[fic] they're gonna hang me if I stay, gonna shoot me if I run
Title: Modern Alchemy
Fandom: RPS - MCR/TU
Word Count: 8,800 words
Rating: ADULT. SO VERY ADULT. I mean, it's a very nuanced examination of cultural - y'know, it's not. It's pretty much just PORN. DO NOT READ IT AT WORK.
Pairing: Bob/Frank, Jepha/Frank, Jepha/Dan, Bob/Dan, just … GSF.
Warnings: Pee, GSF, D/s
Disclaimer: Obviously I don't actually think any of this really happened.
Notes: Peeniverse. Meaning, a sequel to We Are Bad News (Well, HE Is) and its sexy, sexy coda. PS: I am informed there is a typo in here, but I have a choice between posting this NOW or waiting for Jess to tell me where it is.
----
It starts with a phone call, because a lot of things do that; this particular phone call is from some magazine or other - Bob doesn't catch the name - and when Brian hangs up he gives them all this forced smile and says, "And it's with The Used--"
Which is as far as he gets before Gerard politely decides he's busy that day. Mikey is also immediately busy in solidarity. Bob gets that Gee probably doesn't want to be in the same place as Bert if he can help it, but he does think they can't avoid each other forever. Not in this business.
"Ray?" Brian asks rather hopelessly. Ray points out that he genuinely does have somewhere else to be that day, and apologises not very profusely. "Come on, this is a good opportunity, at least one of you can't have anything to --"
This is when Bob realises that they're all looking at him. Oh yes. Bob, who has been nursing his XBox and playing with the dogs and inventing new ways to eat pastrami without using his hands. Bob has not been overflowing with social engagements that haven't involved dog poop for some time now.
"What?"
Brian just points the cell phone at him.
"They're not going to want to take photos of a drummer," Bob protests.
"That's why Frank's going to go as well," Brian says, in the This Is The End Of The Matter voice.
Frank stops laughing and looks crestfallen. "I'm doing something else -" he begins in the curiously distorted, loose-mouthed voice he's been using the last week. Bob idly wonders if Frank has been hit in the mouth in his absence and is surprised by the twin flashes of protective jealousy and vague arousal that arise from this thought. Along with the desire to smack Frank in the mouth himself when the dick cuts himself off and says, "- I guess someone good-looking has to be there."
Bob slaps at him and misses. "Jepha will be there. They have that base covered."
"Do you want me to come or not?"
"Shut up, Frank."
Brian smiles cautiously at them both. "Good, good. Settled."
The first thing Bob notices when they get to the studio - it's not a location shoot, which is good because it is raining like fuck outside and no one ever lets them have umbrellas on these things and then Frank pisses and moans, ahaha, all the way home again - the first thing Bob notices apart from the red-and-white backdrop and the immediate warmth of the room from all the lights, is that there are only two other scruffy, tattooed idiots hanging around in baseball caps.
"Where's Bert and Quinn?" Frank calls as soon as Jepha's noticed them.
"Busy." Jepha makes air-quotes and a slightly wry face.
"Are those sex airquotes or sulking airquotes?" Frank asks, and Bob is unfortunately out of smacking range now, or he totally would. Right across the back of the head, for the mental images alone.
"Shut up," he suggests, but Frank is ignoring him. Bob wonders if he can add 'being an insufferable douche in public' to the list of cigarette-worthy offenses, but he remembers just how much success his 'stop Frank spitting' campaign has been so far.
"Take a guess," Jepha says, bumping knuckles with Frank.
"No," Bob tells Frank, "do not take that guess."
"Oh," Jepha adds as someone with more cameras than is healthy darts past them to a line of tripods - apparently this magazine takes its photoshoots very seriously, or the photographer isn't actually any good and likes to overcompensate, "this is Dan."
He motions serenely at a hulking primeval very-obvious-drummer and Dan waves a short, sarcastic hello. He has enormous hands. He also looks like a chameleon or something else with bug-eyes - Bob's not really up on his wildlife - and Jesus his hands are enormous.
Bob looks back at Jepha's ridiculously wonky smile and thinks, if he's not fucking you yet you're getting slow off the mark, Howard. Jepha's pretty easy to read when you know him, though, and Bob would put money on the bug-eyed drummer being balls-deep in tattooed bendy bassist on a regular basis if he had anyone to bet against. Surprisingly these mental images are nowhere near as disturbing.
"Oh, I got it done," Frank is saying, and Bob snaps back to look at him fidgeting about with his lower lip. Got what done? Bob thinks, once again irrationally possessive.
"Really? Show me."
Frank peels down his lower lip and, right at the front, almost at the end of the wet bit, are the fresh black letters P E E. Right below the NJ.
"Happy birthday, Bob," Frank says indistinctly, noticing.
"My birthday was two months ago, assh--" he stops and registers the tattoo properly.
Jepha starts laughing but it's cloudy in his ears; Bob can feel the beginnings of a boner just like that. Fuck, not now. He tries to will it away and to chase the march of blush out of his cheeks but he knows it's too late, too late. The memory of the last time is still there in his mind, like a jerk-off reel; Frank spluttering and dribbling the accidental splashings of piss out of the corner of his mouth and gagging, gagging for a minute so long that Bob half-loses his encroaching hard-on with worry and Frank, dirty, piss-scented, Bob's Frank, laughs at him and points and Bob slaps him for moving.
Dan's voice is surprisingly close to Bob's head. He's not sure how Dan got so close, but he's right up in Bob's personal space and he smells... good. He smells at least partially of Jepha-sweat, for one, and Bob's jerk-off reel substitutes the two of them groping blindly at each other in some studio corridor only minutes earlier, Jepha's breaths whiny and desperate as Dan laughs and flicks at his snakebites between biting him on the throat. Fuck it, why won't this hard-on GO AWAY?
"You know, with that and Jeph's - " Dan rubs his huge forefinger along the inside of his lip, "- they're just like little girls with Best Friend necklaces."
Bob chokes on an unexpected laugh and says, "Don't tell Frank that."
Dan adds, "Or someone's name. Like, Peetea. Petey."
"Really don't tell Frank that." Bob watches Jepha and Frank engage in some sort of retarded lip-tattoo-flashing fight and catches the eye of someone who - from the looks of her - is probably the photographer. And who probably got the job because she was fucking the editor. From the looks of her.
"Still mad about the whole Mikey thing?" Dan says sagely, as if he was there for it.
"... who told you that?" Bob watches the photographer arrange Frank and Jepha side by side in front of the back-drop and make motions towards her lower lip.
"Jepha tells me everything," Dan says absently, watching them too. "Eventually."
Bob doesn't know how to answer this, so he doesn't try. He experiences another unfair flush to the face and a probably obvious tightening in his pants as Frank yanks down his lower lip and points at the fresh-healed tattoo. Jepha elbows him in the side as he does the same, and Dan - like a mirror of Jepha, elbows Bob in the ribs.
"Bet I know what you're thinking."
"No."
"Pee and tea."
"No," Bob repeats, horrified at the idea that Dan might possibly even know about that. That anyone besides him and Frank knows about that which, now he thinks about it, the whole world will do with that STUPID and STUPIDLY HOT tattoo. He goes even more red and wishes he could pull his shirt up around his ears and hide in the collar.
He hears, rather than sees, Dan's grin. "It'd be fun."
"NO." Bob wants to say, I've only just met you, why are you inviting me to pee on your boyfriend but the sentence gets stuck in his head and he's not sure he can say it without breaking into hysterics.
From the backdrop, Frank infuriates the photographer by letting go of his lip and yelling, "IGNORE BOB, HE ALWAYS SAYS 'NO' WHEN HE MEANS 'YES'."
Bob hates him so, so, so much. He hates his stupid fucking dumb "PEE" tattoo and he hates his eager acquiescence to every damn thing that gets Bob off and he hates his manipulative jerkery that he thinks Bob doesn't get and he hates his stupid hot ass and his stupid sharp-edged mouth and he hates most of all that he thinks he might actually be in fucking love with the little prick.
He glances sideways at Dan. Dan is watching Jepha annoy the photographer by covering his lip tattoo with his tongue, and for a moment Bob just sympathises; he knows that expression too well.
They're standing in some stupid pose Bob thinks he maybe saw on the cover of a Beatles album once and he really fucking hopes that the editor of this stupid magazine sees the stills, hates them, and quits fucking the stupid woman so that no one else has to suffer through the boredom. But they're standing there while this idiot snaps away, and the thought strikes him and he can't help himself: he hisses out of the very corner of his mouth at Jepha, at Frank:
"You fucking planned this behind my back."
"Dude, Brian arranges the photoshoots," Frank says with wilful ignorance.
"Can you stop talking, please," the photographer sighs.
"There may have been one or two conversations," Jepha admits.
"Judas," Frank mutters.
"Assholes," Bob says with feeling, although the feeling is perhaps not so much irritation as a kind of ... it's not gratitude yet, but it might well turn out to be. Though they are still assholes.
"Will you please stop talking," the photographer repeats angrily. Next to Bob, Dan has started to laugh. They are laughs which he is clearly trying to keep in, and which are just as clearly going to keep on going until he gets to have a real fit of hysterics. Bob knows the feeling, he knows the laughter, he knows it late at night when he hasn't slept and Frank and Gee are apparently competing to see who can be the most ridiculous.
"Lady, no one has been able to stop Frank talking yet," Jepha says sweetly. He isn't laughing, because Jepha does not make fun of strangers; Bob always liked that about him. Apparently it's fine to completely screw with Bob's head, though, and that's--
"Except Bob," Frank mutters, rolling his eyes back and tilting his head to grin horribly at Bob. Unfortunately the position has a lot in common with the one he adopts when he's on his knees, and Frank looking up at him through his eyelashes is never not going to be hot.
Bob pokes him in the back with a forefinger, fucking hard.
Dan laughs harder. Jepha mouths a not-very-contrite "sorry" to the photographer, and she responds by throwing a total fucking hissyfit.
Seriously, a total hissyfit. The camera goes flying across the studio - so those photos are all gone, although the other cameras might be okay - and probably breaks. And the woman, girl, who really can't be any older than twenty-five and is red in the face, shouts, "I CAN'T WORK WITH PEOPLE LIKE THIS!" in something approaching a shriek.
There's no stopping it after that. Dan collapses on the floor and rolls around laughing and Jepha falls down after him. Frank hits the deck soon after, like they're a stack of fucking screamo dominoes, band-boy building blocks that got knocked; he's rolling around clutching at his stomach and whooping like some sort of mirth monster's about to break out.
"You are such assholes," Bob declares, aware that it's his fault for starting the conversation in the first place. And that he can feel a snicker coming on himself. "Seriously."
Frank opens one eye and puts out his tongue. He raises both his eyebrows, still wriggling with hilarity like a tickled dog on the floor, and Bob knows what the question is.
"No."
"Quit saying no."
"NO."
Frank squints up at him, and pouts.
Bob reads the letters printed on the inside of Frank's mouth and thinks, he doesn't even *like* that part. He does that *for me*. And practically passes out from the rush of blood to his pants.
"Okay," Bob mutters, and he can feel the approving laughter spiralling around him like encroaching insanity. "You fucking fucker. Okay."
Four days later Bob's striding through a parking lot outside a shitty little diner. This is not tour time. This is road trip time, and he's already regretting not finding some way of making Frank tell him where they're going. He's just been to the bathroom in the diner, which is a little like pissing in a painting of hell (Gee showed one, one by some guy with an improbable name, to Frank, and Frank has been making speculative noises about tattoos). If it weren't so cold that he'd think his dick would shrivel up in contact with the air, Bob would have just pissed outside in the weeds. More hygienic. Less likely to make him gag.
Frank's left the car and draped himself over a trash-can, one of those ones with the hard top and the too-small windows in the side for trying to squash your soda cups through. He's talking on a cell, low and serious, but smiling that worrying wolfish smile that has plot written all over it.
Bob gets maybe a foot away from him before Frank waves him irritably away, sets a hand flat against Bob's stomach and pushes him back, like Bob pushes back the dogs when they're trying to get into his business. Same gesture.
He sits in the car. Bob hates shotgun, but he can't exactly argue to drive if he doesn't know where he's going. He hates driving with just Frank, anyhow. There's something off about the two of them alone in a vehicle. He guesses he's just used to their "alone" being a constructed thing, a fabrication that arises because they throw up an imaginary wall in the midst of the bigger room that is MCR. They're alone by consent, not by actuality. Bob can see now that he's fucking insane if he thinks the others don't know; they're pretty much just pretending not to because it's obvious how badly he doesn't want them to know.
"Jesus, your face," Frank says as he slides back into the seat and drops his cell almost on Bob's balls. Bob flinches. "Road trips are meant to be happy and enlightening affairs, Bobert. Lighten the fuck up and stop looking like someone ran over your mom and fucked your dog."
"Just thinking," Bob mutters as Frank starts the car. They didn't really see each other, between the frantic nights of touring. Tours are kind of a world set apart from reality, a different space, a time when it's okay to piss on someone and fuck them till they bite through their lip trying not to groan. Somehow he never thought to translate that to times when they're all standing still, when they have houses and bills and friends who aren't sleeping two feet away covered in smudged-on make-up.
"No thinking," Frank says, mock-stern, "this is a road trip. Thinking will damage the mood. Was there thinking in Dude, Where's My Car? No! Was there thinking in Easy Rider? NO!"
"Thelma and Louise," Bob says, because he has tAtu on his iPod for a reason, and because--
"Dyke," Frank says, and punches him in the thigh.
The motel is spectacularly shitty. Bob doesn't even remember the last time he saw a place so fuck-ugly and so obviously infested. He thinks longingly of his own bed; then Frank shifts in the driver's seat, trying to unstick his road-sweaty back from the pleather, and Bob's longing thoughts take an abrupt derailment into the X-rated. He can smell Frank right there next to him in the buzzing misery of rural neon light, and in the back of his mouth he can taste the way Frank's tattoos feel on his tongue, adulterated with the flavours of two sets of body chemistry; sweat and piss, horny and hornier.
There are a few more cars parked around, but Bob doesn't pay them any mind until one door opens and a familiarly Neanderthal figure in a baseball cap pops out of it and waves at their license-plate. Frankie - that Machiavellian ASSHOLE - waves back, and Bob realises this is the destination. This is what the road trip was all about.
It's such a shithole of a motel that the desk clerk - a woman who might possibly have swallowed the previous guests, from the size of her, a woman who managed to sweat even in the cold of the room - pays no attention to to four guilty-looking, pierced and tattooed guys renting ONE room for an afternoon. Bob thinks they couldn't look more like a drugs deal if they'd brought a hold-all and a stack of cash. As it is Jepha's carrying a backpack that, Dan informs him, contains a tea service.
"What." Bob says, confused.
"Just in case," Jepha says serenely.
"You never get any less weird," Bob says fervently.
The room is disgusting. It smells of stale sweat and there are obvious stains on the beige curtains, which are already drawn; clearly no one is overwhelmed by the desire to look out over the parking lot. The bed looks about as comfortable as lying on bare boards and only marginally nicer than a bus bunk. It's the kind of place, Bob realises with a start, that he can mess up with pee without making a single difference to the ambience or getting fined for ruining shit.
Clever, clever douchebags.
The thing is, Bob's never really been comfortable with planned sex. Or sex in general. His own desire bewilders him sometimes; erasing guilt from his jerk-off fantasies is easy, convincing himself that it's okay to get someone else involved in it is less easy.
Frank solves this by looking around the room with a curled lip and expressing his view on the motel with a jet of saliva, a camel-like gob of phlegm that hits the plain wallpaper and rolls down. Bob feels his gorge rise in response; no matter what he gets to do afterwards, the sight of saliva still revolts him.
"Shirt off," he snaps at Frank, forcing himself to forget, for now, that Dan and Jepha are in the room and grinning, grinning. His cigarettes are in his hand so fast he doesn't register putting his hand in his pocket; Frank's shirt is off and onto the floor in the same timeframe. Bob looks at the others - he can't help himself - and Dan's giving Jepha this why don't you do that look and Jepha's just ... grinning and grinning and grinning.
Bob drags his gaze away. "Gonna need to cover the smoke ala--" but Dan's already on it, up on the bed, unscrewing the thing from the ceiling, so Bob only has to grab Frank by the deltoid (his skin is hot and smooth and dry under Bob's hand, too dry, dry and utterly un-Bob-scented. That has to change. Frank is his, and he needs marking out as his) and drag him to the floor in the centre of the room. Grinning and grinning. He can't see Jepha any longer but he bets he's grinning too.
Dan sits down on the bed, crosslegged, with a flump. There's a warning crack from one of the slats holding the mattress and Dan shouts, "WHAT THE FUCK?" far louder than he needs to.
Frank laughs. Bob slaps him, gently, gently, because he doesn't know what his unwanted - okay, not totally unwanted - audience will do. If they'll take it right. Then again, they're here in this room with an intention, he guesses they'll take it right.
Jepha's ragged inhalation is loud and telling. Bob relaxes a little.
"Hands behind your back, Frank."
Frank curls a lip and doesn't move.
"Forgotten your manners?"
"Maybe." Frank smiles.
Bob hits him harder. Open hand, of course, because he never, ever punches in anything other than blind fury, and he never ever punches Frank. The idea of it, when he's toyed with it in the past, makes him feel sick and guilty and afraid. A slap can be as hard as he likes, he knows what damage it won't do--
And Frank's head turns violently to one side, reddened in the cheek, and Bob's dick gets talkative in his pants. Talkative and wakeful. Jepha's breathing is ragged; Bob can guess that he's thinking thoughts and getting pretty fired-up himself. He can't hear Dan. He's not going to be hearing much if the blood keeps thundering in his ears like this, in fact.
"No talking," Bob says firmly. "You know the rules. Hands behind your back."
Frank winds his hands behind his back, grabs his heels, his chest bare and his lower half still wrapped up in pants and socks and boots. They never did it like this. Bob has the cigarette in his mouth, and no lighter.
FUCK.
"Lighter," Bob mumbles around the filter, embarrassed and still fucking horny - Frank's smirking up at him from his knees, and that's all the trigger he needs, never mind the tingle in his hand from where he's brought it hard against Frank's face. Never mind the glaring glowing grenadine-hued patch on his cheek.
And someone's pressing a plastic lighter into his palm, huge fingers rasping rough over his fingers. Dan. Bob jerks his head up to make some acknowledgement of thanks; Dan kisses him, brief and cool and unsexual, on the cheek, and glides back to the bed like a ghost.
Bob's hands are almost trembling with FUCK PEOPLE ARE WATCHING ME and FUCK I WANT THAT ASSHOLE SO BAD as he lights up and puffs on. The smell of cigarette smoke stopped being sexy when he came off tour, became just a matter of course, became just the boring old addiction.
Here in this shitty room with Frank at his feet it's an aphrodisiac all over again. He's glad his lips are locked around the soggy filter. He can feel dumb things pressing at the back of his teeth; dumb things, dyke things. Bob fucking Bryar is a massive fucking girl and he wants to say stupid, fucked up things to Frank that he wouldn't even dare say if they were alone.
He holds the lit end up to show Frank. And to show the others. To show Frank. "No. Fucking. Spitting," he says in a voice that is not as calm as he'd like. "No fucking spitting indoors. No fucking spitting on walls."
Frank peers up through his eyelashes and widens his eyes. There's sarcasm in it. Bob can feel it.
"Chin up," says Bob.
He puts his chin up.
Bob holds the hot cherry close to the soft, smooth skin of Frank's throat. He's bitten there before, once or twice, moments when he lost control, moments Frank likes to bring up and Bob likes to forget. His skin is rubbery between Bob's teeth and tastes of piss on those occasions - the cigarette is blistering Frank's skin with the proximity, and Bob can hear Frank's breath, pained-horny, over his cheeks.
He stubs the cigarette out directly on the burn, and Frank flinches. Bob kisses him - short, sharp, his fingers tucked around Frank's skull like he's holding it onto Frank's neck - and pulls back quickly.
There's a silence. He thinks he hears someone murmur, "do it", and he begins with fumble fingers to unclasp his belt buckle;
And Jepha freaking Howard kneels down on the floor beside Frank and smiles up like a statue of a Buddha.
It's unfair to make Bob try to think right now, with all his blood pooling towards his dick and none left for his brain, and unfair to contrast Frank's sniggering fidgety douchey arousal with Jepha's tranquil static blissful also arousal, and unfair that --
Frank's still got his pants and boots on. That, at least, Bob knows how to fix.
"Get naked," he says to Frank.
Except it's Frank and Jepha that start peeling off their clothes, also synchronised, like they both went to the same school of submissive jerks who are so clearly actually in control of the situation that it's hilarious. Not hilarious. Bob has his hand on his dick and he barely realises he's groping, stroking himself through the fabric of his still-closed jeans, because all the blood is in his fucking dick and his balls are doing all the thinking.
He doesn't even have the blood left for an embarrassed blush, though he's sure he's gone kind of red. He always does when he's turned on. It's the stupidest thing about skin this fair; everyone knows when you're horny. Everyone knows. FUCK.
And Frank and Jepha are naked on the filthy motel carpet, naked on their knees, shoulder to shoulder like two little statues outside some Buddhist temple, grinning and grinning. Their shoulders touching.
Bob thinks he can see on Frank's face the exact moment he decides to turn his head and start making out with Jepha, his hands still twisted behind his back in cuffed-position. Jepha, too, keeps his hands very still. There's something ... more intense about the way they're kissing without really touching, and there's something fucking conflicted about Bob's response.
His dick swells and throbs because Frank looks fucking good making out with anyone, and his heart contracts and his gut churns because even if he doesn't admit it to himself very often, Bob has jealousy issues. Great big possessive jealousy issues. So he's horny and furious, turned-on and raging, and Frank's tongue comes out of his mouth like a bass clef and just flicks the underside of Jepha's top lip and before Bob can do anything to stop himself he's squeezed his own dick and groaned, deep and short and low. Everyone hears, he knows. There's no other sounds in the room.
They don't pause kissing. Just keep rolling two sets of thin wet lips against each other, naked bodies a hair's breadth apart but not actually touching, and Bob finds his voice again, buried somewhere under his libido.
"Cut that out," he says, and it's croaky and fucked up and he can feel someone breathing in his ear but he's too fucking mad to turn around right now.
Jepha cuts it out at once, turning his head away, leaving Frank to trail a mouth-mark of spit and hot tongue over his cheek and nearly overbalance. They both look back up at him, and Bob's got his belt undone and his pants undone and his hand on his dick and thank fucking god he's trained himself that piss comes before come or he'd be jerking off on autopilot right now, the feel of his own palm on his dick, hot and welcome and as always the perfect fit.
Frank's going to smell all of Jepha now, Bob thinks angrily. He has to do this, audience or no, has to mark him back out as Bob's, has to show him Bob's not going to be ignored like that, and somewhere in the sad lonely logical part of Bob's brain that gets so neglected at times like this he knows he's not making sense, that he's not thinking like a sane human being. Well, no. He's thinking with his balls. That rarely amounts to sanity.
His dick is out and in his hand, cradled there in a carefully-maintained semi, his fingers twitching to stroke it up to the hardness that's just laying in wait, and Frank's chest and his thighs and his rock-solid boner nestling against his lower belly and his face, his stupidly pretty face and his mouth his mouth his mouth are right fucking there.
Dan puts his hand on Bob's hip from behind him and Bob's too focussed to jump, even when Dan mutters in his ear, "Both of them."
The thing is, Bob thinks through the thunder of blood in his ears and the tiny trickle of piss that's leaked out of the end of his dick in anticipation, sliding back down over his dick to soak into his fingers, that's not how it works. He ... Jepha's not his. Jepha's nice and all and pretty and Bob thinks yeah, maybe, if he weren't quite so ... obsessively fixated on Frank right now ... he'd want to fuck him. Maybe. But that's not how it is, that's not how it works, that's not ... surely Frank knew, surely Frank explained ...
He doesn't say any of this out loud, of course, because he hasn't got the first fucking clue where to start or which words to use and Frank is naked and hard and on his knees in front of Bob, Bob's dick is in his hand and his bladder and his balls are both yelling at him about the delay.
Dan kisses him behind the ear. Again it's not ... it's not the kind of kiss Frank and Jepha were just exchanging (and making Bob's blood boil for two different reasons) and it's not the kind of sloppy affectionate drunk kisses Bert used to hand out back in the day, or the deep and lengthy ones he remembers from touring, up against Frank's mouth, fumbling and swearing and giddy - if there's a comparison, it's the kind of kiss Gee gives to Frank's forehead or Bob's arm or whatever, a friendly kinda "my band my band" kiss. Weird coming from this guy he barely knows.
It's permission, Bob realises, or it's an order. He closes his hand around his dick and stares almost blankly down at Frank, at Jepha; it's permission, or it's an order. He gets the feeling that Dan's the one nominally in charge here, even if Frankie and Jepha orchestrated it, even if he's the one with the nagging bladder and his dick in his hand (and Dan's hand, huge and steadying, on his hip).
"Both of them," Dan murmurs again, and Bob looks at Frank's impatient face and Jepha's smile and yeah, okay, yeah. Both of them.
And he's gotta stop thinking about that now or he's going to be too hard to do the deed.
In the end it's his dick that makes the decision for him. Like always. It twitches when Frank and Jepha get their colouring-book bellies together, their dicks brushing into each other, and both shiver and shudder at the touch, their hands fluttering but held still, still behind their backs. It's only to be expected. Bob would have to be a eunuch for his dick not to jump at this, and he can see Frank's gonna start making out with Jepha again any ... minute ... now ...
But his dick jumps and things get away from him, he's been so poised to start pissing that the first jet comes out with the jump, so much for self-control. So much for giving Frank the talking-to he fucking deserves for all this; Bob can't concentrate on that, just on the strong, strong smell of his own piss leaking hot and champagne-coloured over their shoulders. Both of them.
He watches Frank close his eyes and tip his head back, distracted from the make0out urge by the spatter of piss down his back, where it never usually falls, and he jerks up on his toes and hits Frank square in the face.
And oh god there's no way to compare this to anything. Relief and horniess, it's like coming but instead of draining him out it just builds him up, gives him more energy, makes him want to fuck more and longer and Frank opens his mouth.
There in clear black writing are the letters telling the whole world what gets put in there, and Bob flushes so red with possessive joy and shame and the driving force of his balls that he loses his grip on conscious thought for a second.
When he can understand what his eyes are seeing Frank is half-retching and half-grinning, bent back over his own body, Jepha's face radiating something that looks a little like concern and a lot like impatient desire and Bob's balls talk without his brain getting involved. "Lick it off him."
The hand on Bob's hip tightens - he hopes in appreciation, he doesn't think he could take a fight right now and he definitely doesn't think he could take Dan in a fight - and Jepha's eyes and smile widen like someone turned some dial up inside him. No, not someone. Bob.
And Jepha's leaning forwards with his hands twisted behind his back, craning his neck forwards, touching his tongue to Frank's lower lip and with a face that says just how much he doesn't like the taste, Jepha Howard licks Bob's piss out of Frank's mouth.
So that's the second time Bob almost blacks out from the loss of blood to the head.
Frank smirks, of course, of course, and gives Jepha a gentle, short kiss mostly on his upper lip but he sways back; saying in the language that Bob realises he's come to understand pretty comprehensively now, I don't need that.
This is pretty much going to be the last burst Bob gets out before he's genuinely too hard, he's trying to squeeze off the flow of blood to his nethers as it is and the restraint is making him fucking crazy, his hips making shallow movements towards the guys on the floor and Dan's hand keeping him in check symbolically rather than physically.
So he hoses them. He really, really lets go, starts forcing piss out of the end of his dick like he's on a deadline to miss a flight, pee faster pee faster, and cascades, waterfalls, more piss than he thought his bladder could contain is splashing down in the crack between their bodies. It polishes and sharpens and glossifies their tattoos; Jepha's typewriter is as stark and clear as if it got done a week ago, Frank's AND all but glows blackly against his skin, and two hard and eager dicks are so wet they might just be underwater. And the smell, fuck, the smell, the smell as it soaks away into the carpet, the smell of Bob all over two separate sets of body chemistry, one painfully familiarly his and the other apparently on loan.
He's kinda sorry when he can't go any more, but he's also kinda giddy and almost grateful for the solid, supporting presence of Dan behind him. Even if he can feel the dude's boner poking into him, and he's not sure how he feels about that.
Right up until Dan kisses him on the neck from over his shoulder and then, oh, his brain doesn't get a say in it any more. This is not a friendly kiss.
Bob's barely thinking at all when he feels something wet and hot and narrow touch the end of his dick from one side, and something wet and hot and narrow touch the side of his dick, and the smell in his nostrils is the steam of hot piss rising from hot bodies, and Dan is licking his throat.
A noise comes out of Bob's throat that he's positive he has never in his life made before. Ever. Under no circumstances has Bob ever been moved to make a sound like this; it seems to start in his balls, gain momentum in his guts, take a running leap up his throat and get vibrato from the back of his teeth. What comes out sounds like the purest verbalisation of what sex actually fucking means and in future he's going to be pretty ashamed when he has to admit that it kind of made him more horny hearing how... how horny he is. What the fuck.
Dan's tongue is apparently intent on outlining Bob's jaw, and Dan apparently doesn't give a crap how beard burn on the tongue feels; there are more tongues downstairs and they're taking up a lot more of Bob's mental space, tongues and lips nibbling and smoothing the skin of his dick, the head of his dick, not enough to get him off, not enough to let him come, but enough to get him to this state of not being able to do fucking anything but slump back into Dan with his hips pointing forwards. Not being about to do fucking anything but make sounds he didn't think he had in him before this moment. FUCK.
Bob's skin is on fire. He doesn't know how he's got the blood in his body for it to make him so hot all over, seeing how most of it must be trying to burst his dick with how hard it is, but he's there. His clothes are too tight. He's too warm. He can smell his own sweat even over the smell of piss and the smell of Dan right under his nose.
Dan's hand comes off his hip and slides up under his shirt. Even with the concentrating attention of mouths - mouths, plural, more than one mouth, Jesus fucking Hoover Christ - on his dick like this, even now he can feel rough callouses, rougher than frank's guitar-burnt fingers and his own hands by far, rough finger-pads on his lower belly, travelling up his happy trail, up his stomach, lifting up his sweater to the cold air of the room. Merciful cold air.
Bob tries to swallow the next noise but without much luck.
And Dan stops licking. Bob's whole body shudders with that and with the sudden pressure on his left nipple, with the presence of a fairly fucking big hard-on in his back, but most of all with the way Frank and Jepha seem to be intent on finding away to make out with each other and French the head of his dick at the same time. It's a weird fucking sensation. It's weird and really fucking nice.
"You're pretty wound up," Dan murmurs by his ear. Which, yes, but there's a fucking hard-on sticking into Bob's spine that says he's not the only fucking one.
Bob just makes a sound that might or might not be a yes and tries to breathe.
"Don't know how much more of this we can expect you to take," Dan adds in the same low mutter, his lips just touching the outer rim of Bob's ear, and it's a testament to how completely fucking on edge Bob is that even that is pin-sharp on his senses and makes his hairs stand up. Jesus he's sweating; Dan's fingers aimlessly circle his nipple. Frank's mouth, Jepha's mouth, seem to have merged into one messy, slobbery, hot orifice designed only to tease him.
"Yeah," Bob croaks, not sure what he's saying or if his thighs are going to carry on holding his weight.
"Look," Dan whispers, so Bob does look, down over his scrunched-up sweater where Dan's forearm has deformed the line of his clothes, down over his naked belly to Frank and Jepha going at it like a pair of demon fucking piglets or something, and he can just see past their shoulders, just see where Frank's pinky has intertwined with Jepha's. Frank trails the sharp edge of his front teeth briefly over the outer rim of the head of Bob's dick and Bob jerks like someone stabbed him. SHIT FUCK.
Dan mutters something Bob doesn't catch. "Huh?" Bob knows his mouth his hanging open like a retard's. There just isn't enough air in the room.
"--the bed," Dan's saying, "naked. Both of them. C'mon."
Somewhere in the hot, churning mess of his mind Bob wonders abstractly if he will ever, ever be able to hear the phrase both of them again without getting disgustingly hard.
Getting to the bed is difficult. Getting out of his clothes is difficult - not because he doesn't want to [Bob is far too far gone to feel self-conscious any more about anything very much], but because his hands don't seem to want to obey him and his thighs are fucking shaking and Dan keeps helping which is, contrary to what the guy may think, not actually helpful.
The bed is fucking horrible. It only vaguely connects with his mind; it might have been a bit more comfortable if Dan hadn't fucking broken it earlier. And Bob's on the goddamn bed naked to his socks [oh yeah, he was always bad at this bit of sex. Bob always forgets to take them off. And anyway, his feet are cold. And anyway, stripy knee socks add class to a situation which this one sorely needs], kneeling on a lumpy mattress and thinking half-hysterically that there are more stiff dicks in this room than at the RNC.
Frank and Jepha are wriggling and giggling in the centre of the bed, naked and warm and rough-soft against each other, two colouring-book pages stuck together; Frank never giggles like that unless he's stoned but he's sober now, sober and nipping at Jepha's snakebites like some sort of really ... hot ... fucked up game of chicken.
His hands are on Jepha's back without him thinking about it, stroking and kind of ... pushing him closer, like he's arranging puzzle pieces, and Frank apparently yanks Jepha's piercing a little too hard with his teeth, because he goes, FUCK, my teef in yelp of comical pain while Jepha -
- makes a sound that seems to come from the same source as Bob's earlier wtf groans. And arches his back into Bob's hand. And turns back over his shoulder as soon as Frank [whimpering like a fucking idiot and clutching at his mouth] releases him; "You should, you know."
"I don't know," Bob says, because he really fucking doesn't.
A packet of lube hits him square in the chest, then manages to bounce off his dick on the way down. Dan's waggling his eyebrows at him over the fleshy barricade of two - c'mon Bob, you've thought it before - ridiculous, pretty pain-sluts.
"What could that be?" says Dan in a voice that's not quite calm enough to disguise some pretty fucking obvious arousal, there. Or the lump in his trousers. Dan, for some reason, is mostly-clothed. "Oh, that's right, Bob, it's a clue."
There's a lot of pulling and pushing and arranging. Bob's not quite sure of what's happening and who's moving where because his balls are beginning to ache, seriously, and he's got a fuckdiculous amount of lube all over his dick and right now habit and his thumpadump pulse are urging him to stick it into someone; there's always skin under his fingers and most of the time it's not his and - those are someone's hips. They're Jepha's, because Frank's aren't quite that skinny.
And where the hell is Frank?
Frank's just far enough away that kissing him's difficult, a torso-length away, a Jepha's-body-length away. And for a minute, his hands on Jepha's ass, pulling it open to an orchestra of impatient, throaty noises and at least one pointed shove backwards, back towards Bob's aching dick - for a minute he's just fucking happy to be there. Captain Douchebag over there stops grinning and goes slack - Bob can see Jepha's mouth moving along his dick as Frank's hands go to his own throat and his nipple respectively.
He could watch that all freaking afternoon, Frank groping himself while Jepha blows him, slobbering noises escaping the corner of his mouth, but then again he could also ... Bob's fingers slip of their own slithery accord towards Jepha's asshole, which is sitting there, open like a target, waiting for him. For him? - Jepha's shoulders moving a little in time with the slow, lazy bobbing of his head.
The warmth and tightness around his finger just translates in his brain to exactly what it will feel like around his dick and Bob jerks and hisses as Jepha jerks and groans and Frank jerks and sighs, and Dan pats Bob on the shoulder and says, "It's rude to keep a guy waiting."
Bob's not quite sure of the sequence of events after that; he knows he's balls-deep in Jepha, trying to keep from pushing too hard or too fast even though he fucking wants to, he fucking wants to and Jepha's practically bucking back into him; he's trying to stay slow and steady, his hands on Jepha's skinny fucking hipbones, because he's still vaguely aware that the guy's mouth is on Frank's dick and Frank's mouth is intermittantly catching Bob's as he bends over Jepha's back, and if Jepha bites Frank, Frank's probably going to bite him and Bob hates having a torn lip. And no one told him orgies were so fucking delicate.
He wishes for one white-hot moment that he had some way of recording all this to jerk off over later too, because it's gotta look pretty hot [for Jepha blowing Frank alone, and Frank groping at his own neck and nipples and trying so, so hard not to come], but his mind resettles itself and he thinks in a firm-but-hazy internal monologue, No. No one needs to see my flat white ass wobbling in and out of anyone. Especially not me.
Dan's huge hands are the only part of him Bob can pinpoint; one's scraping past Bob's fingers to stroke the underside of Jepha's dick. While Bob's fucking him. The other is resting lightly on the very base of Bob's spine and making it even harder for him not to just give up and fucking GO for it. It gets even more difficult when one of those massive fingers, two of them, starts dipping between Bob's asscheeks and nearly throwing him off his stride.
It's not at all clear. There are flashing black dots in Bob's eyes when he opens them and red-black panting darkness when he closes them, and he can't get enough air into his lungs and his entire lower body is burning, burning in the mucles and the skin, his dick is the centre of the goddamn fucking universe.
Frank comes first.
Bob knows he's about to come, that Frank's about to come, for a lot of reasons; he knows his breath when he's on the verge. He feels Frank's mouth go tense-then-slack-then-tense against his. He knows the faint sounds and the smell of his skin-soaked-in-dried-piss and everything that's leading up to it. Also because Frank clutches aimlessly at his own lower body and rocks into Jepha's mouth and for a moment there's a sound which is exactly like someone trying to splutter with their mouth full of dick and their nose full of pubes.
(He has kinda noticed that Jepha's pubes seem to have gone the way of all his body hair, and wonders if Frank could be talked into that, maybe. Then if he really wants him to do that; yanking on Frank's happy trail when he's not expecting it makes him writhe beautifully)
Frank's still for a moment, Jepha's mouth kind of suckling him, and then he rocks back and out of the guy's mouth and half-rolls, naked and sticky and droopy all over with that stupid blissed-out expression he gets, sloughing himself onto Bob to mash their mouths together in a lazy post-coital kiss which totally jars with a lot of things (Bob's dick in Jepha's ass. Dan's fingers inching up his ass). Typical fucking Frank.
There's a quiet, frustrated sound in front of him and Bob doesn't even know if he made it or someone else did until it's accompanied by a mutter - if mutters are that open-throated and fucked-out sounding - of, "harder please god harder."
Dan's fingers are motionless and thick and almost sore inside the first two inches of Bob's ass and his face is running with sweat. It's probably cold in the room but he's surrounded by the smell of his own piss and other people's sweat, the smell of cigarettes still greasing the air, and all these things even without the sight of Jepha biting down on his own wrist would have made him full-body flush.
He doesn't need telling twice. The whole bed creaks and something else cracks and Dan's muttering incoherent encouragement, his wrist going even faster than Bob's ass, and Bob's balls are slapping against Jepha's and -
and and and and his skin is like water, so sensitive he can feel all the dustmotes in the air and something like pain is gathering up in his body, something like a sneeze in his lower belly, his fingernails digging into Jepha hard enough to draw blood just as Jepha bites his own arm to bruises, and and and and and Dan twists a finger inside him and Frank plants a sloppy, amused kiss on the dip between Bob's collarbones, and Bob's eyes screw themselves closed and and and and FUCK. YES
He's panting like he's run three fucking marathons and his thighs are made out of wallpaper paste when he finally stops coming; Bob almost slumps down onto Jepha and crushes him crushes Jepha into the mattress, but Frank's in the way, a restraining arm, the smell of piss, hot breath on his chest. And nothing has ever, ever felt this good.
He slithers sideways onto the bed and something else goes crack. Bob's dimly aware of making a kind of man-puddle of muddled limbs and sweat and contentment with Frank gumming his neck in a calculatedly irritating fashion, and the weak light from outside comes in grey and wintery as he flops enough onto his side to watch the grand finale.
Dan's slipped his fingers in to replace Bob and Bob would be a little hurt that this is apparently the same level of, of dicking, except Dan's hands are like fucking bear paws and he's using four fingers, his other hand moving at something like light speed.
He sees Jepha's back arch like a cat's, then a bit more convulsive, then there's a short patter of hn, hn, hn, UNH, an ah that sounds a bit like an uh being dragged from the centre of the earth, and Jepha comes.
Bob's kind of semi-consciously stroking the back of Frank's neck and Frank's mumbling into his own arm, already half-asleep; Jepha looks like all the bones have been removed from his body and is grinning so happily that there are practically waves of sexual relaxation radiating out from him. Bob's getting cold.
He squints at Dan, a horror-movie silhouette against the parking-lot afternoon light as it sidles in through the crack in the curtains. Dan's undoing his fly, which seems like too late, too late; Bob closes one eye and tries to think clearly about what he's seeing as an invertebrate-level floppy Jepha rolls aimlessly onto his back and Bob thinks, holy shit.
Holy shit and he's kinda selfishly, cowardishly (is that even a word?), cowardallyily glad Dan's waited until now because holy shit that is one fucking enormous dick. To go with those fucking enormous hands, Bob guesses, but holy shit. Holy shit holy shit. How is that balls deep in Jepha every night without Jepha Howard changing the way he walks, permanently?
Speaking of Jepha; he's smiling loosely up at Dan and Dan's jerking off, one hand on Jepha's bent knee, his face hidden in shadow. Bob reaches across Frank to stroke the side of Jepha's face and gets his fingers licked for his trouble. He can feel himself drifting to sleep, and there's no--
Something hot and sticky splashes his cheek and the sound of panting grunts slowing to a standstill catches up with his brain.
There's a long silence in which Bob's eyes shutter up again and his brain takes a quiet rest, and he breathes slow and low and happy around the decelerating thumps of his pulse, lying in a stupendously uncomfortable sprawl somewhere between pee-scented Iero and pee-scented Howard, getting goosebumps on a disgusting motel bed.
"So," Dan says, and Bob realises the creak and the shift of balance was because he'd got off the bed, is already off the bed, "we can explain why the carpet is covered in piss, or we can leave by the window."
Bob opens one eye. "Oh, no."
Frank pinches him sleepily somewhere in the sensitive wilderness between his nipple and his armpit. "Fuck off going back to that again."
"No, no," Bob groans. Of course, he thinks as his own socks hit him in the face, this couldn't possibly end simply.
3. Mean Deviation
Fandom: RPS - MCR/TU
Word Count: 8,800 words
Rating: ADULT. SO VERY ADULT. I mean, it's a very nuanced examination of cultural - y'know, it's not. It's pretty much just PORN. DO NOT READ IT AT WORK.
Pairing: Bob/Frank, Jepha/Frank, Jepha/Dan, Bob/Dan, just … GSF.
Warnings: Pee, GSF, D/s
Disclaimer: Obviously I don't actually think any of this really happened.
Notes: Peeniverse. Meaning, a sequel to We Are Bad News (Well, HE Is) and its sexy, sexy coda. PS: I am informed there is a typo in here, but I have a choice between posting this NOW or waiting for Jess to tell me where it is.
----
It starts with a phone call, because a lot of things do that; this particular phone call is from some magazine or other - Bob doesn't catch the name - and when Brian hangs up he gives them all this forced smile and says, "And it's with The Used--"
Which is as far as he gets before Gerard politely decides he's busy that day. Mikey is also immediately busy in solidarity. Bob gets that Gee probably doesn't want to be in the same place as Bert if he can help it, but he does think they can't avoid each other forever. Not in this business.
"Ray?" Brian asks rather hopelessly. Ray points out that he genuinely does have somewhere else to be that day, and apologises not very profusely. "Come on, this is a good opportunity, at least one of you can't have anything to --"
This is when Bob realises that they're all looking at him. Oh yes. Bob, who has been nursing his XBox and playing with the dogs and inventing new ways to eat pastrami without using his hands. Bob has not been overflowing with social engagements that haven't involved dog poop for some time now.
"What?"
Brian just points the cell phone at him.
"They're not going to want to take photos of a drummer," Bob protests.
"That's why Frank's going to go as well," Brian says, in the This Is The End Of The Matter voice.
Frank stops laughing and looks crestfallen. "I'm doing something else -" he begins in the curiously distorted, loose-mouthed voice he's been using the last week. Bob idly wonders if Frank has been hit in the mouth in his absence and is surprised by the twin flashes of protective jealousy and vague arousal that arise from this thought. Along with the desire to smack Frank in the mouth himself when the dick cuts himself off and says, "- I guess someone good-looking has to be there."
Bob slaps at him and misses. "Jepha will be there. They have that base covered."
"Do you want me to come or not?"
"Shut up, Frank."
Brian smiles cautiously at them both. "Good, good. Settled."
The first thing Bob notices when they get to the studio - it's not a location shoot, which is good because it is raining like fuck outside and no one ever lets them have umbrellas on these things and then Frank pisses and moans, ahaha, all the way home again - the first thing Bob notices apart from the red-and-white backdrop and the immediate warmth of the room from all the lights, is that there are only two other scruffy, tattooed idiots hanging around in baseball caps.
"Where's Bert and Quinn?" Frank calls as soon as Jepha's noticed them.
"Busy." Jepha makes air-quotes and a slightly wry face.
"Are those sex airquotes or sulking airquotes?" Frank asks, and Bob is unfortunately out of smacking range now, or he totally would. Right across the back of the head, for the mental images alone.
"Shut up," he suggests, but Frank is ignoring him. Bob wonders if he can add 'being an insufferable douche in public' to the list of cigarette-worthy offenses, but he remembers just how much success his 'stop Frank spitting' campaign has been so far.
"Take a guess," Jepha says, bumping knuckles with Frank.
"No," Bob tells Frank, "do not take that guess."
"Oh," Jepha adds as someone with more cameras than is healthy darts past them to a line of tripods - apparently this magazine takes its photoshoots very seriously, or the photographer isn't actually any good and likes to overcompensate, "this is Dan."
He motions serenely at a hulking primeval very-obvious-drummer and Dan waves a short, sarcastic hello. He has enormous hands. He also looks like a chameleon or something else with bug-eyes - Bob's not really up on his wildlife - and Jesus his hands are enormous.
Bob looks back at Jepha's ridiculously wonky smile and thinks, if he's not fucking you yet you're getting slow off the mark, Howard. Jepha's pretty easy to read when you know him, though, and Bob would put money on the bug-eyed drummer being balls-deep in tattooed bendy bassist on a regular basis if he had anyone to bet against. Surprisingly these mental images are nowhere near as disturbing.
"Oh, I got it done," Frank is saying, and Bob snaps back to look at him fidgeting about with his lower lip. Got what done? Bob thinks, once again irrationally possessive.
"Really? Show me."
Frank peels down his lower lip and, right at the front, almost at the end of the wet bit, are the fresh black letters P E E. Right below the NJ.
"Happy birthday, Bob," Frank says indistinctly, noticing.
"My birthday was two months ago, assh--" he stops and registers the tattoo properly.
Jepha starts laughing but it's cloudy in his ears; Bob can feel the beginnings of a boner just like that. Fuck, not now. He tries to will it away and to chase the march of blush out of his cheeks but he knows it's too late, too late. The memory of the last time is still there in his mind, like a jerk-off reel; Frank spluttering and dribbling the accidental splashings of piss out of the corner of his mouth and gagging, gagging for a minute so long that Bob half-loses his encroaching hard-on with worry and Frank, dirty, piss-scented, Bob's Frank, laughs at him and points and Bob slaps him for moving.
Dan's voice is surprisingly close to Bob's head. He's not sure how Dan got so close, but he's right up in Bob's personal space and he smells... good. He smells at least partially of Jepha-sweat, for one, and Bob's jerk-off reel substitutes the two of them groping blindly at each other in some studio corridor only minutes earlier, Jepha's breaths whiny and desperate as Dan laughs and flicks at his snakebites between biting him on the throat. Fuck it, why won't this hard-on GO AWAY?
"You know, with that and Jeph's - " Dan rubs his huge forefinger along the inside of his lip, "- they're just like little girls with Best Friend necklaces."
Bob chokes on an unexpected laugh and says, "Don't tell Frank that."
Dan adds, "Or someone's name. Like, Peetea. Petey."
"Really don't tell Frank that." Bob watches Jepha and Frank engage in some sort of retarded lip-tattoo-flashing fight and catches the eye of someone who - from the looks of her - is probably the photographer. And who probably got the job because she was fucking the editor. From the looks of her.
"Still mad about the whole Mikey thing?" Dan says sagely, as if he was there for it.
"... who told you that?" Bob watches the photographer arrange Frank and Jepha side by side in front of the back-drop and make motions towards her lower lip.
"Jepha tells me everything," Dan says absently, watching them too. "Eventually."
Bob doesn't know how to answer this, so he doesn't try. He experiences another unfair flush to the face and a probably obvious tightening in his pants as Frank yanks down his lower lip and points at the fresh-healed tattoo. Jepha elbows him in the side as he does the same, and Dan - like a mirror of Jepha, elbows Bob in the ribs.
"Bet I know what you're thinking."
"No."
"Pee and tea."
"No," Bob repeats, horrified at the idea that Dan might possibly even know about that. That anyone besides him and Frank knows about that which, now he thinks about it, the whole world will do with that STUPID and STUPIDLY HOT tattoo. He goes even more red and wishes he could pull his shirt up around his ears and hide in the collar.
He hears, rather than sees, Dan's grin. "It'd be fun."
"NO." Bob wants to say, I've only just met you, why are you inviting me to pee on your boyfriend but the sentence gets stuck in his head and he's not sure he can say it without breaking into hysterics.
From the backdrop, Frank infuriates the photographer by letting go of his lip and yelling, "IGNORE BOB, HE ALWAYS SAYS 'NO' WHEN HE MEANS 'YES'."
Bob hates him so, so, so much. He hates his stupid fucking dumb "PEE" tattoo and he hates his eager acquiescence to every damn thing that gets Bob off and he hates his manipulative jerkery that he thinks Bob doesn't get and he hates his stupid hot ass and his stupid sharp-edged mouth and he hates most of all that he thinks he might actually be in fucking love with the little prick.
He glances sideways at Dan. Dan is watching Jepha annoy the photographer by covering his lip tattoo with his tongue, and for a moment Bob just sympathises; he knows that expression too well.
They're standing in some stupid pose Bob thinks he maybe saw on the cover of a Beatles album once and he really fucking hopes that the editor of this stupid magazine sees the stills, hates them, and quits fucking the stupid woman so that no one else has to suffer through the boredom. But they're standing there while this idiot snaps away, and the thought strikes him and he can't help himself: he hisses out of the very corner of his mouth at Jepha, at Frank:
"You fucking planned this behind my back."
"Dude, Brian arranges the photoshoots," Frank says with wilful ignorance.
"Can you stop talking, please," the photographer sighs.
"There may have been one or two conversations," Jepha admits.
"Judas," Frank mutters.
"Assholes," Bob says with feeling, although the feeling is perhaps not so much irritation as a kind of ... it's not gratitude yet, but it might well turn out to be. Though they are still assholes.
"Will you please stop talking," the photographer repeats angrily. Next to Bob, Dan has started to laugh. They are laughs which he is clearly trying to keep in, and which are just as clearly going to keep on going until he gets to have a real fit of hysterics. Bob knows the feeling, he knows the laughter, he knows it late at night when he hasn't slept and Frank and Gee are apparently competing to see who can be the most ridiculous.
"Lady, no one has been able to stop Frank talking yet," Jepha says sweetly. He isn't laughing, because Jepha does not make fun of strangers; Bob always liked that about him. Apparently it's fine to completely screw with Bob's head, though, and that's--
"Except Bob," Frank mutters, rolling his eyes back and tilting his head to grin horribly at Bob. Unfortunately the position has a lot in common with the one he adopts when he's on his knees, and Frank looking up at him through his eyelashes is never not going to be hot.
Bob pokes him in the back with a forefinger, fucking hard.
Dan laughs harder. Jepha mouths a not-very-contrite "sorry" to the photographer, and she responds by throwing a total fucking hissyfit.
Seriously, a total hissyfit. The camera goes flying across the studio - so those photos are all gone, although the other cameras might be okay - and probably breaks. And the woman, girl, who really can't be any older than twenty-five and is red in the face, shouts, "I CAN'T WORK WITH PEOPLE LIKE THIS!" in something approaching a shriek.
There's no stopping it after that. Dan collapses on the floor and rolls around laughing and Jepha falls down after him. Frank hits the deck soon after, like they're a stack of fucking screamo dominoes, band-boy building blocks that got knocked; he's rolling around clutching at his stomach and whooping like some sort of mirth monster's about to break out.
"You are such assholes," Bob declares, aware that it's his fault for starting the conversation in the first place. And that he can feel a snicker coming on himself. "Seriously."
Frank opens one eye and puts out his tongue. He raises both his eyebrows, still wriggling with hilarity like a tickled dog on the floor, and Bob knows what the question is.
"No."
"Quit saying no."
"NO."
Frank squints up at him, and pouts.
Bob reads the letters printed on the inside of Frank's mouth and thinks, he doesn't even *like* that part. He does that *for me*. And practically passes out from the rush of blood to his pants.
"Okay," Bob mutters, and he can feel the approving laughter spiralling around him like encroaching insanity. "You fucking fucker. Okay."
Four days later Bob's striding through a parking lot outside a shitty little diner. This is not tour time. This is road trip time, and he's already regretting not finding some way of making Frank tell him where they're going. He's just been to the bathroom in the diner, which is a little like pissing in a painting of hell (Gee showed one, one by some guy with an improbable name, to Frank, and Frank has been making speculative noises about tattoos). If it weren't so cold that he'd think his dick would shrivel up in contact with the air, Bob would have just pissed outside in the weeds. More hygienic. Less likely to make him gag.
Frank's left the car and draped himself over a trash-can, one of those ones with the hard top and the too-small windows in the side for trying to squash your soda cups through. He's talking on a cell, low and serious, but smiling that worrying wolfish smile that has plot written all over it.
Bob gets maybe a foot away from him before Frank waves him irritably away, sets a hand flat against Bob's stomach and pushes him back, like Bob pushes back the dogs when they're trying to get into his business. Same gesture.
He sits in the car. Bob hates shotgun, but he can't exactly argue to drive if he doesn't know where he's going. He hates driving with just Frank, anyhow. There's something off about the two of them alone in a vehicle. He guesses he's just used to their "alone" being a constructed thing, a fabrication that arises because they throw up an imaginary wall in the midst of the bigger room that is MCR. They're alone by consent, not by actuality. Bob can see now that he's fucking insane if he thinks the others don't know; they're pretty much just pretending not to because it's obvious how badly he doesn't want them to know.
"Jesus, your face," Frank says as he slides back into the seat and drops his cell almost on Bob's balls. Bob flinches. "Road trips are meant to be happy and enlightening affairs, Bobert. Lighten the fuck up and stop looking like someone ran over your mom and fucked your dog."
"Just thinking," Bob mutters as Frank starts the car. They didn't really see each other, between the frantic nights of touring. Tours are kind of a world set apart from reality, a different space, a time when it's okay to piss on someone and fuck them till they bite through their lip trying not to groan. Somehow he never thought to translate that to times when they're all standing still, when they have houses and bills and friends who aren't sleeping two feet away covered in smudged-on make-up.
"No thinking," Frank says, mock-stern, "this is a road trip. Thinking will damage the mood. Was there thinking in Dude, Where's My Car? No! Was there thinking in Easy Rider? NO!"
"Thelma and Louise," Bob says, because he has tAtu on his iPod for a reason, and because--
"Dyke," Frank says, and punches him in the thigh.
The motel is spectacularly shitty. Bob doesn't even remember the last time he saw a place so fuck-ugly and so obviously infested. He thinks longingly of his own bed; then Frank shifts in the driver's seat, trying to unstick his road-sweaty back from the pleather, and Bob's longing thoughts take an abrupt derailment into the X-rated. He can smell Frank right there next to him in the buzzing misery of rural neon light, and in the back of his mouth he can taste the way Frank's tattoos feel on his tongue, adulterated with the flavours of two sets of body chemistry; sweat and piss, horny and hornier.
There are a few more cars parked around, but Bob doesn't pay them any mind until one door opens and a familiarly Neanderthal figure in a baseball cap pops out of it and waves at their license-plate. Frankie - that Machiavellian ASSHOLE - waves back, and Bob realises this is the destination. This is what the road trip was all about.
It's such a shithole of a motel that the desk clerk - a woman who might possibly have swallowed the previous guests, from the size of her, a woman who managed to sweat even in the cold of the room - pays no attention to to four guilty-looking, pierced and tattooed guys renting ONE room for an afternoon. Bob thinks they couldn't look more like a drugs deal if they'd brought a hold-all and a stack of cash. As it is Jepha's carrying a backpack that, Dan informs him, contains a tea service.
"What." Bob says, confused.
"Just in case," Jepha says serenely.
"You never get any less weird," Bob says fervently.
The room is disgusting. It smells of stale sweat and there are obvious stains on the beige curtains, which are already drawn; clearly no one is overwhelmed by the desire to look out over the parking lot. The bed looks about as comfortable as lying on bare boards and only marginally nicer than a bus bunk. It's the kind of place, Bob realises with a start, that he can mess up with pee without making a single difference to the ambience or getting fined for ruining shit.
Clever, clever douchebags.
The thing is, Bob's never really been comfortable with planned sex. Or sex in general. His own desire bewilders him sometimes; erasing guilt from his jerk-off fantasies is easy, convincing himself that it's okay to get someone else involved in it is less easy.
Frank solves this by looking around the room with a curled lip and expressing his view on the motel with a jet of saliva, a camel-like gob of phlegm that hits the plain wallpaper and rolls down. Bob feels his gorge rise in response; no matter what he gets to do afterwards, the sight of saliva still revolts him.
"Shirt off," he snaps at Frank, forcing himself to forget, for now, that Dan and Jepha are in the room and grinning, grinning. His cigarettes are in his hand so fast he doesn't register putting his hand in his pocket; Frank's shirt is off and onto the floor in the same timeframe. Bob looks at the others - he can't help himself - and Dan's giving Jepha this why don't you do that look and Jepha's just ... grinning and grinning and grinning.
Bob drags his gaze away. "Gonna need to cover the smoke ala--" but Dan's already on it, up on the bed, unscrewing the thing from the ceiling, so Bob only has to grab Frank by the deltoid (his skin is hot and smooth and dry under Bob's hand, too dry, dry and utterly un-Bob-scented. That has to change. Frank is his, and he needs marking out as his) and drag him to the floor in the centre of the room. Grinning and grinning. He can't see Jepha any longer but he bets he's grinning too.
Dan sits down on the bed, crosslegged, with a flump. There's a warning crack from one of the slats holding the mattress and Dan shouts, "WHAT THE FUCK?" far louder than he needs to.
Frank laughs. Bob slaps him, gently, gently, because he doesn't know what his unwanted - okay, not totally unwanted - audience will do. If they'll take it right. Then again, they're here in this room with an intention, he guesses they'll take it right.
Jepha's ragged inhalation is loud and telling. Bob relaxes a little.
"Hands behind your back, Frank."
Frank curls a lip and doesn't move.
"Forgotten your manners?"
"Maybe." Frank smiles.
Bob hits him harder. Open hand, of course, because he never, ever punches in anything other than blind fury, and he never ever punches Frank. The idea of it, when he's toyed with it in the past, makes him feel sick and guilty and afraid. A slap can be as hard as he likes, he knows what damage it won't do--
And Frank's head turns violently to one side, reddened in the cheek, and Bob's dick gets talkative in his pants. Talkative and wakeful. Jepha's breathing is ragged; Bob can guess that he's thinking thoughts and getting pretty fired-up himself. He can't hear Dan. He's not going to be hearing much if the blood keeps thundering in his ears like this, in fact.
"No talking," Bob says firmly. "You know the rules. Hands behind your back."
Frank winds his hands behind his back, grabs his heels, his chest bare and his lower half still wrapped up in pants and socks and boots. They never did it like this. Bob has the cigarette in his mouth, and no lighter.
FUCK.
"Lighter," Bob mumbles around the filter, embarrassed and still fucking horny - Frank's smirking up at him from his knees, and that's all the trigger he needs, never mind the tingle in his hand from where he's brought it hard against Frank's face. Never mind the glaring glowing grenadine-hued patch on his cheek.
And someone's pressing a plastic lighter into his palm, huge fingers rasping rough over his fingers. Dan. Bob jerks his head up to make some acknowledgement of thanks; Dan kisses him, brief and cool and unsexual, on the cheek, and glides back to the bed like a ghost.
Bob's hands are almost trembling with FUCK PEOPLE ARE WATCHING ME and FUCK I WANT THAT ASSHOLE SO BAD as he lights up and puffs on. The smell of cigarette smoke stopped being sexy when he came off tour, became just a matter of course, became just the boring old addiction.
Here in this shitty room with Frank at his feet it's an aphrodisiac all over again. He's glad his lips are locked around the soggy filter. He can feel dumb things pressing at the back of his teeth; dumb things, dyke things. Bob fucking Bryar is a massive fucking girl and he wants to say stupid, fucked up things to Frank that he wouldn't even dare say if they were alone.
He holds the lit end up to show Frank. And to show the others. To show Frank. "No. Fucking. Spitting," he says in a voice that is not as calm as he'd like. "No fucking spitting indoors. No fucking spitting on walls."
Frank peers up through his eyelashes and widens his eyes. There's sarcasm in it. Bob can feel it.
"Chin up," says Bob.
He puts his chin up.
Bob holds the hot cherry close to the soft, smooth skin of Frank's throat. He's bitten there before, once or twice, moments when he lost control, moments Frank likes to bring up and Bob likes to forget. His skin is rubbery between Bob's teeth and tastes of piss on those occasions - the cigarette is blistering Frank's skin with the proximity, and Bob can hear Frank's breath, pained-horny, over his cheeks.
He stubs the cigarette out directly on the burn, and Frank flinches. Bob kisses him - short, sharp, his fingers tucked around Frank's skull like he's holding it onto Frank's neck - and pulls back quickly.
There's a silence. He thinks he hears someone murmur, "do it", and he begins with fumble fingers to unclasp his belt buckle;
And Jepha freaking Howard kneels down on the floor beside Frank and smiles up like a statue of a Buddha.
It's unfair to make Bob try to think right now, with all his blood pooling towards his dick and none left for his brain, and unfair to contrast Frank's sniggering fidgety douchey arousal with Jepha's tranquil static blissful also arousal, and unfair that --
Frank's still got his pants and boots on. That, at least, Bob knows how to fix.
"Get naked," he says to Frank.
Except it's Frank and Jepha that start peeling off their clothes, also synchronised, like they both went to the same school of submissive jerks who are so clearly actually in control of the situation that it's hilarious. Not hilarious. Bob has his hand on his dick and he barely realises he's groping, stroking himself through the fabric of his still-closed jeans, because all the blood is in his fucking dick and his balls are doing all the thinking.
He doesn't even have the blood left for an embarrassed blush, though he's sure he's gone kind of red. He always does when he's turned on. It's the stupidest thing about skin this fair; everyone knows when you're horny. Everyone knows. FUCK.
And Frank and Jepha are naked on the filthy motel carpet, naked on their knees, shoulder to shoulder like two little statues outside some Buddhist temple, grinning and grinning. Their shoulders touching.
Bob thinks he can see on Frank's face the exact moment he decides to turn his head and start making out with Jepha, his hands still twisted behind his back in cuffed-position. Jepha, too, keeps his hands very still. There's something ... more intense about the way they're kissing without really touching, and there's something fucking conflicted about Bob's response.
His dick swells and throbs because Frank looks fucking good making out with anyone, and his heart contracts and his gut churns because even if he doesn't admit it to himself very often, Bob has jealousy issues. Great big possessive jealousy issues. So he's horny and furious, turned-on and raging, and Frank's tongue comes out of his mouth like a bass clef and just flicks the underside of Jepha's top lip and before Bob can do anything to stop himself he's squeezed his own dick and groaned, deep and short and low. Everyone hears, he knows. There's no other sounds in the room.
They don't pause kissing. Just keep rolling two sets of thin wet lips against each other, naked bodies a hair's breadth apart but not actually touching, and Bob finds his voice again, buried somewhere under his libido.
"Cut that out," he says, and it's croaky and fucked up and he can feel someone breathing in his ear but he's too fucking mad to turn around right now.
Jepha cuts it out at once, turning his head away, leaving Frank to trail a mouth-mark of spit and hot tongue over his cheek and nearly overbalance. They both look back up at him, and Bob's got his belt undone and his pants undone and his hand on his dick and thank fucking god he's trained himself that piss comes before come or he'd be jerking off on autopilot right now, the feel of his own palm on his dick, hot and welcome and as always the perfect fit.
Frank's going to smell all of Jepha now, Bob thinks angrily. He has to do this, audience or no, has to mark him back out as Bob's, has to show him Bob's not going to be ignored like that, and somewhere in the sad lonely logical part of Bob's brain that gets so neglected at times like this he knows he's not making sense, that he's not thinking like a sane human being. Well, no. He's thinking with his balls. That rarely amounts to sanity.
His dick is out and in his hand, cradled there in a carefully-maintained semi, his fingers twitching to stroke it up to the hardness that's just laying in wait, and Frank's chest and his thighs and his rock-solid boner nestling against his lower belly and his face, his stupidly pretty face and his mouth his mouth his mouth are right fucking there.
Dan puts his hand on Bob's hip from behind him and Bob's too focussed to jump, even when Dan mutters in his ear, "Both of them."
The thing is, Bob thinks through the thunder of blood in his ears and the tiny trickle of piss that's leaked out of the end of his dick in anticipation, sliding back down over his dick to soak into his fingers, that's not how it works. He ... Jepha's not his. Jepha's nice and all and pretty and Bob thinks yeah, maybe, if he weren't quite so ... obsessively fixated on Frank right now ... he'd want to fuck him. Maybe. But that's not how it is, that's not how it works, that's not ... surely Frank knew, surely Frank explained ...
He doesn't say any of this out loud, of course, because he hasn't got the first fucking clue where to start or which words to use and Frank is naked and hard and on his knees in front of Bob, Bob's dick is in his hand and his bladder and his balls are both yelling at him about the delay.
Dan kisses him behind the ear. Again it's not ... it's not the kind of kiss Frank and Jepha were just exchanging (and making Bob's blood boil for two different reasons) and it's not the kind of sloppy affectionate drunk kisses Bert used to hand out back in the day, or the deep and lengthy ones he remembers from touring, up against Frank's mouth, fumbling and swearing and giddy - if there's a comparison, it's the kind of kiss Gee gives to Frank's forehead or Bob's arm or whatever, a friendly kinda "my band my band" kiss. Weird coming from this guy he barely knows.
It's permission, Bob realises, or it's an order. He closes his hand around his dick and stares almost blankly down at Frank, at Jepha; it's permission, or it's an order. He gets the feeling that Dan's the one nominally in charge here, even if Frankie and Jepha orchestrated it, even if he's the one with the nagging bladder and his dick in his hand (and Dan's hand, huge and steadying, on his hip).
"Both of them," Dan murmurs again, and Bob looks at Frank's impatient face and Jepha's smile and yeah, okay, yeah. Both of them.
And he's gotta stop thinking about that now or he's going to be too hard to do the deed.
In the end it's his dick that makes the decision for him. Like always. It twitches when Frank and Jepha get their colouring-book bellies together, their dicks brushing into each other, and both shiver and shudder at the touch, their hands fluttering but held still, still behind their backs. It's only to be expected. Bob would have to be a eunuch for his dick not to jump at this, and he can see Frank's gonna start making out with Jepha again any ... minute ... now ...
But his dick jumps and things get away from him, he's been so poised to start pissing that the first jet comes out with the jump, so much for self-control. So much for giving Frank the talking-to he fucking deserves for all this; Bob can't concentrate on that, just on the strong, strong smell of his own piss leaking hot and champagne-coloured over their shoulders. Both of them.
He watches Frank close his eyes and tip his head back, distracted from the make0out urge by the spatter of piss down his back, where it never usually falls, and he jerks up on his toes and hits Frank square in the face.
And oh god there's no way to compare this to anything. Relief and horniess, it's like coming but instead of draining him out it just builds him up, gives him more energy, makes him want to fuck more and longer and Frank opens his mouth.
There in clear black writing are the letters telling the whole world what gets put in there, and Bob flushes so red with possessive joy and shame and the driving force of his balls that he loses his grip on conscious thought for a second.
When he can understand what his eyes are seeing Frank is half-retching and half-grinning, bent back over his own body, Jepha's face radiating something that looks a little like concern and a lot like impatient desire and Bob's balls talk without his brain getting involved. "Lick it off him."
The hand on Bob's hip tightens - he hopes in appreciation, he doesn't think he could take a fight right now and he definitely doesn't think he could take Dan in a fight - and Jepha's eyes and smile widen like someone turned some dial up inside him. No, not someone. Bob.
And Jepha's leaning forwards with his hands twisted behind his back, craning his neck forwards, touching his tongue to Frank's lower lip and with a face that says just how much he doesn't like the taste, Jepha Howard licks Bob's piss out of Frank's mouth.
So that's the second time Bob almost blacks out from the loss of blood to the head.
Frank smirks, of course, of course, and gives Jepha a gentle, short kiss mostly on his upper lip but he sways back; saying in the language that Bob realises he's come to understand pretty comprehensively now, I don't need that.
This is pretty much going to be the last burst Bob gets out before he's genuinely too hard, he's trying to squeeze off the flow of blood to his nethers as it is and the restraint is making him fucking crazy, his hips making shallow movements towards the guys on the floor and Dan's hand keeping him in check symbolically rather than physically.
So he hoses them. He really, really lets go, starts forcing piss out of the end of his dick like he's on a deadline to miss a flight, pee faster pee faster, and cascades, waterfalls, more piss than he thought his bladder could contain is splashing down in the crack between their bodies. It polishes and sharpens and glossifies their tattoos; Jepha's typewriter is as stark and clear as if it got done a week ago, Frank's AND all but glows blackly against his skin, and two hard and eager dicks are so wet they might just be underwater. And the smell, fuck, the smell, the smell as it soaks away into the carpet, the smell of Bob all over two separate sets of body chemistry, one painfully familiarly his and the other apparently on loan.
He's kinda sorry when he can't go any more, but he's also kinda giddy and almost grateful for the solid, supporting presence of Dan behind him. Even if he can feel the dude's boner poking into him, and he's not sure how he feels about that.
Right up until Dan kisses him on the neck from over his shoulder and then, oh, his brain doesn't get a say in it any more. This is not a friendly kiss.
Bob's barely thinking at all when he feels something wet and hot and narrow touch the end of his dick from one side, and something wet and hot and narrow touch the side of his dick, and the smell in his nostrils is the steam of hot piss rising from hot bodies, and Dan is licking his throat.
A noise comes out of Bob's throat that he's positive he has never in his life made before. Ever. Under no circumstances has Bob ever been moved to make a sound like this; it seems to start in his balls, gain momentum in his guts, take a running leap up his throat and get vibrato from the back of his teeth. What comes out sounds like the purest verbalisation of what sex actually fucking means and in future he's going to be pretty ashamed when he has to admit that it kind of made him more horny hearing how... how horny he is. What the fuck.
Dan's tongue is apparently intent on outlining Bob's jaw, and Dan apparently doesn't give a crap how beard burn on the tongue feels; there are more tongues downstairs and they're taking up a lot more of Bob's mental space, tongues and lips nibbling and smoothing the skin of his dick, the head of his dick, not enough to get him off, not enough to let him come, but enough to get him to this state of not being able to do fucking anything but slump back into Dan with his hips pointing forwards. Not being about to do fucking anything but make sounds he didn't think he had in him before this moment. FUCK.
Bob's skin is on fire. He doesn't know how he's got the blood in his body for it to make him so hot all over, seeing how most of it must be trying to burst his dick with how hard it is, but he's there. His clothes are too tight. He's too warm. He can smell his own sweat even over the smell of piss and the smell of Dan right under his nose.
Dan's hand comes off his hip and slides up under his shirt. Even with the concentrating attention of mouths - mouths, plural, more than one mouth, Jesus fucking Hoover Christ - on his dick like this, even now he can feel rough callouses, rougher than frank's guitar-burnt fingers and his own hands by far, rough finger-pads on his lower belly, travelling up his happy trail, up his stomach, lifting up his sweater to the cold air of the room. Merciful cold air.
Bob tries to swallow the next noise but without much luck.
And Dan stops licking. Bob's whole body shudders with that and with the sudden pressure on his left nipple, with the presence of a fairly fucking big hard-on in his back, but most of all with the way Frank and Jepha seem to be intent on finding away to make out with each other and French the head of his dick at the same time. It's a weird fucking sensation. It's weird and really fucking nice.
"You're pretty wound up," Dan murmurs by his ear. Which, yes, but there's a fucking hard-on sticking into Bob's spine that says he's not the only fucking one.
Bob just makes a sound that might or might not be a yes and tries to breathe.
"Don't know how much more of this we can expect you to take," Dan adds in the same low mutter, his lips just touching the outer rim of Bob's ear, and it's a testament to how completely fucking on edge Bob is that even that is pin-sharp on his senses and makes his hairs stand up. Jesus he's sweating; Dan's fingers aimlessly circle his nipple. Frank's mouth, Jepha's mouth, seem to have merged into one messy, slobbery, hot orifice designed only to tease him.
"Yeah," Bob croaks, not sure what he's saying or if his thighs are going to carry on holding his weight.
"Look," Dan whispers, so Bob does look, down over his scrunched-up sweater where Dan's forearm has deformed the line of his clothes, down over his naked belly to Frank and Jepha going at it like a pair of demon fucking piglets or something, and he can just see past their shoulders, just see where Frank's pinky has intertwined with Jepha's. Frank trails the sharp edge of his front teeth briefly over the outer rim of the head of Bob's dick and Bob jerks like someone stabbed him. SHIT FUCK.
Dan mutters something Bob doesn't catch. "Huh?" Bob knows his mouth his hanging open like a retard's. There just isn't enough air in the room.
"--the bed," Dan's saying, "naked. Both of them. C'mon."
Somewhere in the hot, churning mess of his mind Bob wonders abstractly if he will ever, ever be able to hear the phrase both of them again without getting disgustingly hard.
Getting to the bed is difficult. Getting out of his clothes is difficult - not because he doesn't want to [Bob is far too far gone to feel self-conscious any more about anything very much], but because his hands don't seem to want to obey him and his thighs are fucking shaking and Dan keeps helping which is, contrary to what the guy may think, not actually helpful.
The bed is fucking horrible. It only vaguely connects with his mind; it might have been a bit more comfortable if Dan hadn't fucking broken it earlier. And Bob's on the goddamn bed naked to his socks [oh yeah, he was always bad at this bit of sex. Bob always forgets to take them off. And anyway, his feet are cold. And anyway, stripy knee socks add class to a situation which this one sorely needs], kneeling on a lumpy mattress and thinking half-hysterically that there are more stiff dicks in this room than at the RNC.
Frank and Jepha are wriggling and giggling in the centre of the bed, naked and warm and rough-soft against each other, two colouring-book pages stuck together; Frank never giggles like that unless he's stoned but he's sober now, sober and nipping at Jepha's snakebites like some sort of really ... hot ... fucked up game of chicken.
His hands are on Jepha's back without him thinking about it, stroking and kind of ... pushing him closer, like he's arranging puzzle pieces, and Frank apparently yanks Jepha's piercing a little too hard with his teeth, because he goes, FUCK, my teef in yelp of comical pain while Jepha -
- makes a sound that seems to come from the same source as Bob's earlier wtf groans. And arches his back into Bob's hand. And turns back over his shoulder as soon as Frank [whimpering like a fucking idiot and clutching at his mouth] releases him; "You should, you know."
"I don't know," Bob says, because he really fucking doesn't.
A packet of lube hits him square in the chest, then manages to bounce off his dick on the way down. Dan's waggling his eyebrows at him over the fleshy barricade of two - c'mon Bob, you've thought it before - ridiculous, pretty pain-sluts.
"What could that be?" says Dan in a voice that's not quite calm enough to disguise some pretty fucking obvious arousal, there. Or the lump in his trousers. Dan, for some reason, is mostly-clothed. "Oh, that's right, Bob, it's a clue."
There's a lot of pulling and pushing and arranging. Bob's not quite sure of what's happening and who's moving where because his balls are beginning to ache, seriously, and he's got a fuckdiculous amount of lube all over his dick and right now habit and his thumpadump pulse are urging him to stick it into someone; there's always skin under his fingers and most of the time it's not his and - those are someone's hips. They're Jepha's, because Frank's aren't quite that skinny.
And where the hell is Frank?
Frank's just far enough away that kissing him's difficult, a torso-length away, a Jepha's-body-length away. And for a minute, his hands on Jepha's ass, pulling it open to an orchestra of impatient, throaty noises and at least one pointed shove backwards, back towards Bob's aching dick - for a minute he's just fucking happy to be there. Captain Douchebag over there stops grinning and goes slack - Bob can see Jepha's mouth moving along his dick as Frank's hands go to his own throat and his nipple respectively.
He could watch that all freaking afternoon, Frank groping himself while Jepha blows him, slobbering noises escaping the corner of his mouth, but then again he could also ... Bob's fingers slip of their own slithery accord towards Jepha's asshole, which is sitting there, open like a target, waiting for him. For him? - Jepha's shoulders moving a little in time with the slow, lazy bobbing of his head.
The warmth and tightness around his finger just translates in his brain to exactly what it will feel like around his dick and Bob jerks and hisses as Jepha jerks and groans and Frank jerks and sighs, and Dan pats Bob on the shoulder and says, "It's rude to keep a guy waiting."
Bob's not quite sure of the sequence of events after that; he knows he's balls-deep in Jepha, trying to keep from pushing too hard or too fast even though he fucking wants to, he fucking wants to and Jepha's practically bucking back into him; he's trying to stay slow and steady, his hands on Jepha's skinny fucking hipbones, because he's still vaguely aware that the guy's mouth is on Frank's dick and Frank's mouth is intermittantly catching Bob's as he bends over Jepha's back, and if Jepha bites Frank, Frank's probably going to bite him and Bob hates having a torn lip. And no one told him orgies were so fucking delicate.
He wishes for one white-hot moment that he had some way of recording all this to jerk off over later too, because it's gotta look pretty hot [for Jepha blowing Frank alone, and Frank groping at his own neck and nipples and trying so, so hard not to come], but his mind resettles itself and he thinks in a firm-but-hazy internal monologue, No. No one needs to see my flat white ass wobbling in and out of anyone. Especially not me.
Dan's huge hands are the only part of him Bob can pinpoint; one's scraping past Bob's fingers to stroke the underside of Jepha's dick. While Bob's fucking him. The other is resting lightly on the very base of Bob's spine and making it even harder for him not to just give up and fucking GO for it. It gets even more difficult when one of those massive fingers, two of them, starts dipping between Bob's asscheeks and nearly throwing him off his stride.
It's not at all clear. There are flashing black dots in Bob's eyes when he opens them and red-black panting darkness when he closes them, and he can't get enough air into his lungs and his entire lower body is burning, burning in the mucles and the skin, his dick is the centre of the goddamn fucking universe.
Frank comes first.
Bob knows he's about to come, that Frank's about to come, for a lot of reasons; he knows his breath when he's on the verge. He feels Frank's mouth go tense-then-slack-then-tense against his. He knows the faint sounds and the smell of his skin-soaked-in-dried-piss and everything that's leading up to it. Also because Frank clutches aimlessly at his own lower body and rocks into Jepha's mouth and for a moment there's a sound which is exactly like someone trying to splutter with their mouth full of dick and their nose full of pubes.
(He has kinda noticed that Jepha's pubes seem to have gone the way of all his body hair, and wonders if Frank could be talked into that, maybe. Then if he really wants him to do that; yanking on Frank's happy trail when he's not expecting it makes him writhe beautifully)
Frank's still for a moment, Jepha's mouth kind of suckling him, and then he rocks back and out of the guy's mouth and half-rolls, naked and sticky and droopy all over with that stupid blissed-out expression he gets, sloughing himself onto Bob to mash their mouths together in a lazy post-coital kiss which totally jars with a lot of things (Bob's dick in Jepha's ass. Dan's fingers inching up his ass). Typical fucking Frank.
There's a quiet, frustrated sound in front of him and Bob doesn't even know if he made it or someone else did until it's accompanied by a mutter - if mutters are that open-throated and fucked-out sounding - of, "harder please god harder."
Dan's fingers are motionless and thick and almost sore inside the first two inches of Bob's ass and his face is running with sweat. It's probably cold in the room but he's surrounded by the smell of his own piss and other people's sweat, the smell of cigarettes still greasing the air, and all these things even without the sight of Jepha biting down on his own wrist would have made him full-body flush.
He doesn't need telling twice. The whole bed creaks and something else cracks and Dan's muttering incoherent encouragement, his wrist going even faster than Bob's ass, and Bob's balls are slapping against Jepha's and -
and and and and his skin is like water, so sensitive he can feel all the dustmotes in the air and something like pain is gathering up in his body, something like a sneeze in his lower belly, his fingernails digging into Jepha hard enough to draw blood just as Jepha bites his own arm to bruises, and and and and and Dan twists a finger inside him and Frank plants a sloppy, amused kiss on the dip between Bob's collarbones, and Bob's eyes screw themselves closed and and and and FUCK. YES
He's panting like he's run three fucking marathons and his thighs are made out of wallpaper paste when he finally stops coming; Bob almost slumps down onto Jepha and crushes him crushes Jepha into the mattress, but Frank's in the way, a restraining arm, the smell of piss, hot breath on his chest. And nothing has ever, ever felt this good.
He slithers sideways onto the bed and something else goes crack. Bob's dimly aware of making a kind of man-puddle of muddled limbs and sweat and contentment with Frank gumming his neck in a calculatedly irritating fashion, and the weak light from outside comes in grey and wintery as he flops enough onto his side to watch the grand finale.
Dan's slipped his fingers in to replace Bob and Bob would be a little hurt that this is apparently the same level of, of dicking, except Dan's hands are like fucking bear paws and he's using four fingers, his other hand moving at something like light speed.
He sees Jepha's back arch like a cat's, then a bit more convulsive, then there's a short patter of hn, hn, hn, UNH, an ah that sounds a bit like an uh being dragged from the centre of the earth, and Jepha comes.
Bob's kind of semi-consciously stroking the back of Frank's neck and Frank's mumbling into his own arm, already half-asleep; Jepha looks like all the bones have been removed from his body and is grinning so happily that there are practically waves of sexual relaxation radiating out from him. Bob's getting cold.
He squints at Dan, a horror-movie silhouette against the parking-lot afternoon light as it sidles in through the crack in the curtains. Dan's undoing his fly, which seems like too late, too late; Bob closes one eye and tries to think clearly about what he's seeing as an invertebrate-level floppy Jepha rolls aimlessly onto his back and Bob thinks, holy shit.
Holy shit and he's kinda selfishly, cowardishly (is that even a word?), cowardallyily glad Dan's waited until now because holy shit that is one fucking enormous dick. To go with those fucking enormous hands, Bob guesses, but holy shit. Holy shit holy shit. How is that balls deep in Jepha every night without Jepha Howard changing the way he walks, permanently?
Speaking of Jepha; he's smiling loosely up at Dan and Dan's jerking off, one hand on Jepha's bent knee, his face hidden in shadow. Bob reaches across Frank to stroke the side of Jepha's face and gets his fingers licked for his trouble. He can feel himself drifting to sleep, and there's no--
Something hot and sticky splashes his cheek and the sound of panting grunts slowing to a standstill catches up with his brain.
There's a long silence in which Bob's eyes shutter up again and his brain takes a quiet rest, and he breathes slow and low and happy around the decelerating thumps of his pulse, lying in a stupendously uncomfortable sprawl somewhere between pee-scented Iero and pee-scented Howard, getting goosebumps on a disgusting motel bed.
"So," Dan says, and Bob realises the creak and the shift of balance was because he'd got off the bed, is already off the bed, "we can explain why the carpet is covered in piss, or we can leave by the window."
Bob opens one eye. "Oh, no."
Frank pinches him sleepily somewhere in the sensitive wilderness between his nipple and his armpit. "Fuck off going back to that again."
"No, no," Bob groans. Of course, he thinks as his own socks hit him in the face, this couldn't possibly end simply.
3. Mean Deviation