No Idea by chiromancy, commentary by athenejen
Title: No Idea
Author: chiromancy
Fandom: Bandom: MCR
Commentator: athenejen
Hi everyone, welcome to a humble little dvd commentary for one of my very favorite stories in all of bandom (and let me tell, you, I’ve read a completely ridiculous number of delightful bandom stories). I’m keeping the original headers intact below, in case you want to know more about the story itself first. If you haven’t read it yet, oh, are you ever in for a treat. Warnings-wise, there's nothing major that I can see (please let me know if you see it differently), unless polyamory, non-monogamy, open relationships and the like are problematic for you.
Fics that treats non-monogamy well are incredibly dear to my heart (a little while back I put together a Top Ten list, even). I have experienced and am fond of both polyamory and monogamy and I really love it when they both exist as completely valid choices within a work, rather than the more often seen assumption that people simply pair up and the only happily ever after is monogamy. It is completely possible to have fidelity outside of exclusivity, and chiromancy’s treatment of that is smart and nuanced and convincing.
Wow, that was more of a speech than I’d planned on making up front. Ah well, onward!
::
No Idea
Who: Frank/Bob
What: Approximately 7,300 words re: awkwardness, birthday gifts, Jamia, lust.
And adorableness, don’t forget adorableness!
Where and when: Boring pseudo-future normalverse.
How much?: NC-17 for activities in the bathing-suit area, and for swears.
Why: mcee knows what Frank wants for his birthday, or, she knows what she wants him to want for his birthday; all her fault.
Any good?: And she beta'd it, so, maybe?
That would be a yes.
Bob's basically doing nothing right now, sitting on the bench in the bus kitchen half-neglecting some leftover pizza, doing wrist exercises, zoning out. It's awesome. Gerard and Ray left the door partway open and he can hear them screwing around in the back studio, low buzzes and cackles and high harmonies and truncated arpeggios, muffled by distance and dull truckstop noise from outside. He hears something that sounds like a Prince song as conceived by a very down-and-out stoned-slow punk band. It sounds good, actually.
That does sound kinda good. I mean, I’m not really a fan of Prince (this is blasphemy, I know, especially considering I grew up in Minnesota), but I like the idea of MCR as a moody punk band.
Shit, does he ever love his band. He didn't realize how much he missed being on tour until he got back out here, with people up in his face and noise everywhere and not enough space and never enough opportunities to do laundry and bad food. And his fucking amazing band. And their fucking amazing crew. Bob yells "Record that shit so I can mess it up tomorrow!" toward the back of the bus, and chomps on his cold lunch.
I love how much he loves his band. It just makes me so happy!
His phone rattles on the table, and he doesn't recognize the number. It's Jersey, though. He waffles for a minute and picks up.
"Bob."
"Bryar," says a female person who, Bob realizes a split second later, is obviously Jamia. She says it with satisfaction, with intent. Bob is confused.
Jamia! \o/ I adore her so hard in this.
"Whoa, hey Jamia. What's up?"
"You," she says easily, "strike me as a man in need of a blowjob."
Bob chokes on nothing and smacks the table, looks around for smirking observers.
"What? Is this a dare? What?"
"Bob. Cool it. It's not--"
"Frank!" Bob yells, "Frank Iero what is going on?"
"He's not on the bus, smarty," she says, "I need to talk to you."
See? See? Jamia is so… blunt. And I love the little casual insults in the place of endearments, where it’s clear they actually are endearments.
"How do you know? You're not here. Are you here?" Bob's brain has not recovered from Jamia's introductory remark.
"Because I just called him, dumbass, and he said he went to look for a real shower." He can hear an eyeroll in there somewhere.
"Um," says Bob, "So. Wait, what did you need to talk to me about?"
"Blowjob. You know Frank's birthday is next week?"
"Halloween. Hard to forget." Bob doesn't see the connection, and he never thought Jamia was nuts before.
"Right. And I can't get there. Which makes me so mad, by the way, bad timing, fucking tour dates on the other side of the country..."
"Sorry?" Bob's not sure where this is going, and has reverted to the phone version of smile-and-nod.
"Anyway. He's allowed to mess around with the band, you know? And I know for a fact that he wants to get laid on his birthday, and you need your dick sucked, and I think we can make both those things happen."
♥ ♥ ♥
Bob's mouth is hanging open. If he were still eating pizza, somebody would be getting a sixth-grade style eyeful. He hasn't talked to Jamia that much, not on his own. From what he knows of her, what he's seen when she's out on tour with them, he really likes her. She's extremely hot in kind of an undercover way, great tits, beautiful pointy eyes, blunt and deadly sense of humor. And she and Frank are amazing together. This has got to be a joke. It's not as funny as their jokes usually are, though. Bob coughs. He has no clue what to say.
The hints of Bob/Frank/Jamia possibilities also help make this make so much sense to me, I think because liking someone’s partner tends to make that person more appealing, at least for me.
"Bob? Hello?"
"...Hey?"
"Are you with me here?"
"Jamia, seriously, this is funny, but nobody's even here to see me flip out."
"Oh for--Bob. Are you opposed to getting your dick sucked?"
"No," Jesus, why can't he shut himself up? How is this an appropriate conversation?
"Are you opposed to getting your dick sucked by Frank?"
"You can't just ask me that--I mean--Christ--Jamia--yes, he's in my band, and you're--"
"Okay shut up. That's a bunch of bullshit. What is your problem, actually?"
"But you--no--how is this not a huge mess? How are you guys not completely fucked up?"
Cue monogamy-normativity (wow, there must be a more concise way of saying that) freakout. Because the ideology of monogamy is really very pervasive in mainstream and media sources and society. (Note: I’m using “ideology” in a value-neutral way here, it’s just something that exists all over the place and it’s not a bad thing, it just is.)
Jamia sighs.
"Come on. You know I love him more than pretty much anything else in the universe. And he's fucking hopelessly devoted to me. It's not--we don't fuck it up."
It’s possible that song from Grease has starts playing in my head every time I read this line.
And yeah, exactly. They don’t fuck it up. It takes work -- like Jamia having this whole conversation with Bob (I love it when the other people involved are really involved, if that makes sense) -- but it can be terrific.
"Him and Gerard? I've seen them."
"It's the band. He's always been allowed to do whatever he wants with the band. Only the band." She says this like it's something that makes sense. And she doesn't sound resentful, not even a little. She slows down, as if she's finally realized that she's talking to someone who may have entirely missed some important information. "You guys have been there almost as long as I have, and he loves you, and it doesn't hurt me. I like it. I like that he's with people who take care of him, who make him happy, when I'm not there. I think if Gerard and I hadn't gotten along like a house on fire, Frank would have had to split up with me years ago. We stay happy." She trails off.
This whole paragraph is so sensible. Smart and matter-of-fact and both intellectually and emotionally logical. See why I love her?
Bob starts to get it, a little. He's never quite known what to make of Frank and Gerard. They were so obvious, and they never had the look of liars, cheaters.
"Ray?" he says.
"Not into it. Not bothered by it, but not a participant, not like that. Although I made out with him a couple times. He's not into guys. Um. Which, hey, maybe you're like that. Or maybe you're bothered. I just. You look. You look at us. You definitely look at Frank."
*blink* Jamia/Ray makeouts… intriguing. And I’m liking the image of Jamia noticing Bob looking. Mmmmm.
Bob blushes abruptly and tries to finish his train of thought. "Mikey?"
"I so should not be telling you this shit," she gripes. "Has all this really not come up in conversation?"
Hee! I would think it’s one of the classic “I have no idea how to slip this into conversation” topics, actually. Like “by the way, I can move things with my mind.” (It’s possible I’ve been reading a bit of Merlin fic recently.)
"Um." To tell the truth, Bob tries to avoid talking, or even thinking too much, about anything that involves both Frank and sex. Always has. It's. Distracting. They're in a band. "I figured it wasn't my business."
That is very Bob. I really enjoy the characterizations in this, and how consistent they are throughout.
"Well, he climbs all over you. That's your business."
"That's just Frank."
"Exactly my point."
Oh.
Hee!
"And Mikey is kind of a slut for kissing, but doesn't do sex. I mean, apart from Alicia."
"Oh. Okay."
"Just 'okay'?"
"It's a bit much, all right?" Bob waves his arms. He's really glad there's nobody around to watch him losing his shit. "I'm just supposed to believe that even though nobody's ever mentioned it, you and Frank have this major, uh, sexual freedom thing going on? And that you want me to get in on it? You know this sounds crazy, right? Crazy."
*pet pet*
"No, I thought you knew."
"I didn't! I mean, I guess I did! But--" But Bob never so much as fantasized that it was real, that he was right, that getting climbed on by Frank could have really entertaining benefits.
"Are you freaking out?"
"Yeah, how'd you guess?" Bob stares at the ceiling and lets out a huff of breath. "No really, why are you asking me? Why are you telling me this stuff?"
"Because you love Frank and you need some action," Jamia says, without hesitation.
Bob tries to think of an effective way to shoot that down, and he just can't. Frank is the Laurel to his Hardy, is even more fun to talk to than Gerard, and looks like--looks like Frank. Like that. And Bob hasn't gotten any in months. He sighs. He feels about an inch tall.
*pet pet pet*
"Why do you even think this'll work? That it's a good idea?"
"Because I know Frank, and I told him I would get him laid on his birthday and not to worry about it."
"Why not Gerard?"
"Because this way is more of a surprise, and he's going to fucking love it, and so are you." This girl has an answer for everything. It's like playing chicken with a speeding train. He can't exactly win, and losing is the entire point. Why is he fighting this?
"I'm still freaked. What do I even do?"
"Chill the fuck out, for one thing, and room with Frank on his birthday. There's going to be some big party, and you guys have got a hotel that night. Just relax."
"Jamia, I--"
"Bob, will you--listen. If I could be there, I would, but I'm not hurting here. He loves you guys so much, and so do I, and I'd bet my car that you will have fun. I promise you that the opportunity to suck you off will be the best present Frank gets. He will love it. And you know what? It's from me. Think of it that way."
"I just--"
"Are you with me?"
"Yeah. Yeah." Bob would like to know what the fuck is going on.
"Good. Just room with him on Halloween. I think he'll probably get the picture. He knows me."
"You're not going to tell him?"
"Hell no. This is an awesome surprise. I swear. You have no idea how much it's going to rock his world. He'll get it. He's going to be all over you. You don't know how much he likes you."
Guess not.
"Right. Okay. Do you want me to say anything?"
"Oh! Uh, I hadn't really--if you want, when you're in for the night, you can tell him I miss him and I hope he's had a fantastic birthday."
"Okay. So." This is so fucked.
"Are you going to be weird about this all week? Are you going to blow it?"
"No!" Now that Bob's baser urges have figured out what's up, he's getting pretty dedicated. Freaked out, but dedicated. "I won't fuck it up. I don't believe this."
"Believe it, blondie. We love you. Call me if you need to have a meltdown, or you think you can't do it. Have fun."
"Jamia, you are insane. I. Thanks, I think."
"Call me after and thank me. And don't fuck it up."
"Okay."
"Okay. Be brave. Bye"
"Bye."
Bob is a little woozy when he gets off the phone. He's never had his head so thoroughly screwed with in such a short time. Frank is off limits. The sky is usually gray, unless it's too hot to move, and then it's blue. He didn't think these things were negotiable. He grabs a soda out of the cabinet and wonders where he left the Advil. And his regular life.
Poor Bob! He does seem like the type to rely on some solid pillars of belief and then maybe freak out if they become less solid, doesn’t he.
Gerard wanders out of the back and stops short when he sees Bob.
"You okay, man?" Fucking Way and his psychic powers. Bob doesn't especially want to talk about it, because if forced to deal with all of this right here, right now, he's either going to run screaming out into the freeway traffic or like, have an orgasm. It's not a good time for either of those things. Maybe he should go back to bed.
"Fine. Kind of a headache."
"Oh, sorry, we were loud when--"
"No, no problem. Just. I'm tired, I think? I'm gonna go take a nap."
"Cool," says Gerard, but his head is tilted to the side like he's thinking, working something over, "can I eat the rest of the leftover pizza?"
"Get on it," says Bob, and retreats to his bunk.
He has a heck of a time falling asleep, because he's embarrassed and ridiculously turned on, and doesn't want to beat off in the middle of the day with his bandmates roaming around, but eventually he goes under. He has a cracked-out dream about fighting a bear, which then turns into Frank, who then turns into Jamia, who gives him a piggyback ride, a long one, running through a silent forest, and he's laughing, and she has wolf eyes.
I love this dream. The details of this fic are just in general well-chosen and really add to the visceral impact of the piece.
The next few days are a little strange for Bob. They're on the west coast, working their way south from Vancouver, where he'd gotten that crazy phone call. The shows are going well. The end of the last tour, with him out, and Frank grieving, and Ray pretty much exhausted, had been hard on everybody. Really hard. This is good, this is how it should be. The new songs fly high, and the buses don't break down, and his wrists don't give out, and he has plenty of time to think. Jamia hasn't called again, so he's on his own with this. Whatever it is. Because. It's something. He does watch Frank. He's always watched Frank, and sure, some of that is just his instinct for self-preservation, but some of it is warm and intense and fascinated, and always has been. How can you not watch him? He's like a fucking force of nature, attractive in almost the same way big cats are: innocent and scary, ruthlessly sweet on the eyes. Frank spins and kicks and thrashes, pounds out the chords. He climbs an amp, turns to give Bob a snarly smile, and Bob swallows hard. It's weird to have to admit all this to himself. He plays the hell out of those shows.
I LOVE that line about Frank being like a big cat, “ruthlessly sweet on the eyes.” Just, yes.
::
It's not like he's a caveman or anything, an asshole. Most of his serious relationship-type crap has been with girls, but he's hooked up with guys, and it hasn't bothered him. He didn't need Gerard Way to tell him there was nothing wrong with being a deviant. He's cool with it. Wanting guys is not a problem. Wanting Frank. Wanting Frank is the worst thing in the world, because of the band, because they're friends, because he's not Gerard, because of Jamia, because of a lot of things, and now Miss Free Love 2008 says he can have him, and it's awful. It's fucking terrifying. What if he gets what he wants--yeah, he wants it, he's not dead--and it tanks everything else? What if he can never have it again?
Ah, the key questions that occur when a person gets involved with a friend. Believe me, I know. Though I will say that in my experience, as long as you’re both reasonable people, it works out just fine. Even if you can never have it again, it doesn’t have to tank everything. And more than likely, you can have it again.
::
Five days pass, in sweat and shows and cans of Coke and gallons of gas. He knows he must be a little off, gets a couple funny looks from Frank, mostly for failing to punch when expected or snapping when unprovoked, but no one says anything. Then on the sixth day, rolling into San Diego in the early afternoon, Gerard flops down next to him in the lounge.
"LA tomorrow. Dude, I don't know what I'm more excited about, the good sushi or the hotel," Gerard says, and winks at him.
Fucking winks. There's no mistaking it; Gerard has a full-on ladykilling Frank Sinatra wink. Bob tries to get his mouth to work, but Gerard has already rolled himself off the couch and is pacing, pecking out a text message.
Bwahahahaha, oh Gerard and his wink! ♥
"It's going to be some party. Halloween. Everybody there. Lyn-Z's getting in tonight." He waves his phone informatively. Bob recovers some, and plays along, lamely.
"No Jamia though, right?" he says. Gerard looks at him calmly, and grins wide.
He says "Yeah, no Jamia. She couldn't work the schedule. Sends her love, though. She and Lyns have been doing super-special party-planning for weeks. I keep getting roped in."
His smile is still real as he ducks back toward the bunks, and just like that, Bob knows that he knows, that he's somehow into it, and it's creepy and odd and it makes him feel better. His friendship with Gerard started out weird, stayed weird, and eventually grew to be weird and deeply committed. They have massive amounts of respect for each other. On some level, if Gerard has put his messy black stamp of approval on this, he knows it can't be all bad. He tries to shut off his brain as much as possible, goes to find his practice pad.
Gerard is comforting because Gerard is awesome.
::
The show in LA is great, a killer. Halloween ambiance, Frank's birthday, good crowd. There's even more makeup in the audience than usual, more zombies, more vampires, and any friends who could make it are present and gearing up to make trouble. Bob wears his favorite striped socks and they fucking rock the faces off those LA kids. Frank and Gerard are in full wild-man mode, lots of sweat and running and dancing and grabbing, and some actual groping in the second half. Bob breaks a stick but barely misses a beat. Cortez, shirtless and in skeleton body paint with "Happy Birthday Frankie" across his back, runs on stage to wrestle some cables, and the crowd hoots and shouts for a full minute. Gerard swats his ass as he heads off and says "Matt Cortez, everybody. Signed, sealed, delivered. We all love you, Iero, even if we aren't showing you our tits." The audience goes bonkers as Frank jumps around and spits and blows kisses. Several shirts make their way to the stage. Gerard croons the birthday song into the mic, falsetto as he gets, and Bob does a little swingy snare thing just to help out.
This sounds like the most kickass of shows, though I prefer to believe that the majority of those shirts are from guys. My impression is that Gerard would never encourage women to show anyone their tits. Much the opposite, in fact.
The rest of the show blurs by, a hot and happy wave, somehow better than usual. At the end, even Mikey's got his head up, smiling, slicking his hair back and waving. Ray tosses guitar picks and yells like a kid. Gerard is up at the barrier holding people's hands, getting poked at, talking himself hoarse, like always, and Frank--Frank looks wiped and glorious, kneeling in the middle of the stage with his head dropped forward, dripping, while the crew comes on around him. He stands and shakes a huge splatter of sweat out of his hair and waves to the room with both arms, big, over his head. He yelps "Happy Halloween, motherfuckers," gives a funny little bow, and runs off to tackle Cortez. Bob is soaking wet and his wrists are starting to get pissed off, and he's got a little bit of a hard-on. He helps break down his drums to the soundtrack of a side stage Iero-fueled free-for-all, and starts psyching himself up right then and there. This is going to be some night.
::
Since Lyn-Z's in town, she and Gerard worked the angles and got a suite, and it is officially Halloween Birthday Mayhem Central. When they pile out of the elevators, Bob can hear it as they get near the rooms, the party not roaring yet, but gaining momentum. He's still got his gross show clothes on, and is definitely going to need a minute to himself, a good wash, and possibly an aggressive self-administered locker-room speech via hotel mirror if he's going to make it through the social madness and the thing looming after it. He peels off from the group at his room.
"I hafta shower or I'm going to die."
The back half of the pack, Frank and Mikey, swing around instantly. Frank points at him with both hands and levels a pretty impressive Bambi gaze at him.
"Bob," he wiggles his fingers, "you cannot ditch on this party, you have have to come to my party! You're not allowed to run from your adoring public. Private. Whatever. My party! No pussing out!"
"I'm not, shut up, I just smell like ass."
Mikey, who is thirteen and easy, snickers. Frank is unmoved.
"Okay so wash your ass and come to my party. Or I will kick your ass." Frank bounces on his toes. "Move it. I promise not to scare away all the hot techs."
"Guys, go, I'll be there, half an hour."
Frank nods and shouts "Onward!" and Bob ducks inside the door before Mikey's little twitchy smirk can get to him, flicks on the lights.
I really liked the non-verbals in this scene -- birthday-amped Frank, especially.
He drops his bag. Somebody, probably Worm, already dumped Frank's stuff on the other side of the room. Machinery is in motion. Bob shakes himself, smacks his forehead, wonders for the eight-billionth time how this happened to him. He's got the weirdest kind of anticipation going, half giddy, half sick. He strips down and takes a serious shower, scrubs off the tour, tries to relax. He's got a couple days of stubble, and thinks about shaving it, then thinks everybody would think he was up to something, then thinks they all know already, and then decides they can all go fuck themselves, he's not shaving.
Bob usually has a beard, I think. But most bearded people do have bits they shave and shape and trim, so it makes sense.
He gets dressed--old black Dickies, black t-shirt, black Vans, wristbands, army surplus belt, you don't mess with what works--and stops himself just as he's putting on his hoodie. He looks in the mirror, takes it back off. It feels oddly showy. What does Gerard say, "performative." He hardly ever leaves his arms bare if he's going out, hanging around, but maybe it's less flashy if he's just like this all night, doesn't have to take off the long sleeves with somebody waiting. A head start. Maybe no hat tonight, either.
Wow. That’s… subtly hot. Really, really hot.
This whole thing is obviously scrambling his brain. He stocks his pockets and runs out before he can think about it anymore.
Worm is standing outside the door and cards him in, saying "Fresh and clean, Bryar?" The loud music gets louder, but not too loud, and Lyn-Z is there giving him a giant hug. Lyn-Z is cool, because she looks like the kind of girl who won't give you a giant hug, particularly if you're someone like Bob, who admittedly might lay some hurt on the wrong person attempting to give a him a giant hug, and she just does it anyway. Bob will take all the encouragement he can get right now. It's possible he needs a drink. Sucks to think of it like that, but it's not a big deal. People are drinking, nobody minds, he's not going to get drunk, too much at stake. Wow, there are a bunch of people here.
"Earth to Bob."
"Yo Lyns." Bob lets go of her. Gerard waves from over by the sound system and makes a tongue-y face at his wife.
"Cake? Beer? Annoying short guy with bad tattoos? I heard there was a party?"
She smiles big and says "There are drinks and vegan cake and stuff and Frank in that bedroom. This is the room of dance party and every bad Halloween decoration we could find and Gerard and Ray fighting for DJ dominance. Watch out. There will probably be Queen. The other bedroom is for dropping coats and jumping on beds, and then for passing out later."
I approve of jumping on beds.
Bob looks around. There are stacks of plastic masks on the stupid little hotel tables and there's crepe paper everywhere, draped over every possible surface. Balloons on the ceiling, cardboard bats all over the walls, Dawn of the Dead on the TV, a skeleton on the back of the door, cups of candy corn and peeled grapes and gummy worms. It's like a kids' Halloween party threw up all over everything.
I love this description. There are some truly fantastic, deadly accurate, concise lines in this.
"This is actually kind of cool."
"Awesome, right?" Lyn-Z spins off. "I'm gonna go make Gerard play 'Werewolves of London.'"
Now that he's in, it's not that bad. Kind of anticlimactic, but in a good way. Not as big as he thought it would be. Just a bunch of people, and no one he hates. It could be a lot worse. All of the crew is there, and Brian, awesome, and these two hilarious box-office-and-merch girls from the venue, who had been in Martian costumes at the show, and most of MSI, and some actor friend of Mikey and Frank's, and a whole lot of Skeleton Crew folks, lots of musicians. People Frank likes. People he works with.
Brian! It is weird to admit that I want more Brian? Though really, I always want more Brian, I love Brian. Love love love.
Bob bumps through to the left bedroom, where there's supposed to be food and alcohol. Turns out they've covered everything in here in disposable Halloween-print vinyl tablecloths, so the fact that Frank and Cortez are standing on one of the beds shoving cake at each other's faces isn't so much of a problem. Frank spots him pretty fast, and flings up his arms.
"Bob, Halloween!" he shouts, and gets a nose full of frosting as Cortez takes advantage of his sugar-shortened attention span. "Pigfucker," Frank continues and puts him in a headlock with a sudden burst of manic competence.
Here’s another of those amazing lines that tell you everything you need to know in short, interesting phrasing. Sudden burst of manic competence, indeed!
"This cake is the best shit ever, you should eat some before we fuck it all up," he says, licking chocolate off the side of his mouth and looking over at Bob. He's completely deadpan, apparently unfazed by a lap full of kicking-and-swearing Matt.
Yum.
"Right," says Bob, not staring, keeping to the edge of the fray. Cake and a beer, pronto, stay busy, don't drool, don't run. It can't be that hard.
Oh, Bob. So out of his depth, it’s adorable.
The wrestling match on the bed dissolves, mostly because everyone would rather eat than egg them on, and they decide they'd rather eat, too. The cake is the best shit ever. Bob gets some, and cracks open a Heineken. All parties should be like kid parties with optional booze. And horror movies and rock music. Lyn-Z and Jamia are geniuses, a nice one and an evil one, like a set.
"Halloween!" says Frank as he pops up at Bob's elbow, shirt abandoned, happily scrubbing at his head with a towel. "You haven't missed much. Cortez wants the Martian girls on his cock right now, I ate a lot of great vegan stuff, and Ray gave me the coolest guitar strap."
"Happy Birthday, short pants," Bob says, and he can't help smiling.
"Small and mighty," Frank shouts, and waves his towel.
"Small and moronic."
Frank rat-tails him and then grabs Bob's arms when he goes after him.
Huh! I always thought of this as a hairstyle (kind of a ratty ducktail) but apparently it also means a towel whip. Cool.
"Hey come in the party room. I have had my food and beverages and I wanna dance all over Lyns and make Cortez jealous. Or like, dance all over Cortez. And Gerard."
"I'm not dancing all over anyone."
"You can be boring, it's fine, it's my birthday, I say so. Hey, no sweatshirt." Frank is still holding onto one of his forearms, and he's got one ridiculous curvy eyebrow up.
"Hey, no shirt-shirt," Bob shoots back, as if it can stop the flush coming on. Frank's distracted and entertained enough to let it go, just drags him into the crowd in the lounge, leaving him to drift up against the wall.
He's not sure what's supposed to happen now. On a normal Bob-at-a-party night, he would talk to the techs, hide out with his band, maybe prank somebody with Frank, have a few drinks, head for bed. He likes going to bed first or last so he can take a long shower and let the hot water do its thing on his wrists, get to fall asleep when it's quiet, when everybody else is either still out being friendly or already down. He's not used to having an assignment. It makes it hard to pay attention to anything but Frank, and he finds himself blatantly staring a lot more than he's ever let himself before, watching him dance and jump and run around. He eventually gets into a really involved discussion about tom mounts with one of the techs, and that plus another beer eats up some time, but then he's back to leaning on the wall, waiting for shoes to drop. He yawns, and when he opens his eyes, Frank is swatting him with his nasty t-shirt.
It’s kind of cool to think about phrase drift, how drop the other shoe! became “waiting to for the other shoe to drop,” which seems to have in recent years become generalized to “shoes to drop.”
"Tired?"
"Yeah, I guess. Couldn't sleep on the road."
"Show was bad ass, though," says Frank, beaming. "And my party is bad ass. And I'm fucking tired, too. It's like three in the morning. Also," he adds, like he just realized it, "I smell like Betty Crocker beat me up."
Hee!
Shit, maybe it's time for bed, after all. They have to travel tomorrow. Bob starts to panic, very quietly.
HEE!
"Hey Lyns!" Frank hollers, because Lyn-Z is apparently in charge of everything tonight, "where am I crashing? Where did you guys put all my crap?"
She untangles herself from Gerard for a minute and flaps her hand expressively.
"You and Bob are two doors down, so you can split whenever you want, we'll clean up." She goes back to gnawing on Gerard's lip.
Frank maybe freezes for half a second, but Bob can't tell if he's surprised or disappointed or just processing information. It doesn't last, anyway. He swerves around the room, attacking people, saying goodbye, looking for his phone, giving Lyn-Z and Gerard and Mikey obnoxious kisses. He hurls himself up onto Ray's shoulder and gets a smack on the ass and a "go to bed, you little shit, before I kill you." When he works his way back to Bob there's no acknowledgment, nothing sneaky, he just bangs their arms together.
I like how it’s so very obvious here (without being explicitly said) that Bob is watching him this whole time.
"I'm fucking cashed out," he says. "You gonna leave, too?"
"Yeah, got my money's worth."
"Bullshit, bullshit, my party, you get in free." Frank is still grinning like a madman, looped on friends and baked goods and beer and show.
The door closes behind them and Bob's ears buzz, full of splintered party voices, fuzzy in the dull hallway. He scuffs along behind Frank, who is, no joke, humming "Here Comes Your Man," the asshole. He must not know he's doing it. Bob drags his feet. Franks opens their door and tosses his dirty shirt into a corner, kicks off his shoes and socks, scratches at his head, inspects what might be a bite mark on the inside of his bicep. Bob is speechless, standing in the open doorway having a stroke.
"Na na na na, na-na-na.... I still have cake in my hair. And Matt Cortez fights dirty. Best birthday ever," he looks back at Bob, "and shut the door, are you retarded?"
Best use of the Pixies in fic ever? I totally have “Here Comes Your Man” stuck in my head now.
"Uh." Bob shuts the door. Stands with his back to it, jams his hands in his pockets. He has never felt more like a nervous girl in his entire life. He is not a nervous girl, in general. Fuck this.
"Jamia says she misses you and she hopes you had a fantastic birthday."
This time Frank does freeze, it's obvious, and he turns slowly to face Bob across the room. He's got a funny expression, and he drops his arms.
He’s so shocked! ♥
"Yeah, does she?"
"Yeah."
Frank's lion grin is fast and blinding. He does something like a laugh and a shrug combined.
"You should see your face, holy shit, come in here. This is amazing. I thought it was a fake-out, earlier," he gestures, rocking up on the balls of his feet, classic Frank, "I thought they were messing with me, but if she talked to you--"
"She talked to me."
Say it with me, people: Communication is the key to having good relationships.
"Okay, then--"
Bob nods clearly, gets it out of the way, doesn't trust himself to say it, and just like that, Frank is right up in his space. He pushes his face against Bob's throat, grabs his upper arms, knocks him back against the shut door, laughing like he just can't believe it. It's encouraging, and it's hot. He feels less like hyperventilating, and his skin goes tight and nervy under Frank's hands.
This is so breathlessly compelling.
"Bob, Bob," he's short, he looks up, "this is. This is fucking great. You have no idea. For real? Can I?"
He has this look of undiluted grateful hunger, and Bob strips all the gears he has going from helpless dread to greedy lust in about .008 seconds. He thunks his head back against the door, catching up, being brave, getting his own back.
Just, guh. Anticipation is delicious.
"Yeah, knock yourself out, Frankie."
Frank shudders against him, still pinning him vertical, and opens his mouth against Bob's neck and unfastens his belt with one hand and sticks the other up under his shirt and breathes in his ear and says "Thanks" in the lowest dirtiest voice and drops to his knees, and Bob thinks maybe he's the one who's going to end up unconscious, because all the blood that's supposed to be running his vital organs is getting routed to his dick. Just seeing Frank sitting there on his heels, no shirt, smooth and beautiful and compact, all the ink lines, the sweat-shine on his collarbone, his big cat eyes looking at Bob like he's eating him up, like he wants it all, it's fucking pornographic is what it is. It is mind-blowing, ego-melting, reason-erasing real life porn. Frank leans in and Bob squeezes his eyes shut, hoping to maintain some self-control, and then nothing happens.
Frank grabs his left hand, gently pulls off the wristband, and Bob sucks in a breath, it's so unexpected. His eyes snap open and he looks down at Frank, who's weirdly focused, rubbing at the knobby bones, mouthing the tendons that stretch up into his forearm.
"I wondered why you didn't have a sweatshirt."
"I forgot?" Bob lies, unprepared for how good this feels.
"I couldn't stop looking, you have no idea." He's whispering, and then he licks across the inside of his wrist where the skin is thin and hot and that really makes Bob jump.
Damn. There just might be nothing hotter than finding out the person you’ve been wanting wants you at least as much and probably for at least as long.
"People keep saying that," he mutters, flexing his fingers, neck going lax as Frank pulls all the tension out of his hand, lips on his palm. "Have no idea about what?"
"How you look. How long I wanted to do this. Lots of shit." Frank has taken off the other wristband, and he bites lightly, wrist, pad of middle finger, web of thumb. "You're usually all covered up."
Frank talks low and soft. Bob's hands are tingling and his ribs feel warm. He--he didn't think it would be like this. He wasn't sure what it would be like, but he wasn't expecting this sort of carefulness.
"So, um. Uncover," he says, and hopes it doesn't sound stupid and cheesy.
Aww, Bob’s self-conciousness is pretty darn adorable.
Frank replies by mashing his forehead into Bob's upper thigh and breathing deep and saying what sounds like "Nnnnnnnnnnnhh," and then undoing Bob's pants, pushing them down around his knees, spreading his legs. He crowds in and pulls his boxers away and down, delicate, rubs his thumbs across the creases of Bob's hips, follows his fingers with his nose, rutting, smelling. He bends his head farther down and lays a hot, slippery, kiss on the inside of his thigh, and then another on the other one. Bob is so hard he is going to die, and he whines unconsciously. Frank looks up, face red, and repeats the maneuver on the base, the underside, of his cock. Then he opens his mouth and covers his teeth and drags all the way up the bottom, trailing heat and wet, stops when the head of Bob's dick rests against his slick lower lip.
The slow, loving details make this deeply sensual. And fucking hot, of course.
"Ah--ah--fucking--" Bob says, hands pressed to the door behind him, stomach stiff, trying to keep still. It's torture.
He draws back and it's even worse, Bob's knees start to buckle. Frank chuffs a breath, amused.
"Yeah, I don't think I want to make you stand up for this. Wait a sec."
Bob's in a daze, would do anything to get Frank back on him, so he's cooperative. Frank gets to his feet, helps him step out of his shoes and socks, his pants and stuff, skims his hands up under Bob's shirt and pulls it off--he's naked before he can think about undressing. The room is warm and quiet.
Frank steers him around and sits him on the edge of the first bed, stands between his legs, radiating frantic heat, taller than Bob, for once. He physically tilts Bob's head up, strong hands on his neck, his jaw, and bends down to kiss him, and it's fucking dirty. He holds Bob's mouth open with his thumb, pushes in, flicks his tongue against the inside of his cheek. Bob groans and holds on, one hand on Frank's ass, one stroking up his side, the nice thick muscles around his lower back, his skin is so soft where the guns are. Frank breaks off with a tense growl, rolls his neck and shoulders for a second, and hits the floor, scoots in, knees pushing through his ripped-out jeans. He pauses, so close, and then he hunkers down and puts his face in Bob's groin and takes him in, no warning, no fussing.
"Oh god oh shit," says Bob, hands scrabbling at the edge of the bedspread.
Frank wraps one arm up over his thigh from below to hold him a little bit steady, open him up, and uses the other hand to cup his balls, touch the skin behind them. He sucks slow and hard on the head, up and down in tiny increments. His tongue presses rhythmically against the bottom ridge. Bob clenches his fists and shuts his eyes and feels completely exposed and about to explode. Jesus Christ, he's got his leg over Frank's shoulder, he can barely keep still, he's panting like a dog. Frank goes down deep and comes back up, wet and pulling tight, and he moans and shakes, it's unbelievably hard to stay in control. Frank backs off, breathing damp and raggedy, and really, it's so mean.
"Bob, look down." He's staring up, eyes hooded, his top lip is spit-shiny and filled out, like you get from kissing. "You should watch. And you can use your hands."
Bob brings his hands around to hold Frank's head, poke his fingers through his hair, tug on it, and Frank goes "Nrrrnnnhh, please, please" and licks his lips and surges forward oh god. He opens his mouth, lapping, circling his tongue, and just lets Bob push in, push in, gentle as he can, guiding his head.
He moves up and down for a while, loosening up, and he's making a low sound, a needy sound, and then he just drops his jaw, almost slack, and his eyes stutter closed. His cheeks look hollowed out, his forehead is sweaty. Bob can't look away, and he can't stop his hips bumping forward, it's too good, too good, and he feels resistance but not gagging and Frank's noise gets louder and his motion gets sloppier and it's so wrong and perfect and he's seriously holding Frank by the skull, fucking into his mouth, and he's not stopping him, not at all. Bob feels like he's going to black out, pulls him off, and they're both gasping, and Frank is twitching, and he's stopped rubbing Bob's perineum because he's grinding down on his own cock with the heel of his hand.
"Frankie--fuck, fuck, you--"
"You can--please--" he says, and his voice is so full and rough and wet it's like the audio version of what was happening to his cock before and Bob only needs to be asked twice.
He pulls Frank back in, just slides into his open mouth, quick and obscene, and starts to thrust forward, a little, short strokes. Frank makes that sound again and breathes heavily through his nose and Bob hits the back of his throat and it opens around him, hot, swallowing, and he can't stop, he can't stop. He manages to pull back a little after a minute, so Frank can get a breath and suck him hard, but his head is spinning and he's so turned on he feels like his skin is splitting apart.
There's too much texture, too much sensation, Frank's hair in his hands, the slick noises, his mouth, juicy and overheated and so good it hurts. He gives up, it can't last. He fucks Frank's mouth, uses him, rubs against his palate, throws his head back and grunts, he doesn't care, this is the best thing he's ever felt, his legs and back tightening up, unstoppable, his hips snapping in again and again and he could be dead, somebody could smash his head in with a crowbar right now and he wouldn't care, it's so good, and Frank pushes into his thrusts a couple of times, throat working, and Bob yells something and comes so hard it's like he's one big circuit, switched on, overloaded, blowing all the fuses, burning out. Frank swallows most of it, gulping to breath, but he's jerking against the hand in his lap, and Bob is still pulsing, and some goes across the corner of his mouth. He pulls all the way out, sensitized and unsteady, and he can't help it, pulling Frank's hair, tipping his head back, touching his mouth, pinching his lip, shoving his thumb in across his tongue, getting come and saliva on his fingers, he just wants to keep feeling this.
He braces his feet, leans down and kisses around his own knuckles, tries to get air, says "Frank, Frankie, so fucking good, fuck," and he's shaken up and uncoordinated, but he tightens his fist in Frank's hair and licks into his mouth and Frank bites his fingers and bucks and comes in his pants, groaning, eyes closed, his whole body in spasm, a live wire. Bob is blown away, dumbfounded. Frank slumps to the floor, out of his hands, and he falls back across the mattress, waiting for his heart to stop jackhammering. He can't think of a single thing to say that would do this justice.
This whole section, especially those paragraphs above, contain some truly effective use of run-on, almost stream-of-consciousness sentences.
He hears Frank get up a minute later, and rolls over to see him stripping off his wrecked pants and underwear, grinning at Bob like somebody just gave him a gold-plated Rolls Royce. He loses his balance and has to sit down next to Bob to yank everything over his feet, and then he's just there, sprawling out, dirty and sweaty and sex-tired. He rolls toward Bob and picks up his hand. Bob has a feeling he should be freaking out even more than he is, but he can't, quite, it was great, and it's Frank, and Jamia was right, goddamnit.
"Best present," says Frank, "priceless, you have no idea," and man, his voice is so fucked-out and raw it makes Bob's dick twitch and it's also pretty funny. He sounds fucking used. Bob coughs and laughs, and laughs some more because he came so hard his abdominal muscles are sore from winding up and releasing, so it hurts to laugh and that's hilarious. Frank raises his eyebrows.
"You okay, Sparky?"
"Am I okay? I just came my brains out. You sound like you ate a power sander. You--Jesus, Frank."
Frank looks at him seriously, like he wants Bob to notice.
"I'm good, trust me," he says hoarsely. "I got exactly what I wanted. I swear on a stack of records this is not going to screw anything up, I won't let it. I wanted this so bad, for so long, and she knew it, and she set it up, and here you are, I hope that means you got what you wanted, too."
"You have no idea," says Bob, before he even realizes it, and that's too much. He cracks up and says "Ow, ow, hurts to laugh," and Frank cracks up and tucks his head and says "I know, ow, throat," and jabs him in the arm.
"It hurts?" Bob can't help asking.
"Nah, feels good," says Frank, stretching. Bob watches him, riveted, surprised, and Franks sees. "Told you I got what I wanted. What I want. I have the best wife on earth, and she likes you. Don't fight it."
♥ ♥ ♥
I’m practically out of words, my brain is all ♥, but notice, that hint of Bob/Frank/Jamia, at least as friendship if not more?
♥
He leers, and swivels off the bed. Bob shivers.
"Leaving?"
"Washing, calm down," Frank says, and he looks like the cat who got whatever the hell it wanted, his face is bright, like Bob is missing something. "You can come in if you want. Or you can get in bed and go to sleep and we can fuck in the morning."
Love the recurring cat imagery.
Bob's eyes are bugging out, he knows it. All his blood is rushing around, trying to get his higher functions back on line. He sits up and peers at Frank, as if staring at something written in Crazy will make it easier to read.
"Frank--?" He's at a loss.
"Or, fine," Frank rolls his eyes, "you can act stupid like you don't know how this is, know how I feel, and you can drive yourself nuts. Whichever." He doesn't sound angry, maybe a little bemused.
"What?"
Frank turns and grabs his shoulders, moves in suddenly, fierce and happy, kisses him like he means it, like it's very important, not sad, not serious, important. He bites Bob's lip, breathes Bob's air, makes him pay attention.
"You can get what you want," he says, teeth sharp, not kidding.
Bob had no idea.
Because it’s not just sex, not even just lust. It’s affection, it’s care, it’s time, it’s love. Now that is polyamory.
Cut tag is because I'm a dork. Frank knows the words, but that part of the chorus is guitars so it goes na-na-na. And because buses move you, trains move you, but bodies move you like an earthquake.
♥
Author: chiromancy
Fandom: Bandom: MCR
Commentator: athenejen
Hi everyone, welcome to a humble little dvd commentary for one of my very favorite stories in all of bandom (and let me tell, you, I’ve read a completely ridiculous number of delightful bandom stories). I’m keeping the original headers intact below, in case you want to know more about the story itself first. If you haven’t read it yet, oh, are you ever in for a treat. Warnings-wise, there's nothing major that I can see (please let me know if you see it differently), unless polyamory, non-monogamy, open relationships and the like are problematic for you.
Fics that treats non-monogamy well are incredibly dear to my heart (a little while back I put together a Top Ten list, even). I have experienced and am fond of both polyamory and monogamy and I really love it when they both exist as completely valid choices within a work, rather than the more often seen assumption that people simply pair up and the only happily ever after is monogamy. It is completely possible to have fidelity outside of exclusivity, and chiromancy’s treatment of that is smart and nuanced and convincing.
Wow, that was more of a speech than I’d planned on making up front. Ah well, onward!
::
No Idea
Who: Frank/Bob
What: Approximately 7,300 words re: awkwardness, birthday gifts, Jamia, lust.
And adorableness, don’t forget adorableness!
Where and when: Boring pseudo-future normalverse.
How much?: NC-17 for activities in the bathing-suit area, and for swears.
Why: mcee knows what Frank wants for his birthday, or, she knows what she wants him to want for his birthday; all her fault.
Any good?: And she beta'd it, so, maybe?
That would be a yes.
Bob's basically doing nothing right now, sitting on the bench in the bus kitchen half-neglecting some leftover pizza, doing wrist exercises, zoning out. It's awesome. Gerard and Ray left the door partway open and he can hear them screwing around in the back studio, low buzzes and cackles and high harmonies and truncated arpeggios, muffled by distance and dull truckstop noise from outside. He hears something that sounds like a Prince song as conceived by a very down-and-out stoned-slow punk band. It sounds good, actually.
That does sound kinda good. I mean, I’m not really a fan of Prince (this is blasphemy, I know, especially considering I grew up in Minnesota), but I like the idea of MCR as a moody punk band.
Shit, does he ever love his band. He didn't realize how much he missed being on tour until he got back out here, with people up in his face and noise everywhere and not enough space and never enough opportunities to do laundry and bad food. And his fucking amazing band. And their fucking amazing crew. Bob yells "Record that shit so I can mess it up tomorrow!" toward the back of the bus, and chomps on his cold lunch.
I love how much he loves his band. It just makes me so happy!
His phone rattles on the table, and he doesn't recognize the number. It's Jersey, though. He waffles for a minute and picks up.
"Bob."
"Bryar," says a female person who, Bob realizes a split second later, is obviously Jamia. She says it with satisfaction, with intent. Bob is confused.
Jamia! \o/ I adore her so hard in this.
"Whoa, hey Jamia. What's up?"
"You," she says easily, "strike me as a man in need of a blowjob."
Bob chokes on nothing and smacks the table, looks around for smirking observers.
"What? Is this a dare? What?"
"Bob. Cool it. It's not--"
"Frank!" Bob yells, "Frank Iero what is going on?"
"He's not on the bus, smarty," she says, "I need to talk to you."
See? See? Jamia is so… blunt. And I love the little casual insults in the place of endearments, where it’s clear they actually are endearments.
"How do you know? You're not here. Are you here?" Bob's brain has not recovered from Jamia's introductory remark.
"Because I just called him, dumbass, and he said he went to look for a real shower." He can hear an eyeroll in there somewhere.
"Um," says Bob, "So. Wait, what did you need to talk to me about?"
"Blowjob. You know Frank's birthday is next week?"
"Halloween. Hard to forget." Bob doesn't see the connection, and he never thought Jamia was nuts before.
"Right. And I can't get there. Which makes me so mad, by the way, bad timing, fucking tour dates on the other side of the country..."
"Sorry?" Bob's not sure where this is going, and has reverted to the phone version of smile-and-nod.
"Anyway. He's allowed to mess around with the band, you know? And I know for a fact that he wants to get laid on his birthday, and you need your dick sucked, and I think we can make both those things happen."
♥ ♥ ♥
Bob's mouth is hanging open. If he were still eating pizza, somebody would be getting a sixth-grade style eyeful. He hasn't talked to Jamia that much, not on his own. From what he knows of her, what he's seen when she's out on tour with them, he really likes her. She's extremely hot in kind of an undercover way, great tits, beautiful pointy eyes, blunt and deadly sense of humor. And she and Frank are amazing together. This has got to be a joke. It's not as funny as their jokes usually are, though. Bob coughs. He has no clue what to say.
The hints of Bob/Frank/Jamia possibilities also help make this make so much sense to me, I think because liking someone’s partner tends to make that person more appealing, at least for me.
"Bob? Hello?"
"...Hey?"
"Are you with me here?"
"Jamia, seriously, this is funny, but nobody's even here to see me flip out."
"Oh for--Bob. Are you opposed to getting your dick sucked?"
"No," Jesus, why can't he shut himself up? How is this an appropriate conversation?
"Are you opposed to getting your dick sucked by Frank?"
"You can't just ask me that--I mean--Christ--Jamia--yes, he's in my band, and you're--"
"Okay shut up. That's a bunch of bullshit. What is your problem, actually?"
"But you--no--how is this not a huge mess? How are you guys not completely fucked up?"
Cue monogamy-normativity (wow, there must be a more concise way of saying that) freakout. Because the ideology of monogamy is really very pervasive in mainstream and media sources and society. (Note: I’m using “ideology” in a value-neutral way here, it’s just something that exists all over the place and it’s not a bad thing, it just is.)
Jamia sighs.
"Come on. You know I love him more than pretty much anything else in the universe. And he's fucking hopelessly devoted to me. It's not--we don't fuck it up."
It’s possible that song from Grease has starts playing in my head every time I read this line.
And yeah, exactly. They don’t fuck it up. It takes work -- like Jamia having this whole conversation with Bob (I love it when the other people involved are really involved, if that makes sense) -- but it can be terrific.
"Him and Gerard? I've seen them."
"It's the band. He's always been allowed to do whatever he wants with the band. Only the band." She says this like it's something that makes sense. And she doesn't sound resentful, not even a little. She slows down, as if she's finally realized that she's talking to someone who may have entirely missed some important information. "You guys have been there almost as long as I have, and he loves you, and it doesn't hurt me. I like it. I like that he's with people who take care of him, who make him happy, when I'm not there. I think if Gerard and I hadn't gotten along like a house on fire, Frank would have had to split up with me years ago. We stay happy." She trails off.
This whole paragraph is so sensible. Smart and matter-of-fact and both intellectually and emotionally logical. See why I love her?
Bob starts to get it, a little. He's never quite known what to make of Frank and Gerard. They were so obvious, and they never had the look of liars, cheaters.
"Ray?" he says.
"Not into it. Not bothered by it, but not a participant, not like that. Although I made out with him a couple times. He's not into guys. Um. Which, hey, maybe you're like that. Or maybe you're bothered. I just. You look. You look at us. You definitely look at Frank."
*blink* Jamia/Ray makeouts… intriguing. And I’m liking the image of Jamia noticing Bob looking. Mmmmm.
Bob blushes abruptly and tries to finish his train of thought. "Mikey?"
"I so should not be telling you this shit," she gripes. "Has all this really not come up in conversation?"
Hee! I would think it’s one of the classic “I have no idea how to slip this into conversation” topics, actually. Like “by the way, I can move things with my mind.” (It’s possible I’ve been reading a bit of Merlin fic recently.)
"Um." To tell the truth, Bob tries to avoid talking, or even thinking too much, about anything that involves both Frank and sex. Always has. It's. Distracting. They're in a band. "I figured it wasn't my business."
That is very Bob. I really enjoy the characterizations in this, and how consistent they are throughout.
"Well, he climbs all over you. That's your business."
"That's just Frank."
"Exactly my point."
Oh.
Hee!
"And Mikey is kind of a slut for kissing, but doesn't do sex. I mean, apart from Alicia."
"Oh. Okay."
"Just 'okay'?"
"It's a bit much, all right?" Bob waves his arms. He's really glad there's nobody around to watch him losing his shit. "I'm just supposed to believe that even though nobody's ever mentioned it, you and Frank have this major, uh, sexual freedom thing going on? And that you want me to get in on it? You know this sounds crazy, right? Crazy."
*pet pet*
"No, I thought you knew."
"I didn't! I mean, I guess I did! But--" But Bob never so much as fantasized that it was real, that he was right, that getting climbed on by Frank could have really entertaining benefits.
"Are you freaking out?"
"Yeah, how'd you guess?" Bob stares at the ceiling and lets out a huff of breath. "No really, why are you asking me? Why are you telling me this stuff?"
"Because you love Frank and you need some action," Jamia says, without hesitation.
Bob tries to think of an effective way to shoot that down, and he just can't. Frank is the Laurel to his Hardy, is even more fun to talk to than Gerard, and looks like--looks like Frank. Like that. And Bob hasn't gotten any in months. He sighs. He feels about an inch tall.
*pet pet pet*
"Why do you even think this'll work? That it's a good idea?"
"Because I know Frank, and I told him I would get him laid on his birthday and not to worry about it."
"Why not Gerard?"
"Because this way is more of a surprise, and he's going to fucking love it, and so are you." This girl has an answer for everything. It's like playing chicken with a speeding train. He can't exactly win, and losing is the entire point. Why is he fighting this?
"I'm still freaked. What do I even do?"
"Chill the fuck out, for one thing, and room with Frank on his birthday. There's going to be some big party, and you guys have got a hotel that night. Just relax."
"Jamia, I--"
"Bob, will you--listen. If I could be there, I would, but I'm not hurting here. He loves you guys so much, and so do I, and I'd bet my car that you will have fun. I promise you that the opportunity to suck you off will be the best present Frank gets. He will love it. And you know what? It's from me. Think of it that way."
"I just--"
"Are you with me?"
"Yeah. Yeah." Bob would like to know what the fuck is going on.
"Good. Just room with him on Halloween. I think he'll probably get the picture. He knows me."
"You're not going to tell him?"
"Hell no. This is an awesome surprise. I swear. You have no idea how much it's going to rock his world. He'll get it. He's going to be all over you. You don't know how much he likes you."
Guess not.
"Right. Okay. Do you want me to say anything?"
"Oh! Uh, I hadn't really--if you want, when you're in for the night, you can tell him I miss him and I hope he's had a fantastic birthday."
"Okay. So." This is so fucked.
"Are you going to be weird about this all week? Are you going to blow it?"
"No!" Now that Bob's baser urges have figured out what's up, he's getting pretty dedicated. Freaked out, but dedicated. "I won't fuck it up. I don't believe this."
"Believe it, blondie. We love you. Call me if you need to have a meltdown, or you think you can't do it. Have fun."
"Jamia, you are insane. I. Thanks, I think."
"Call me after and thank me. And don't fuck it up."
"Okay."
"Okay. Be brave. Bye"
"Bye."
Bob is a little woozy when he gets off the phone. He's never had his head so thoroughly screwed with in such a short time. Frank is off limits. The sky is usually gray, unless it's too hot to move, and then it's blue. He didn't think these things were negotiable. He grabs a soda out of the cabinet and wonders where he left the Advil. And his regular life.
Poor Bob! He does seem like the type to rely on some solid pillars of belief and then maybe freak out if they become less solid, doesn’t he.
Gerard wanders out of the back and stops short when he sees Bob.
"You okay, man?" Fucking Way and his psychic powers. Bob doesn't especially want to talk about it, because if forced to deal with all of this right here, right now, he's either going to run screaming out into the freeway traffic or like, have an orgasm. It's not a good time for either of those things. Maybe he should go back to bed.
"Fine. Kind of a headache."
"Oh, sorry, we were loud when--"
"No, no problem. Just. I'm tired, I think? I'm gonna go take a nap."
"Cool," says Gerard, but his head is tilted to the side like he's thinking, working something over, "can I eat the rest of the leftover pizza?"
"Get on it," says Bob, and retreats to his bunk.
He has a heck of a time falling asleep, because he's embarrassed and ridiculously turned on, and doesn't want to beat off in the middle of the day with his bandmates roaming around, but eventually he goes under. He has a cracked-out dream about fighting a bear, which then turns into Frank, who then turns into Jamia, who gives him a piggyback ride, a long one, running through a silent forest, and he's laughing, and she has wolf eyes.
I love this dream. The details of this fic are just in general well-chosen and really add to the visceral impact of the piece.
The next few days are a little strange for Bob. They're on the west coast, working their way south from Vancouver, where he'd gotten that crazy phone call. The shows are going well. The end of the last tour, with him out, and Frank grieving, and Ray pretty much exhausted, had been hard on everybody. Really hard. This is good, this is how it should be. The new songs fly high, and the buses don't break down, and his wrists don't give out, and he has plenty of time to think. Jamia hasn't called again, so he's on his own with this. Whatever it is. Because. It's something. He does watch Frank. He's always watched Frank, and sure, some of that is just his instinct for self-preservation, but some of it is warm and intense and fascinated, and always has been. How can you not watch him? He's like a fucking force of nature, attractive in almost the same way big cats are: innocent and scary, ruthlessly sweet on the eyes. Frank spins and kicks and thrashes, pounds out the chords. He climbs an amp, turns to give Bob a snarly smile, and Bob swallows hard. It's weird to have to admit all this to himself. He plays the hell out of those shows.
I LOVE that line about Frank being like a big cat, “ruthlessly sweet on the eyes.” Just, yes.
::
It's not like he's a caveman or anything, an asshole. Most of his serious relationship-type crap has been with girls, but he's hooked up with guys, and it hasn't bothered him. He didn't need Gerard Way to tell him there was nothing wrong with being a deviant. He's cool with it. Wanting guys is not a problem. Wanting Frank. Wanting Frank is the worst thing in the world, because of the band, because they're friends, because he's not Gerard, because of Jamia, because of a lot of things, and now Miss Free Love 2008 says he can have him, and it's awful. It's fucking terrifying. What if he gets what he wants--yeah, he wants it, he's not dead--and it tanks everything else? What if he can never have it again?
Ah, the key questions that occur when a person gets involved with a friend. Believe me, I know. Though I will say that in my experience, as long as you’re both reasonable people, it works out just fine. Even if you can never have it again, it doesn’t have to tank everything. And more than likely, you can have it again.
::
Five days pass, in sweat and shows and cans of Coke and gallons of gas. He knows he must be a little off, gets a couple funny looks from Frank, mostly for failing to punch when expected or snapping when unprovoked, but no one says anything. Then on the sixth day, rolling into San Diego in the early afternoon, Gerard flops down next to him in the lounge.
"LA tomorrow. Dude, I don't know what I'm more excited about, the good sushi or the hotel," Gerard says, and winks at him.
Fucking winks. There's no mistaking it; Gerard has a full-on ladykilling Frank Sinatra wink. Bob tries to get his mouth to work, but Gerard has already rolled himself off the couch and is pacing, pecking out a text message.
Bwahahahaha, oh Gerard and his wink! ♥
"It's going to be some party. Halloween. Everybody there. Lyn-Z's getting in tonight." He waves his phone informatively. Bob recovers some, and plays along, lamely.
"No Jamia though, right?" he says. Gerard looks at him calmly, and grins wide.
He says "Yeah, no Jamia. She couldn't work the schedule. Sends her love, though. She and Lyns have been doing super-special party-planning for weeks. I keep getting roped in."
His smile is still real as he ducks back toward the bunks, and just like that, Bob knows that he knows, that he's somehow into it, and it's creepy and odd and it makes him feel better. His friendship with Gerard started out weird, stayed weird, and eventually grew to be weird and deeply committed. They have massive amounts of respect for each other. On some level, if Gerard has put his messy black stamp of approval on this, he knows it can't be all bad. He tries to shut off his brain as much as possible, goes to find his practice pad.
Gerard is comforting because Gerard is awesome.
::
The show in LA is great, a killer. Halloween ambiance, Frank's birthday, good crowd. There's even more makeup in the audience than usual, more zombies, more vampires, and any friends who could make it are present and gearing up to make trouble. Bob wears his favorite striped socks and they fucking rock the faces off those LA kids. Frank and Gerard are in full wild-man mode, lots of sweat and running and dancing and grabbing, and some actual groping in the second half. Bob breaks a stick but barely misses a beat. Cortez, shirtless and in skeleton body paint with "Happy Birthday Frankie" across his back, runs on stage to wrestle some cables, and the crowd hoots and shouts for a full minute. Gerard swats his ass as he heads off and says "Matt Cortez, everybody. Signed, sealed, delivered. We all love you, Iero, even if we aren't showing you our tits." The audience goes bonkers as Frank jumps around and spits and blows kisses. Several shirts make their way to the stage. Gerard croons the birthday song into the mic, falsetto as he gets, and Bob does a little swingy snare thing just to help out.
This sounds like the most kickass of shows, though I prefer to believe that the majority of those shirts are from guys. My impression is that Gerard would never encourage women to show anyone their tits. Much the opposite, in fact.
The rest of the show blurs by, a hot and happy wave, somehow better than usual. At the end, even Mikey's got his head up, smiling, slicking his hair back and waving. Ray tosses guitar picks and yells like a kid. Gerard is up at the barrier holding people's hands, getting poked at, talking himself hoarse, like always, and Frank--Frank looks wiped and glorious, kneeling in the middle of the stage with his head dropped forward, dripping, while the crew comes on around him. He stands and shakes a huge splatter of sweat out of his hair and waves to the room with both arms, big, over his head. He yelps "Happy Halloween, motherfuckers," gives a funny little bow, and runs off to tackle Cortez. Bob is soaking wet and his wrists are starting to get pissed off, and he's got a little bit of a hard-on. He helps break down his drums to the soundtrack of a side stage Iero-fueled free-for-all, and starts psyching himself up right then and there. This is going to be some night.
::
Since Lyn-Z's in town, she and Gerard worked the angles and got a suite, and it is officially Halloween Birthday Mayhem Central. When they pile out of the elevators, Bob can hear it as they get near the rooms, the party not roaring yet, but gaining momentum. He's still got his gross show clothes on, and is definitely going to need a minute to himself, a good wash, and possibly an aggressive self-administered locker-room speech via hotel mirror if he's going to make it through the social madness and the thing looming after it. He peels off from the group at his room.
"I hafta shower or I'm going to die."
The back half of the pack, Frank and Mikey, swing around instantly. Frank points at him with both hands and levels a pretty impressive Bambi gaze at him.
"Bob," he wiggles his fingers, "you cannot ditch on this party, you have have to come to my party! You're not allowed to run from your adoring public. Private. Whatever. My party! No pussing out!"
"I'm not, shut up, I just smell like ass."
Mikey, who is thirteen and easy, snickers. Frank is unmoved.
"Okay so wash your ass and come to my party. Or I will kick your ass." Frank bounces on his toes. "Move it. I promise not to scare away all the hot techs."
"Guys, go, I'll be there, half an hour."
Frank nods and shouts "Onward!" and Bob ducks inside the door before Mikey's little twitchy smirk can get to him, flicks on the lights.
I really liked the non-verbals in this scene -- birthday-amped Frank, especially.
He drops his bag. Somebody, probably Worm, already dumped Frank's stuff on the other side of the room. Machinery is in motion. Bob shakes himself, smacks his forehead, wonders for the eight-billionth time how this happened to him. He's got the weirdest kind of anticipation going, half giddy, half sick. He strips down and takes a serious shower, scrubs off the tour, tries to relax. He's got a couple days of stubble, and thinks about shaving it, then thinks everybody would think he was up to something, then thinks they all know already, and then decides they can all go fuck themselves, he's not shaving.
Bob usually has a beard, I think. But most bearded people do have bits they shave and shape and trim, so it makes sense.
He gets dressed--old black Dickies, black t-shirt, black Vans, wristbands, army surplus belt, you don't mess with what works--and stops himself just as he's putting on his hoodie. He looks in the mirror, takes it back off. It feels oddly showy. What does Gerard say, "performative." He hardly ever leaves his arms bare if he's going out, hanging around, but maybe it's less flashy if he's just like this all night, doesn't have to take off the long sleeves with somebody waiting. A head start. Maybe no hat tonight, either.
Wow. That’s… subtly hot. Really, really hot.
This whole thing is obviously scrambling his brain. He stocks his pockets and runs out before he can think about it anymore.
Worm is standing outside the door and cards him in, saying "Fresh and clean, Bryar?" The loud music gets louder, but not too loud, and Lyn-Z is there giving him a giant hug. Lyn-Z is cool, because she looks like the kind of girl who won't give you a giant hug, particularly if you're someone like Bob, who admittedly might lay some hurt on the wrong person attempting to give a him a giant hug, and she just does it anyway. Bob will take all the encouragement he can get right now. It's possible he needs a drink. Sucks to think of it like that, but it's not a big deal. People are drinking, nobody minds, he's not going to get drunk, too much at stake. Wow, there are a bunch of people here.
"Earth to Bob."
"Yo Lyns." Bob lets go of her. Gerard waves from over by the sound system and makes a tongue-y face at his wife.
"Cake? Beer? Annoying short guy with bad tattoos? I heard there was a party?"
She smiles big and says "There are drinks and vegan cake and stuff and Frank in that bedroom. This is the room of dance party and every bad Halloween decoration we could find and Gerard and Ray fighting for DJ dominance. Watch out. There will probably be Queen. The other bedroom is for dropping coats and jumping on beds, and then for passing out later."
I approve of jumping on beds.
Bob looks around. There are stacks of plastic masks on the stupid little hotel tables and there's crepe paper everywhere, draped over every possible surface. Balloons on the ceiling, cardboard bats all over the walls, Dawn of the Dead on the TV, a skeleton on the back of the door, cups of candy corn and peeled grapes and gummy worms. It's like a kids' Halloween party threw up all over everything.
I love this description. There are some truly fantastic, deadly accurate, concise lines in this.
"This is actually kind of cool."
"Awesome, right?" Lyn-Z spins off. "I'm gonna go make Gerard play 'Werewolves of London.'"
Now that he's in, it's not that bad. Kind of anticlimactic, but in a good way. Not as big as he thought it would be. Just a bunch of people, and no one he hates. It could be a lot worse. All of the crew is there, and Brian, awesome, and these two hilarious box-office-and-merch girls from the venue, who had been in Martian costumes at the show, and most of MSI, and some actor friend of Mikey and Frank's, and a whole lot of Skeleton Crew folks, lots of musicians. People Frank likes. People he works with.
Brian! It is weird to admit that I want more Brian? Though really, I always want more Brian, I love Brian. Love love love.
Bob bumps through to the left bedroom, where there's supposed to be food and alcohol. Turns out they've covered everything in here in disposable Halloween-print vinyl tablecloths, so the fact that Frank and Cortez are standing on one of the beds shoving cake at each other's faces isn't so much of a problem. Frank spots him pretty fast, and flings up his arms.
"Bob, Halloween!" he shouts, and gets a nose full of frosting as Cortez takes advantage of his sugar-shortened attention span. "Pigfucker," Frank continues and puts him in a headlock with a sudden burst of manic competence.
Here’s another of those amazing lines that tell you everything you need to know in short, interesting phrasing. Sudden burst of manic competence, indeed!
"This cake is the best shit ever, you should eat some before we fuck it all up," he says, licking chocolate off the side of his mouth and looking over at Bob. He's completely deadpan, apparently unfazed by a lap full of kicking-and-swearing Matt.
Yum.
"Right," says Bob, not staring, keeping to the edge of the fray. Cake and a beer, pronto, stay busy, don't drool, don't run. It can't be that hard.
Oh, Bob. So out of his depth, it’s adorable.
The wrestling match on the bed dissolves, mostly because everyone would rather eat than egg them on, and they decide they'd rather eat, too. The cake is the best shit ever. Bob gets some, and cracks open a Heineken. All parties should be like kid parties with optional booze. And horror movies and rock music. Lyn-Z and Jamia are geniuses, a nice one and an evil one, like a set.
"Halloween!" says Frank as he pops up at Bob's elbow, shirt abandoned, happily scrubbing at his head with a towel. "You haven't missed much. Cortez wants the Martian girls on his cock right now, I ate a lot of great vegan stuff, and Ray gave me the coolest guitar strap."
"Happy Birthday, short pants," Bob says, and he can't help smiling.
"Small and mighty," Frank shouts, and waves his towel.
"Small and moronic."
Frank rat-tails him and then grabs Bob's arms when he goes after him.
Huh! I always thought of this as a hairstyle (kind of a ratty ducktail) but apparently it also means a towel whip. Cool.
"Hey come in the party room. I have had my food and beverages and I wanna dance all over Lyns and make Cortez jealous. Or like, dance all over Cortez. And Gerard."
"I'm not dancing all over anyone."
"You can be boring, it's fine, it's my birthday, I say so. Hey, no sweatshirt." Frank is still holding onto one of his forearms, and he's got one ridiculous curvy eyebrow up.
"Hey, no shirt-shirt," Bob shoots back, as if it can stop the flush coming on. Frank's distracted and entertained enough to let it go, just drags him into the crowd in the lounge, leaving him to drift up against the wall.
He's not sure what's supposed to happen now. On a normal Bob-at-a-party night, he would talk to the techs, hide out with his band, maybe prank somebody with Frank, have a few drinks, head for bed. He likes going to bed first or last so he can take a long shower and let the hot water do its thing on his wrists, get to fall asleep when it's quiet, when everybody else is either still out being friendly or already down. He's not used to having an assignment. It makes it hard to pay attention to anything but Frank, and he finds himself blatantly staring a lot more than he's ever let himself before, watching him dance and jump and run around. He eventually gets into a really involved discussion about tom mounts with one of the techs, and that plus another beer eats up some time, but then he's back to leaning on the wall, waiting for shoes to drop. He yawns, and when he opens his eyes, Frank is swatting him with his nasty t-shirt.
It’s kind of cool to think about phrase drift, how drop the other shoe! became “waiting to for the other shoe to drop,” which seems to have in recent years become generalized to “shoes to drop.”
"Tired?"
"Yeah, I guess. Couldn't sleep on the road."
"Show was bad ass, though," says Frank, beaming. "And my party is bad ass. And I'm fucking tired, too. It's like three in the morning. Also," he adds, like he just realized it, "I smell like Betty Crocker beat me up."
Hee!
Shit, maybe it's time for bed, after all. They have to travel tomorrow. Bob starts to panic, very quietly.
HEE!
"Hey Lyns!" Frank hollers, because Lyn-Z is apparently in charge of everything tonight, "where am I crashing? Where did you guys put all my crap?"
She untangles herself from Gerard for a minute and flaps her hand expressively.
"You and Bob are two doors down, so you can split whenever you want, we'll clean up." She goes back to gnawing on Gerard's lip.
Frank maybe freezes for half a second, but Bob can't tell if he's surprised or disappointed or just processing information. It doesn't last, anyway. He swerves around the room, attacking people, saying goodbye, looking for his phone, giving Lyn-Z and Gerard and Mikey obnoxious kisses. He hurls himself up onto Ray's shoulder and gets a smack on the ass and a "go to bed, you little shit, before I kill you." When he works his way back to Bob there's no acknowledgment, nothing sneaky, he just bangs their arms together.
I like how it’s so very obvious here (without being explicitly said) that Bob is watching him this whole time.
"I'm fucking cashed out," he says. "You gonna leave, too?"
"Yeah, got my money's worth."
"Bullshit, bullshit, my party, you get in free." Frank is still grinning like a madman, looped on friends and baked goods and beer and show.
The door closes behind them and Bob's ears buzz, full of splintered party voices, fuzzy in the dull hallway. He scuffs along behind Frank, who is, no joke, humming "Here Comes Your Man," the asshole. He must not know he's doing it. Bob drags his feet. Franks opens their door and tosses his dirty shirt into a corner, kicks off his shoes and socks, scratches at his head, inspects what might be a bite mark on the inside of his bicep. Bob is speechless, standing in the open doorway having a stroke.
"Na na na na, na-na-na.... I still have cake in my hair. And Matt Cortez fights dirty. Best birthday ever," he looks back at Bob, "and shut the door, are you retarded?"
Best use of the Pixies in fic ever? I totally have “Here Comes Your Man” stuck in my head now.
"Uh." Bob shuts the door. Stands with his back to it, jams his hands in his pockets. He has never felt more like a nervous girl in his entire life. He is not a nervous girl, in general. Fuck this.
"Jamia says she misses you and she hopes you had a fantastic birthday."
This time Frank does freeze, it's obvious, and he turns slowly to face Bob across the room. He's got a funny expression, and he drops his arms.
He’s so shocked! ♥
"Yeah, does she?"
"Yeah."
Frank's lion grin is fast and blinding. He does something like a laugh and a shrug combined.
"You should see your face, holy shit, come in here. This is amazing. I thought it was a fake-out, earlier," he gestures, rocking up on the balls of his feet, classic Frank, "I thought they were messing with me, but if she talked to you--"
"She talked to me."
Say it with me, people: Communication is the key to having good relationships.
"Okay, then--"
Bob nods clearly, gets it out of the way, doesn't trust himself to say it, and just like that, Frank is right up in his space. He pushes his face against Bob's throat, grabs his upper arms, knocks him back against the shut door, laughing like he just can't believe it. It's encouraging, and it's hot. He feels less like hyperventilating, and his skin goes tight and nervy under Frank's hands.
This is so breathlessly compelling.
"Bob, Bob," he's short, he looks up, "this is. This is fucking great. You have no idea. For real? Can I?"
He has this look of undiluted grateful hunger, and Bob strips all the gears he has going from helpless dread to greedy lust in about .008 seconds. He thunks his head back against the door, catching up, being brave, getting his own back.
Just, guh. Anticipation is delicious.
"Yeah, knock yourself out, Frankie."
Frank shudders against him, still pinning him vertical, and opens his mouth against Bob's neck and unfastens his belt with one hand and sticks the other up under his shirt and breathes in his ear and says "Thanks" in the lowest dirtiest voice and drops to his knees, and Bob thinks maybe he's the one who's going to end up unconscious, because all the blood that's supposed to be running his vital organs is getting routed to his dick. Just seeing Frank sitting there on his heels, no shirt, smooth and beautiful and compact, all the ink lines, the sweat-shine on his collarbone, his big cat eyes looking at Bob like he's eating him up, like he wants it all, it's fucking pornographic is what it is. It is mind-blowing, ego-melting, reason-erasing real life porn. Frank leans in and Bob squeezes his eyes shut, hoping to maintain some self-control, and then nothing happens.
Frank grabs his left hand, gently pulls off the wristband, and Bob sucks in a breath, it's so unexpected. His eyes snap open and he looks down at Frank, who's weirdly focused, rubbing at the knobby bones, mouthing the tendons that stretch up into his forearm.
"I wondered why you didn't have a sweatshirt."
"I forgot?" Bob lies, unprepared for how good this feels.
"I couldn't stop looking, you have no idea." He's whispering, and then he licks across the inside of his wrist where the skin is thin and hot and that really makes Bob jump.
Damn. There just might be nothing hotter than finding out the person you’ve been wanting wants you at least as much and probably for at least as long.
"People keep saying that," he mutters, flexing his fingers, neck going lax as Frank pulls all the tension out of his hand, lips on his palm. "Have no idea about what?"
"How you look. How long I wanted to do this. Lots of shit." Frank has taken off the other wristband, and he bites lightly, wrist, pad of middle finger, web of thumb. "You're usually all covered up."
Frank talks low and soft. Bob's hands are tingling and his ribs feel warm. He--he didn't think it would be like this. He wasn't sure what it would be like, but he wasn't expecting this sort of carefulness.
"So, um. Uncover," he says, and hopes it doesn't sound stupid and cheesy.
Aww, Bob’s self-conciousness is pretty darn adorable.
Frank replies by mashing his forehead into Bob's upper thigh and breathing deep and saying what sounds like "Nnnnnnnnnnnhh," and then undoing Bob's pants, pushing them down around his knees, spreading his legs. He crowds in and pulls his boxers away and down, delicate, rubs his thumbs across the creases of Bob's hips, follows his fingers with his nose, rutting, smelling. He bends his head farther down and lays a hot, slippery, kiss on the inside of his thigh, and then another on the other one. Bob is so hard he is going to die, and he whines unconsciously. Frank looks up, face red, and repeats the maneuver on the base, the underside, of his cock. Then he opens his mouth and covers his teeth and drags all the way up the bottom, trailing heat and wet, stops when the head of Bob's dick rests against his slick lower lip.
The slow, loving details make this deeply sensual. And fucking hot, of course.
"Ah--ah--fucking--" Bob says, hands pressed to the door behind him, stomach stiff, trying to keep still. It's torture.
He draws back and it's even worse, Bob's knees start to buckle. Frank chuffs a breath, amused.
"Yeah, I don't think I want to make you stand up for this. Wait a sec."
Bob's in a daze, would do anything to get Frank back on him, so he's cooperative. Frank gets to his feet, helps him step out of his shoes and socks, his pants and stuff, skims his hands up under Bob's shirt and pulls it off--he's naked before he can think about undressing. The room is warm and quiet.
Frank steers him around and sits him on the edge of the first bed, stands between his legs, radiating frantic heat, taller than Bob, for once. He physically tilts Bob's head up, strong hands on his neck, his jaw, and bends down to kiss him, and it's fucking dirty. He holds Bob's mouth open with his thumb, pushes in, flicks his tongue against the inside of his cheek. Bob groans and holds on, one hand on Frank's ass, one stroking up his side, the nice thick muscles around his lower back, his skin is so soft where the guns are. Frank breaks off with a tense growl, rolls his neck and shoulders for a second, and hits the floor, scoots in, knees pushing through his ripped-out jeans. He pauses, so close, and then he hunkers down and puts his face in Bob's groin and takes him in, no warning, no fussing.
"Oh god oh shit," says Bob, hands scrabbling at the edge of the bedspread.
Frank wraps one arm up over his thigh from below to hold him a little bit steady, open him up, and uses the other hand to cup his balls, touch the skin behind them. He sucks slow and hard on the head, up and down in tiny increments. His tongue presses rhythmically against the bottom ridge. Bob clenches his fists and shuts his eyes and feels completely exposed and about to explode. Jesus Christ, he's got his leg over Frank's shoulder, he can barely keep still, he's panting like a dog. Frank goes down deep and comes back up, wet and pulling tight, and he moans and shakes, it's unbelievably hard to stay in control. Frank backs off, breathing damp and raggedy, and really, it's so mean.
"Bob, look down." He's staring up, eyes hooded, his top lip is spit-shiny and filled out, like you get from kissing. "You should watch. And you can use your hands."
Bob brings his hands around to hold Frank's head, poke his fingers through his hair, tug on it, and Frank goes "Nrrrnnnhh, please, please" and licks his lips and surges forward oh god. He opens his mouth, lapping, circling his tongue, and just lets Bob push in, push in, gentle as he can, guiding his head.
He moves up and down for a while, loosening up, and he's making a low sound, a needy sound, and then he just drops his jaw, almost slack, and his eyes stutter closed. His cheeks look hollowed out, his forehead is sweaty. Bob can't look away, and he can't stop his hips bumping forward, it's too good, too good, and he feels resistance but not gagging and Frank's noise gets louder and his motion gets sloppier and it's so wrong and perfect and he's seriously holding Frank by the skull, fucking into his mouth, and he's not stopping him, not at all. Bob feels like he's going to black out, pulls him off, and they're both gasping, and Frank is twitching, and he's stopped rubbing Bob's perineum because he's grinding down on his own cock with the heel of his hand.
"Frankie--fuck, fuck, you--"
"You can--please--" he says, and his voice is so full and rough and wet it's like the audio version of what was happening to his cock before and Bob only needs to be asked twice.
He pulls Frank back in, just slides into his open mouth, quick and obscene, and starts to thrust forward, a little, short strokes. Frank makes that sound again and breathes heavily through his nose and Bob hits the back of his throat and it opens around him, hot, swallowing, and he can't stop, he can't stop. He manages to pull back a little after a minute, so Frank can get a breath and suck him hard, but his head is spinning and he's so turned on he feels like his skin is splitting apart.
There's too much texture, too much sensation, Frank's hair in his hands, the slick noises, his mouth, juicy and overheated and so good it hurts. He gives up, it can't last. He fucks Frank's mouth, uses him, rubs against his palate, throws his head back and grunts, he doesn't care, this is the best thing he's ever felt, his legs and back tightening up, unstoppable, his hips snapping in again and again and he could be dead, somebody could smash his head in with a crowbar right now and he wouldn't care, it's so good, and Frank pushes into his thrusts a couple of times, throat working, and Bob yells something and comes so hard it's like he's one big circuit, switched on, overloaded, blowing all the fuses, burning out. Frank swallows most of it, gulping to breath, but he's jerking against the hand in his lap, and Bob is still pulsing, and some goes across the corner of his mouth. He pulls all the way out, sensitized and unsteady, and he can't help it, pulling Frank's hair, tipping his head back, touching his mouth, pinching his lip, shoving his thumb in across his tongue, getting come and saliva on his fingers, he just wants to keep feeling this.
He braces his feet, leans down and kisses around his own knuckles, tries to get air, says "Frank, Frankie, so fucking good, fuck," and he's shaken up and uncoordinated, but he tightens his fist in Frank's hair and licks into his mouth and Frank bites his fingers and bucks and comes in his pants, groaning, eyes closed, his whole body in spasm, a live wire. Bob is blown away, dumbfounded. Frank slumps to the floor, out of his hands, and he falls back across the mattress, waiting for his heart to stop jackhammering. He can't think of a single thing to say that would do this justice.
This whole section, especially those paragraphs above, contain some truly effective use of run-on, almost stream-of-consciousness sentences.
He hears Frank get up a minute later, and rolls over to see him stripping off his wrecked pants and underwear, grinning at Bob like somebody just gave him a gold-plated Rolls Royce. He loses his balance and has to sit down next to Bob to yank everything over his feet, and then he's just there, sprawling out, dirty and sweaty and sex-tired. He rolls toward Bob and picks up his hand. Bob has a feeling he should be freaking out even more than he is, but he can't, quite, it was great, and it's Frank, and Jamia was right, goddamnit.
"Best present," says Frank, "priceless, you have no idea," and man, his voice is so fucked-out and raw it makes Bob's dick twitch and it's also pretty funny. He sounds fucking used. Bob coughs and laughs, and laughs some more because he came so hard his abdominal muscles are sore from winding up and releasing, so it hurts to laugh and that's hilarious. Frank raises his eyebrows.
"You okay, Sparky?"
"Am I okay? I just came my brains out. You sound like you ate a power sander. You--Jesus, Frank."
Frank looks at him seriously, like he wants Bob to notice.
"I'm good, trust me," he says hoarsely. "I got exactly what I wanted. I swear on a stack of records this is not going to screw anything up, I won't let it. I wanted this so bad, for so long, and she knew it, and she set it up, and here you are, I hope that means you got what you wanted, too."
"You have no idea," says Bob, before he even realizes it, and that's too much. He cracks up and says "Ow, ow, hurts to laugh," and Frank cracks up and tucks his head and says "I know, ow, throat," and jabs him in the arm.
"It hurts?" Bob can't help asking.
"Nah, feels good," says Frank, stretching. Bob watches him, riveted, surprised, and Franks sees. "Told you I got what I wanted. What I want. I have the best wife on earth, and she likes you. Don't fight it."
♥ ♥ ♥
I’m practically out of words, my brain is all ♥, but notice, that hint of Bob/Frank/Jamia, at least as friendship if not more?
♥
He leers, and swivels off the bed. Bob shivers.
"Leaving?"
"Washing, calm down," Frank says, and he looks like the cat who got whatever the hell it wanted, his face is bright, like Bob is missing something. "You can come in if you want. Or you can get in bed and go to sleep and we can fuck in the morning."
Love the recurring cat imagery.
Bob's eyes are bugging out, he knows it. All his blood is rushing around, trying to get his higher functions back on line. He sits up and peers at Frank, as if staring at something written in Crazy will make it easier to read.
"Frank--?" He's at a loss.
"Or, fine," Frank rolls his eyes, "you can act stupid like you don't know how this is, know how I feel, and you can drive yourself nuts. Whichever." He doesn't sound angry, maybe a little bemused.
"What?"
Frank turns and grabs his shoulders, moves in suddenly, fierce and happy, kisses him like he means it, like it's very important, not sad, not serious, important. He bites Bob's lip, breathes Bob's air, makes him pay attention.
"You can get what you want," he says, teeth sharp, not kidding.
Bob had no idea.
Because it’s not just sex, not even just lust. It’s affection, it’s care, it’s time, it’s love. Now that is polyamory.
Cut tag is because I'm a dork. Frank knows the words, but that part of the chorus is guitars so it goes na-na-na. And because buses move you, trains move you, but bodies move you like an earthquake.
♥