
One of Frank's fingers - one of the ones that wasn't currently crammed around Bob's dick - lipped Bob's open mouth and scraped over his teeth, confusing him so much that he forgot to spit it out. It tasted of sweat and Bob's own blood, and of dirt, and possibly a bit of dried on pee (because they were musicians, damn it all, not chefs, and washing hands after peeing just softened long-hardened guitar calluses). Bob let his mouth hang open, and another finger poked into his tongue, slippery with blood.
"Ssssuck them," Frank muttered, sounding like he'd bitten his own lip, his hand clenching around Bob's dick so tight Bob held his breath in sudden pain; pushing himself into Bob's thigh like a cat into someone's palm. "Suck me."
The words grabbed Bob's brain by the scruff, threw it to the floor, and did something obscene to his willpower.
There were very few occasions when letting any of the band put any parts of themselves into Bob’s mouth seemed like a good idea, but at the moment, pulling Frank’s fingers in and sliding his tongue wetly through the space between them made all the sense in the world. Frank made a noise like he’d been hit and shoved them in further, so Bob bit down in warning before Frank could choke him.
Frank hissed, jerking hard against him. “Fuck, I’m gonna come in my pants,” he groaned, but eased up with his fingers just the same.
Everything was in sync; Frank’s ragged little breaths against Bob’s neck (Bob could feel him staring at his mouth) and Bob’s tongue rubbing along the underside of Frank’s fingers, rhythmic and messy, and the grind of Frank’s hard-on against his leg, and Bob couldn’t even figure out which of them had set that beat. He couldn’t see and now he couldn’t even speak and he’d never felt more like a human-sized toy for Frank to play with in his life. It was all so fucked up that it had turned around and become kind of awesome again.
So he let himself slide down the wall a bit, making the angle better for Frank, getting an arm around his waist and pulling Frank in against him as if he really needed the encouragement. Trying to just fucking feel without thinking too hard, he undulated his tongue against Frank’s fingers and dipped his head to take them in further.
Of course, he was rewarded for his efforts by Frank obviously forgetting that he was supposed to be doing something with his other hand at all. Bob growled impatiently and closed his teeth around Frank’s fingers lightly again, the best he could manage by way of non-verbal communication to remind Frank he’d been promised blowjobs for good behavior here.
Frank just hissed again and rubbed up against Bob's thigh, plastering his body up against Bob's and knocking them both harder into the wall. "Do th-that again," he muttered, and Bob discovered that one thing he couldn't do with a mouthful of dirty finger and a nose full of his own drying blood was breathe.
He opened his mouth, trying to suck air in around the third knuckles of Frank's hand, and Frank made a bereft sound and mashed his hand messily into Bob's dick. It wasn't quite the precise, nimble, sweaty-fingered caress of earlier but it was a start.
"It's okay I'm not gonna yet," Frank muttered, and for five air-deprived, heart-thumping seconds Bob had absolutely no freaking idea what it was Frank wasn't gonna yet, and cared only about getting enough oxygen.
And then Frank was pulling Bob's head forwards, downwards by the lip, until an unexpected sea of drool came trickling out, over the back of Frank's hand. Bob closed his mouth just as Frank's fingers fell away from him; Frank said in a much more controlled and worryingly evil-sounding voice, "Check it out."
The next thing Bob knew his pants were open and his shorts were down and Frankie was still kind of riding his leg but had both his hands hard and tight around Bob's dick. One dry and warm and comfortable where it was and the other slick and wet with Bob's saliva, Bob's blood.
"Shiii---" Bob began before he could stop himself, electricity jetting through his balls like a slap.
"Kiss me again, fuckhead, or I won't do it any mmmmmore," Frank muttered, butting his face against Bob's dried-blood mouth, against his tender nose.
The bandana was so sweaty that it was all but glued to his eyelids; his legs were almost too weak to hold both their weight, especially with Frank's hard-on still sliding up and down Bob's thigh a couple of inches almost as an afterthought.
Bob opened his mouth and let Frank kiss him again.
(In the rational part of his mind, Bob suspected that Frank wouldn’t stop, no matter what Bob did now. But the rational part of Bob’s mind had been left out of stage somewhere and was probably being swept up by the crew at that very moment.)
“You taste like me,” Frank mumbled against his mouth, sounding inordinately pleased by the fact.
Bob pushed his Frank-flavoured tongue into Frank’s mouth and let him suck on it, his hips jerking forward of their own accord because this was better than anything, but a little faster and a little harder would be fucking amazing too. It shouldn’t have been any sort of surprise that Frank knew what to do with a dick in his hands; after you’d lived on a bus with other dudes for any length of time, you got to know things about them, no matter how quiet people tried to be in their bunks. But heavy breathing and rustling sheets across from him in the early morning darkness was one thing (no matter how many details his imagination tried to fill in before Bob got his earphones on) and Frank’s thumb sliding circles around the head of his cock was another thing entirely.
“Thing is, I really want to suck you off,” Frank said, the words muddled by an attempt to lick Bob’s lip ring while talking, “But I kind of want to keep you like this forever too.”
Which sounded like an okay idea in theory, but they’d been in here less than twenty minutes and Bob’s nose was bleeding, he had a doorknob-shaped bruise on his back, his legs were shaking, his mouth tasted like blood and Frank-fingers, some of his hair had been yanked out, and his wrist had actually started to go kind of numb. So it was mainly out of a sense of self-preservation that he put one hand on Frank’s shoulder and locked the other around the back of his neck and pushed until Frank slid to his knees, giggling like a maniac once again.
The downside of this - if there was one at all - was that now Bob's mouth was free to start making stupid sounds and stupid words and there was very little he could do about it.
Frank's hands were, respectively, clasped to Bob's hip and around the base of his dick, and Bob guessed he must be kneeling between his feet, his breath hotter than ovens and wet as the mouth it came from as it blasted the really very sensitive end of his damn dick.
Bob's head made a thunk noise as it collided too hard with the wall behind him and the last sound Frank made was a high and girly giggle before he got his mouth around the head of Bob's dick and pulled like he was trying to suck milkshake through a pinhole.
Not that Bob had ever dedicated much thought to the subject of his friends and their mouths, but Frank had always seemed like he had a mouth that was exceptionally right for blowing people. It was just that shape. And his lips - he could picture them in his head now, the rush of blood thundering red and claustrophobic through his eyelids as Frank pressed his tongue to Bob's frenum - smooth and soft, and round.
"Jesusfuck, Frank," Bob groaned, and hated himself for it. Shut up, he thought, as Frank's wedding ring pressed hard enough into the base of Bob's dick it was probably going to leave a damn dent. "Jeeeesus."
In the name of preventing anything more embarrassing or incoherent or just plain fucked-up from dribbling out of his mouth like another tide of saliva, Bob shoved the first two crooked fingers of his hand into his mouth and bit down on them hard with a mnnggff.
Which was good because as Frank's gloriously prehensile lips inched their way down over his dick, Frank's hand curling and uncurling still in the nest of his pubic hair, about the only vocalisation Bob could think to make was a litany of pleasepleasepleaseplease and he didn't even know what he was pleading for.
He reached down to find Frank’s head with his free hand, not pushing or anything, just finding him so that he could ground himself, combing through sweat-damp hair with shaky fingers. Frank made a low, pleased sound and Bob exhaled in a noisy rush around his fingers at the resulting vibration, his toes curling inside his shoes as he refused to let himself push forward into Frank’s mouth.
He’d let you, you know he’d let you, chanted the crazy voice in his head that had made him leave the blindfold on in the first place. Bob stroked convulsively at Frank’s ear with his thumb instead and focused on remembering to breathe.
The circle of Frank’s mouth slid down to meet his fingers in this perfect moment where every inch of Bob’s cock was held hot and wet and tight, and then Frank was pulling back to push forward again, his fingers digging into Bob’s hip. There was a dangerous little scrape of Frank’s bottom teeth that made Bob jump, but the electric charge of unexpected arousal when he figured out that Frank was looking up at him while he sucked him was even more intense.
Frank’s hand disappeared from Bob’s hip and he pulled off, licking at the head of Bob’s dick like he couldn’t stop. There was a muted jingle followed by the more easily identifiable sound of Frank yanking his own fly down, and then Frank’s mouth was on him again, sending another head-to-toe wave of sensation through Bob as he groaned around his cock.
Bob bucked forward before he could stop himself, not far, but enough that it probably caught Frank by surprise. He mumbled a curse around his fingers, the stuttered beginning of an apology, but Frank mmmed emphatically at him and brought wet fingers up to tug at Bob’s hip more insistently this time.
Frank's mouth slipped off the end of Bob's dick and he swore, swore around his knuckles as those perfect-for-this lips slithered off the saliva-slippy head of him. "Fffuck," Frank said, mirroring Bob's thoughts somewhat, but he followed it up with an almost reverent, "you look so fucking hot like that."
Bob rather doubted it. He could feel blood drying in his beard, in itchy smears. He had a sweaty piece of cloth tied over his eyes and through his hair. He probably looked like a fucking riot victim by now, a fucked up riot victim with his pants around his thighs and his stupid stupid hard-on right by Frank's mouth...
He tried not to shove his dick indiscriminately at Frank's face. But his mouth was right there, all wet and perfect and ready for him and Frank was wasting fucking time talking some bullshit about Bob looking good. He relaxed his grip on his fingers, tried to ignore how bad he must have dented them by now, and growled, "Frank."
"I know you can't see," Frank muttered, his nose brushing the end of Bob's dick, making it twitch, his hands convulsively shifting over his hip and the shaft of his dick like they were incapable of staying still. They were Frankie's hands; they probably were. "How I look. But you look so. Fucking. Hot."
"Frank," Bob repeated from around his knuckles, his hips twitching towards Frank's face until the end of his dick rubbed against Frank's cheek - a brief jolt of pain as invisible, short-lying stubble rasped his sensitive skin.
"Oh, right," Frank muttered. "Yeah. See. Thing is."
There was a long, long pause, and Frank said in almost a whisper, "You're gonna have to beg me, now."
From the very depths of his being, or perhaps just the one part of his mind that wasn’t focused with obsessive attention on the current location of Frank’s mouth, Bob summoned a note of dryness to mutter “I’m begging you to stop talking.”
Frank huffed with clear amusement and bit Bob’s stomach with his sharp little teeth. Hard.
Bob grunted and curled in against the unexpected pain, his fingers closing on Frank’s ear to make sure that he didn’t do that again.
“Ow, okay, okay, owowow,” Frank yelped, going pliant in Bob’s grip, listing to the side to ease Bob’s pull on his ear. But he was laughing and Bob could still hear the little bastard stroking himself, getting off on this too.
“You’re fucking insane,” Bob said, resisting the urge to just drag Frank back to his cock and give him something better to do with him mouth than babble. (Of course, it wasn’t too difficult with the imprint of Frank’s teeth still throbbing on his stomach like a brand. He let go of Frank’s ear just in case.)
“Come on, just once,” Frank insisted, slow-stroking Bob’s dick, keeping his fist loose enough to be no more than a tease. “Say ‘Pretty please, Frankie, let me fuck your mouth’. It’ll be awesome.”
Bob gaped.
“Saaay it,” Frank sang, and blew cool air across his erection. “Say it, say it, say it…”
“Please,” Bob choked out, face burning so hard he could feel his pulse in his cheeks, matching the ache in his cock. “Just…”
Frank licked at the tip of his cock again, slow and messy with the flat of his tongue. “More.” He pulled back when Bob pushed forward. “Come on, more.”
“Let me,” Bob whispered. That was it. He couldn’t say any more, it wasn’t a choice. But holy fuck, he wanted it. “Please, I… Let me fuck your mouth, Frank, please.”
There was a sound from Frank, something like a moan, something like a growl. “Wasn’t so bad, was it?” Frank whispered raggedly, and fucking finally swallowed down the length of Bob’s cock like he needed this as much as Bob did.
Not jerking hard and fast into Frank's mouth was the most difficult thing Bob had tried to do in a long time, and so perhaps it wasn't entirely surprising that he failed at it.
With both his hands on the back of Frank's neck, probably hurting him with how hard his fingers dug into it, there was nothing to keep Bob from saying all kinds of dumb shit but the fact that he could no longer form words. Frank's mouth was hot and endless on his dick, his throat seemed to stretch on forever, a tunnel made solely for the purpose of embracing Bob right up to the pubes.
He was dimly aware that Frank was still jerking about at the shoulder enough that he was probably really going for it with his own dick, and that it was just a matter of seconds, maybe, before Frank came and probably changed his mind or something when he realised what he was doing, and ...
Bob's thighs got antsy about the business of holding him up. He was already slumped hard against the wall, bruise-backed and bloody-nosed, but even standing this much upright was getting to be beyond him. His legs were shaking, his heart keeping a beat he'd have had trouble replicating with his wrists.
"Ffff," Bob panted, knocking his head on the wall for the umpteenth time as Frank's teeth barely caught the head of his dick on one lunge and made the world swim and stutter, a cascade of sweat trekking down his cheeks and dripping off his beard. He didn't even know if the FFF was the start of a fuck or a Frank or a heart-attack. "Mnuh."
Something like tension began to ball up in his lower belly and his head sort of detached from the entire experience and filled up with whiteness.
"Can... I..." Bob grunted, aware that he couldn't actually untangle himself from Frank, couldn't force himself to give him The Tap, not now. Not when he wanted so fucking badly to just. To. To come. To come in Frank's mouth. "Can. I. Can."
Frank's pinky, splayed through Bob's pubes like an anchor keeping his hand in place around the base of Bob's dick, curled into a crooked question-mark. Bob ... decided he had to take this as a yes, or he was going to fly apart and possibly take out part of the wall.
His hips stuttered and jerked and his breath just stopped, only to escape in a stupid choked noise like he was fucking dying, and it didn’t matter at all because he was coming and coming in hot bursts to fill Frank’s mouth. It felt like he could keep going like this forever, crashing through a never-ending spiral of intense pleasure…
Frank pulled back, fist pumping Bob through his orgasm, still tonguing messily at Bob’s jerking dick, letting Bob come on him and in him and… everything… was just fucking endless…
Bob slumped against the wall, chest heaving, somehow hypersensitive and half-numb all at once. Through the throbbing buzz of white noise in his ears, he heard the wet, oh-so-familiar sound of Frank spitting on the floor, and then Frank was back with one arm locked around Bob’s waist and his wet face pressed against his belly.
“Jesus,” Frank said, voice rough and wrecked, “Fuck, Bob… oh…”
Frank was noisy when he came, hissing broken obscenities through his teeth and sucking on Bob’s skin hard enough that it burned. Bob brushed his thumb over Frank’s sticky cheek and got bitten for his trouble, but he was still too fucking destroyed to care much at all, listening to Frank riding it out. Then there was a long moment of quiet, with their panting breaths falling in and out of sync and Frank's fingers flexing against his back.
“You totally have jizz all over your pants now,” Frank snickered, fumbling Bob’s hand to his mouth and licking it, wrist to fingertips. “Jesus Christ, Bobert… come here.” He tugged at Bob’s hand, which Bob took as his cue to give his painfully locked knees a break and slide down the wall, landing with a jelly-legged thump.
"Can you undo the," Bob said, as his ability to speak in full sentences lagged somewhat behind, his mouth still loose and dribbly, still crackling with dried blood. "Undo the, I need to."
"Ugh sentence talk words good," Frank sniggered, indistinct with his tongue still flicking between Bob's fingers in a way that, a few seconds before, would have driven Bob wild and was now just wet and slightly annoying. "Ugh untie-um Bobhead."
"Fuck you," Bob groaned, and Frank's hand left his back, Frank's face left his belly, and with a cuss and a snap Frank began what felt like yanking Bob's hair out in handfuls. "FUCK. OW. STOP THAT."
"Do you want to be untied or not?" Frank muttered, indistinct again, his breath irritating on Bob's ear. "Huh. That sentence was a lot sexier ten minutes ago."
"Get off, I'll do it myself."
"That one not so much."
Bob swatted him away as efficiently as he could and got to work on the knot. It was tangled in with so much of his hair that in the end all he could do was pull and hope and tug and hope and wince and pull until the bandana was loose enough to slide down his tender nose and settle around his neck.
When he managed to focus again Bob kind of wished he'd just left the thing on.
"We're in a fucking corridor, Frank."
Frank shrugged. He was still tinged with pink in the cheeks, his eyes wide and his pupils huge and dark, but he'd already tucked away his dick: something Bob was hasty to join him in. "Doesn't matter, no one saw."
"Anyone could have seen," Bob half-squawked, trying and failing to get to his feet.
"But they didn't."
"THEY COULD HAVE."
"But they didn't." Frank half-shut his eyes and added wistfully, "And if they did they got a motherfucker of a show."
Authors: strangecreature & apiphile
Fandom: MCR
Word Count: 7,009
Rating: R.
Pairing: Bob/Frank.
Warnings: Nowt.
Disclaimer: This probably hasn't actually happened. Except in our heads.
Notes: Before I entered into this bandom thing I had barely cowritten with anyone. Now I can honestly say some of the most awesome writing experiences of my life have been with swear_jar, minervasolo and strangecreature. I <3 the fucking internet.
Bob hadn't actually noticed at first. He was used to playing with his hair in his face anyway, so it wasn't until a particularly enthusiastic headbang sent the bandana down over his other eye as well that Bob realized he'd inadvertently blindfolded himself. What the hell, he thought, and kept playing, grounded by his foot on the kick, the angle of his knee guiding him to the hi-hat like his kit was just another part of him. He shut his eyes behind the band of cloth and just went with it, buzzing with the feeling of moving inside the music.
The song crashed to a close on Gerard's wail and Bob sat back, shaking his head at himself and shoving the bandana up into his hair again.
And that was when he noticed Frank watching him. Well. Staring.
Bob, being a veteran of all kinds of band-related weirdness, stared back as if Frank was a pane of glass, and got himself into position for the start of the next song. If he wanted to play at deadpan staring contests, Bob was going to win. Since the infection even Mikey couldn't beat Bob for straight-faced blank stares. (you kind of had to think of it like that, because "I nearly died" still wasn't quite getting to his brain without the crushing weight of panic attached to it)
The song started slow and low, just a kick at first, and Frank was still staring. Bob began to weigh up the possibility that the Incredible Climbing Douchebag was sizing up the new kit for jumping on possibilities later in the song, shook his head in tired dismay, and groaned as the world once again went red-and-white.
Fine. He'd just do the entire fucking set blindfolded. Frankie did songs blindfolded, why shouldn't he? Admittedly Frank did it on purpose, but then was was rather Bob's life, wasn't it? Nothing ever seemed to happen because he'd decided on it happening. Things just sneaked up on him or leapt out at him...
... or fell over his eyes.
In a way it was easier, because there wasn't the flash of tiny snippets of crowd and band from under his hair, or the moments between songs where he could see just how many people were out there pointing cameraphones at the stage. All he could see with the blindfold was abstractions of red and white, like a fever, and the vibrations in his body. In fact, it was kinda nice.
He'd been poised for Frank to hurl himself onto the drums and leave him trying to complete the set with a floor tom and no marching drum or whatever, but there was no crash, no irritating interruption to him playing.
And just like that Gerard was in the periphery of his hearing, over his earplugs, yelling about how great the audience had been and how much they loved them and - well, probably, he couldn't hear the actual words but he'd played more than enough shows to know the kind of stuff Gee said to the fans - and it was over.
He put his hand to his face to push the bandana from his eyes, sweat sticking every inch of his clothing to his skin, and from surprisingly close to, Frank yelled, "DON'T TOUCH IT I WANT TO TAKE A PICTURE."
“Fuck off, no,” Bob said, his standard response to the phrase ‘take a picture’ getting thrown around by anyone other than Gee-approved fans. There was the telltale give of somebody scrambling up onto the drum stand and Bob made a grab for the bandana, but Frank had plastered himself against Bob’s back, catching his arms in a bear hug.
“I’m asking so so nicely,” Frank begged, despite obvious evidence to the contrary. Bob could feel him all jittery and twitching with post-show energy like Gerard was before shows, radiating body heat and pressing his sweaty forehead against Bob’s cheek. “Just one? One tiny, tiny one and I'll be your slave forever.”
It should’ve been much easier saying no to Frank like this, but somebody killed the stage lights like a big fucking metaphor for Bob’s resolve breaking - you had to choose your battles with Frank or you’d be dead of exhaustion within a month - so he groaned and said “Oh whatever”.
Bob could feel Frank’s sharp smile against his cheek as he wrapped his fingers around Bob’s wrist, tugging him to his feet. “Just need to find my phone,” Frank explained shortly (because Frank, unlike certain bassists, wasn’t in the habit of bringing his phone on stage and attempting to sneak out texts during Gerard’s banter) and guided Bob back from the drums with uncharacteristic care.
Blind leading the fucking blind, Bob thought hopelessly, and didn’t even try to figure out why his cheeks were burning.
Slippery with stage-sweat and stumbling around obstacles that weren't there, Bob felt Frank's hand slide back over his own and clasp at only the very tip of his fingers. He felt an irrational surge of panic at the idea of being abandoned and blind somewhere unknown, Frankie disappearing on him - which was fucking stupid, it wasn't like he couldn't just reach up and shove the bandana out of his eyes.
"Not long now," Frank trilled, tugging on Bob's fingers. Bob tried to strain for some sort of sound-clue to where the hell he was, but with the ear plugs still in there wasn't much he could pick up apart from a sudden blessed blast of air-con on his clothing that vanished again as they walked on.
"I could just take this off and put it back on later," Bob said, trying to sound reasonable, "it would be easier."
"You'll run off," Frank pointed out with an authority born of long experience. Bob couldn't really argue with that. He would run - well, wander - off given half the chance. Frank was, however, clearly not into giving him that half-chance.
"Where are we?" He said instead, trying to reach out with one hand to feel for the wall.
"Nearly there," Frank repeated with maddening levity, and there was a short jolt, a change of air pressure, and -- "Stop."
Bob stopped. Frank didn't, however, let go of his hand.
"Hi," Frank said, instead, sounding slightly breathier than Bob was used to.
"Hello," Bob said rather uncertainly. "What?" His face was hot again; wherever it was he was now, there was no air-con and it was stuffy.
"Don't move," Frank said, letting go his fingers and - Bob jerked - pressing his hand palm-down against the back of his neck.
The inside of the bandana was hot and sticky against his eyelids, and Bob thought, if I can't see it then it isn't happening, like he had when he'd woken to find himself swathed in tubes and surrounded by very scared-looking medical staff. Besides, he could see in his mind's eye that Frankie would have to stretch to grab him like that, and that meant he was probably within a hair's breadth of pressing his body into Bob's -
-- or, as it turned out, his mouth.
Salty, Bob’s brain supplied. Salt and heat and chapped lips; Frank tasted a bit like a sunburn felt, the side effect of screaming into a mic for the better part of an hour. His palm still burned at the back of Bob’s neck and Bob’s wrist was already sending a pitiful chorus of ice me ice me ice me throbbing up his arm, but this was all so different from Frank usual grope-and-flee tactics that Bob couldn’t figure out the right response. A close-range punch in the gut seemed unwarranted, everything considered.
Frank exhaled heavily through his nose, another wave of heat over Bob’s face, and Bob twitched, prickling all over with new sweat. “Mmph,” he said, universal indicator for ‘stop kissing me, I need to say something’, and pulled back against Frank’s hand. His own hand connected with something angular and unidentifiable behind him at thigh level. “Uh. What’re you doing?”
“Nothing?” Frank offered. His voice was strange and a little rough. He touched the bridge of Bob’s nose lightly through the cloth, then his closed eyes, gentle like Bob was made of… well, Bob couldn’t actually think of too many things Frank was this gentle with, except maybe his dogs.
“There’s no camera,” Bob said, more of a confirmation than a question.
“I’m taking pictures with my mind,” Frank assured him. That was actually kind of a relief, despite Frank still pressed in close enough that Bob was sharing his breath. “I like this,” Frank added quietly, and kissed him again, a little more insistent this time, a little bit hungry, his knee knocking against Bob’s as he wrapped his arm around Bob’s shoulders.
If he could speak, Bob would’ve asked if they were in a supply closet or a sound booth, but seeing as he couldn’t, he wrapped his fingers around the whatever-it-was behind him to balance Frank’s weight against his chest, and made the executive decision to let Frank do ‘nothing’ just a little while longer.
Door handle, his brain supplied when his fingers had got enough of the shape for it to make a connection. He was leaning on a door. That did absolutely nothing to help him work out where they were, but apart from a worrying sense that someone could see him, it didn't seem as important to know as it had been.
Frank's mouth was very soft, and after all these years around him Bob could see through the back of his eyelids how it looked; girly, curved lips almost invariably grinning or laughing. Currently brushing Bob's lip ring and gently prying his mouth open: admit one. One tongue.
There was something giddying about the quick, gone-in-a-second dart of Frankie's tongue against the tip of his, something that made Bob's blood race to his skin and made the room stuffier and his clothing heavier and his grip on the door handle all the more necessary. Something that made him flinch when Frank's thumb brushed the bottom of the bandana against his cheek, and cold metal touched his ear; Frank's wedding ring.
"Mmmmrnnn," he muttered, which was about as close to Frank's name as he could get with his mouth getting wetter and more tingly and Frank's sternum against his diaphragm. "Mmmnnnn."
Frank's only reply was to slip his wedding-ring finger into Bob's hair and stroke his finger tips against Bob's scalp, leaving him in the untenable position of trying to combine mild moral outrage with suddenly weak knees.
It wasn’t as though Frank had stopped speaking his language entirely; when Bob’s wrist brace got jostled against something beside them and his breath caught sharply, Frank even mumbled a little ‘sorry’ before returning to the apparently fascinating task of memorizing Bob’s mouth by touch.
But Bob’s clear (albeit non-verbal) articulation of ‘You’re going to go back to your wife with beard-burn on your face, you moron' seemed to be going pointedly unnoticed. As did the shifting of weight that should’ve automatically conveyed ‘People are going to think we’ve been kidnapped by fans’. Though to be fair to Frank, the clarity of that one was probably a bit muddled by Bob’s tongue meeting his own the next time his licked at Bob’s lip.
(It was an accidental movement, a… a blind touch, in every sense of the phrase. He couldn’t see, so he reached out for contact, and that was all.)
The thing was, when Frank had tugged his fingers back through Bob’s hair, things had shifted and the bandana was kind of slipping down in the back, much looser than it had been a minute ago. Bob found himself mentally willing it to stay in place, knowing only too well the feeling of having a bandage fall off to expose what was underneath and going oh shit, I didn’t know it was that bad…
But if he took he moved his hand to fix it, he was going to grab onto Frank in the same instinctive way that he’d let his tongue slide over Frank’s own. He tightened his grip on the doorknob, feeling it creak in his fist, and saw no evil with all his might.
He hadn't ever given much thought before to what it felt like to have someone accidentally tie a bandana to his hair while kissing him, but the universe liked to provide Bob with unconsidered new experiences fairly frequently when he was touring.
"Mmmfff, mmm, mmm," Frankie muttered, knocking teeth with Bob and nearly knocking him off-balance. Bob pulled back, but Frank lunged upwards, retying the strip of cloth too tight, digging it into his face, and trying it to his hair.
Bob considered pointing this out, or saying, "ow" or something along those lines, but as the thought reached him so did Frank's tongue, sliding over his like oil over water. Both of Frank's hands were caught in whatever of Bob's hair wasn't tied into the knot of his bandana, and ... Frank was probably on tip-toes, and ... Bob leaned on the door.
That was still solidly shut.
He relaxed into it as much as he dared, the door handle jabbing him incredibly uncomfortably in the spine: good, he thought as Frank's wedding ring caught him in the ear again, think about what you're doing, Bob.
And so Bob took his hand off the handle before he could crush it, and grabbed Frank's hip (it was squashier than the times he'd had to lift Frank off him before, and his fingers dimpled a little way into flesh, and somehow that made him less inclined to let go), to push him away. To pull him off Bob's mouth and put an end to the horrible two-beard friction. To say, "Frank, you jackass, you have a wife and this has stopped being hilarious and started being worrying."
Bob had every intention of doing all those things, but as Gee often said, intention and result were rarely the same thing.
And so what he actually did was to stick his finger through Frank's belt loops, and pull him closer until the seam of Frank's pants was pressed against Bob's thigh.
Frank exhaled in an uneven burst and went heavy against him. “Oh fuck, Bob,” he mumbled. “Oh fuck.”
Bob opened his mouth to point out that it had taken Frank long enough to come to his senses about all of this and got a mouthful of Frank’s tongue instead. Frank pressed up against him, and there was going to be one fucker of a bruise in his back from that handle but there was also enough interesting friction going on all of a sudden that he didn’t quite care.
He was trying to remember what Mikey’s big list of “It Doesn’t Count If…” had to say about impromptu blindfolded grinding with dudes backstage when Frank fumbled behind him and said “Okay, just… let’s just…” and opened the door that Bob was leaning on, sending Bob stumbling backwards. Bob grabbed onto Frank’s shirt, struck with the unpleasant feeling of falling into dark empty space, and wound up dragging Frank along with him.
“What the fuck,” he said, finding his balance.
“That worked,” Frank said with a crazy giggle, “Just wanted somewhere a little more private.”
Bob sputtered. “Where were we before?” he snapped.
“N-nowhere?”
Bob growled and reached for the blindfold because, semi-on or otherwise, there were limits to his Frank-induced insanity.
“Aw, wait, wait…” Frank grabbed his hands and pinned them between their chests like some sort of group prayer taken a turn for the suspiciously kinky. He kissed Bob’s scowl lightly in what was probably supposed to be a reassuring manner. “This is just more private. Okay? Are you going to take it off if I let go?”
“Yes,” Bob said flatly.
“Oh. Shit.” Frank fidgeted against him, up on his toes again to lean on him. “Will you leave it on if I blow you?” he asked into Bob’s ear, licking his cheek, and slowly, slowly letting go of Bob’s hands.
He might have had an answer for that, but Bob's imagination took a dive for the unexpectedly graphic and short-circuited his vocabulary, leaving him gaping like a landed fish, as Frank pressed the heel of his hand to Bob's crotch.
The weight of Frankie's body squashed Bob's hands (fortunately not at a bad enough angle to fuck with his wrist, which was either very lucky or very calculated and either way very unlike Frank), and shoved Frank's palm into Bob's groin with an insistence that was almost painful.
"Bob," Frank said, his mouth against Bob's neck while Bob tried in vain to process the previous sentence, "don't take the blindfold off."
"If I don't see what's happening it isn't happening," Bob mumbled, somehow managing to get a slight questioning inflection into it.
"Anything that works for you," Frank assured him, jerking his hips away and - Bob held his breath involuntarily - fumbling one-handed with Bob's belt.
"Frank--" he choked out as Frank finally succeeded in getting Bob's belt buckle undone.
"I'm going as fast as I can, shush," Frank growled, and Bob didn't quite move his head fast enough:
There was a moment of explosive pain as Frank's head made contact with his nose, followed by a confusing moment which was both painful and extremely nice as Frank started kissing him again, one hot eager hand thrust down the front of Bob's pants and probably doing as much for Frank as it was for him with how hard Frankie was leaning on it.
Just as well. He wasn't sure how much of his own hair he'd have to rip out to get the blindfold off by now anyhow.
Frank pulled back for long enough to say, "just so you know, you have a nosebleed," like Bob might somehow have not noticed the taste of copper over his lips, and dived straight back in; but by now, Bob was a little more concerned by the way Frank's fingertips were scrabbling over the elastic of his underpants' waistband, and the cold, wet-feeling slap of wedding ring on his lower belly like a flare.
There was a hot trickle drip-dripping over his upper lip, but if he moved to do anything about that, Frank might think he was going for the blindfold and stop. And he really, really didn’t want Frank to stop, not when had finally worked his fingers into Bob’s shorts and, awkwardly but eagerly, got his hand around Bob’s cock. So Bob swallowed the blood that was tickling in the back of his throat and made some sort of noise, just random sound caught up in his exhale, and Frank gave a breathy laugh that was reassuringly different from his usual giggle, but still...
“Bad etiquette,” Bob managed, in an effort to explain that you really shouldn’t be laughing when you had somebody’s dick in your hand, “Fucker.”
“You make me insane,” Frank said, like a sort of apology, and then made Bob flinch by unexpectedly reaching up and smearing the line of blood all over Bob’s lips. Which was pretty fucking gross, really, but Frank played his thumb over the head of Bob’s erection and gave it a tentative sweat-slick stroke that had no right to feel so good from such an awkward angle with Frank crowded up against him like this.
Bob put his head back against the wall, shutting his eyes tight behind the cloth and trying to picture what Frank was doing, without his blindfolded, bleeding, blushing self in the image making it ridiculous. Frank made a desperate noise and rocked hard against Bob’s thigh.
“Oh, I’m taking so many fucking brain-pictures,” Frank mumbled from the proximity of Bob’s chest, fingers sliding and twisting over Bob’s dick like he was getting himself off.
“Really good hands,” Bob blurted. (If they’d tied the bandana around his mouth, his life would be easier.)
He could feel Frank grinning, his face pressed suddenly into Bob's sternum, as he said, "Oh thanks, I dunno if you knew, but I like, play guitar in this rock band --"
"Shut uuup," Bob groaned, and he couldn't tell himself if the note in his own voice was from what Frankie was saying or what he was doing. He did however manage to avoid letting the 'kiss me again please kiss me again' out of his head, although that wasn't exactly going to negate the need for a gag or something to stop him saying something stupid and irreversible in the near future if Frank kept squeezing his dick like that.
It wasn't even like Frankie was moving his hand. There was no room for that. He was just squeezing and relaxing, his hot, sweaty palm, his fingers flexing and slithering in place, like Bob's when Bob was trying really hard not to jerk off but not hard enough to keep his hand out of his pants. And Frank's dick, hard and humping against Bob's thigh, was this horrible and not-horrible reminder that however this was getting to him, it was also apparently getting to Frank.
One of Frank's fingers - one of the ones that wasn't currently crammed around Bob's dick - lipped Bob's open mouth and scraped over his teeth, confusing him so much that he forgot to spit it out. It tasted of sweat and Bob's own blood, and of dirt, and possibly a bit of dried on pee (because they were musicians, damn it all, not chefs, and washing hands after peeing just softened long-hardened guitar calluses). Bob let his mouth hang open, and another finger poked into his tongue, slippery with blood.
"Ssssuck them," Frank muttered, sounding like he'd bitten his own lip, his hand clenching around Bob's dick so tight Bob held his breath in sudden pain; pushing himself into Bob's thigh like a cat into someone's palm. "Suck me."
The words grabbed Bob's brain by the scruff, threw it to the floor, and did something obscene to his willpower.
There were very few occasions when letting any of the band put any parts of themselves into Bob’s mouth seemed like a good idea, but at the moment, pulling Frank’s fingers in and sliding his tongue wetly through the space between them made all the sense in the world. Frank made a noise like he’d been hit and shoved them in further, so Bob bit down in warning before Frank could choke him.
Frank hissed, jerking hard against him. “Fuck, I’m gonna come in my pants,” he groaned, but eased up with his fingers just the same.
Everything was in sync; Frank’s ragged little breaths against Bob’s neck (Bob could feel him staring at his mouth) and Bob’s tongue rubbing along the underside of Frank’s fingers, rhythmic and messy, and the grind of Frank’s hard-on against his leg, and Bob couldn’t even figure out which of them had set that beat. He couldn’t see and now he couldn’t even speak and he’d never felt more like a human-sized toy for Frank to play with in his life. It was all so fucked up that it had turned around and become kind of awesome again.
So he let himself slide down the wall a bit, making the angle better for Frank, getting an arm around his waist and pulling Frank in against him as if he really needed the encouragement. Trying to just fucking feel without thinking too hard, he undulated his tongue against Frank’s fingers and dipped his head to take them in further.
Of course, he was rewarded for his efforts by Frank obviously forgetting that he was supposed to be doing something with his other hand at all. Bob growled impatiently and closed his teeth around Frank’s fingers lightly again, the best he could manage by way of non-verbal communication to remind Frank he’d been promised blowjobs for good behavior here.
Frank just hissed again and rubbed up against Bob's thigh, plastering his body up against Bob's and knocking them both harder into the wall. "Do th-that again," he muttered, and Bob discovered that one thing he couldn't do with a mouthful of dirty finger and a nose full of his own drying blood was breathe.
He opened his mouth, trying to suck air in around the third knuckles of Frank's hand, and Frank made a bereft sound and mashed his hand messily into Bob's dick. It wasn't quite the precise, nimble, sweaty-fingered caress of earlier but it was a start.
"It's okay I'm not gonna yet," Frank muttered, and for five air-deprived, heart-thumping seconds Bob had absolutely no freaking idea what it was Frank wasn't gonna yet, and cared only about getting enough oxygen.
And then Frank was pulling Bob's head forwards, downwards by the lip, until an unexpected sea of drool came trickling out, over the back of Frank's hand. Bob closed his mouth just as Frank's fingers fell away from him; Frank said in a much more controlled and worryingly evil-sounding voice, "Check it out."
The next thing Bob knew his pants were open and his shorts were down and Frankie was still kind of riding his leg but had both his hands hard and tight around Bob's dick. One dry and warm and comfortable where it was and the other slick and wet with Bob's saliva, Bob's blood.
"Shiii---" Bob began before he could stop himself, electricity jetting through his balls like a slap.
"Kiss me again, fuckhead, or I won't do it any mmmmmore," Frank muttered, butting his face against Bob's dried-blood mouth, against his tender nose.
The bandana was so sweaty that it was all but glued to his eyelids; his legs were almost too weak to hold both their weight, especially with Frank's hard-on still sliding up and down Bob's thigh a couple of inches almost as an afterthought.
Bob opened his mouth and let Frank kiss him again.
(In the rational part of his mind, Bob suspected that Frank wouldn’t stop, no matter what Bob did now. But the rational part of Bob’s mind had been left out of stage somewhere and was probably being swept up by the crew at that very moment.)
“You taste like me,” Frank mumbled against his mouth, sounding inordinately pleased by the fact.
Bob pushed his Frank-flavoured tongue into Frank’s mouth and let him suck on it, his hips jerking forward of their own accord because this was better than anything, but a little faster and a little harder would be fucking amazing too. It shouldn’t have been any sort of surprise that Frank knew what to do with a dick in his hands; after you’d lived on a bus with other dudes for any length of time, you got to know things about them, no matter how quiet people tried to be in their bunks. But heavy breathing and rustling sheets across from him in the early morning darkness was one thing (no matter how many details his imagination tried to fill in before Bob got his earphones on) and Frank’s thumb sliding circles around the head of his cock was another thing entirely.
“Thing is, I really want to suck you off,” Frank said, the words muddled by an attempt to lick Bob’s lip ring while talking, “But I kind of want to keep you like this forever too.”
Which sounded like an okay idea in theory, but they’d been in here less than twenty minutes and Bob’s nose was bleeding, he had a doorknob-shaped bruise on his back, his legs were shaking, his mouth tasted like blood and Frank-fingers, some of his hair had been yanked out, and his wrist had actually started to go kind of numb. So it was mainly out of a sense of self-preservation that he put one hand on Frank’s shoulder and locked the other around the back of his neck and pushed until Frank slid to his knees, giggling like a maniac once again.
The downside of this - if there was one at all - was that now Bob's mouth was free to start making stupid sounds and stupid words and there was very little he could do about it.
Frank's hands were, respectively, clasped to Bob's hip and around the base of his dick, and Bob guessed he must be kneeling between his feet, his breath hotter than ovens and wet as the mouth it came from as it blasted the really very sensitive end of his damn dick.
Bob's head made a thunk noise as it collided too hard with the wall behind him and the last sound Frank made was a high and girly giggle before he got his mouth around the head of Bob's dick and pulled like he was trying to suck milkshake through a pinhole.
Not that Bob had ever dedicated much thought to the subject of his friends and their mouths, but Frank had always seemed like he had a mouth that was exceptionally right for blowing people. It was just that shape. And his lips - he could picture them in his head now, the rush of blood thundering red and claustrophobic through his eyelids as Frank pressed his tongue to Bob's frenum - smooth and soft, and round.
"Jesusfuck, Frank," Bob groaned, and hated himself for it. Shut up, he thought, as Frank's wedding ring pressed hard enough into the base of Bob's dick it was probably going to leave a damn dent. "Jeeeesus."
In the name of preventing anything more embarrassing or incoherent or just plain fucked-up from dribbling out of his mouth like another tide of saliva, Bob shoved the first two crooked fingers of his hand into his mouth and bit down on them hard with a mnnggff.
Which was good because as Frank's gloriously prehensile lips inched their way down over his dick, Frank's hand curling and uncurling still in the nest of his pubic hair, about the only vocalisation Bob could think to make was a litany of pleasepleasepleaseplease and he didn't even know what he was pleading for.
He reached down to find Frank’s head with his free hand, not pushing or anything, just finding him so that he could ground himself, combing through sweat-damp hair with shaky fingers. Frank made a low, pleased sound and Bob exhaled in a noisy rush around his fingers at the resulting vibration, his toes curling inside his shoes as he refused to let himself push forward into Frank’s mouth.
He’d let you, you know he’d let you, chanted the crazy voice in his head that had made him leave the blindfold on in the first place. Bob stroked convulsively at Frank’s ear with his thumb instead and focused on remembering to breathe.
The circle of Frank’s mouth slid down to meet his fingers in this perfect moment where every inch of Bob’s cock was held hot and wet and tight, and then Frank was pulling back to push forward again, his fingers digging into Bob’s hip. There was a dangerous little scrape of Frank’s bottom teeth that made Bob jump, but the electric charge of unexpected arousal when he figured out that Frank was looking up at him while he sucked him was even more intense.
Frank’s hand disappeared from Bob’s hip and he pulled off, licking at the head of Bob’s dick like he couldn’t stop. There was a muted jingle followed by the more easily identifiable sound of Frank yanking his own fly down, and then Frank’s mouth was on him again, sending another head-to-toe wave of sensation through Bob as he groaned around his cock.
Bob bucked forward before he could stop himself, not far, but enough that it probably caught Frank by surprise. He mumbled a curse around his fingers, the stuttered beginning of an apology, but Frank mmmed emphatically at him and brought wet fingers up to tug at Bob’s hip more insistently this time.
Frank's mouth slipped off the end of Bob's dick and he swore, swore around his knuckles as those perfect-for-this lips slithered off the saliva-slippy head of him. "Fffuck," Frank said, mirroring Bob's thoughts somewhat, but he followed it up with an almost reverent, "you look so fucking hot like that."
Bob rather doubted it. He could feel blood drying in his beard, in itchy smears. He had a sweaty piece of cloth tied over his eyes and through his hair. He probably looked like a fucking riot victim by now, a fucked up riot victim with his pants around his thighs and his stupid stupid hard-on right by Frank's mouth...
He tried not to shove his dick indiscriminately at Frank's face. But his mouth was right there, all wet and perfect and ready for him and Frank was wasting fucking time talking some bullshit about Bob looking good. He relaxed his grip on his fingers, tried to ignore how bad he must have dented them by now, and growled, "Frank."
"I know you can't see," Frank muttered, his nose brushing the end of Bob's dick, making it twitch, his hands convulsively shifting over his hip and the shaft of his dick like they were incapable of staying still. They were Frankie's hands; they probably were. "How I look. But you look so. Fucking. Hot."
"Frank," Bob repeated from around his knuckles, his hips twitching towards Frank's face until the end of his dick rubbed against Frank's cheek - a brief jolt of pain as invisible, short-lying stubble rasped his sensitive skin.
"Oh, right," Frank muttered. "Yeah. See. Thing is."
There was a long, long pause, and Frank said in almost a whisper, "You're gonna have to beg me, now."
From the very depths of his being, or perhaps just the one part of his mind that wasn’t focused with obsessive attention on the current location of Frank’s mouth, Bob summoned a note of dryness to mutter “I’m begging you to stop talking.”
Frank huffed with clear amusement and bit Bob’s stomach with his sharp little teeth. Hard.
Bob grunted and curled in against the unexpected pain, his fingers closing on Frank’s ear to make sure that he didn’t do that again.
“Ow, okay, okay, owowow,” Frank yelped, going pliant in Bob’s grip, listing to the side to ease Bob’s pull on his ear. But he was laughing and Bob could still hear the little bastard stroking himself, getting off on this too.
“You’re fucking insane,” Bob said, resisting the urge to just drag Frank back to his cock and give him something better to do with him mouth than babble. (Of course, it wasn’t too difficult with the imprint of Frank’s teeth still throbbing on his stomach like a brand. He let go of Frank’s ear just in case.)
“Come on, just once,” Frank insisted, slow-stroking Bob’s dick, keeping his fist loose enough to be no more than a tease. “Say ‘Pretty please, Frankie, let me fuck your mouth’. It’ll be awesome.”
Bob gaped.
“Saaay it,” Frank sang, and blew cool air across his erection. “Say it, say it, say it…”
“Please,” Bob choked out, face burning so hard he could feel his pulse in his cheeks, matching the ache in his cock. “Just…”
Frank licked at the tip of his cock again, slow and messy with the flat of his tongue. “More.” He pulled back when Bob pushed forward. “Come on, more.”
“Let me,” Bob whispered. That was it. He couldn’t say any more, it wasn’t a choice. But holy fuck, he wanted it. “Please, I… Let me fuck your mouth, Frank, please.”
There was a sound from Frank, something like a moan, something like a growl. “Wasn’t so bad, was it?” Frank whispered raggedly, and fucking finally swallowed down the length of Bob’s cock like he needed this as much as Bob did.
Not jerking hard and fast into Frank's mouth was the most difficult thing Bob had tried to do in a long time, and so perhaps it wasn't entirely surprising that he failed at it.
With both his hands on the back of Frank's neck, probably hurting him with how hard his fingers dug into it, there was nothing to keep Bob from saying all kinds of dumb shit but the fact that he could no longer form words. Frank's mouth was hot and endless on his dick, his throat seemed to stretch on forever, a tunnel made solely for the purpose of embracing Bob right up to the pubes.
He was dimly aware that Frank was still jerking about at the shoulder enough that he was probably really going for it with his own dick, and that it was just a matter of seconds, maybe, before Frank came and probably changed his mind or something when he realised what he was doing, and ...
Bob's thighs got antsy about the business of holding him up. He was already slumped hard against the wall, bruise-backed and bloody-nosed, but even standing this much upright was getting to be beyond him. His legs were shaking, his heart keeping a beat he'd have had trouble replicating with his wrists.
"Ffff," Bob panted, knocking his head on the wall for the umpteenth time as Frank's teeth barely caught the head of his dick on one lunge and made the world swim and stutter, a cascade of sweat trekking down his cheeks and dripping off his beard. He didn't even know if the FFF was the start of a fuck or a Frank or a heart-attack. "Mnuh."
Something like tension began to ball up in his lower belly and his head sort of detached from the entire experience and filled up with whiteness.
"Can... I..." Bob grunted, aware that he couldn't actually untangle himself from Frank, couldn't force himself to give him The Tap, not now. Not when he wanted so fucking badly to just. To. To come. To come in Frank's mouth. "Can. I. Can."
Frank's pinky, splayed through Bob's pubes like an anchor keeping his hand in place around the base of Bob's dick, curled into a crooked question-mark. Bob ... decided he had to take this as a yes, or he was going to fly apart and possibly take out part of the wall.
His hips stuttered and jerked and his breath just stopped, only to escape in a stupid choked noise like he was fucking dying, and it didn’t matter at all because he was coming and coming in hot bursts to fill Frank’s mouth. It felt like he could keep going like this forever, crashing through a never-ending spiral of intense pleasure…
Frank pulled back, fist pumping Bob through his orgasm, still tonguing messily at Bob’s jerking dick, letting Bob come on him and in him and… everything… was just fucking endless…
Bob slumped against the wall, chest heaving, somehow hypersensitive and half-numb all at once. Through the throbbing buzz of white noise in his ears, he heard the wet, oh-so-familiar sound of Frank spitting on the floor, and then Frank was back with one arm locked around Bob’s waist and his wet face pressed against his belly.
“Jesus,” Frank said, voice rough and wrecked, “Fuck, Bob… oh…”
Frank was noisy when he came, hissing broken obscenities through his teeth and sucking on Bob’s skin hard enough that it burned. Bob brushed his thumb over Frank’s sticky cheek and got bitten for his trouble, but he was still too fucking destroyed to care much at all, listening to Frank riding it out. Then there was a long moment of quiet, with their panting breaths falling in and out of sync and Frank's fingers flexing against his back.
“You totally have jizz all over your pants now,” Frank snickered, fumbling Bob’s hand to his mouth and licking it, wrist to fingertips. “Jesus Christ, Bobert… come here.” He tugged at Bob’s hand, which Bob took as his cue to give his painfully locked knees a break and slide down the wall, landing with a jelly-legged thump.
"Can you undo the," Bob said, as his ability to speak in full sentences lagged somewhat behind, his mouth still loose and dribbly, still crackling with dried blood. "Undo the, I need to."
"Ugh sentence talk words good," Frank sniggered, indistinct with his tongue still flicking between Bob's fingers in a way that, a few seconds before, would have driven Bob wild and was now just wet and slightly annoying. "Ugh untie-um Bobhead."
"Fuck you," Bob groaned, and Frank's hand left his back, Frank's face left his belly, and with a cuss and a snap Frank began what felt like yanking Bob's hair out in handfuls. "FUCK. OW. STOP THAT."
"Do you want to be untied or not?" Frank muttered, indistinct again, his breath irritating on Bob's ear. "Huh. That sentence was a lot sexier ten minutes ago."
"Get off, I'll do it myself."
"That one not so much."
Bob swatted him away as efficiently as he could and got to work on the knot. It was tangled in with so much of his hair that in the end all he could do was pull and hope and tug and hope and wince and pull until the bandana was loose enough to slide down his tender nose and settle around his neck.
When he managed to focus again Bob kind of wished he'd just left the thing on.
"We're in a fucking corridor, Frank."
Frank shrugged. He was still tinged with pink in the cheeks, his eyes wide and his pupils huge and dark, but he'd already tucked away his dick: something Bob was hasty to join him in. "Doesn't matter, no one saw."
"Anyone could have seen," Bob half-squawked, trying and failing to get to his feet.
"But they didn't."
"THEY COULD HAVE."
"But they didn't." Frank half-shut his eyes and added wistfully, "And if they did they got a motherfucker of a show."