Ours Is A Criminal And Uncouth Love

[stratospherique]

Title: Ours Is a Criminal and Uncouth Love (Prisonverse)

Authors: stratospherique, strangecreature, apiphile

Fandom: Bandom AU

Word Count: approximately 54,000

Rating: NC-17

Pairing: Several, mainly Frank/Bob

Warnings: some dub-con, buttsex, questionable ethics, legal research done by watching Law and Order and skimming Wikipedia.

Disclaimer: Of course this didn't happen; they're musicians not criminals or prison officers.

Summary: LONG ASS PORN ANGSTY LULZ. And, like, acceptance and personal growth and shit. But mostly ANGST PORN GIGGLES.

So this has been in the works since... oh... Last October? It's time for it to be posted.

Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
Part 7



Frank got arrested in a Vice sweep, gets resisting arrest and assaulting an officer tacked onto the soliciting and possession charges when he head-butts the cop cuffing him. He wasn’t gonna resist, was going to use his get-outta-jail free card from talking to the cops about some murder a few weeks ago, but then the cop made some snide comment about faggots and grabbed Frank’s balls through his jeans. Frank’s sucked his share of cop-cock, but this dude wasn’t one of the guys he’s paid off with sexual favors, and he’s not going to let some uneducated dicktard think he can get away with a free grope.

So he was charged, booked, and dumped in a cell. Two counts of possession (weed, ecstasy), assault (the cop’s broken nose), resisting arrest (everyone runs), and four counts of solicitation (Frank doesn’t think they should count the same guy twice but they do). And apparently adultery is still on the books, as a goddamn crime against the marriage, like New York’s still stuck in the Old Testament, and calling the ADA sent to prosecute his case a stupid fat cunt to her face doesn’t tend to get a dude a lighter sentence. He got 24 months at Arthur Kill Penitentiary and a brand-new wardrobe.

Orange never was his best color.

"Disturbance in B block" is not what Bob needs to hear when he's only just started shift and hasn't really got his awake head on yet.

It translates to something like fuckingfuckin his brain and it's only after Quinn kicks him in the sole of the foot that he removes his boots from the chair in front of him and gets moving. "Disturbance" can mean anything from a shoving match between inmates to imminent riot described by the British guy, Bellamy, who doesn't seem to have got yet that that understatement shit doesn't go down right over here.

Quinn drags behind Bob like some kind of anchor until he's so far behind that Bob might as well be walking on his own. Protocol is two guards to a disturbance in case someone's made himself a shank, but Quinn's what Bellamy would call risk averse so half the time it's Bob on his lonesome trying to pull apart two guys who can't even get to the end of a game of checkers without trying to jam a checker down someone's throat.

This time it's one dude on one dude. There's the usual circle of faces, impassive or excited or wary, the usual bets being made out of the usual corners of the usual mouths. Bob parts the semi-circle on the second try, smacking shoulders with failed arsonists and car thieves to get to something he doesn't fucking want to see anyhow. Quinn is probably on the can by now, reading a rolled-up magazine about vacations in Belize and with absolutely no intention of rejoining Bob until the hitting and shouting part is over with. Bob hates Quinn. He fucking hates him.

It's kinda obvious who's winning, although it's something of a surprise to Bob. Guy underneath has a face like a fist and two blackened fingernails; right now he has a storm-drain river of blood pouring out of both nostrils and the side of his head is already beginning to swell. Guy doing most of the hitting is that tattooed pedo-bait hooker kid, the one Bob was quite sure wouldn't last thirty seconds with his swagger and his pretty eyelashes, and that isn't what Bob expected at all.

The kid ... some Italian-sounding name Bob didn't pay much attention to ... is whaling on fist-face like an autistic kid playing Whack-A-Mole; hard and with the kind of pace that says he's going to keep doing it for fucking hours. He's throwing punches that look like they ought to have a knife in his hand, his face red from exertion and spit running down both sides of his face. He looks fucking insane, like someone's teased a lapdog once too often and it snapped and can't stop barking. He's not yelling anything, though, just grunting with the effort and occasionally interspersing the punches with kicks, elbows, and knees; Bob thinks he hears something like an involuntary growl before he remembers he's supposed to be breaking this shit up.

Bob is not looking forward to putting his hand into that mess.

He's broken up plenty of fights, worse ones than this: knife fights, territorial dog fights, drunk asshole in bar fights, some jackass threatening to stomp P - he's broken plenty. There are protocols and rules about how to break up fights in here and pretty much everyone solidly ignores them if there's no one with a flapping jaw around to see.

Bob grabs the back of Frank's uniform with one hand, and shoves his forearm across the guy's neck, pulling him back in one throttling movement. There is an audible sigh of disappointment from the assembled cons but no one is dumb enough to say shit about it; stuck between Bob's hand and his forearm, far enough away from Bob that he can't elbow him in the gut or head butt him in the teeth (Bob's learned about that the hard way), the kid struggles for a moment then stops dead. Bob's thumb touches the nape of his neck, over some stupid fuck tattoo, and the skin is warm and slightly sweaty. Bob jerks his thumb back and reasserts his grip, just in case the little bastard's waiting for him to relax so he can break free.

Pulling the kid away from the hamburger meat and red smears that constitute the face of the guy he was fighting with is like yanking a dog back from a dish. Every time Bob thinks he's got the kid under control he leans. It's not like an active struggle, just that dead weight Bob recognizes from but I want to go over here with the pets on the leash. Lean, pull, lean, pull.

Bob tights his forearm across the kid's throat and the leaning stops, but the panting gets louder.

"Oh hey, I got..." Quinn's voice comes loud behind him. "... you got it, cool."

Something cold and panicky flairs in Bob's stomach and he all but thrusts the kid at Quinn. "You got it, I need to -" he mutters, setting off at a jog, not bothering to look back at Quinn's doubtless bewildered face. Got to, got to something.

"Something" ends up meaning "sit on the can with his face pressed against the wall" for fifteen minutes, his disgust at the grime overridden by a strange desire for something cool and inanimate to concentrate on, his thighs tense and his head pointedly empty.

Bob can't stop thinking about the new kid. Not ... not in a weird way or anything like that. It's just that Bob thought he had his number the minute he strolled through the gates (dumbass hooker, too pretty to survive long in this place) and he is starting to get the impression that his first impression was plain wrong. And that's intriguing as hell. The kid gets himself sent to the hole for fighting, kicking and screaming the whole way that he's just defending himself. Bob thinks he's probably telling the truth, from what he's seen out in the yard, but the warden is insistent. Iero gets time in solitary, and Bob pulls strings to get put on the Hole rotation. He wants to see what it is about this kid that makes him so fucking interesting.

The thing is, either Bob's got one hell of an imagination, or Frank's been watching him too. And not in the way people eye Bob up when they're looking to buy or bribe or bust out. He doesn't know exactly what he's doing when he pulls Frank out for his required daily march, but when he detours from the usual path into a tucked away corner, away from cameras and co-workers, he just knows that it feels necessary.

Bob gets in one solid hit across Frank's jaw, and the kid's face goes flying sideways. Bob takes advantage of this, wrestles Iero's hands over his head. "Stop ... fucking ... fighting ..." he mutters, slams his hips against Frank's stomach to pin him in place. And now the kid has something to say.

"Fucking fairy, you coulda fucking asked," he spits out, but Bob's sort of sure he doesn't sound scared, or upset, or anything. He doesn't look scared. This close up, Bob can see a tiny hole under his lip, like the one in his own, for a confiscated lip ring. "What, you just wanna lookit me or you want me to do something, screw?"

Bob hesitates for the first time. "Get." He swallows roughly. "Get on your knees," he orders, and puts his weight down across Frank's shoulders. Frank gets, hitting his knees on the concrete floor with a hard crack, still looking up at Bob with this unreadable look in his eyes, like half defiance and half interest and half smugness.

And, okay, that's too many halves, but Bob's still kind of thrown. This isn't like the encounters he's heard some of the other guards laughing about in the locker room when the warden's not around, with inmates that cry and cuss them out and try to go for their gun. Out of all of those halves, the thing that's most notably missing is fear. Frank ... definitely isn't afraid of him, if that smirk's anything to go by, not even as Bob starts to undo his slacks. Frank's leaning back against the wall, like this is no big thing, like he's been here before, even though Bob's pretty sure no one's pulled him into a dark corner since he's been here (no one's boasted about it, and the kid's too pretty to not boast about). Although maybe if he thinks about it, this isn't that different from a john for Frank. But he doesn't want to think about it, when he's got his fly open and he's shoving his fingers through the prison-issue buzzcut on Frank's head.

This is nothing, absolutely fucking nothing, like any blowjobs he's had since ... in the past 4 years. Longer. He can't meet Frank's eyes when he looks down to see his dick sliding in and out of his mouth, and he can't even watch that for long without feeling like he's gonna embarrass himself. It's too much, and Frank still isn't scared, and Bob is ... Bob is so turned on that he's scaring himself. He gets his fingers around the back of Frank's neck, holds him in, and tries not to think about the cheap orange polyester scraping under his fingers.

He's got to maintain some sense of control here or Frank really will take him apart just with his mouth. Still, he grunts a warning before he starts moving, pushing against Frank's mouth. And Frank just fucking takes it too, holds himself still and lets Bob fuck his mouth. His face is flushed, not like Bob (who just goes an unattractive all-over purple) but just pink coming up over his cheekbones and the view is so fucking pretty that Bob has to look away, look past Frank's pretty mouth. Which is when he sees Frank's jumpsuit, baggy as it is, tented with a hard-on.

Well. That's a twist he wasn't expecting. He takes a chance, pushes down Frank's throat and doesn't pull out right away - not enough to choke him, he's pretty convinced by now that Frank's got blowjobs down pat, but enough to fuck with him a little. Frank's eyes close right away, but not in pain, not if the way his eyelashes fan against his cheek is anything to go by and ... the little fucker swallows and it's Bob who's left choking on a stupid noise and skinning his knuckles against the rough wall.

Frank does it again, this time with a little gurgle noise that goes straight to Bob's balls. And they're both doing this like they mean it, because this place isn't going to stay quiet forever and Bob really really trying to keep an eye out for trouble (he's supposedly the one in charge here, right) but he's having trouble not watching Frank's face. Frank takes what Bob's pushing on him beautifully, lashes on his cheeks and that pretty pink flush and his lips soft and slick on his dick. Bob thinks that maybe this is the worst idea he's ever had, the stupidest thing he's ever done, because he doesn't want one blowjob out of Frank, he hasn't even come yet and he already wants more.

Especially when, even though Bob's already got him pushed back in a way that's got to be uncomfortable, Frank bends impossibly further and kind of jerks his hips forward at nothing with a muffled moan... And the vibrations from that make Bob's eyes fucking roll back.

Bob's startled out of his fugue of staring at Frank's mouth and his dick and Frank's crotch and his dick in Frank's mouth by the beep of an alarm on his watch; Frank's time out of the cell is almost over. Frank's gotta know what that means, too, has to know that Bob really goddamn needs to get off before going back to the rotation. There's no way in hell he's spending the rest of his shift with a boner and the knowledge that he could have jizzed down Frank's throat. Frank makes another noise, more of a growl than a moan (but holy fucking vibrations) like he's asking Bob to bring it on ... At least that's what Bob really hopes it means, because he jerks forward like he's the one in restraints here.

Bob puts his other hand on Frank's face, so he can feel his own cock moving over Frank's tongue, stroking the corner of his lip, and fucks Frank's mouth seriously. He's expecting Frank to take it, since so far the kid hasn't given any sign that he's anything but good at this, and it isn't long before he's making a really dignified noise and an even more dignified face and spills over Frank's tongue. He doesn't give him room to spit, either, he holds him in place so Frank has to swallow his come. Not that he thinks Frank would've actually gone anywhere. He swallows like he's starving, like he's made to take anything Bob will give him ... He licks his lips when Bob pulls back, pink tongue over a hurt-red mouth, and Bob's thinking about some hypothetical 'next time' before he can stop himself, even before he's caught his breath.

It's kind of ironic, the fact that the only protest he gets from Frank over the course of this whole insane thing is when he finally pulls himself together enough to help Frank to his feet. Frank kind of falls against him, tangled up with him for a moment, but as soon as Bob takes a grip on Frank's collar in preparation to march the kid back to the hole, Frank jerks around to stare at him and blurts "What the hell? You're not gonna ... Aw, what the fuck, dude! I'll fucking report you, you fucking ... fucker!"

Bob can't listen to Frank's raspy dick-roughened voice. He doesn't think about what he's doing before his hand is stinging from hitting Frank across the face. "Shut the fuck up," he mutters. Frank's cheek is red almost immediately, a Bob-hand shaped rash across his face, and he stares at Bob accusingly. It's not Bob's fault the kid didn't understand how this sort of thing was supposed to go. "Back to the Hole."

If Bob thought Frank's eyes could scorch before, it's nothing compared to the mutinous glare he's getting now. "Oh, you're a real fuckin' charmer," Frank mutters, and for a moment, Bob thinks the kid's actually pissed enough that he's going to spit at him. Shit, maybe Bob deserves it. Frank's still hard, and he's young (Bob doesn't even want to think about how young, fuck) and it would only take a minute to get him off ... But that's not how this plays out. "Move it," Bob orders warningly, and Frank starts marching this time. Bob's trying very hard not to notice that he's still beautiful even scowling, his mouth tight with frustration.

He should've just gotten the kid off while they were out of camera range, Bob realizes later, when he's gotta listen to Iero cussing and moaning as he jerks off behind the heavy door of his cell.

Frank's slouched on the bleachers in the yard with Jepha and Dan when C.O. Bryar stomps over looking pissy. "Iero. C'mere," he says, hand on his nightstick threateningly. Frank slouches further down against Jepha, his head on Jepha's bony knee and fingers scratching at his hair. He still hasn't gotten used to the buzz cut.

"What's the problem, C.O.?" Frank drawls, poking at the hole in his lip where his piercing should be. He can still imagine that he can taste Bryar's come on his tongue.

"Get. Up." Bryar looms over them, and Dan makes a grumbling noise that makes both Jepha and Frank poke him to shut up. "Now, Iero." Frank waits a few seconds, then pushes himself to his feet. "Save me a spot at dinner, fuckasses," he tosses over his shoulder and lets Bryar grab him by the scruff of the neck, haul him off the blacktop towards the prison.

“Where're you taking me?" Frank demands when they're back in the dark halls of the building. Bryar doesn't answer, keeps marching him forward. Frank grabs at Bryar's wrist on his neck and gets both of his hands pinned behind him in one of the screw's mitts. "Fuck you, where we going?"

"Showers," Bryar grunts, just as he pushes Frank through the door to the shower room. No one is in there; none of the blocks have their shower time right now and no guard's gonna patrol an empty space.

Frank gets shoved face-first into the tile wall furthest from the door. "Oh fuck you, you think I'm just gonna take this?" he snaps, struggling while Bryar shoves his jumpsuit off his shoulders.

"Yeah, pretty much," Bryar says, kicks Frank's feet apart. And ok, yeah, Frank's not trying that hard to get free. He coulda broken loose from Bryar's grip at any time when he was getting hauled down. He's not cuffed. He's fast. But he's not, he's just sorta going through the motions.

Bryar shoves his jumpsuit down around his hips, pushes his prison-issue boxers down past his ass. "Fucking sicko," Frank snaps, gets his face pushed further into the tile for it. Bryar's hands are hot on his skin, gripping hard, and he can feel Bryar getting hard through his cheap polyester pants.

"Shut up," Bryar growls in his ear, his beard scraping against Frank's jaw. Frank's still squirming, but now he's got his hips smashed against the wall, pinned in place by Bryar's, and all his thrashing around is just getting him more naked. Bryar grabs at Frank's wrists, pins them over his head with one hand. "Don't move them," he adds, squeezing hard to emphasize his point.

Frank swears, his curses bouncing off the tile in a hissed stream, but Bryar ignores him. Something's rustling in Bryar's pockets. Frank tries to look over his shoulder but he can't see past his own ugly-ass jumpsuit. "Fucking pervert, gonna fucking report you," Frank hisses, but he doesn't really mean it. And fuck, Bryar was digging for lube Frank guesses, since he's got slippery fingers pushing at his ass. "Ffffffuck," he's groaning, his hips snapping forward against the tile.

Bryar isn't saying anything, but Frank can hear his breathing, harsh and ragged over his shoulder. The guard's fingers are broad and rough, not exactly gentle but not hurting him, not painful like some of the johns Frank's been with. Frank's getting hard, his dick pressed painfully against the wall, and he squirms back on Bryar's hand, tries to get more and unsquish his balls at the same time. Frank gets what he wants, gets Bryar's hand clutching at his hip and his fingers push deeper. He scrapes his fingers against the wall, doesn't try to bite back the whine that's building in his throat. And then Bryar pulls his fingers out, presses against Frank from behind and pushes in, his dick slick and hot and heavy inside him. Frank's fucking surrounded, Bryar's hands on his hip, his shoulder, mouth hot on Frank's ear with these low growling noises.

Bryar pushes him up on his toes with each thrust, slow at first, testing, making Frank gasp and bite his lip hard. "Just fucking do something," he finally snaps, his voice sharp in the echoey showers. Bryar apparently doesn't like Frank ordering him around, keeps going slow and steady. Frank gives a harsh 'fuck' when Bryar finally slams up into him, his hips grinding against the tile in front of him. Bryar's fingers dig into Frank's shoulder and he groans, bites at Frank's neck. And then they're fucking, hard, Bryar's pounding up into him, rough grunts and curses bouncing off the tile. Frank hasn't moved his hands from above his head where Bryar put them, still clawing at the tile.

He's not expecting Bryar to slam his hand into the tile next to Frank's face, bracing himself so he can fuck Frank harder. Frank can see the pulse flying in Bryar's wrist above his uniform cuff; the sight makes him bite his lip and groan. Bryar is clutching at him, hard enough to bruise Frank thinks, and his skin is hot against Frank's cheek. He's gonna have beard-burn. Frank whines, high and thin, when Bryar's dick slams against his prostate and ok it's maybe not the best sex Frank's ever had but it's still damn good.

Bryar's grunts are coming faster, deeper against Frank's ear, riding him hard and fast into the wall. Frank is totally going to come this time, he's panting and pushing back against Bryar, biting down the demands for more that keep bubbling up in his throat. Shit, he sort of wishes he wasn't in prison just so he could hit on Bryar, see if practice makes perfect. Frank groans when Bryar bites hard on his neck, twists under him so Bryar has to hold him tighter. Bryar bites him again, growls into his skin, and then Frank feels the hot rush of come inside him. Bryar is panting, still clutching at him, but he's not moving, not touching Frank's dick. Frank whines, moves his hands finally so he can jerk off, he's so close. "Don't fucking think about it," Bryar grunts, pulls out. There's the satisfied zip of Bryar's trousers and Frank's left, panting and damp with sweat and hard, still face to the wall.

"Fuck," Frank snarls, turning to face the douchebag guard. He wants to fucking come, doesn't want to jerk himself off again. "Dickfucking screw fucker!" He's pissed. He gets his hand on his own dick, and there's the sharp crack of a hand across his face.

"I said don't," Bryar says. "Get yourself cleaned up. You’re going back to the yard.”

“You gotta lot of pretty fuckin’ boywhores here,” the new guy - Hagevik - says. A couple guys turn to look at him funny. Yeah, there’re a lot of prostitutes in Arthur Kill, and there’re some good looking ones. No one ever brings it up. It’s a little too close to admitting that they use the inmates for sex.

Bob keeps to himself, pulling on his uniform shirt. The new guy’ll get his shit together or he’ll wash out, one of the pretty boywhores he’s eyeing (or the gang they belong to) will beat the shit out of him. Or he’ll learn to watch his damn mouth, keep his thoughts to himself.

“That Iero kid in B block …” Hagevik keeps going, digging himself a deeper hole. Bob’s fingers clench in his shirt for a second before he forces himself to relax. “Kid’s got a smart mouth.” Quinn shoots Bob a bleary red-eyed glance, like he can see Bob getting angry. “Bet he’s a great cocksucker.”

“Iero? The kid’s nasty, he’s got the clap,” Quinn drawls, slams his locker shut. “Saw it in his file on his last trip to sick bay.” Bob hitches his belt up, shuts his locker. “Watch out for the pretty ones, they’re all skanky here.” He gives Bob a look that says you owe me so much beer when Hagevik shudders in disgust and shuts up. Bob is going to buy Quinn all the liquor he wants when they get to the bar. He still catches Frank’s wrist and hisses to watch his back against Hagevik, to tell Jepha too.

Bob is starting to think that maybe he’s in over his head with this kid.

A few weeks later, one of the guards finds Hagevik unconscious, bloody, and covered in piss in a tucked away corner. Word gets around that he tried to pull Navarro into a dark corner for some non-consensual shit. Everyone agrees that Hagevik should consider himself lucky he’s not dead; Navarro runs with Gabe Saporta’s boys and the short fucker is the nastiest of them all.

“The fuck are you so happy about?” Quinn asks as Frank practically skips past them on the blacktop. Bob glares at the kid. Frank’s normally scowling and putting up a badass street punk front, this good mood is suspicious.

“What’s it to you?” Frank fires back, pausing in his irritatingly upbeat stride to slouch in their direction.

“If you’ve got something illegal goin’ on we gotta stop it,” Quinn says, but Bob knows he’s not that interested in stopping anything illegal, if anything, he’s going to want in on it. Plus he’s pretty sure Frank is keeping himself out of the really illegal shit going on in Arthur Kill; other than the fights he got in when he first arrived, he’s stayed clean and above-board (other than the fights; other than the fucking and not ratting out Bob for it).

“Shit, can’t I be in a good mood without you fuckers thinking I’m doing something illegal?”

“You’re in prison,” Bob mutters. “Get the fuck outta here.” Frank sneers at him and keeps heading for Whitesides and Howard and their usual haunt on the bleachers.

But Bob does still wonder, keeps stealing short looks over at Frank in the corner of the yard. Frank’s sprawled over Whitesides and Howard, smoking like a chimney and laughing loudly enough that Bob can hear him over the din of inmates. And after yard time, he passes Frank slumped over a table with his arm out for a tiny (smaller than Frank, even) dude to scrape at with a sewing needle and ink. Bob scowls at the guy and gets a brilliant blue-eyed blown-pupil grin in return; Frank gives him a blurry smirk and Bob hurries away.

It’s not until after dinner that Bob can shove Frank into the laundry room and onto his knees. Frank looks up at him from the floor and grins. “You gotta get me off this time,” he demands while Bob shoves his pants down. They don’t have much time, and Bob has better things for Frank’s mouth to be doing, so he just grunts at him and shoves his hand into Frank’s hair. Frank isn’t cuffed, now that he’s proven to the system that he’s not a threat, and Bob really fucking appreciates that when he gets grubby fingers around his dick where Frank’s mouth isn’t. And he doesn’t even care that Frank is groping himself through his jumpsuit, when he’s got Frank’s nose in his pubes.

Bob tugs on Frank’s hair when he feels his orgasm coming up like a freight train. Frank pulls his pretty (perfect) mouth off Bob’s dick and smirks up at him, his lips this close and about to say something, and Bob is coming.

All over Frank’s face.

Frank splutters and swears while Bob stares. Fuck fuck fuck he’s going to laugh is battling with mine mine mine mine in his head and he can’t even form something approaching an apology.

“What the fuck? Seriously, now you’re really fucking getting me off,” Frank says, glaring up at Bob with shiny smears of semen sliding down his chin.

“Um. Get up,” Bob mutters, and keeps staring at his come on Frank’s face. He can’t stop looking, not when Frank is licking at his lips and pulling jizz into his mouth with his tongue. Frank is pushing himself to his feet and shoving his hips forward at Bob.

“Coulda warned me if you wanted to come on my face,” he mutters. “On my fucking birthday, Jesus.”

“It’s your birthday?”

“Yeah. So think of this as a really cheap present and apology,” Frank says, and shoves his jumpsuit and boxers down with one hand and scrubbing at his face with the other.

“How old are you?” Bob can’t help but ask, habit, manners, as he’s working his hand into Frank’s clothes and closing around his cock.

“Nnnnnineteen.” Frank’s eyes are hazy and half-shut so he hopefully doesn’t see Bob’s stunned-stupid look.

Nineteen. Frank is nineteen and Bob can’t remember how long he’s been in prison, a year? Over a year? And Bob is twenty-seven and just came on this tiny jailbait’s kid face. He jerks Frank off automatically, barely hearing Frank swearing and moaning over the sound of his pulse pounding in his ears.

Nineteen and Bob can’t think back clearly enough to figure out if he’s not just abusing his position but if he was abusing a minor, too. Bob feels disgusting, his stomach full of needles and angry knife-winged butterflies. He hasn’t fucked a nineteen year old since he was nineteen, and he wasn’t fucking a boy then, and definitely not a con, in prison, a hooker and a mule and the hottest thing Bob’s had his hands on in years.

Frank comes on Bob’s fingers with a stuttered moan while Bob is still freaking out, his pretty sticky face half-buried in Bob’s shoulder. “Happy fuckin’ birthday to me,” he mumbles, his voice raspy in Bob’s ear.

“Get yourself cleaned up,” Bob mutters, wiping his hand on Frank’s uniform. He gets his own pants fastened back up and shoves his hands in his pockets, looking everywhere but Frank. Frank still has his come drying on his chin and a satisfied grin on his lips, and Bob doesn’t want to think about how young he is and how badly he still wants him.

Nineteen and a hooker and nineteen and I’m going to hell and nineteen and I want to fuck him forever

Bob doesn’t meet his eyes when he shoves Frank back into his cell at Howard, just slams the door shut and stomps back to the guards’ post. The relief he feels when he figures out Frank was eighteen when he got to prison is more humiliating than coming on Frank’s face.

This is getting ridiculous.

"Look, man," Jepha says, over the whomp-whomp-whomp of his heel banging against the front of the washing machine he's currently perched on, "If you're going to be such a fucking princess about leaving, you should tell them to let me out instead."

"Let us out," Dan corrects him, and grabs Jepha's heels to stop them from swinging. Frank scowls at both of them and shoves his laundry into the dryer - fucking bullshit, having to wash his own sheets the day he's getting out- and slams the door.

"I'm not being a fuckin princess, fuckass," Frank mutters.

He doesn't really want to look at Jepha and Dan when they're being all ... Jepha and Dan. Dan's fingers are still around Jepha's ankle, obviously squeezing in a way that makes Jepha go all sleepy-eyed happy. And it pisses Frank off, because the only one who touches Frank like that, able to find that perfect balance between violence and possession, is still hovering around like a goddamn creeper, all scowls and stares.

If he doesn't at least come over to say goodbye before he ships out, Frank's straight up never going to forgive him.

Frank has to hit Dan upside the head when they start getting too public with their display of affection. Not just because it's making him jealous, really, it's just not a good idea to be that obvious in here. Really. It's enough violence to get Bryar's attention, though, and the king of lurking makes his way through the laundry room to scowl at them up close and personal.

"Is this laundry or loitering?" Bob asks, all business with the full-on CO voice, arms folded. Don't mess with this man. Always makes Frank want to make him squirm, make him gasp, just to know that he can. He sticks his hand up and chimes "laundry" like a good boy.

"Loitering, sir," Dan says cheerfully, hooking his fingers through Jepha's grimy bracelet to tug him off the machine. "See ya, Frank."

Frank leverages himself up to take Jepha's spot on the washing machine so he can be at eye-level with Bob, and starts kicking his heels against the door. "Am I doing something wrong, CO?" he drawls. "'Cause I don't wanna get my parole called off."

Bob doesn't react much, which is kind of disappointing, but Frank's pretty sure that he bites the inside of his cheek before shooting back "It won't get called off. You're a pain in the ass, Iero. We'll all be ..."

"Glad to see me gone?" Frank fills in when the rest of Bob's sentence wanders off. He kicks the machine a little harder (BAM) and forces a toothy grin. "Hey, the feeling's mutual. Not like I'm gonna be looking in the rearview either."

Bob opens his mouth like he's going to say something, then slams it shut and glares at him. Frank glares back, daring him to make the first move. The staring contest is broken by Quinn and Bert stumbling in. Frank watches Bob's face turn red, then purple, then sheet-white when the guy sees they aren't alone any more.

"Uuuummm we'll leave you to it," Quinn mumbles, and Bert giggles from where he's hanging off Quinn's arm, still cuffed. Bob scowls at them as they leave, shutting the door behind them, and Frank feels his own face twist into a wry smile.

"You guys really are an ethical bunch, aren't ya," he says, still pounding his feet rhythmically against the machine.

"Probably something to do with the company we - STOP THAT," Bob snaps, and whacks Frank's thigh, just an open-handed swat with no real force behind it. Frank stops and grins at his knees.

"You made it ... interesting, man," Frank mutters, examining Bob's boots with great intensity, "So, like. I don't know. Thanks or whatever." When he looks up, Bob's default hard-ass guard expression is just slipping all over the place. Jeph can call him a princess all he wants, but the guy's got truly amazing eyes.

"You're not gone yet," Bob says quietly.

"No. No I'm not," Frank agrees, wondering if his own expression is as confusing as Bob's is. He starts kicking the machine again, just to give himself time to come up with something to say. He half-expects the next slap to his thigh, though he still flinches a little at it. "They're making me do my own laundry before the bus leaves," he says by way of explanation, like Bob doesn't know protocol. Like Bob wasn't the one who's been supervising the whole time. Frank kicks one more time, then slides off the machine and lands right on his feet in Bob's personal space. "Not like I've got anywhere better to be out there anyways."

Bob huffs, an almost-laugh, and doesn't step back. "It'll be better," he assures him dryly, actually looking him in the eye now, "Try not to fuck it up. You ..." Bob breaks off and scratches furiously at the back of his neck. "It was interesting. But get the hell out of here and don't come back, alright?"

It hits Frank like a punch in the gut (and a kick in the knees, and a shiv to the heart) that he's going to miss the hell out of this guy. "Aww," he says, willing his voice into sarcasm, into steadiness, "That's the sweetest thing you've ever said to me, Bobby."

Bob pushes Frank back against the machine. "Don't call me that," he mutters, but Frank can see the red in his cheeks, under the blond scruff that he will admit (only to himself, only sometimes) he likes scraping over his cheek when Bob's fucking him.

"You're gonna miss me, Bobby," Frank says, pushing back at Bob's chest.

"It'll be very quiet without you," Bob allows evenly. Frank finally earns himself a reaction when he turns a push into a poke and Bob catches his wrist. "Stop. Jesus, do you ever quit?"

Frank tests Bob's grip out of habit and the need for more, twisting his arm. "I'll back off if you say it." He uses Bob's grip as leverage, getting right up in his face. "Come on. Say you'll miss me." He's close enough to kiss him, still unsure if he's going to allow it, but if he keeps talking, he's going to wind up saying 'please'.

Bob's eyes are even crazier blue this close. Frank can see freckles on his eyelids when he blinks slowly, it makes him wonder if Bob has freckles everywhere. "Say, it, Bobby," he hisses. Bob doesn't say it. He grabs Frank by the back of the neck, instead, and smashes their mouths together. Frank's knees go wobbly (and he will never, ever, admit that) and he clutches at Bob's uniform. Yeah, Bob's gonna miss him.

He's not exactly holding back himself either, hanging onto handfuls of Bob's uniform so tight that Bob's going to be a rumpled mess once Frank lets go. But this is ... it, man. Last time, last chance, not a single damn thing to lose. He presses his tongue into Bob's mouth and wonders how long he'll remember the taste of him.

Bob's hand, the one not digging into the scruff of Frank's neck like he's a goddamn naughty kitten, is grabbing at his waist hard enough to make him twist and squirm. Just right, possessive and too rough. Frank surges up on his tippy-tip-toes and bites Bob's lip, right where the tiny hole for the lip ring he's never seen is. Bob retaliates by digging his fingers in tighter, hard enough that Frank has to whine in ... not submission, he never fucking submits, but he backs down a little.

Nobody's playing it cool this time though and the intensity of it is scaring Frank as much as it's turning him right the hell on. The thought of 'never again' is like a match on gasoline and Frank finally gets just how much Bob's been holding back before. The edge of the dryer feels like it'll leave a goddamn permanent dent in his spine if Bob presses him back against it any harder, and Frank couldn't give less of a fuck. Nothing Bob could do to him here will last forever, much as he wants it too. He can feel Bob's dick against his belly, half-hard through layers of shitty blue and orange polyester, and pushes forward against him to see if he can make Bob make one of his rare fuck-hot noises. He's lucky today, Bob doesn't have himself under control (fuck Frank loves it gets off on it when Bob's not in control of himself), and he gets to feel and hear and taste the growl Bob makes. Frank doesn't even try to stop the answering whine he can feel building in his own throat.

He’s torn, because he wants this hard and fast and as out of control as he can get it, but he knows damn well that once this is over, it’s over. End of the line, one for the road…

Frank presses himself against Bob like he can keep the guy with him if he just gets close enough, locking his fingers around fistfuls of Bob’s nice neat shirt and pulling hard. “C’mon,” he mumbles, when Bob’s mouth leaves his for the space of a half-breath, “C’mon, Bob.”

Bob’s eyes really are too intense, this close up, when their mouths are only a breath apart and Frank can feel stubble scraping his face when Bob nods shortly. “Fuck, yesss,” he says, and then Bob’s hands are fumbling at his jumpsuit and Frank is fumbling at Bob’s fly, between harsh kisses and clutching hands.

What they need is a bed. Proper big bed, fucking king-sized for them to mess up and take each other apart for days like Frank really wants. But all they’ve got is this little windowless room, and the sharp chemical smell of cheap detergent, and maybe fifteen minutes (if they’re lucky) before someone comes knocking.

Fuck. At the moment, Frank’ll take whatever he can get from Bob.

They’re both tearing at clothing now, getting in each others’ way, and Frank could get Bob’s pants open a whole lot quicker if he took his tongue out of Bob’s mouth for half a minute, but he just … can’t. Fuck efficiency. If this is the last taste he’s getting, he’s making it count.

Bob finally hits Frank's hands out of the way, when his jumpsuit's been shoved open and off just enough, and gets his own pants open. "Turn around," Bob grunts in his ear. Frank doesn't, still busy trying to get his hands on as much of Bob as he can. He guesses Bob loses patience though, because he's suddenly off balance and face-first over the machine he had been leaning back against.

"Fuck, warn a guy," Frank mutters, but then Bob's hands (big, calloused, never gentle and never enough) are shoving his uniform further down and he can hear the familiar, so welcome noise of a lube packet being torn open.

A warning would’ve been nice, sure, but Frank has to admit that he’s not exactly disappointed at the turn of, uh, events. When he goes to get comfortable, pushing himself up on his forearms, Bob gets a hand between his shoulder blades … Not exactly a shove, but a kind of wordless order to stay, and Frank makes a noise that probably would’ve made more sense if someone was sucking his dick.

He wants to squirm, to find every last one of Bob’s buttons and push them to see if he can piss the guy off enough to make him hold Frank down for real. But they haven’t got time enough for that, and that … that is a true fucking tragedy if Frank’s ever seen one.

Bob kicks Frank's feet apart further, really kicks him for once, not just nudging at his feet- like he's too busy to remember to be careful with Frank- and Frank bites back a groan. It's not easy, when he's got thick fingers sliding up into his ass and Bob's weight right up against his back. Bob's other hand is still holding him in place, pinned where Bob wants him.

His mumbled approval turns into another moan when it’s a little too much a little too fast and he hasn’t even got enough room to flinch. He feels … like, trapped but in a good way. Held. Secure.

“You good?” Bob asks, low and beautifully breathless. Frank wishes he could see his face, but nods frantically, his cheek going cold against the dented metal.

“Fuck yes.”

Bob's hand ... his hand is sliding up under Frank's shirt, hot against the skin between his shoulder blades. Frank can feel his heart thudthudding against his rib cage and the machine, wonders for a second if Bob can feel it too. Then Bob's fingers are pulling out of his ass and his dick is shoving in to replace them. He's finally, finally figured out Frank doesn't want it all delicate and careful, and Frank hates that he's not going to get this again.

Shit, given a bit more time, they could’ve been fucking amazing together. Bob goes in hard and deep and Frank chokes on his own curses, bucking back against him for more as best he can like this. It burns now, enough to make him glad for the machine holding him up, and he’s going to ache like a motherfucker later, and that’s exactly how he wants it to go. That much, at least, he can take with him.

Frank sinks his teeth into his own wrist when he can't stop himself from making too much noise, with Bob's hand on his back sliding down to his chest, between his skin and his cheap cotton shirt and the cold metal. Bob's mouth is hot against his cheek, his ear, his throat, making low dangerous noises that are threatening to get louder. The angle is awkward, the pace is rough, and they're both being careless now.

Frank sees the knob on the machine next to theirs (ha, theirs, he's gonna laugh at himself for it later) and scrabbles for it, straining against Bob's hand. Bob clutches at him with blunt fingernails scratching into his chest, sinks sharp teeth into his shoulder, trying to hold him in place, but Frank manages to start it up. Clanging whirring thuds start echoing in the room, loud enough next to them that Frank moans in relief as much as in lust and need and pleading.

The only downside of what's otherwise pure genius is that any of the rare noises that Bob lets slip are mostly lost under the noise too. But he's got his arms locked around Frank's chest like he's hauling out of a fight, and Frank can feel it, the low vibration of a groan that means Bob's just hanging onto control by his fingertips. Frank reaches back to curl his hand around the back of Bob's neck, wanting him even closer, and then Bob's mouth is open against Frank's throat, a clumsy press of teeth and tongue, and Frank is just fucking overloading on sensation here.

Bob's teeth dig into Frank's neck, hard enough that Frank knows he's gonna have a bruise, but just for a moment. Not long enough for Frank to really sink into the pain of Bob's teeth in his skin. He whines, he can't help it, when Bob's mouth closes over his ear instead. Now there's no pain, but Frank can hear Bob now, the low grunts that he makes every time he slams up into Frank.

He can't turn far enough to kiss Bob, so all his mouth is good for now is panting, for wetting his own lips as Bob's tongue licks just under his ear, for swearing through his teeth when Bob changes angles and makes Frank's knees go weak. He's too tangled up with Bob to get a hand down to his own dick... The only thing he can do is hang on and just let Bob use him, shutting his eyes and pretending that they could keep this up forever.

And Bob is using him. Frank is rocking up onto his toes with every push, clutching hard at the back of Bob's neck and the scruffy hair behind his ears. He doesn't even think to try to stop himself from gasping out Bob's name when his hips are slammed forward into the machine. He doesn't want to think that this is the laundry room, that this is prison, and that this is the last time they're going to do this. For now it's just Bob fucking him, perfectly too-much, with teeth and nails sunk into his skin - marking him, having him and overwhelming him.

But, Jesus fucking Christ, he’s going to explode if they keep going like this, with his dick hard enough that each heartbeat is a hot wave of pleasure and Bob’s hitting the sweet spot every time. He’s tightrope-walking the line between ecstasy and torture, and it getting hard to remember to breathe. When he tries to say “MORE”, it turns out more like a moan tumbling into a growl, but Bob seems to get the message just the same and everything gets cranked up an impossible notch higher and then Frank doesn’t know what the fuck he’s saying anymore.

Bob's fingers are like claws on Frank's chest, over his sternum (over his heart) and low on his hip. Frank can't do anything but hold on for dear life, one hand on the machine for support and the other slipping from Bob's hair to the arm around his own chest. Bob's mouth is hot against his ear, his neck, his temple, quiet desperate grunts and moans pulling on some line tied between Frank's ear and his balls. Frank doesn't want to come, as bad as his dick is telling him he wants to, he doesn't want to stop. But as usual his dick wins, and he comes, spattering the front of the machine with jizz and a harsh noise he can't even describe coming out of his throat.

It’s like someone turned the sound down on the world for a minute, but the white-noise whoosh in his ears isn’t loud enough to keep him from hearing Bob’s low, drawn-out groan, or missing the moment when Bob tenses, shakes, and stutters something that sounds pretty damn close to his name. Or was it just "fuck"?

When Bob comes, he’s got his forehead pressed against the back of Frank’s neck and Frank can feel it when Bob’s hot unsteady breaths against his skin just stop for a second (And all the experiences that Frank would’ve labeled ‘intense’ in his life before this one take one big step down the list…).

It’s his cue to say something smart, to distract them both from the way they’re shaking and give them some banter to hide behind while they pull themselves together. Frank lets his head drop forward and brushes his lips against Bob’s forearm instead.

Bob loosens his deathgrip on Frank's chest, but isn't letting go yet. Frank can feel his pulse in the hot pre-bruises under Bob's fingers. Bob isn't moving, really, isn't pulling out or away, just breathing against Frank's neck and holding him in place. "Bob." Frank finally says, and he refuses to be embarrassed by how rough his voice is. "Bob. People..." he trails off, looks down at how he's still clutching at Bob's hand on his chest.

It’s just when Frank’s made up his mind that the rest of the world can go fuck itself (he’ll just be here like this) that Bob says “Yeah”, raspy as hell, clears his throat and says it again. He tugs his arm out of Frank’s grip and goose-bumps shoot over Frank’s skin when Bob backs off. Half-stripped and sweating, this place is freezing when he’s not being held. The other machine is still chugging away, the only noise in the room now, covering up silence instead of noise.

Just straightening up makes Frank ache and there are gonna be bruises. Once he’s … out, he knows he’s going to plant himself in front of a mirror somewhere and find every last one of them.

“You messed up the laundry room, Iero,” Bob says. He’s looking down when Frank turns, dealing with his belt, and Frank can’t see his eyes.

“I had help,” Frank points out, hitching his jumpsuit up over his hips and leaving it to hang. He doesn’t feel like pulling himself together just yet.

Bob's hands pause on his belt when Frank scuffs his feet. "Yeah," Bob mutters, non-committally, and finishes buttoning back up to scary-C.O.-Bryar. Frank finds it in himself to scowl at Bob, who still isn't looking at him.

"You clean it up, I gotta get my laundry," Frank says. Now he's got himself together again, he can mouth off to Bryar - not to Bob, who's left bite marks on his throat and bruises on his ... on his chest. But Bryar isn't going to hold onto him like Bob just did, and he gets pushed down to his knees abruptly.

"Clean it up," Bryar orders, and pushes Frank towards the smear of come on the industrial steel.

A touch is a touch is a touch though, and the fingers that close on the back of his neck are enough to send a sweet rush through Frank all over again. (Talk about a fucked up afterglow...) "You're the boss," Frank says, twisting just to make Bryar tighten his grip, "For, like, another half an hour anyway..."

He tucks his hands into the tangle of jumpsuit behind his back and puts his tongue out, nice and showy, and drags it over cold metal and his own jizz, grinning when Bryar's hand twitches. He cranes to shoot him a wet-mouthed smirk over his shoulder.

"Better get your kicks while you can."

Bob pulls him away from the machine by the neck and scowls down at him. "Get up."

"Take me to Father Gee," Frank demands impulsively, and tugs his jumpsuit back up over his arms, zips himself back into his uniform for his last few minutes in prison.

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Bob and Frank by howifall