[fic] Dear Bob Bryar, please never read my LJ.
'Cuz, you know. I like you, and I don't want you to hate me as much as I think you would if you read this shit.
Title: The Wrong Decision For The Right Reasons
Fandom: MCR RPS
Word Count: 3,246
Rating: R
Pairing: Bob/Frank
Warnings: Oh fuck off.
Disclaimer: I doubt this shit actually goes on. And if it did, I wouldn't be writing about it. And you can’t sue me, I have nothing worth taking.
Notes: stratospherique asked for Dan/Jepha or Bob/Frank semi-public sexings and breathplay for her birthday. I failed.
"Sometimes gay porn starts with a frathouse kegger gone to zombies, that's all I'm saying."*
Bob's not sure he's come in at the best part of this conversation. He's not sure what part of the conversation he could have come in at that would have been any improvement - possibly the part where it was over and no one was talking any more - but this part definitely doesn't sound like a part he feels comfortable eavesdropping on.
"Would I lie to you?" Frank asks. He's talking into a cell phone and kicking aimlessly at the bottom of one of the bunks and Bob's almost moved to tell him to cut it the fuck out in case he breaks something, but he's also not up for interrupting a conversation about gay zombie porn or zombie gay porn or porn gay zombies in case it turns out he's less interesting than it.
"Go and look for it," Frank says indignantly. "It exists, I'm telling you it exists. I did not just dream about it, fuck you."
Bob sidles past him as best he can, but Frank's having none of it. He barges backwards and pins Bob against the bunks with his surprisingly pointy shoulder blades. "Gotta gooooo, there's a Viking almost up my butt." And the cell phone vanishes, and Frank pivots gracelessly on the spot until his chin fits into Bob's collar.
"Who are you telling lies to now?" Bob asks, resigned to being the recipient of yet more chin bruises.
"Jepha." Frank has his hands behind his back and his sharpest smile on. Bob's already worried.
"Is there … is there really gay zombie porn?" He feels a dick saying it, but the plain fact is that it's impossible to tell with the weirdness he's seen on the internet, and sometimes the bullshit that comes out of Frank's mouth turns out to be unexpectedly true. Like that whole I want to fuck you until I get a nosebleed episode.
Frank digs his chin further into Bob's collar until Bob pinches him in the side (there's a lot more to pinch of late, and Bob knows the same's true of him. The difference, he thinks, is that it makes Frank look cute instead of like he's about to do some fucking pillaging) in warning. "Not yet."
"… yet."
Bob doesn't like the sound of that yet.
"We-ell," Frank says, swaying into Bob once or twice at the hips, which would be sexy if he wasn't actually just slightly bruising Bob's balls with his gut, "I figure if Jepha can't find any he's going to make some."
That does indeed sound like Jepha. It will be badly-cut low-budget gore-filled zombie porn that involves no actual fucking and a lot of giggling and a wobbling camera will probably feature several inanimate objects with labels on them in place of a set.
"Oooor-"
"No."
Frank narrows his eyes. This is a step up from the pout, which doesn't really work any more now that he's stopped looking like jailbait and started looking like the kind of guy who keeps children in his basement so he can skin them; this is, of course, not Bob's assessment so much as it's something he saw written on the internet and decided not to tell Frank, but he's been worried by the comparison ever since reading it. The narrowed eyes thing pretty much means, "Whatever, Bryar."
It also pretty much means that he will get no peace until he gives in.
Bob pushes Frank off him with the back of his hands and slides on out of the bus for the cigarette he is definitely not actually going to smoke honestly. He's just going to stand there with it in his hand and think about smoking it. He doesn't even have a light. Probably.
He's on the steps of the bus, cigarette in hand when Frank plasters himself against Bob's back, belly to buttocks, and says, "Zombie frat boy porn," in the most lascivious tone possible. Frank's attempts at sexy voice are usually ruined by him snickering, and this one is no exception.
"No," Bob says, spiralling the unlit cigarette absently around like a miniature drumstick.
"Want me to light that for you?" Frank slides a cheap plastic lighter over Bob's shoulder until it's dangling by two fingers just about where he can see it.
"Want me to die of lung cancer?" Bob asks, still toying with the cigarette.
Frank withdraws the lighter and pokes Bob in the back of the neck with it instead. Bob considers punching him or pushing him off the steps but there's a very good chance if Frank falls he'll take Bob down with him. Since that's been pretty much the defining feature of their professional relationship so far.
"Okay," Frank says, sliding a hand around Bob's waist instead, walking inky fingers towards his belt with the kind of slow determination that spells trouble even more effectively than T R O U B L E (or truble, if you're Mikey) does. "So if it's a choice between lung cancer and zombie frat boy porn," he says, and Bob swats half-heartedly at his hand, "which do you go for?"
"What? How is that a choice?" It is, he knows, in Frank-land, a perfectly reasonable conclusion. Two topics of conversation have come up, therefore they must be interlinked in the most annoying and potentially weird way possible.
It's cold out here on the steps (wooden, pushed up against the door for space), but the bus smells of feet and stale smoke, and anyhow, Frank's between him and the door. Frank, who now has his hand flat over Bob's crotch in full view of anyone who happens to be passing between the two busses, because decorum has never been his strong point.
"Bob," Frank says into the back of Bob's hoodie, "are you going to keep asking dumb questions or are we going to fuck?"
Bob thinks, ask me again when I've spent the next eight months worrying about the morality of this arrangement as well but what he actually does is throw the unsmoked cigarette onto the cold asphalt and press his palm down onto Frank's until he starts to feel that little spark of comfortable discomfort that says a little more of this and you'll have wood.
"I'm taking that as a yes for the zombie frat boy porn too," Frank says in the same indistinct voice, cupping his hand around Bob's crotch and humping the heel of his hand against it. His face is a patch of welcome warmth on Bob's back.
"Hold on," Bob sighs, taking his hand off Frank's and putting both his hands on his face to try and clear his head - there has been little sleep and a lot of Red Bull recently and his head is like an echo chamber full of dumb when he doesn't get eight hours in a week - "hold on hold on. What? If I don't agree to zombie frat boy porn I don't get a hand job?"
Frank shakes his head against Bob's back, which just feels fucking weird. "No, if you don't agree to zombie frat boy porn I won't -" He stands on tiptoes and whispers the next words, hot and wet and direct, into Bob's ear. His lips graze the side of Bob's face, his beard. "-I won't let you fuck my mouth. And I won't let you do it whenever you want, either."
This is such a bad idea, Bob's helpful internal Good Voice supplies - it always sounds a bit like Brian - as he lets his palms slide down his face and over his own mouth, jerking his lip ring about. This is the worst idea in the history of bad ideas.
Frank squeezes gently on the crotch of Bob's jeans and humps the heel of his hand encouragingly up and down, muttering, "Zombie frat boy porn, Bob, make the right decision." Bob doesn't need to wonder what his internal Bad Voice sounds like because he has an external Bad Voice that talks out of Frank Iero's horribly pretty mouth.
The right decision.
The wrong decision, of course, would be the one that leads to his eventual humiliation, some fake blood, a cheap hand-held camera and, more immediately, finding out whether sticking his dick into a mouth that's surrounded by red-brown beard is going to lead to scraping and if he's going to care all that much, given how fucking good Frank's proven at this in the past.
That would be the wrong decision. The right decision would be to take Frank's hand off his crotch, stop him massaging what is becoming a semi-on through his jeans, to remind Frank that at some point he made some kind of vow type thing about not cheating on the woman he's married to, and then have the inevitable bitter angry fight about how it totally doesn't count with guys. Followed by threatening to tell Gerard that Frank thinks it doesn't count between guys. Followed by Frank storming off in a bad mood and behaving like a dick for the next three weeks until Bob gets it together to apologise and then have stupid guilty incredibly hot make-up sex and feel worse.
Sometimes, Bob thinks, you make the wrong decision because the right decision makes more people unhappy.
He's been telling himself that for years now.
"Zombies," Frank says, squeezing Bob's dick through his jeans, "Frat boy zombies. Gay porn frat boy zombies," and he rubs again, pressure and friction and pressure and clever, clever fingers while he mumbles the usual brand of total bullshit into Bob's spine. "They'd have shotguns."
"You suck at sexy talk," Bob says, putting his hands in his armpits and trying to hold off on making any decisions at all. What with Frank's ministrations and the lack of sleep he's pretty sure he can't be held accountable in a court of law if he ends up in a cemetery digging up corpses and trying to voodoo them back to life or something. Your honour, I was having a mental breakdown. You see, I'm in a rock band, and I keep being sexually harassed by a midget.
Even the thought is in danger of making him break out in hopeless laughter. Possibly hysterics. Sleep is more a memory than a reality at this point, the kind of state where zombie frat boy porn orgies start seeming plausible and an acceptable exchange for not fighting later on.
"You suck at not killing the mood," Frank retorts, apparently trying to bite Bob through a hoodie and two layers of t-shirts. That's what it feels like. "You suck because you aren't making zombie porn right this minute."
"I suck because I'm not Jepha Howard?" Bob suggests. He thinks maybe he sucks by his own damn standards because he has less backbone than Jepha and didn't say, fuck off, no, not behind your girlfriend/fiancé/wife's back as time passed. Or just because he's not as cute but infinitely more willing, not matter how much he tries not to be. No matter how much he thinks he shouldn't be, shouldn't be turned on by this shit, he is. And he is, right fucking now, turned on by this stupid shit.
Frank punches him in the kidneys with his free hand. "Fuck you." And he stops rubbing, but keeps squeezing, and Bob's … starting to feel it, starting to feel like he's going to get cranky and petulant if he doesn't get off, now. Not exactly hot, but definitely too horny to become not-horny without some fallout. "Fuck you and just say yes, okay?"
"Because if I don't?" Bob reaches behind him and grabs Frank's hair in his hand. It's shorter than he got used to, but there's enough to tug on to make his point. "If I don't?"
He's expecting more threats, something stupid, or - worst - Frank to take his hand off his crotch and say something sulky and them to start fighting right fucking now, the momentum already laid down by how badly Bob does want to say yes, to just open up his fucking pants and get Frank's mouth on his dick and fuck the consequences and the guilt.
What he gets is Frank pulling his head out of his grip and laying it cheek-down against Bob's back instead. "You don't have to," Frank says in a rather despondent voice. "The porn or the, the fucking. Any of it. I'm not saying you have to."
And that's a new one, and a sneaky one. Bob's … always uncomfortable with the idea he's made someone unhappy. He knows it makes him easy to manipulate but if there's an option for avoiding guilt he'll go with that every time. Sad faces, sad voices, the thought that either are his fault, it's worse than being punched in the kidneys a hundred times.
Or it's not a tactic and Frank genuinely means it. And this is the weirdest feeling he's had in a very long time; still antsy and horny with someone else's hand on his dick, but guilty and pissed and worried and slightly afraid that at some point he's going to find himself in possession of a camera and a shovel and no excuses.
"Uh," Bob says, putting his hands on his face again for stability's sake. "It's kinda hard to think."
"Then think about being hard instead," Frank mutters, but without the usual sneer. It's kinda automatic. "Or something. Or don't think."
Or don't think.
Bob's not sure how they end up lying on the horribly cold and uncomfortable asphalt among the cigarette butts, half-under the bus, but he's aching and his elbow hurts and Frank's nursing his head with one hand so he's guessing there was an element of falling off the steps involved. He also remembers making quite a throaty, bear-like noise at some point.
As things are, he needs to sit the fuck up before he gets motor oil in his hoodie.
"You fucking idiot," Frank says angrily, holding the back of his head.
"Yeah, I'm fucking an idiot," Bob says, not intending for the words to come out in quite that order but sort of amused that they do as he props himself up on his elbows. Which also hurt.
Frank starts laughing. "Yeah. You kinda are."
Bob snorts. "Fine. You're kinda fucking an idiot too. You idiot-fucker."
"Good," Frank says, taking his hand off the back of his head and using it to grapple with Bob's fly instead, flopping over himself like a freaking bear, his legs bent. Nothing Frank does ever manages to look human. Except … yeah. Except fucking. "I'm an idiot-fucker. You're an idiot fucker. I'm a fucking idiot." He makes a frustrated noise. "I'm a fucking idiot who can't open your fucking fly, Bob."
Bob bats him away and opens it himself. There is definitely motor oil under his ass, and his jeans are unwearable. This is the dumbest idea ever, if "ever" is measured in lengths of time like "since the last dumb idea I agreed to".
Frank smiles at him crookedly and half head-butts him in the stomach. Bob's … kind of not hard any more but that's always been one of those things Frank's very good at working around, and his hand on Bob's dick is like a finger jabbing a button: wake up, Bob's dick. Wake up.
He's already getting a pretty good semi going.
And that was a smile, not a smirk or a grin or a grimace or a leer. A smile.
Or don't think, Bob reminds himself. He doesn't need to commit his brain to what his dick's doing or having done to it. It's none of his brain's business.
Frank's overblown facial hair tickles, but it's not really a huge deal. What matters is that Frank's mouth feels the same as always; hot, wet, and the perfect fit. The stupid fucking perfect fit for Bob's dick, while Frank's sprawled awkwardly between Bob's legs and Bob's propped against the wheel hub of a filthy dirty touring bus, and -- ngh -- Bob's train of thought is getting rapidly shunted onto a sideline that's a lot less verbal.
There's the truth of the situation: he can't make wrong outweigh want for long enough to make Frank go away and Frank can't seem to get that want isn't the same as a good idea, and above all, Frank's tongue is apparently made, made, made for Bob's dick.
Bob's hands are speckled with grit but he forgets to worry about this when they inch onto Frank's head on their own, trying to control his pace but not actually making any real effort to do it; just running his fingertips over unwashed bristles in quick, short strokes. Copying Frank's bobbing head.
"Fuck, Frank."
Frank ignores him (wisely), and cups his hands under Bob's suddenly rather unsteady thighs like he's holding him off the floor. And runs them up, and down, and up, and down, in time with Bob's fingers in his hair.
He's not great with words, and there aren't any for the way his body goes numb everywhere but his dick and the fizzing feelings that start in his belly and the way the wind that rushes between the buses is nothing to him at all because his blood's thumping in his ears. There aren't any.
"Fuck," Bob says in a quiet voice, because it's a good word that's served him well on many occasions and Frank's just swallowed him down to the pubes and he can feel himself starting to unravel. Like he wants to fuck upwards but Frank's hands and his body and the decidedly out-of-shape nature of Bob's thighs are stopping him.
And Frank's throat fucking contracts around him and Bob twitches from the balls up. Again, and again. And Frank's fucking lips are like, like, like. Like he doesn't know. Like. They're around him like. A hot stream of saliva dribbles back down into his pubes. And Frank's mouth is.
Frank's mouth is.
Frank's mouth.
Frank.
Bob's empty from the balls up and sore in the legs from the weight of another person lying over them, and his head is light and his limbs are heavy, and he's starting to feel cold. The cold of, I fucking let myself be talked into this shit again that comes sneaking into him after every slip up, every orgasm.
But Frank's still got his mouth on Bob's dick, and his throat is working, swallowing, swallowing. And Bob doesn't have it in him to push his head away; maybe whatever it is is in Frank now anyhow. The it. That he would have had in him. Bob's head isn't making any sense.
He locks his fingers around Frank's hair and pulls, gently. His dick slithers out of Frank's mouth, wet and immediately uncomfortably cold in the wind. "Stop now."
Frank, bent at an uncomfortable angle at the neck, his hands still warm and annoyingly right on Bob's thighs, rolls his eyes. "Say yes to zombie porn and you can do this whenever and wherever you fucking want, Bobert."
"No," Bob says, trying to keep the regret out of his voice, because it won't fucking help anything, "I can't."
Frank pinches the back of his leg and Bob yelps and jumps, thumping his head on the side of the bus. "Yes," he says, holding Bob's gaze with those wretchedly magnetic eyes, "yes, you fucking can."
*Direct quote from crotalus_atrox, because sometimes you just have to rip off your beffies.
Title: The Wrong Decision For The Right Reasons
Fandom: MCR RPS
Word Count: 3,246
Rating: R
Pairing: Bob/Frank
Warnings: Oh fuck off.
Disclaimer: I doubt this shit actually goes on. And if it did, I wouldn't be writing about it. And you can’t sue me, I have nothing worth taking.
Notes: stratospherique asked for Dan/Jepha or Bob/Frank semi-public sexings and breathplay for her birthday. I failed.
"Sometimes gay porn starts with a frathouse kegger gone to zombies, that's all I'm saying."*
Bob's not sure he's come in at the best part of this conversation. He's not sure what part of the conversation he could have come in at that would have been any improvement - possibly the part where it was over and no one was talking any more - but this part definitely doesn't sound like a part he feels comfortable eavesdropping on.
"Would I lie to you?" Frank asks. He's talking into a cell phone and kicking aimlessly at the bottom of one of the bunks and Bob's almost moved to tell him to cut it the fuck out in case he breaks something, but he's also not up for interrupting a conversation about gay zombie porn or zombie gay porn or porn gay zombies in case it turns out he's less interesting than it.
"Go and look for it," Frank says indignantly. "It exists, I'm telling you it exists. I did not just dream about it, fuck you."
Bob sidles past him as best he can, but Frank's having none of it. He barges backwards and pins Bob against the bunks with his surprisingly pointy shoulder blades. "Gotta gooooo, there's a Viking almost up my butt." And the cell phone vanishes, and Frank pivots gracelessly on the spot until his chin fits into Bob's collar.
"Who are you telling lies to now?" Bob asks, resigned to being the recipient of yet more chin bruises.
"Jepha." Frank has his hands behind his back and his sharpest smile on. Bob's already worried.
"Is there … is there really gay zombie porn?" He feels a dick saying it, but the plain fact is that it's impossible to tell with the weirdness he's seen on the internet, and sometimes the bullshit that comes out of Frank's mouth turns out to be unexpectedly true. Like that whole I want to fuck you until I get a nosebleed episode.
Frank digs his chin further into Bob's collar until Bob pinches him in the side (there's a lot more to pinch of late, and Bob knows the same's true of him. The difference, he thinks, is that it makes Frank look cute instead of like he's about to do some fucking pillaging) in warning. "Not yet."
"… yet."
Bob doesn't like the sound of that yet.
"We-ell," Frank says, swaying into Bob once or twice at the hips, which would be sexy if he wasn't actually just slightly bruising Bob's balls with his gut, "I figure if Jepha can't find any he's going to make some."
That does indeed sound like Jepha. It will be badly-cut low-budget gore-filled zombie porn that involves no actual fucking and a lot of giggling and a wobbling camera will probably feature several inanimate objects with labels on them in place of a set.
"Oooor-"
"No."
Frank narrows his eyes. This is a step up from the pout, which doesn't really work any more now that he's stopped looking like jailbait and started looking like the kind of guy who keeps children in his basement so he can skin them; this is, of course, not Bob's assessment so much as it's something he saw written on the internet and decided not to tell Frank, but he's been worried by the comparison ever since reading it. The narrowed eyes thing pretty much means, "Whatever, Bryar."
It also pretty much means that he will get no peace until he gives in.
Bob pushes Frank off him with the back of his hands and slides on out of the bus for the cigarette he is definitely not actually going to smoke honestly. He's just going to stand there with it in his hand and think about smoking it. He doesn't even have a light. Probably.
He's on the steps of the bus, cigarette in hand when Frank plasters himself against Bob's back, belly to buttocks, and says, "Zombie frat boy porn," in the most lascivious tone possible. Frank's attempts at sexy voice are usually ruined by him snickering, and this one is no exception.
"No," Bob says, spiralling the unlit cigarette absently around like a miniature drumstick.
"Want me to light that for you?" Frank slides a cheap plastic lighter over Bob's shoulder until it's dangling by two fingers just about where he can see it.
"Want me to die of lung cancer?" Bob asks, still toying with the cigarette.
Frank withdraws the lighter and pokes Bob in the back of the neck with it instead. Bob considers punching him or pushing him off the steps but there's a very good chance if Frank falls he'll take Bob down with him. Since that's been pretty much the defining feature of their professional relationship so far.
"Okay," Frank says, sliding a hand around Bob's waist instead, walking inky fingers towards his belt with the kind of slow determination that spells trouble even more effectively than T R O U B L E (or truble, if you're Mikey) does. "So if it's a choice between lung cancer and zombie frat boy porn," he says, and Bob swats half-heartedly at his hand, "which do you go for?"
"What? How is that a choice?" It is, he knows, in Frank-land, a perfectly reasonable conclusion. Two topics of conversation have come up, therefore they must be interlinked in the most annoying and potentially weird way possible.
It's cold out here on the steps (wooden, pushed up against the door for space), but the bus smells of feet and stale smoke, and anyhow, Frank's between him and the door. Frank, who now has his hand flat over Bob's crotch in full view of anyone who happens to be passing between the two busses, because decorum has never been his strong point.
"Bob," Frank says into the back of Bob's hoodie, "are you going to keep asking dumb questions or are we going to fuck?"
Bob thinks, ask me again when I've spent the next eight months worrying about the morality of this arrangement as well but what he actually does is throw the unsmoked cigarette onto the cold asphalt and press his palm down onto Frank's until he starts to feel that little spark of comfortable discomfort that says a little more of this and you'll have wood.
"I'm taking that as a yes for the zombie frat boy porn too," Frank says in the same indistinct voice, cupping his hand around Bob's crotch and humping the heel of his hand against it. His face is a patch of welcome warmth on Bob's back.
"Hold on," Bob sighs, taking his hand off Frank's and putting both his hands on his face to try and clear his head - there has been little sleep and a lot of Red Bull recently and his head is like an echo chamber full of dumb when he doesn't get eight hours in a week - "hold on hold on. What? If I don't agree to zombie frat boy porn I don't get a hand job?"
Frank shakes his head against Bob's back, which just feels fucking weird. "No, if you don't agree to zombie frat boy porn I won't -" He stands on tiptoes and whispers the next words, hot and wet and direct, into Bob's ear. His lips graze the side of Bob's face, his beard. "-I won't let you fuck my mouth. And I won't let you do it whenever you want, either."
This is such a bad idea, Bob's helpful internal Good Voice supplies - it always sounds a bit like Brian - as he lets his palms slide down his face and over his own mouth, jerking his lip ring about. This is the worst idea in the history of bad ideas.
Frank squeezes gently on the crotch of Bob's jeans and humps the heel of his hand encouragingly up and down, muttering, "Zombie frat boy porn, Bob, make the right decision." Bob doesn't need to wonder what his internal Bad Voice sounds like because he has an external Bad Voice that talks out of Frank Iero's horribly pretty mouth.
The right decision.
The wrong decision, of course, would be the one that leads to his eventual humiliation, some fake blood, a cheap hand-held camera and, more immediately, finding out whether sticking his dick into a mouth that's surrounded by red-brown beard is going to lead to scraping and if he's going to care all that much, given how fucking good Frank's proven at this in the past.
That would be the wrong decision. The right decision would be to take Frank's hand off his crotch, stop him massaging what is becoming a semi-on through his jeans, to remind Frank that at some point he made some kind of vow type thing about not cheating on the woman he's married to, and then have the inevitable bitter angry fight about how it totally doesn't count with guys. Followed by threatening to tell Gerard that Frank thinks it doesn't count between guys. Followed by Frank storming off in a bad mood and behaving like a dick for the next three weeks until Bob gets it together to apologise and then have stupid guilty incredibly hot make-up sex and feel worse.
Sometimes, Bob thinks, you make the wrong decision because the right decision makes more people unhappy.
He's been telling himself that for years now.
"Zombies," Frank says, squeezing Bob's dick through his jeans, "Frat boy zombies. Gay porn frat boy zombies," and he rubs again, pressure and friction and pressure and clever, clever fingers while he mumbles the usual brand of total bullshit into Bob's spine. "They'd have shotguns."
"You suck at sexy talk," Bob says, putting his hands in his armpits and trying to hold off on making any decisions at all. What with Frank's ministrations and the lack of sleep he's pretty sure he can't be held accountable in a court of law if he ends up in a cemetery digging up corpses and trying to voodoo them back to life or something. Your honour, I was having a mental breakdown. You see, I'm in a rock band, and I keep being sexually harassed by a midget.
Even the thought is in danger of making him break out in hopeless laughter. Possibly hysterics. Sleep is more a memory than a reality at this point, the kind of state where zombie frat boy porn orgies start seeming plausible and an acceptable exchange for not fighting later on.
"You suck at not killing the mood," Frank retorts, apparently trying to bite Bob through a hoodie and two layers of t-shirts. That's what it feels like. "You suck because you aren't making zombie porn right this minute."
"I suck because I'm not Jepha Howard?" Bob suggests. He thinks maybe he sucks by his own damn standards because he has less backbone than Jepha and didn't say, fuck off, no, not behind your girlfriend/fiancé/wife's back as time passed. Or just because he's not as cute but infinitely more willing, not matter how much he tries not to be. No matter how much he thinks he shouldn't be, shouldn't be turned on by this shit, he is. And he is, right fucking now, turned on by this stupid shit.
Frank punches him in the kidneys with his free hand. "Fuck you." And he stops rubbing, but keeps squeezing, and Bob's … starting to feel it, starting to feel like he's going to get cranky and petulant if he doesn't get off, now. Not exactly hot, but definitely too horny to become not-horny without some fallout. "Fuck you and just say yes, okay?"
"Because if I don't?" Bob reaches behind him and grabs Frank's hair in his hand. It's shorter than he got used to, but there's enough to tug on to make his point. "If I don't?"
He's expecting more threats, something stupid, or - worst - Frank to take his hand off his crotch and say something sulky and them to start fighting right fucking now, the momentum already laid down by how badly Bob does want to say yes, to just open up his fucking pants and get Frank's mouth on his dick and fuck the consequences and the guilt.
What he gets is Frank pulling his head out of his grip and laying it cheek-down against Bob's back instead. "You don't have to," Frank says in a rather despondent voice. "The porn or the, the fucking. Any of it. I'm not saying you have to."
And that's a new one, and a sneaky one. Bob's … always uncomfortable with the idea he's made someone unhappy. He knows it makes him easy to manipulate but if there's an option for avoiding guilt he'll go with that every time. Sad faces, sad voices, the thought that either are his fault, it's worse than being punched in the kidneys a hundred times.
Or it's not a tactic and Frank genuinely means it. And this is the weirdest feeling he's had in a very long time; still antsy and horny with someone else's hand on his dick, but guilty and pissed and worried and slightly afraid that at some point he's going to find himself in possession of a camera and a shovel and no excuses.
"Uh," Bob says, putting his hands on his face again for stability's sake. "It's kinda hard to think."
"Then think about being hard instead," Frank mutters, but without the usual sneer. It's kinda automatic. "Or something. Or don't think."
Or don't think.
Bob's not sure how they end up lying on the horribly cold and uncomfortable asphalt among the cigarette butts, half-under the bus, but he's aching and his elbow hurts and Frank's nursing his head with one hand so he's guessing there was an element of falling off the steps involved. He also remembers making quite a throaty, bear-like noise at some point.
As things are, he needs to sit the fuck up before he gets motor oil in his hoodie.
"You fucking idiot," Frank says angrily, holding the back of his head.
"Yeah, I'm fucking an idiot," Bob says, not intending for the words to come out in quite that order but sort of amused that they do as he props himself up on his elbows. Which also hurt.
Frank starts laughing. "Yeah. You kinda are."
Bob snorts. "Fine. You're kinda fucking an idiot too. You idiot-fucker."
"Good," Frank says, taking his hand off the back of his head and using it to grapple with Bob's fly instead, flopping over himself like a freaking bear, his legs bent. Nothing Frank does ever manages to look human. Except … yeah. Except fucking. "I'm an idiot-fucker. You're an idiot fucker. I'm a fucking idiot." He makes a frustrated noise. "I'm a fucking idiot who can't open your fucking fly, Bob."
Bob bats him away and opens it himself. There is definitely motor oil under his ass, and his jeans are unwearable. This is the dumbest idea ever, if "ever" is measured in lengths of time like "since the last dumb idea I agreed to".
Frank smiles at him crookedly and half head-butts him in the stomach. Bob's … kind of not hard any more but that's always been one of those things Frank's very good at working around, and his hand on Bob's dick is like a finger jabbing a button: wake up, Bob's dick. Wake up.
He's already getting a pretty good semi going.
And that was a smile, not a smirk or a grin or a grimace or a leer. A smile.
Or don't think, Bob reminds himself. He doesn't need to commit his brain to what his dick's doing or having done to it. It's none of his brain's business.
Frank's overblown facial hair tickles, but it's not really a huge deal. What matters is that Frank's mouth feels the same as always; hot, wet, and the perfect fit. The stupid fucking perfect fit for Bob's dick, while Frank's sprawled awkwardly between Bob's legs and Bob's propped against the wheel hub of a filthy dirty touring bus, and -- ngh -- Bob's train of thought is getting rapidly shunted onto a sideline that's a lot less verbal.
There's the truth of the situation: he can't make wrong outweigh want for long enough to make Frank go away and Frank can't seem to get that want isn't the same as a good idea, and above all, Frank's tongue is apparently made, made, made for Bob's dick.
Bob's hands are speckled with grit but he forgets to worry about this when they inch onto Frank's head on their own, trying to control his pace but not actually making any real effort to do it; just running his fingertips over unwashed bristles in quick, short strokes. Copying Frank's bobbing head.
"Fuck, Frank."
Frank ignores him (wisely), and cups his hands under Bob's suddenly rather unsteady thighs like he's holding him off the floor. And runs them up, and down, and up, and down, in time with Bob's fingers in his hair.
He's not great with words, and there aren't any for the way his body goes numb everywhere but his dick and the fizzing feelings that start in his belly and the way the wind that rushes between the buses is nothing to him at all because his blood's thumping in his ears. There aren't any.
"Fuck," Bob says in a quiet voice, because it's a good word that's served him well on many occasions and Frank's just swallowed him down to the pubes and he can feel himself starting to unravel. Like he wants to fuck upwards but Frank's hands and his body and the decidedly out-of-shape nature of Bob's thighs are stopping him.
And Frank's throat fucking contracts around him and Bob twitches from the balls up. Again, and again. And Frank's fucking lips are like, like, like. Like he doesn't know. Like. They're around him like. A hot stream of saliva dribbles back down into his pubes. And Frank's mouth is.
Frank's mouth is.
Frank's mouth.
Frank.
Bob's empty from the balls up and sore in the legs from the weight of another person lying over them, and his head is light and his limbs are heavy, and he's starting to feel cold. The cold of, I fucking let myself be talked into this shit again that comes sneaking into him after every slip up, every orgasm.
But Frank's still got his mouth on Bob's dick, and his throat is working, swallowing, swallowing. And Bob doesn't have it in him to push his head away; maybe whatever it is is in Frank now anyhow. The it. That he would have had in him. Bob's head isn't making any sense.
He locks his fingers around Frank's hair and pulls, gently. His dick slithers out of Frank's mouth, wet and immediately uncomfortably cold in the wind. "Stop now."
Frank, bent at an uncomfortable angle at the neck, his hands still warm and annoyingly right on Bob's thighs, rolls his eyes. "Say yes to zombie porn and you can do this whenever and wherever you fucking want, Bobert."
"No," Bob says, trying to keep the regret out of his voice, because it won't fucking help anything, "I can't."
Frank pinches the back of his leg and Bob yelps and jumps, thumping his head on the side of the bus. "Yes," he says, holding Bob's gaze with those wretchedly magnetic eyes, "yes, you fucking can."
*Direct quote from crotalus_atrox, because sometimes you just have to rip off your beffies.