(no subject)
Title: Sink Right In
Author: desfinado
Pairing: Frank/Bob
Rating: R
Word count: 460
Warnings: Pain kink, bruises
Disclaimer: They don't belong to me; not making a profit.
Summary: Frank always has bruises the next day, and he wears them like a badge, like he wants someone to ask.
Notes: Written for the bandom kissing meme prompt "Bob/Frank, kiss and make it better" ( here)
Frank always has bruises the next day, and he wears them like a badge, like he wants someone to ask.
Bob is watching when Frank laughs big and loud with the techs, tipping his head back; when Frank downs the dregs of his beer, throat working. Bob can see the purpling skin at the base of his neck from last night, the yellow that's higher up, just under his jaw, from a few nights before.
Every time, Bob tries to kiss them better. He's got this idea that if he can just spread Frank out and touch his lips to the bruised skin - the small fingerprints of blue-black along his hipbones, the wide and messy ones on his knees - then he'll stop leaving them there.
"Pussy," Frank grunts, and sits back up when Bob tries to push him down on the hotel bed, "if I wanted fucking T.L.C. I'd call your mom." His mouth is ugly when it's twisted up like that, his eyes narrowed. Bob just wants to get him on his back, wants to press his lips to the mark on Frank's neck, the ones beneath his t-shirt that he can't see.
"Lie down," Bob says between gritted teeth.
"Man up," Frank spits out, and Bob pushes his thumb hard and bruising into Frank's lips to keep them closed or to push them open, he's not sure. Frank takes it in this time, sucking wet and obscene as he watches Bob unzip his hoodie and kneel on either side of Frank's hips.
Frank bucks up against him, the hard line of his dick against Bob's stomach, eyes glassy and challenging, and Bob breathes in sharply. He uses his other hand to push Frank's t-shirt up, skating his clammy palm across the inked skin to hover over the small bruises along Frank's ribcage.
"Then take it like one," Bob says in a voice that he never knows how to use when Frank's smoking with Mikey behind the buses where they're not supposed to, when Frank steals food from his plate, smiling brightly. Bob's fingertips fit to the bruises in a way that makes his stomach bottom out every time, in a way that makes him think: mine.
Bob tries to kiss them better, but Frank won't let him.
"Fuck," Frank hisses around Bob's thumb. He slams his fists down on the bedspread, shoving his hips up into Bob, eyes squeezed shut. "Come the fuck on, Bryar." Sweat breaks out across Bob's back as Frank licks at the pad of this thumb and bites down hard.
Bob knows Frank won't kiss it better. But he also knows that next time, Frank's teeth will seek out the exactly same spot to sink in. Really, it's not all that different.
END
Author: desfinado
Pairing: Frank/Bob
Rating: R
Word count: 460
Warnings: Pain kink, bruises
Disclaimer: They don't belong to me; not making a profit.
Summary: Frank always has bruises the next day, and he wears them like a badge, like he wants someone to ask.
Notes: Written for the bandom kissing meme prompt "Bob/Frank, kiss and make it better" ( here)
Frank always has bruises the next day, and he wears them like a badge, like he wants someone to ask.
Bob is watching when Frank laughs big and loud with the techs, tipping his head back; when Frank downs the dregs of his beer, throat working. Bob can see the purpling skin at the base of his neck from last night, the yellow that's higher up, just under his jaw, from a few nights before.
Every time, Bob tries to kiss them better. He's got this idea that if he can just spread Frank out and touch his lips to the bruised skin - the small fingerprints of blue-black along his hipbones, the wide and messy ones on his knees - then he'll stop leaving them there.
"Pussy," Frank grunts, and sits back up when Bob tries to push him down on the hotel bed, "if I wanted fucking T.L.C. I'd call your mom." His mouth is ugly when it's twisted up like that, his eyes narrowed. Bob just wants to get him on his back, wants to press his lips to the mark on Frank's neck, the ones beneath his t-shirt that he can't see.
"Lie down," Bob says between gritted teeth.
"Man up," Frank spits out, and Bob pushes his thumb hard and bruising into Frank's lips to keep them closed or to push them open, he's not sure. Frank takes it in this time, sucking wet and obscene as he watches Bob unzip his hoodie and kneel on either side of Frank's hips.
Frank bucks up against him, the hard line of his dick against Bob's stomach, eyes glassy and challenging, and Bob breathes in sharply. He uses his other hand to push Frank's t-shirt up, skating his clammy palm across the inked skin to hover over the small bruises along Frank's ribcage.
"Then take it like one," Bob says in a voice that he never knows how to use when Frank's smoking with Mikey behind the buses where they're not supposed to, when Frank steals food from his plate, smiling brightly. Bob's fingertips fit to the bruises in a way that makes his stomach bottom out every time, in a way that makes him think: mine.
Bob tries to kiss them better, but Frank won't let him.
"Fuck," Frank hisses around Bob's thumb. He slams his fists down on the bedspread, shoving his hips up into Bob, eyes squeezed shut. "Come the fuck on, Bryar." Sweat breaks out across Bob's back as Frank licks at the pad of this thumb and bites down hard.
Bob knows Frank won't kiss it better. But he also knows that next time, Frank's teeth will seek out the exactly same spot to sink in. Really, it's not all that different.
END