Part 7
Part 6
Frank gets the thick manila envelope from University of Chicago on a Tuesday when he gets home from Psychology of Music. He knows it’s the acceptance letter, it’s too big to be a rejection, but he can’t even open it, he just drops the rest of the mail on the kitchen table and shoves the envelope into his backpack to deal with later. He doesn’t touch it again for three days, when Bob goes digging through his backpack for cigarettes and pulls it out.
“Frankie. What the fuck is this?” Bob yells from the kitchen, where he’s supposed to be making popcorn for the zombie movie marathon.
“This had better be popcorn, I’m starving to death,” Frank bellows back. He’s not moving from his spot on the couch until Bob gets back, and then only so he can crawl over Bob for some hardcore manly cuddling. It’s Friday night, they both have the weekend off, he’s done with his homework, and by god he’s going to watch zombie movies and have sex on the couch and not think about a goddamn thing until Sunday night.
“What’s this?” Bob says, drops the envelope on Frank’s head from behind the couch. Frank catches it before it falls into his lap and glares balefully up at Bob.
“You went through my backpack? You were looking for my stash, weren’t you?” he says, doesn’t acknowledge that he knows exactly what he’s holding and why he hasn’t opened it. Why he didn’t open the one from Rutgers, or the one from Stanford, that he’s got shoved under the mattress in their bedroom. Or the ones from Cornell and George Washington.
Bob apparently doesn’t think deflecting is cute, which is fucking hilarious because he does it all the time, and he glares down at Frank. “Open the letter, Frankie. You got in, what the hell are you worried about?”
“I know I got in,” Frank mutters, picking at a corner of the envelope. When it comes down to it, he’s not any better at dealing with complicated emotional crap than Bob is. He can’t explain, doesn’t want to explain, that he’s not opening the packets because that means acknowledging that he’s going away, that he’ll be starting school away from Bob and their shitty apartment and the dogs and Ray and Mikey and Father Gee and Brian, but most importantly, away from Bob.
“Then why aren’t you opening it?” Bob asks, and Frank can tell he’s getting pissed off and frustrated. Frank doesn’t want to bring up that he’s gotten a ton more that he actually hid from Bob, not just shoved in his backpack and forgot about.
“Because,” Frank mutters, like it’s an answer. “Drop it, ok? I’ll open it later.”
“Give it to me,” Bob demands, sliding over the back of the couch to sit next to Frank, and doesn’t wait for Frank to hand it over. He rips it open and drops the torn paper in Frank’s lap. He reads for a few seconds then smacks Frank upside the head. “They gave you a full ride, you fucktard,” he snaps, shoving the letter under Frank’s nose.
Frank takes the letter and skims it. Dear Mr. Iero, we are pleased to welcome you … and Should you accept, we are able to offer you full financial aid to cover education expenses, along with an accommodation bursary, providing... He clenches the paper in his hands. “Yeah, I guess they did,” he says, staring at the letter.
“What’s your fucking problem?” Bob demands, taking the letter back and smoothing it out. “Frank … Christ, this is exactly what you wanted, isn’t it?”
“Yeah … no … I don’t fucking know!” Frank pushes himself off the couch, scowling at the ground as he paces awkwardly. “I haven’t decided yet.” He’s still waiting for Columbia and NYU, he wasn’t going to say anything about the other ones if he got accepted to a school in the city, even if Chicago is his first choice and it looks like they want to cover him through a Masters. Bob is glaring at him, he knows, but he’s not gonna look.
“Frank.” Bob sounds pained, like Frank’s stupidity is hurting him physically.
“Fuck off, Robert,” Frank snaps.
“No, fuck you,” Bob yells. “You’re going to fucking college!” He may be shitty at communicating but he doesn't let Frank get out of this. He grabs Frank’s wrist and pulls him back down, buries his face in his neck. “You’re better than this, Frankie. You gotta get out before you end up like me ‘n Quinn.” He doesn’t want Frank to leave, but he’ll go anywhere Frank does. Even back to Chicago. There’re prisons everywhere, he doesn’t have to work in New York or Jersey.
“I don’t wanna go.”
“Why fucking not?”
“I’m not fucking leaving you.” Frank shoves his hands under Bob’s hoodie and clings to him.
“You fucking idiot!” Bob pulls Frank’s hair and moves to glare at him. “You think I’m gonna fucking let you leave me?” he demands. “Ask me to go with you, Frank.” Frank stares at him with a stupid look, one which is probably very similar to the one Bob gives him all the damn time. “C’mon, Frank.” He has one hand half in Frank’s hair, the other around his tattooed wrist.
“I don’t know where to go,” Frank mutters. “What if I wanna go to California?”
“Go to fucking Alaska.”
“You would like that, wouldn’t you.” Frank is almost smiling now, half his mouth quirked up a little, and Bob can’t stop himself from kissing the corner of his mouth that’s still turned down. “Fucking Viking.”
“Hawaii. I’ll wear shorts.”
Frank gives a weak snorty giggle. “I didn’t apply to any places in Hawaii.” He nuzzles at Bob’s mouth. “Ok. Come with me?”
“Idiot. Just tell me where and when.” Bob kisses him, slides his hands down to Frank’s ass.
“Love you, fucker,” Frank mutters against Bob’s mouth. “Sex later. Night of the Living Dead now.”
“Bob. Booob. We should get a puppy,” Frank says, throwing a squeaky octopus at Bob from the dog toy aisle. Bob should have just come to get dog food by himself, but Frank wants to see more of Chicago, and so he's been going everywhere with Bob - apparently even when he’s just going to PetSmart.
“We have two dogs already,” Bob mutters, dodging the squeaky carrot that comes at his head next. He’s trying to remember which sort of treats Duke always pukes up so he doesn’t have to clean dog-vomit out of the carpets before they’ve even been in the apartment a month.
“No, get the other ones, they like that kind better. Come ooon. I wanna puppy.” Frank’s grinning at him from the rack of toys, testing all the different squeaky noises. Bob smiles back, still surprised by how easy it is now, to grin at Frank in public, even stick his hand in Frank’s back pocket when they’re walking home from the bar. To kiss him on the street and tell him loves him in the morning when they wake up.
“You’re starting classes in a week and I’ve got bitch shifts. We’re not gonna have time for a puppy,” Bob says. He hopes Frank doesn’t pout at him. Maybe when they’re actually settled in a bit more in Chicago, when Bob’s job is kinda secure and Frank is used to his new school, maybe then they can get another dog.
Frank does pout, but he doesn’t for long. He moves over to the rack of collars. Bob makes up his mind on the treats and looks up to see Frank holding a studded black dog collar to his own throat, giving him big pleading eyes.
Bob still isn’t used to the way Frank can make his throat go dry and his pants tight after three years, just with a look or some stupid fucking collar in the middle of the pet store. “Fuck, Frank,” he mutters, looking down at his shoes. He glances back up and Frank’s got a different one half-buckled around his neck. “Jesus Christ,” he chokes out, looking around to see if anyone else is watching Frank do this. Frank grins at him.
“What, you like it?” he says like he can’t tell, like he can’t see Bob turning red behind his beard.
“Get the rest of the food,” Bob mutters and shoves the box of biscuits at Frank. And then he flees.
He’s hanging out by the front door, smoking and getting suspicious looks from the old ladies bringing their cats in for grooming when Frank finally comes out.
“I got them those rawhide things, too,” Frank says. “Daisy’s been chewing on the sofa, maybe these’ll he-ngh!” Bob grabs the giant bag of dog food out of Frank’s arms and pulls him close mid-sentence, smashes their mouths together. Frank gurgles and hooks his arm around Bob’s waist, and he just lets Bob kiss him stupid. “Hi,” he mumbles when Bob lets him up for air, and grins up at him.
“Come on,” Bob mutters and hauls the bag of dog food back up. They catch the El back to the apartment. Frank spends the whole ride telling Bob about the campus tour he went on, all the classes that he’s going to be taking and the weirdass people he saw around the school. Bob doesn’t really pay attention, is more focused on Frank’s hand in his behind the pile of pet stuff in the seat. After all, he’ll hear all of Frank’s rambling tomorrow after he goes to orientation and sees the same stuff again.
The apartment already smells like Frank’s cooking and the dogs, like they’ve been living there for more than just three weeks. It’s comfortable, even though Bob keeps walking into things in the dark because he’s not used to where the sofa and coffee table are, and the location of the actual light-switch is beyond him.
The dogs run up to meet them at the door, and Frank ditches Bob with the bags to wrestle with them in the living room, letting Daisy crawl all over him while Duke licks his face. Bob goes to dump the bags in the kitchen and start putting it away, laughing when he hears Frank bitching about Duke stepping on his balls. He’s got everything stored in the cupboards except a box of treats when he finds the collar.
“Frank. You got the wrong size, this is too big for Duke,” Bob calls from the kitchen. It’s a heavy leather collar, solid and surprisingly plain and masculine for something Frank picked out.
“That’s not for Duke,” Frank yells back, and there’s the sound of scuffling before Frank shows up in the kitchen. His face is shiny from dogspit and there are scratch marks on his arms from the dogs climbing on him.
“Then who’s it for?” Bob stares at it stupidly, already figuring out what Frank is going to say.
“Me,” Frank says, and smirks, the asshole-pretty-boy I-know-what-I-do-to-you look that Frank’s been giving him since the day they met. “I need a shower, wanna order pizza or something?” Bob shrugs and grunts something close enough to agreement that Frank grins and spins around to leave.
Bob forgets to order pizza while Frank is in the shower. He’s too busy staring at the collar and figuring out what he’s gonna do about it.
“WHERE’S MY DINNER?” Frank yells from the bedroom. Bob drops the collar on the table and feels his skin go red. “BITCH, MAKE ME DINNER!”
Bob is seriously considering putting a collar on Frank. He barely even registers that Frank is being a dick because he’s too distracted by thinking about buckling this thing around Frank’s throat and never letting him take it off. He’s even more distracted by thinking about Frank wanting this. There’s even a tag on the damn thing.
Frank
If found return to
Bob Bryar
With their address and Bob’s cell phone number engraved on the other side. Bob has spent half of Frank’s shower doing nothing but fingering the tag, and trying to figure out what Frank wants him to do about this. He feels a little like his head has been put in a carpentry vice.
“Bob. Where the fuck is my dinner?” Frank demands, coming into the kitchen all drippy and soapy-smelling. He’s holding a towel closed around his hips and his hair is straggling in his face. “You forgot to order, didn’t you?” Bob looks up at him, back down at the collar on the table, back up at Frank.
“Um. Yeah. Um.” Bob is trying to form words that aren’t an apology or a demand for an explanation.
“Fine, I’ll order it. You’re lucky you’re hot,” Frank complains, but he’s grinning at Bob. He makes grabby hands for the phone; three weeks in Chicago and he’s already got a favorite place and a memorized number. Frank is definitely not a cook.
Bob blinks. Phone. Right.
He is pretty sure he was going for the phone, but it appears the collar is still in his hands.
He's not sure how he gets to this, because all the blood that should be feeding his brain has discovered some very urgent business in his dick, but it seems Bob's moved since last he took stock of his surroundings. Frank's face is against the blotchy formica of the table top, and he's making a sound somewhere between a hoarse, turned-on pant and a manic giggle, his hands crushed away somewhere under his body; Bob's fingers are failing to do up the collar around his neck. Frank’s towel is on the floor around their feet and Bob is finally getting the buckle done.
“You can do it tighter,” Frank mumbles out against the table.
Bob's brain misplaces a very serious and fundamental part and starts howling. He said what? What did he say? I can what? I can what? Frank sucks down a breath so hard Bob can feel his own body lift against his back, and growls, "I said you can do that up tighter."
“No.” Bob barely got it done up the first time, he’s not gonna undo it and start over. But his fingers slide under the collar, between the leather and Frank’s slick skin, and tug. Frank shudders and grinds his hips back against Bob, mouth slack against the Formica. He really is full of fucking surprises, even now.
He tugs again, harder, trying to get Frank to make another one of his fucking noises, one of those sounds that go straight to his balls. "Maybe ... maybe if you ask me nicely ... later."
Frank squirms beneath him. Bob just knows he's going to say something smart about not being able to speak, because it's Frank. Then his brain catches up with his balls. Fuck this. Fuck this. There is kissing to be done.
Bob uses the collar to tug Frank up, back to his feet, so he can kiss him until Frank can't even think about back-talking. He clutches at Frank's hip, all slippery under him, and tries to steal all the air from Frank's lungs.
Frank shoves his hands down Bob's ass-pockets and grinds against him, mouth open and hot. Bob gets his hand in Frank's hair, holding him still so he can do what he wants - but there's only so much they can do in the middle of the kitchen. He wants to feel all of Frank's skin, see all the stupid tattoos (his rose, "Viking", the ax on his hip), he wants get his mouth against Frank's throat, above the collar.
The bedroom is too far, Bob decides. He pushes Frank towards the door, towards the living room. The couch is closer and just as good for fucking Frank. Besides, it's practically traditional now. Frank stumbles backwards where Bob guides him and only lets go of Bob's jeans when he falls back onto the sofa. Bob has to pause, has to adjust his dick in his jeans at that: seeing Frank sprawled across the furniture with his legs spread easy as sin, Bob's name on his wrist and his throat and his hip.
Trying to get into his jeans right now would be breaking into Fort Knox. He can get his shirt off, though, and press Frank down into the sofa, damp inky skin sliding under Bob’s and Frank’s mouth falling open for him. If Bob wasn't so fucking hard, so hard he thinks he's gonna come in his jeans, he'd be happy to just kiss Frank until they're both dizzy. But Frank's got skinny legs around Bob's hips and he's grinding up against him, and Bob wants to make Frank beg.
He pulls himself away from Frank's mouth - and then goes back, just for a minute, really, just for a few more seconds of tasting Frank's lips - and gets his teeth in Frank's throat, above the collar.
"Nrgh-uh-fff-you-asshole," Frank complains. He sounds about as convincing as ever.
He's got his hands buried under Frank's ass, digging his fingers into soft flesh whenever Frank squirms or makes noises. He moves his mouth down, over Frank's shoulder, his chest, biting and sucking at his skin. Frank bruises easily, purple and green and yellow showing where Bob bit him days later, and Bob can't help himself. He gets down to Frank's hips, scrapes his teeth over a patch of unmarked skin and avoids his dick. "Fffffuck," Frank groans, grabs at Bob's hair and tries to tug his mouth over to his dick.
"No," Bob grunts, pulls Frank's hand out of his hair. "Don't touch me. Or yourself." He bites Frank's thigh. "Hands over your head."
"Asshole," Frank snaps, but he obeys.
Bob shifts his weight and settles down. He curls his hands over Frank's thighs and ducks his head down, mouthing at Frank's balls. "Fucking suck my dick," Frank demands, pushing his hips up. "Come on, asshole!"
Bob pinches Frank's leg. "No. Shut the fuck up," he says with his mouth still against Frank's skin. Asshole. Asshole asshole asshole.
He isn't gonna suck Frank's dick, not when he's being such a demanding little fucker. But ... but. Butt. He licks his lips, wonders what the fuck he's thinking, and squirms for a second.
"What?" Frank demands, looking down at Bob.
"Shut up." He doesn't want Frank talking unless he's begging. He doesn't want a distraction, not now. He shifts his grip on Frank's legs and doesn't let himself think any more. He gets his mouth down just behind Frank's balls, licking at his skin, tastes soap and water and Frank, no different than the patch of skin behind his knee or under his throat. Frank gives an incoherent whine above him and Bob goes for it, drags his tongue over Frank's asshole.
Frank's hips buck up against Bob's mouth and without thinking Bob pins him in place and does it again. Bob hasn't ever heard that noise before, this low strangled wail and the jingle of the collar-tag. Intrigued to hear it again, he keeps going, licking, sucking at Frank's skin.
"Nn ... ff ... fuck, Bob," Frank gasps. Bob can hear Frank's nails tearing at the couch fabric when he sucks at his hole, and Bob's chest fills with a surge of mine and pride, that he's making Frank squirm like this.
Bob gets down lower, pushes Frank's thighs wider so he can keep going. He's not sure what the hell he's doing, but at least Frank isn't complaining. Bob's face is red, he can feel it, and he's fucking ridiculously turned on by this; by sliding his tongue over Frank's ass. He can't begin to work out why, beyond those insane noises above his head, or why sprawling here in this uncomfortable position with Frank's twitching against his shoulders Frank's balls (hot and damp and weird-feeling) more or less resting on the bridge of his nose, he feels ... high ... turned-on ... content ....
"B-Bob ... please," Frank whines. "Bob." His heel digs into Bob's back, his hips pitching up under Bob's mouth. Bob moves one hand, holding Frank open and still at the same time. And then he's pushing his tongue into Frank, and for a second he thinks I love you enough to stick my tongue up your ass in total shock. Then he's not thinking of anything except how to make Frank beg even more.
Frank twitches and jerks his hips up against Bob’s mouth, babbling Bob’s name and please and a selection of profanities. He can’t string more than two words together before breaking off into a gurgle, or a moan, or a choking gasp. Bob is flying blind; this isn’t like eating out his wife.
But Frank’s way more enthusiastic about Bob’s tongue shoving up into his ass than Cassandra ever was about him sucking her clit and he needs to stop having epiphanies while he’s got his mouth on someone’s hole. Goddamn, he asked Cassie to marry him in the middle of oral. Not very coherently, admittedly, but the intention was there.
Bob gets his hand on his own dick, squeezing and adjusting and trying to not bust the fly on his jeans before Frank comes.
“Please, Bob, pleaseBobplease,” Frank whines. Bob can’t see, but he thinks Frank is probably chewing on his own lip, and his face is probably all red and sweaty and eager. He can at least see the pulse jumping in Frank’s thigh, how his dick is twitching and leaking all over his belly, drooling pre-come like a burst pipe. “Booob, ffffuck, please.”
Bob can hardly argue when Frank's whining and begging like that. He can’t argue at all when his mouth is occupied with looking for ways to make Frank give him that little hitched whine. He loves the noises Frank makes for him, his begging, the way Frank moans his name when he’s too far gone to be a smartass any more. And keeps moaning it like a prayer of obscenities, desperation and neediness. It plugs right into Bob's libido like a mains cable and drives him almost as nuts as Frank. He almost can’t take it anymore; he’s gonna come in his fucking jeans.
“Lemmecome-Bob, please, please, Boblemmecome, Iloveyou-please!” Frank stammers, his spine rippling up in an obscene arch above Bob’s hands. Bob pulls his tongue out of Frank’s ass, his hands clenching at his thighs. “Pleasepleaseplease.”
“You’re mine,” Bob growls, this low feral noise that surprises him. He's not sure where the sound or the words come from. “Say it, Frank.”
“Yours. BOB." Frank is desperate and breathy and whining. "Yours, please, fuck, I love you, please.” Bob gets his hand on Frank’s dick and that’s it; Frank comes on himself, spilling jizz all over his own inky stomach. He barely has to touch him.
In a way Bob's disappointed - after all, it's not like he dislikes having Frank's dick in his hand - but it's a small disappointment alongside the sight of Frank covering his own navel with come. And Frank's hands are still over his head, where Bob told him to put them.
Frank stares down at him with this dazed, slack-mouthed smile that makes Bob's dick strain against his zipper. He fumbles at his jeans, fails and fails again, until he gets them open and shoves them down enough to get his dick out.
He's gonna make Frank smell like him, mark his territory. His property.
Bob doesn’t try to be smooth or slick or suave when he shoves himself against Frank, manhandling him where he wants him, and grinds down against Frank’s stomach. He's limp and easy under Bob, his stomach slick and hot from his own come and his mouth open without complaint.
The dog tag makes tiny clinking noises when Bob ruts against him, so quiet Bob can barely hear it under the thud of blood in his ears and the grunts he knows Frank’s mouth is muffling. Frank is like a ragdoll, his hands crossed at the wrist over his head, knees around Bob’s hips, while Bob humps against his belly like a desperate teenager.
He can hear the strange, nonverbal noises clamoring in his throat and he knows their meaning, even there's no chance of him articulating it. Gratitude, possessiveness, and the desire to fuck Frank to pieces and back again; his spine and his balls and his hands and the way his dick is sliding about in a bed of Frank's come like a hint to him what to do. Fuck.
And then Bob is coming, white at the edges of his vision and spilling out of his dick onto the mess between their stomachs, with Frank swallowing the desperate whine he makes - like he's swallowing Bob's come. The comparison tickles his consciousness, but Bob's mind is empty as his balls, empty and content, as he slumps over Frank, hot skin on hot skin, their bellies glued together with come and damp pubic hair.
He makes a very weak, loose sound in his throat, and Frank's arms close over his shoulders. With his face in Frank's throat, it takes Bob a while to decipher the words being muttered in his ear.
"Bob, push Duke away before he starts licking my leg again."
THE FUCKING END, BUT NOT THE END OF FUCKING
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Frank gets the thick manila envelope from University of Chicago on a Tuesday when he gets home from Psychology of Music. He knows it’s the acceptance letter, it’s too big to be a rejection, but he can’t even open it, he just drops the rest of the mail on the kitchen table and shoves the envelope into his backpack to deal with later. He doesn’t touch it again for three days, when Bob goes digging through his backpack for cigarettes and pulls it out.
“Frankie. What the fuck is this?” Bob yells from the kitchen, where he’s supposed to be making popcorn for the zombie movie marathon.
“This had better be popcorn, I’m starving to death,” Frank bellows back. He’s not moving from his spot on the couch until Bob gets back, and then only so he can crawl over Bob for some hardcore manly cuddling. It’s Friday night, they both have the weekend off, he’s done with his homework, and by god he’s going to watch zombie movies and have sex on the couch and not think about a goddamn thing until Sunday night.
“What’s this?” Bob says, drops the envelope on Frank’s head from behind the couch. Frank catches it before it falls into his lap and glares balefully up at Bob.
“You went through my backpack? You were looking for my stash, weren’t you?” he says, doesn’t acknowledge that he knows exactly what he’s holding and why he hasn’t opened it. Why he didn’t open the one from Rutgers, or the one from Stanford, that he’s got shoved under the mattress in their bedroom. Or the ones from Cornell and George Washington.
Bob apparently doesn’t think deflecting is cute, which is fucking hilarious because he does it all the time, and he glares down at Frank. “Open the letter, Frankie. You got in, what the hell are you worried about?”
“I know I got in,” Frank mutters, picking at a corner of the envelope. When it comes down to it, he’s not any better at dealing with complicated emotional crap than Bob is. He can’t explain, doesn’t want to explain, that he’s not opening the packets because that means acknowledging that he’s going away, that he’ll be starting school away from Bob and their shitty apartment and the dogs and Ray and Mikey and Father Gee and Brian, but most importantly, away from Bob.
“Then why aren’t you opening it?” Bob asks, and Frank can tell he’s getting pissed off and frustrated. Frank doesn’t want to bring up that he’s gotten a ton more that he actually hid from Bob, not just shoved in his backpack and forgot about.
“Because,” Frank mutters, like it’s an answer. “Drop it, ok? I’ll open it later.”
“Give it to me,” Bob demands, sliding over the back of the couch to sit next to Frank, and doesn’t wait for Frank to hand it over. He rips it open and drops the torn paper in Frank’s lap. He reads for a few seconds then smacks Frank upside the head. “They gave you a full ride, you fucktard,” he snaps, shoving the letter under Frank’s nose.
Frank takes the letter and skims it. Dear Mr. Iero, we are pleased to welcome you … and Should you accept, we are able to offer you full financial aid to cover education expenses, along with an accommodation bursary, providing... He clenches the paper in his hands. “Yeah, I guess they did,” he says, staring at the letter.
“What’s your fucking problem?” Bob demands, taking the letter back and smoothing it out. “Frank … Christ, this is exactly what you wanted, isn’t it?”
“Yeah … no … I don’t fucking know!” Frank pushes himself off the couch, scowling at the ground as he paces awkwardly. “I haven’t decided yet.” He’s still waiting for Columbia and NYU, he wasn’t going to say anything about the other ones if he got accepted to a school in the city, even if Chicago is his first choice and it looks like they want to cover him through a Masters. Bob is glaring at him, he knows, but he’s not gonna look.
“Frank.” Bob sounds pained, like Frank’s stupidity is hurting him physically.
“Fuck off, Robert,” Frank snaps.
“No, fuck you,” Bob yells. “You’re going to fucking college!” He may be shitty at communicating but he doesn't let Frank get out of this. He grabs Frank’s wrist and pulls him back down, buries his face in his neck. “You’re better than this, Frankie. You gotta get out before you end up like me ‘n Quinn.” He doesn’t want Frank to leave, but he’ll go anywhere Frank does. Even back to Chicago. There’re prisons everywhere, he doesn’t have to work in New York or Jersey.
“I don’t wanna go.”
“Why fucking not?”
“I’m not fucking leaving you.” Frank shoves his hands under Bob’s hoodie and clings to him.
“You fucking idiot!” Bob pulls Frank’s hair and moves to glare at him. “You think I’m gonna fucking let you leave me?” he demands. “Ask me to go with you, Frank.” Frank stares at him with a stupid look, one which is probably very similar to the one Bob gives him all the damn time. “C’mon, Frank.” He has one hand half in Frank’s hair, the other around his tattooed wrist.
“I don’t know where to go,” Frank mutters. “What if I wanna go to California?”
“Go to fucking Alaska.”
“You would like that, wouldn’t you.” Frank is almost smiling now, half his mouth quirked up a little, and Bob can’t stop himself from kissing the corner of his mouth that’s still turned down. “Fucking Viking.”
“Hawaii. I’ll wear shorts.”
Frank gives a weak snorty giggle. “I didn’t apply to any places in Hawaii.” He nuzzles at Bob’s mouth. “Ok. Come with me?”
“Idiot. Just tell me where and when.” Bob kisses him, slides his hands down to Frank’s ass.
“Love you, fucker,” Frank mutters against Bob’s mouth. “Sex later. Night of the Living Dead now.”
“Bob. Booob. We should get a puppy,” Frank says, throwing a squeaky octopus at Bob from the dog toy aisle. Bob should have just come to get dog food by himself, but Frank wants to see more of Chicago, and so he's been going everywhere with Bob - apparently even when he’s just going to PetSmart.
“We have two dogs already,” Bob mutters, dodging the squeaky carrot that comes at his head next. He’s trying to remember which sort of treats Duke always pukes up so he doesn’t have to clean dog-vomit out of the carpets before they’ve even been in the apartment a month.
“No, get the other ones, they like that kind better. Come ooon. I wanna puppy.” Frank’s grinning at him from the rack of toys, testing all the different squeaky noises. Bob smiles back, still surprised by how easy it is now, to grin at Frank in public, even stick his hand in Frank’s back pocket when they’re walking home from the bar. To kiss him on the street and tell him loves him in the morning when they wake up.
“You’re starting classes in a week and I’ve got bitch shifts. We’re not gonna have time for a puppy,” Bob says. He hopes Frank doesn’t pout at him. Maybe when they’re actually settled in a bit more in Chicago, when Bob’s job is kinda secure and Frank is used to his new school, maybe then they can get another dog.
Frank does pout, but he doesn’t for long. He moves over to the rack of collars. Bob makes up his mind on the treats and looks up to see Frank holding a studded black dog collar to his own throat, giving him big pleading eyes.
Bob still isn’t used to the way Frank can make his throat go dry and his pants tight after three years, just with a look or some stupid fucking collar in the middle of the pet store. “Fuck, Frank,” he mutters, looking down at his shoes. He glances back up and Frank’s got a different one half-buckled around his neck. “Jesus Christ,” he chokes out, looking around to see if anyone else is watching Frank do this. Frank grins at him.
“What, you like it?” he says like he can’t tell, like he can’t see Bob turning red behind his beard.
“Get the rest of the food,” Bob mutters and shoves the box of biscuits at Frank. And then he flees.
He’s hanging out by the front door, smoking and getting suspicious looks from the old ladies bringing their cats in for grooming when Frank finally comes out.
“I got them those rawhide things, too,” Frank says. “Daisy’s been chewing on the sofa, maybe these’ll he-ngh!” Bob grabs the giant bag of dog food out of Frank’s arms and pulls him close mid-sentence, smashes their mouths together. Frank gurgles and hooks his arm around Bob’s waist, and he just lets Bob kiss him stupid. “Hi,” he mumbles when Bob lets him up for air, and grins up at him.
“Come on,” Bob mutters and hauls the bag of dog food back up. They catch the El back to the apartment. Frank spends the whole ride telling Bob about the campus tour he went on, all the classes that he’s going to be taking and the weirdass people he saw around the school. Bob doesn’t really pay attention, is more focused on Frank’s hand in his behind the pile of pet stuff in the seat. After all, he’ll hear all of Frank’s rambling tomorrow after he goes to orientation and sees the same stuff again.
The apartment already smells like Frank’s cooking and the dogs, like they’ve been living there for more than just three weeks. It’s comfortable, even though Bob keeps walking into things in the dark because he’s not used to where the sofa and coffee table are, and the location of the actual light-switch is beyond him.
The dogs run up to meet them at the door, and Frank ditches Bob with the bags to wrestle with them in the living room, letting Daisy crawl all over him while Duke licks his face. Bob goes to dump the bags in the kitchen and start putting it away, laughing when he hears Frank bitching about Duke stepping on his balls. He’s got everything stored in the cupboards except a box of treats when he finds the collar.
“Frank. You got the wrong size, this is too big for Duke,” Bob calls from the kitchen. It’s a heavy leather collar, solid and surprisingly plain and masculine for something Frank picked out.
“That’s not for Duke,” Frank yells back, and there’s the sound of scuffling before Frank shows up in the kitchen. His face is shiny from dogspit and there are scratch marks on his arms from the dogs climbing on him.
“Then who’s it for?” Bob stares at it stupidly, already figuring out what Frank is going to say.
“Me,” Frank says, and smirks, the asshole-pretty-boy I-know-what-I-do-to-you look that Frank’s been giving him since the day they met. “I need a shower, wanna order pizza or something?” Bob shrugs and grunts something close enough to agreement that Frank grins and spins around to leave.
Bob forgets to order pizza while Frank is in the shower. He’s too busy staring at the collar and figuring out what he’s gonna do about it.
“WHERE’S MY DINNER?” Frank yells from the bedroom. Bob drops the collar on the table and feels his skin go red. “BITCH, MAKE ME DINNER!”
Bob is seriously considering putting a collar on Frank. He barely even registers that Frank is being a dick because he’s too distracted by thinking about buckling this thing around Frank’s throat and never letting him take it off. He’s even more distracted by thinking about Frank wanting this. There’s even a tag on the damn thing.
Frank
If found return to
Bob Bryar
With their address and Bob’s cell phone number engraved on the other side. Bob has spent half of Frank’s shower doing nothing but fingering the tag, and trying to figure out what Frank wants him to do about this. He feels a little like his head has been put in a carpentry vice.
“Bob. Where the fuck is my dinner?” Frank demands, coming into the kitchen all drippy and soapy-smelling. He’s holding a towel closed around his hips and his hair is straggling in his face. “You forgot to order, didn’t you?” Bob looks up at him, back down at the collar on the table, back up at Frank.
“Um. Yeah. Um.” Bob is trying to form words that aren’t an apology or a demand for an explanation.
“Fine, I’ll order it. You’re lucky you’re hot,” Frank complains, but he’s grinning at Bob. He makes grabby hands for the phone; three weeks in Chicago and he’s already got a favorite place and a memorized number. Frank is definitely not a cook.
Bob blinks. Phone. Right.
He is pretty sure he was going for the phone, but it appears the collar is still in his hands.
He's not sure how he gets to this, because all the blood that should be feeding his brain has discovered some very urgent business in his dick, but it seems Bob's moved since last he took stock of his surroundings. Frank's face is against the blotchy formica of the table top, and he's making a sound somewhere between a hoarse, turned-on pant and a manic giggle, his hands crushed away somewhere under his body; Bob's fingers are failing to do up the collar around his neck. Frank’s towel is on the floor around their feet and Bob is finally getting the buckle done.
“You can do it tighter,” Frank mumbles out against the table.
Bob's brain misplaces a very serious and fundamental part and starts howling. He said what? What did he say? I can what? I can what? Frank sucks down a breath so hard Bob can feel his own body lift against his back, and growls, "I said you can do that up tighter."
“No.” Bob barely got it done up the first time, he’s not gonna undo it and start over. But his fingers slide under the collar, between the leather and Frank’s slick skin, and tug. Frank shudders and grinds his hips back against Bob, mouth slack against the Formica. He really is full of fucking surprises, even now.
He tugs again, harder, trying to get Frank to make another one of his fucking noises, one of those sounds that go straight to his balls. "Maybe ... maybe if you ask me nicely ... later."
Frank squirms beneath him. Bob just knows he's going to say something smart about not being able to speak, because it's Frank. Then his brain catches up with his balls. Fuck this. Fuck this. There is kissing to be done.
Bob uses the collar to tug Frank up, back to his feet, so he can kiss him until Frank can't even think about back-talking. He clutches at Frank's hip, all slippery under him, and tries to steal all the air from Frank's lungs.
Frank shoves his hands down Bob's ass-pockets and grinds against him, mouth open and hot. Bob gets his hand in Frank's hair, holding him still so he can do what he wants - but there's only so much they can do in the middle of the kitchen. He wants to feel all of Frank's skin, see all the stupid tattoos (his rose, "Viking", the ax on his hip), he wants get his mouth against Frank's throat, above the collar.
The bedroom is too far, Bob decides. He pushes Frank towards the door, towards the living room. The couch is closer and just as good for fucking Frank. Besides, it's practically traditional now. Frank stumbles backwards where Bob guides him and only lets go of Bob's jeans when he falls back onto the sofa. Bob has to pause, has to adjust his dick in his jeans at that: seeing Frank sprawled across the furniture with his legs spread easy as sin, Bob's name on his wrist and his throat and his hip.
Trying to get into his jeans right now would be breaking into Fort Knox. He can get his shirt off, though, and press Frank down into the sofa, damp inky skin sliding under Bob’s and Frank’s mouth falling open for him. If Bob wasn't so fucking hard, so hard he thinks he's gonna come in his jeans, he'd be happy to just kiss Frank until they're both dizzy. But Frank's got skinny legs around Bob's hips and he's grinding up against him, and Bob wants to make Frank beg.
He pulls himself away from Frank's mouth - and then goes back, just for a minute, really, just for a few more seconds of tasting Frank's lips - and gets his teeth in Frank's throat, above the collar.
"Nrgh-uh-fff-you-asshole," Frank complains. He sounds about as convincing as ever.
He's got his hands buried under Frank's ass, digging his fingers into soft flesh whenever Frank squirms or makes noises. He moves his mouth down, over Frank's shoulder, his chest, biting and sucking at his skin. Frank bruises easily, purple and green and yellow showing where Bob bit him days later, and Bob can't help himself. He gets down to Frank's hips, scrapes his teeth over a patch of unmarked skin and avoids his dick. "Fffffuck," Frank groans, grabs at Bob's hair and tries to tug his mouth over to his dick.
"No," Bob grunts, pulls Frank's hand out of his hair. "Don't touch me. Or yourself." He bites Frank's thigh. "Hands over your head."
"Asshole," Frank snaps, but he obeys.
Bob shifts his weight and settles down. He curls his hands over Frank's thighs and ducks his head down, mouthing at Frank's balls. "Fucking suck my dick," Frank demands, pushing his hips up. "Come on, asshole!"
Bob pinches Frank's leg. "No. Shut the fuck up," he says with his mouth still against Frank's skin. Asshole. Asshole asshole asshole.
He isn't gonna suck Frank's dick, not when he's being such a demanding little fucker. But ... but. Butt. He licks his lips, wonders what the fuck he's thinking, and squirms for a second.
"What?" Frank demands, looking down at Bob.
"Shut up." He doesn't want Frank talking unless he's begging. He doesn't want a distraction, not now. He shifts his grip on Frank's legs and doesn't let himself think any more. He gets his mouth down just behind Frank's balls, licking at his skin, tastes soap and water and Frank, no different than the patch of skin behind his knee or under his throat. Frank gives an incoherent whine above him and Bob goes for it, drags his tongue over Frank's asshole.
Frank's hips buck up against Bob's mouth and without thinking Bob pins him in place and does it again. Bob hasn't ever heard that noise before, this low strangled wail and the jingle of the collar-tag. Intrigued to hear it again, he keeps going, licking, sucking at Frank's skin.
"Nn ... ff ... fuck, Bob," Frank gasps. Bob can hear Frank's nails tearing at the couch fabric when he sucks at his hole, and Bob's chest fills with a surge of mine and pride, that he's making Frank squirm like this.
Bob gets down lower, pushes Frank's thighs wider so he can keep going. He's not sure what the hell he's doing, but at least Frank isn't complaining. Bob's face is red, he can feel it, and he's fucking ridiculously turned on by this; by sliding his tongue over Frank's ass. He can't begin to work out why, beyond those insane noises above his head, or why sprawling here in this uncomfortable position with Frank's twitching against his shoulders Frank's balls (hot and damp and weird-feeling) more or less resting on the bridge of his nose, he feels ... high ... turned-on ... content ....
"B-Bob ... please," Frank whines. "Bob." His heel digs into Bob's back, his hips pitching up under Bob's mouth. Bob moves one hand, holding Frank open and still at the same time. And then he's pushing his tongue into Frank, and for a second he thinks I love you enough to stick my tongue up your ass in total shock. Then he's not thinking of anything except how to make Frank beg even more.
Frank twitches and jerks his hips up against Bob’s mouth, babbling Bob’s name and please and a selection of profanities. He can’t string more than two words together before breaking off into a gurgle, or a moan, or a choking gasp. Bob is flying blind; this isn’t like eating out his wife.
But Frank’s way more enthusiastic about Bob’s tongue shoving up into his ass than Cassandra ever was about him sucking her clit and he needs to stop having epiphanies while he’s got his mouth on someone’s hole. Goddamn, he asked Cassie to marry him in the middle of oral. Not very coherently, admittedly, but the intention was there.
Bob gets his hand on his own dick, squeezing and adjusting and trying to not bust the fly on his jeans before Frank comes.
“Please, Bob, pleaseBobplease,” Frank whines. Bob can’t see, but he thinks Frank is probably chewing on his own lip, and his face is probably all red and sweaty and eager. He can at least see the pulse jumping in Frank’s thigh, how his dick is twitching and leaking all over his belly, drooling pre-come like a burst pipe. “Booob, ffffuck, please.”
Bob can hardly argue when Frank's whining and begging like that. He can’t argue at all when his mouth is occupied with looking for ways to make Frank give him that little hitched whine. He loves the noises Frank makes for him, his begging, the way Frank moans his name when he’s too far gone to be a smartass any more. And keeps moaning it like a prayer of obscenities, desperation and neediness. It plugs right into Bob's libido like a mains cable and drives him almost as nuts as Frank. He almost can’t take it anymore; he’s gonna come in his fucking jeans.
“Lemmecome-Bob, please, please, Boblemmecome, Iloveyou-please!” Frank stammers, his spine rippling up in an obscene arch above Bob’s hands. Bob pulls his tongue out of Frank’s ass, his hands clenching at his thighs. “Pleasepleaseplease.”
“You’re mine,” Bob growls, this low feral noise that surprises him. He's not sure where the sound or the words come from. “Say it, Frank.”
“Yours. BOB." Frank is desperate and breathy and whining. "Yours, please, fuck, I love you, please.” Bob gets his hand on Frank’s dick and that’s it; Frank comes on himself, spilling jizz all over his own inky stomach. He barely has to touch him.
In a way Bob's disappointed - after all, it's not like he dislikes having Frank's dick in his hand - but it's a small disappointment alongside the sight of Frank covering his own navel with come. And Frank's hands are still over his head, where Bob told him to put them.
Frank stares down at him with this dazed, slack-mouthed smile that makes Bob's dick strain against his zipper. He fumbles at his jeans, fails and fails again, until he gets them open and shoves them down enough to get his dick out.
He's gonna make Frank smell like him, mark his territory. His property.
Bob doesn’t try to be smooth or slick or suave when he shoves himself against Frank, manhandling him where he wants him, and grinds down against Frank’s stomach. He's limp and easy under Bob, his stomach slick and hot from his own come and his mouth open without complaint.
The dog tag makes tiny clinking noises when Bob ruts against him, so quiet Bob can barely hear it under the thud of blood in his ears and the grunts he knows Frank’s mouth is muffling. Frank is like a ragdoll, his hands crossed at the wrist over his head, knees around Bob’s hips, while Bob humps against his belly like a desperate teenager.
He can hear the strange, nonverbal noises clamoring in his throat and he knows their meaning, even there's no chance of him articulating it. Gratitude, possessiveness, and the desire to fuck Frank to pieces and back again; his spine and his balls and his hands and the way his dick is sliding about in a bed of Frank's come like a hint to him what to do. Fuck.
And then Bob is coming, white at the edges of his vision and spilling out of his dick onto the mess between their stomachs, with Frank swallowing the desperate whine he makes - like he's swallowing Bob's come. The comparison tickles his consciousness, but Bob's mind is empty as his balls, empty and content, as he slumps over Frank, hot skin on hot skin, their bellies glued together with come and damp pubic hair.
He makes a very weak, loose sound in his throat, and Frank's arms close over his shoulders. With his face in Frank's throat, it takes Bob a while to decipher the words being muttered in his ear.
"Bob, push Duke away before he starts licking my leg again."
THE FUCKING END, BUT NOT THE END OF FUCKING
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