fic: Or Else Expecting Rain
OR ELSE EXPECTING RAIN
by nokomis305 and thesamefire
Frank/Bob, NC-17
6,630 words.
Summary: When the cops finally let them go after breaking up the riot at their show, Frank and Bob have some tension to work out. A "Desolation Row" video AU.
They've put their clothes back on after getting back from holding and Bob's has these stiff little wrinkles of dried blood. Frank tries to smooth them and Bob flinches, so Frank decides to investigate. It turns out that there are these bruises blossoming over Bob's pale skin and these little half-healed scrapes, and Frank brushes his fingers over them just to hear Bob let out those sharp little breaths.
Frank stops because he realizes belatedly he's hurting Bob, but Bob reaches over and grabs his wrist and hisses "Keep on," and his voice is low and rough.
So Frank drops the hem of Bob's shirt and tells him to take it off. Bob does, flinching as he pulls it over his head, and so Frank makes him turn around, hold his hands up against the wall like he's about to be frisked, and traces his fingertips over the bruises--one, he's sure, came from landing on the cymbals, the curve of it against Bob's shoulder blade, and he presses a kiss hard against the bruise and feels Bob's body quaver as he lets out a gasp.
Frank leans against Bob--Bob's bracing himself against the wall, arms shaking a bit as if he wants to put them down but refuses to yield to the pain--and unbuckles Bob's belt, pulls loose the chain wrapped around his hips. His feet are spread enough that his pants only tug down partway, but it's enough. Frank looks at the chain, weighing it between his hands before draping it across Bob's throat, ends danging loosely down his back.
Frank reaches around and tugs on Bob's cock a few times, and Bob let out a soft groan, hips bucking forward. Frank gathers the end of the chain--it's a thin one, not nearly as heavy in his hand as Mikey's would be--in one hand and tugs gently. Bob stills, and Frank keeps the hand with the chains steady as he strokes Bob's cock, not allowing Bob to move, tugging gently in reminder when Bob lets out noises that Frank judges to be too loud.
"Yes," Bob sighs at one point before Frank tightens the chain just enough to put pressure on Bob's throat. Frank himself is ready to explode, do anything for relief from the maddening hotness of what he's doing, and he settles for rubbing himself against Bob's ass, standing on tip-toes to hiss "I'm not going to fuck you," into Bob's ear, feeling the tension in Bob''s back as Frank bucks against him and squeezes his dick at the same time.
"Please," Bob asks, not quite begging, and Frank shakes his head before remembering Bob can't see him, Bob has his head bowed down between his upraised arms, is breathing heavily and his eyes are squeezed shut.
"Not gonna," he says, even as Bob tries to spread his legs wider, failing as his half-mast pants restrict movement. Frank lets go of Bob's cock long enough to shove his own pants down around his knees, hears the jangle of his belt and chains as he thrusts against Bob, dropping down to flat feet as his calves protest and ending up rubbing his dick against the inside of Bob's thigh, right up near his ass, and then resumes jacking Bob off.
"Fucking tease," Bob hisses out, and Frank tightens the chain in his hand, causing Bob to lean his head back, exposing his throat and how the chain is leaving red marks around his neck. Marks that might bruise, Frank dimly thinks, to match the ones the cops left across Bob's shoulders and torso and arms, and tightens it just that much more. Bob lets out a strangled groan as Frank also tightens his grip on his dick, then stills as his hips jerk forward as he comes. Frank loosens the chain, leaning up enough to lick at the new red line against Bob's freckled skin, when Bob begins to slump forward, boneless after his orgasm.
"Nuh-uh," Frank grunts, giving the chain a warning tug, "I'm not done," and continues rubbing himself against Bob's leg, wanting the hot tightness that real fucking would give him but refusing to give Bob exactly what he wants.
Bob holds himself taut, shoulders shaking from the effort, as Frank gets enough friction to get himself off, and then slumps against Bob's back, chain falling loosely from his fingers as his cheek is pressed against the vivid purple of the worst of the bruises, falling forward as Bob finally slumps forward, lowering his arms and letting out tiny pained sounds as he rubs his shoulders, pushing Frank away.
*
When Frank came, a lot of it probably ended up on Bob's pants, so Bob would be feeling it against his skin as he headed home.
At first it would be cold and wet, and it would warm up even as it got stickier and dried, and eventually his leg hair would be stuck to his pants, so it would hurt a little (but in that good way) when he pulls them off when he gets home.
And god, Frank fucking owes him.
Bob is already half hard again by the time he gets in his front door.
He's not sure what exactly it is that's got him turned on again. Is it just Frank? Or is it the pain, too--the way Frank was pressing at his bruises to make them throb sharply in counterpoint to the pleasant warmth around his dick? Bob swallows, and the sudden bruised feeling near his Adam's apple gets him the rest of the way hard, unexpectedly.
He lifts one hand to touch his throat lightly, trace by feel alone the lines he's sure are there.
Even though his throat is rough with stubble and the bottom edge of his beard, he can feel it, the raised lines in his flesh--not to mention the skin is so sensitive, more than he would have imagined.
He lets his hand drop slowly and he winces at the tightness in his shoulder and upper arm.
He pulls his shirt off again and twists to try to look at his back in the thin wedge of mirror he's got stuck to the wall in the corner. He can see the giant half-moon bruise from when he landed on his cymbals, and there are dark shadows of nebulous still-forming bruises across his ribs and spine. Bob makes a face and relaxes, shrugging a few times to try to loosen himself up.
All Bob wants right now is a hot shower. He wonders if he'll have enough water--let alone hot water--for it to even count as a shower. Doesn't hurt to try, he decides, and steps gingerly out of his pants, leaving them in a pile on the floor as he heads to his tiny shoebox of a bathroom.
The taps squeal angrily as he turns them on but the water does come, after a moment, and it's almost warm enough that he can pretend the shower is hot.
He steps into the tub, gritting his teeth against the sudden pain deep in his muscles, and stands under the spray, letting it hit his shoulders and back. It would be nice if it were hotter, if he had better water pressure, but then again, he wishes for a lot of things that are never gonna happen. So he stands there for as long as the water stays warm, one hand on his dick but only stroking lightly--he knows he doesn't have time to do it right before the warm water is gone--and he thinks about Frank, hot up against his back and also whirling around on stage in front of him, all wild hair and bright eyes and flying spit.
He groans, squeezes his dick, touches the fingers of his other hand to his throat again.
The spray feels good against his back, just enough to give him some relief, and he starts stroking himself a bit faster. Maybe he will be able to finish before the water, after all.
His eyes drop shut as he grits his teeth and runs his thumb along the slit in the head, trying to keep his movements tight and controlled; his shoulder hurts, still, and he's working through the edge of pain to move at all.
He takes a deep breath, feels the expansion of his lungs pressing against the bruising on his ribs, and he swallows once, twice, just to feel the pain in his throat again.
And he's close, so close, almost there when the hot water gives out, leaving him standing under a bitterly cold spray that brings its own edge of pain, but the thoroughly unpleasant kind.
Bob sighs, resigned to it by now after years of shitty apartments, and reaches back to turn off the tap, his other hand still on his dick, still keeping up the pressure around the head. He stands there, still jerking himself, holding onto the build he's got going in his groin and stomach and thighs, and his breath is starting to get shaky now, juddering as he exhales slowly, bracing himself against the pain.
He should get out of the tub, he realizes; it's slippery and he'll probably fall and kill himself if he keeps this up.
It's a careful step over the edge to get his feet planted firmly on the dry, unslippery floor of the bathroom, and he doesn't bother to dry off, instead opting to throw a towel around his neck to keep his hair from dripping everywhere.
When he gets out of the bathroom he stops dead. He's got his dick in his hand and Frank is sitting on his bed, looking at him with fire in his eyes.
"Oh," Bob says carefully. "I thought I locked the door."
"Picked it," Frank shrugs, like he does it all the time. And maybe he does, Bob thinks; he isn't exactly sure what Frank does when he's not playing with them in the band. You gotta make a living somehow, and it's getting harder and harder to do it honestly.
"So what's the occasion?" Bob asks, trying to keep his voice level. He realizes belatedly that he's still holding his dick, so he lets it go, lets his hand fall to his side as naturally as he can.
"Oh, you know," Frank says, the easiness of his words totally at odds with the hungry look on his face. "I decided that I have some business that should be finished."
"Oh," Bob echoes. He's totally naked except for the towel around his neck (which doesn't count at all) but he doesn't feel particularly exposed, not really. Not with the way Frank is looking at him.
"And what would that be?" Bob asks. He figures he has a pretty good idea of exactly what it would be, actually, but Frank's the one who broke into his damn apartment, so he's not averse to putting him on the spot, making him ask--maybe even beg--for what he wants. Even though Bob wants to get fucked, there's still this dance they have to go through first.
Frank gives Bob's dick a measuring look--and he's still hard, just standing there, wet and cold from his shower--and says, "I'm thinking you could guess."
Bob raises his eyebrow, because Frank left him a little high and dry just a little while ago and what the fuck, does he think Bob is just going to assume the position?
"I guess," Bob says, moving over towards the bed. He walks right up to Frank, who's lounging there like it's his own damn room, and pushes Frank's knees further apart. "I'm guessing that you can probably figure it out," Bob tells him, stepping in between Frank's knees and looking down at him.
So Frank gives Bob this look, this real shit-eating grin. "This really what you want?"
And Bob reaches down and slides his hand through the short sides of Frank's hair, tightens just where it gets longer near the back. "I think it's more about what you want, Frankie."
Frank looks at him, eyes Bob's dick where it's right in front of his face, and bares his teeth. "You sure about that?" he asks, like he's expecting Bob to back down. He's got his attitude back since the cops tried to beat some of it out, and that just makes it easier to nudge forward and say, "I'm sure."
Frank doesn't lean back, just keeps his lips pulled into a snarl and rubs his teeth against the head of Bob's dick like a dare, but he doesn't separate them and Bob knows if he's going to get what he wants--what he really wants--he's going to have to fight it out of Frank. He holds Frank's head still and nudges at Frank's mouth again, then backs off so Frank can give him a defiant look before he opens wide, this time covering his teeth with his lips as Bob pushes forward again.
Bob is almost surprised when Frank takes him in deep right away, but he realizes she shouldn't be--everything with Frank is always about upping the ante, trying to outdo each other, just for it's own sake.
Bob's thought about fucking Frank's mouth before--usually when Frank is mouthing off and Bob is running through a mental list of things that would shut him the fuck up--and he's kind of surprised that he's actually doing it, that Frank's hot and wet and sucking on him like it's a personal challenge, like Frank's gonna show him who's actually running the show.
Bob lets himself sink into a brisk rhythm, snapping his hips hard against Frank's face until he feels the tip of Frank's nose pressing into the coarse hair above his dick. Only then does he reach down to grab hold of Frank's hair, brushing it off his forehead and out of his eyes before wrapping it around his fingers, twisting and pulling until his knuckles are almost white.
Frank's face is going red and he looks up at Bob without pulling back, lips stretched around Bob's dick and looking defiant and more than a little determined, like no matter how hard Bob gives it to him, Frank is going to do him one better. Bob doesn't loosen his grip on Frank's hair; it doesn't even occur to him to ease up, not with his entire focus on the heat of Frank's mouth.
If Bob was on edge before, then he's dangerously close to losing it now. He keeps thrusting hard, feeling the build growing in the pit of his stomach, the heat spreading through his body. Everything is just hot and wet, so wet, and now there's spit frothing on Frank's swollen lips, right at the edges of his mouth, white and slick and sliding down Frank's chin to drip on Bob's bedspread.
It's that image right there that does it for Bob: Frank looking totally intense, his eyes watering as he fights down his gag reflex as Bob presses in as far as he can and holds himself there.
He doesn't warn Frank that he's about to come. His hand is going numb from where Frank's hair is wrapped around it, cutting off the blood flow, and he stares at that and at the spit spot on the bedspread and the drool still sliding out Frank's mouth as he takes Bob in, and Bob's hips jerk one more time as he comes.
He shudders as he feels Frank's throat working against his dick as he swallows by reflex, and Bob pulls out just early enough that he shoots one last time onto Frank's face before he's spent, his come a slick stripe across Frank's cheek and chin, where it's already mixing with the last remnants of spit and rolling off his face.
Bob's knees are weak and he flops down on the bed beside Frank, watching as Frank pants to catch his breath, and then flicks his tongue out to lick as much of the spit and come up as he can. He lifts his hand to swipe off the rest with the bit of sleeve sticking out of his jacket sleeve but then stops. Before Bob knows what's happening, Frank is straddling him, leaning down and saying, "Clean me up," presenting Bob with his wet chin expectantly, his hands on Bob's shoulders, holding him down.
Bob considers not doing it, stares at Frank with his calmest expression of 'like hell," and Frank just presses closer, mouth close like he's expecting a kiss and waiting until Bob flicks his tongue out.
Bob considers resisting but he can't deny there's something inexplicably hot about the situation: their mouths are together as Bob's tongue and lips move against Frank's mouth, his skin, but it's not a kiss.
Frank holds himself in close to Bob's face until he's satisfied with Bob's clean-up job. Bob has no idea what criteria Frank is using to judge--it's not like he can see his own face to tell if everything is gone or not, but most of it actually is when Frank pulls away. He doesn't move off Bob, though, and Bob is finally noticing how the chains and safety pins holding Frank's clothes together are pressing into his skin roughly, how Frank is leaving tiny scratches as he squirms to get more comfortable, and he wonders if Frank's throat is as tender as Bob's is now.
"Good boy," Frank says, the asshole, and Bob tries to sit up to... he doesn't know what, doesn't know if he wants to kiss or hit him in his red, well-used mouth, but Frank's weight keeps him pinned down as he struggles a bit, then leans back on his elbows to give himself at least the illusion of being on the same level. His shoulders protest, remind him of everything he's put them through in the last couple days, but he ignores it in favor of matching Frank smirk for smirk.
"You're the one who took the bone," Bob says, raising an eyebrow and twitching his hips a little, just enough for Frank to notice, and Frank grins.
"Just wait." There's a world of promise in Frank's tone, and Bob is still orgasm-stupid enough that he lazily leans his head back, because Frank's weight on him is just reminding him of earlier and how unsatisfying it had been to have Frank humping at his leg without actually fucking him.
And okay, Bob's come twice already today in just--he counts back quickly--has it really only been just under two hours? So yeah, he's tired, pretty fucked out, ready to just roll over and sleep until just after dawn when he has to get up and go to work, but there's still the small matter of Frank sitting on his chest... and Frank still owes him. When is he going to collect, if not now?
Bob can feel Frank's hand running up his leg, now, his nails pressing rough lines into Bob's inner thigh. Bob's legs fall apart automatically as Frank continues stroking, the jagged edges where he's bit them off to make playing easier making the sensation rougher than Bob would have expected, and as Frank moves closer to Bob's groin the sensitive skin feels like it's amplifying the sensation until the various places Frank is digging into him and stroking him is all Bob feels. Frank is half-turned, still straddling Bob's torso as he looks down at Bob's exhausted cock, skating his fingertips over Bob's balls before scratching down Bob's other leg. Bob's neck muscles are beginning to strain from trying to watch Frank, trying to predict what he's going to do.
Frank squirms a little and then looks down at Bob. "I'm gonna take off my pants, and you're gonna bite the pillow. Got it?" Frank's hand stills high on Bob's thigh and gives Bob a challenging look, like he's expecting Bob to argue.
Bob doesn't answer immediately, and the longer he waits the tighter Frank's grip on his thigh gets, ragged nail adding a pinching bite of pain to the pressure. "Got it," Bob sys finally, and Frank's look of triumph, he thinks, is a little premature
Frank lets go and rolls off Bob, one leg still draped over Bob as Frank hurriedly tries to unbuckle and push down his pants, raising his hips to drag them down, one of the cold chains slapping carelessly against Bob's dick. Bob flinches, tries to pull away, but Frank's still got him pinned enough that he really can't move very far. Bob's elbows are protesting so he finally drops down fully on his back, hissing as he remembers belatedly that his weight hits the worst of the bruises.
"Roll over," Frank says impatiently, pushing at Bob with one foot as he gets his pants off. Bob obeys, rolling over then propping his head on his arm and watching Frank get undressed gracelessly.
Once Frank kicks his pants free over his ankles he throws himself back at Bob, landing heavily on his hip before sliding back to kneel between his spread legs. Bob grunts at the sudden shock of it, but the pain fades after a moment. Frank shifts his weight and then starts to palm the swell of Bob's ass with one hand, rubbing it lightly for a moment before pulling away, and then smacking it sharply.
Bob grits his teeth and bites back a hiss of breath, but doesn't make a noise, doesn't react. He knows Frank is trying to get something from him, and he doesn't want to give it until he absolutely has to. Frank slaps his ass again, harder than before, and Bob presses his face into his pillow and bites down on it instead of gasping like he wants to.
Frank leans up against Bob's back, and Bob can feel the bite of the chunky metal zipper on Frank's jacket against his upper thigh. Frank's breath is hot on Bob's skin, ghosting along the line of his shoulder blade. Then Frank grabs hold of Bob's hips, his fingers digging in hard like he's trying to claw holes in Bob's very flesh, and all of a sudden Frank is biting Bob, right on the worst of the bruises on his back.
Bob can't hold himself back, not with the pain shooting out in hot electric spears to his fingers and toes. His whole body is alive with the hurt of it and he cries out, a harsh shout muffled by the pillow that's still dry between his lips.
His whole body is tense, now, coiled tight with pain and anticipation and want. "Fuck-- you--" he grits out between gasps of breath. The fabric against his mouth is getting wet, now; he's drooling and breathing damp air into it, and it's gross against his face.
When Frank slaps Bob's ass again, on the other side, it's almost a let-down after the intensity of the bite--the pain from that is still resonating in Bob's guts. "Yeah, about that," Frank drawls, and his teeth are still pressing against Bob's skin, but not nearly as hard as before.
Bob wants to push his shoulders back against Frank's teeth, try to get more, but he doesn't take his face off the pillow. "You gonna get on with it already?" Bob replies, making sure Frank knows he's doing exactly what Bob wants him to.
Frank pauses, like he's considering being a contrary bitch yet again, but Bob can feel his wet hard tip against him and knows Frank has to be desperate, has only gotten off once what feels like hours ago. And Frank'd had to jerk himself off, at that; there's no way he's going to back off now when he has the chance to have more.
Bob feels ungainly as he squirms a little, spreading his legs and practically putting his ass on display, but the result is that Frank has gotta know for sure he's not the one pulling the strings. Bob grins into the pillow. It changes briefly into a grimace as Frank digs his teeth in one last time before he sits back up, sliding his hands around from Bob's hips to his ass. Bob feels even more exposed as Frank spreads his cheeks, runs a fingertip down the line between them, deliberately skirting his asshole.
"So Bob," Frank says conversationally, "if I spit, y'think that'll be good enough?"
Bob huffs out an exasperated breath from his nose. Frank and his fixations, seriously. "Drawer to your left," Bob tells him shortly. One of Frank's hands moves off Bob's skin, and he can feel Frank's weight shifting. He hears the familiar little click as Frank pops the cap on the lube, feels a cold spot at the small of his back as Frank sets it down and puts his palm back on Bob's ass.
There's a touch of cool air when Frank spreads him again, and then there's something cold and wet and runny splatting against his skin. It takes Bob a second but he realizes that Frank fucking spat anyway, the little bastard. But then he feels Frank's fingertip, cold and slick, starting to press into him.
"More," Bob grunts at him, because it's been a while since one finger alone was enough to make a difference. Frank doesn't give him another, or at least, not right away; he lets Bob squirm as he crooks his single finger and slides it slowly in and out. It's all Bob can do to stop himself from pressing up against Frank's hand, like that would somehow force him to add another. But then Frank does, finally, and it's hardly a stretch, barely a burn, as it slides in next to the first. Bob hisses in satisfaction, spreads his legs a little wider.
Frank shoves his fingers in hard, picking up a steady rhythm as he drives in steadily, his other hand still holding Bob's ass, his fingers digging in hard as he squeezes in time with his thrusts. "You want more?" Frank asks him, his voice low and rough.
Bob shifts his weight, rolls his shoulders to try to work out some of the growing tension, presses his face into the pillow. He doesn't answer, not out loud; instead he lifts his hips into Frank's hands, urging him harder, deeper.
"I should make you beg," Frank mutters. "I bet you'd like that."
Bob grunts into the pillow, ass still in the air, and waits for more, but Frank, if anything, is just slowing the pace he'd set. "Please," Bob says into the pillow, but Frank slows his hand even more.
"Like you mean it," Frank practically sing-songs.
Frank has to be desperate, Bob knows, and he could probably call Frank's bluff, but then a finger disappears and Bob can't stop himself from whining, "More," not even trying to hide the pleading tone.
"Where are your manners?" Frank replies, and Bob can picture the smirk he's wearing, the same one he gets when someone underestimates his ability to inflict damage because of how small he is, and slides the one remaining finger out until just the very tip remains inside Bob.
"Fuck you," Bob growls, but then says, "Please give me more."
"More?" Frank says innocently, and Bob tries to push up, wishes he were in a position where he could throttle the bastard, and it's mostly the memory of Frank's eyes watering as Bob shoves into his mouth that keeps him steady enough to say, "More fingers. Please."
"I'm not sure that's the right attitude," Frank says as he adds the second finger again, followed by a third.
Bob squeezes his eyes shut, relishes the feel as he replies, "I'm not as good at giving lip as you."
Frank's hand disappears briefly off his ass and he slows his thrusting hand to lean forward, reach around and give Bob's nipple a sharp twist. The pain is only a momentary distraction from Frank's ministrations, and it settles into a dull ache that reminds Bob of the heat-waves of pain still radiating from the bite mark, the burn in his muscles. Bob is almost ready to give up this game. Let Frank think he wins so Bob can finally get what he wants.
"Please fuck me," Bob says, not waiting for Frank to prompt him. He ends up getting a mouthful of pillow as Frank abruptly leans down on him, chains jangling.
"You want me to?" Frank says roughly, more a taunt than anything else.
"Yes," Bob breaths out. His muscles are already starting to feel rubbery and abused, and he isn't sure how much longer he can last. "I want you to."
"Well, since you asked so nicely," Frank says. He presses a wet, open-mouthed kiss to the edge of Bob's shoulder blade before he sits up again. He's got his three fingers pressed deep in, now, right up to the last knuckles by the feel of it, and Bob shifts again, trying to tilt his hips to get Frank's fingers up against his prostate.
But Frank must be onto him because he pulls his fingers back, just a bit, and spreads his other hand against the small of Bob's back, pressing him into the bed. Frank wiggles his fingers just enough to tease Bob, push him a little harder, and then he pulls them out abruptly.
Bob only feels the sudden emptiness for a moment before Frank's dick is pressing into him, just barely slick enough. Frank keeps pushing through the resistance until he's all the way in, buried balls deep in Bob's ass, his hipbones pressing sharp points into Bob's skin. It's more than the three fingers had been; it hurts, it burns, it's exactly what Bob's been wanting ever since Frank cornered him in the police station and started pushing his buttons.
Bob grunts his approval into the pillow, and Frank shifts his hips against Bob's, pulls back to slam forward again. Bob realizes how desperate Frank must have been, almost marvels at Frank's self control as he thrusts against him roughly. Frank's arms are braced on either side of Bob's body. He never took off his jacket, and the rough teeth of the unzipped part of the sleeve bite into his side, the metal warm from Frank's body heat. When Frank pushes in again, Bob can feel a half-loosened safety pin on the hem of the jacket jab into his side, offering a pinprick of pain to counterpoint the burning pleasure of being fucked.
Frank keeps thrusting into him, grunting as he works himself deeper into Bob, sounding more frustrated than satisfied as he keeps adjusting his position. "Fuck this noise," he finally says, pulling out. Bob has enough time to make a protesting sound before one of Frank's hands is on his shoulder, the other grabbing his hair. "Up on your knees," Frank says, jerking him.
Frank's hand is tight in his hair, pulling it just a shade past painful, and Bob's throat gives a fresh reminder of earlier as he arches his head back on instinct, trying to loosen the grip. He ends up fully on his knees, staring at the spit-damp spot on the pillowcase before Frank loosens his grip and Bob falls down on his hands and knees, leaving his legs spread wide.
Frank presses his dick back in without preamble, a satisfied sigh hissing past his teeth, and his hands tighten on Bob's hips--Bob wonders how many finger-shaped bruises he's going to find in the morning--as he resumes fucking him.
It feels good, really good--and Bob's not going to lie to himself and try to pretend that a large part of the appeal isn't the fact that Frank is basically just using Bob's body for his own pleasure at this point. Bob is enjoying it, that isn't the issue--but even after the fingers, the biting, Frank's dick all the way inside him, Bob just doesn't have it in him to get off a third time tonight. So he grits his teeth and keeps his balance as best he can as his hands try to slide out from under him on his cheap, slippery sheets.
Frank is going hard, easily keeping up the pace he's set, and Bob knows he'll be feeling this for days. A tremor runs through his body at the thought, and Frank groans behind him, digs his fingers in, lets go briefly to smack Bob's ass again.
The muscles in Bob's thighs are tight, sore and getting even more so as he strains to hold himself up instead of just collapsing. "Come on," he grunts, and Frank digs his fingers in harder in response.
Bob can feel the heat radiating from Frank's body, the dampness of his sweat where their skin presses together, and Frank must be getting close by now, he's gotta be, after all the build-up. Bob is kind of impressed that Frank's still going, still fucking him just as hard as when he first slid his dick in. He likes the noises Frank's making, the grunts and gasps and the way that when he breathes in it sounds like he's holding himself together by sheer force of will alone. It's a lot like how he plays, and Bob is not going to be able to erase that thought the next time he sees Frank thrashing around stage.
Frank's hips start to stutter against his, then, the rhythm changing noticeably, and Bob is relieved to see that Frank is going to come soon, and that he himself is going to get to flop down and take his weight off his tortured muscles. He's looking forward to it; the imagined relief stands in glorious contrast to the reality of the tiredness in his legs, the aches and pains in his back, his shoulders, his whole damn body.
Bob is so focused on thought of finally getting to relax that it takes him completely by surprise when Frank moves again, his thrusts getting even more erratic as he leans in to bite down as hard as he can on the sensitive skin where Bob's neck meets his shoulder. It's pain, white hot and pure, stinging and throbbing, singing through what feels like every nerve in his body.
Bob screams. He can't stop himself, can't hold it in. It hurts his throat, feels like it's scraping it raw where it's already bruised, and his spit is so thick in his mouth he can't help but think some of it must be blood. His arms give out and he collapses face-first into the pillow. It feels like the only thing keeping up him on his knees are Frank's hands on his hips, holding him up with bruising force.
"Too much?" Frank asks between gasps of breath, using that teasing, sly tone he usually uses on cops he's fucking with. There's heat radiating out from where his hands are squeezing tight on Bob's hips, and Bob's throat is too hoarse to do much more than pant and try to catch his breath. "Or did that get you off?" Frank slides one hand to squeeze Bob's dick as if to make his point. He pinches at the line of flesh where Bob's torso meets his thigh, and Bob barely even registers the sensation.
"Fuck you," Bob manages to get out. It kind of feels like his throat is on fire, like that scream was the last thing he could handle, abusing his throat inside and out. Frank doesn't reply, just grunts and shoves Bob hard, pulling out just as Bob's legs give out underneath him and he falls to the bed.
Bob lands on his side, grimacing as it aggravates a whole new series of bruises, and he glares at Frank through the fringe of hair stuck to his forehead with so much sweat. He can tell just from the look on Frank's face that he's close, so close, and with the way his hand is moving on his dick now, fast, faster, he knows it's going to be a matter of moments.
Frank's mouth falls open--his jaw is totally slack and his lips are still flushed, still swollen, and if anything was going to get Bob hard again tonight, that would be it--and his whole body goes still for long moments, and then he's coming. It's like slow motion as the first spurt falls on Bob's hip, the second on his chest, the third on the fleshiest part of his ass, and it's only when Frank finally lets go of his dick and sags forward, landing on the sheets somewhere near Bob's knees, that time seems to pick up again.
"Fuck," Frank sighs, the word shaky between great huffs of air.
Bob stares down at him, watching the red in his cheeks fade slowly to pink, watching the heave of his ribs as he catches his breath. "What the hell?" he asks, but the question is lacking some of the punch it might have had earlier.
Frank laughs. "Have fun--" he starts, then pauses to suck in a deep breath. He stretches, long and catlike, pressing his arms up the bed and rolling his shoulders. "Cleaning that up," he finally concludes, still chuckling to himself.
Bob lacks the energy to grab Frank and wipe himself off with the t-shirt that Frank is still wearing, maybe rub his nose in it a little, so instead he just flops his head down on the pillow--the spit-smear is clammy against his ear--and wipes off with the corner of the blanket that's half-slid off the bed because, what the hell, it's not like it hasn't seen worse.
Frank clicks his tongue at him a few times, then squirms off the bed and starts looking around, presumably for his pants. Instead he picks up something Bob recognizes as the shirt he abandoned before his shower and wipes himself off with it, tossing it at Bob's face when he's done and then picking up his actual pants and jerking them on.
Bob bats the shirt away and then works up just enough energy to grab his pack of cigarettes off the nightstand. The pack is empty and Bob groans in frustration, crumpling the soft cardboard in his fist and throwing it at the wall, where it bounces away totally unsatisfyingly.
Frank looks over his shoulder at Bob from where he's standing near the door. He's re-buckling his belts and hardly fumbling at all, and Bob has no clue where he gets that much fucking energy, seriously, Bob is practically comatose and in desperate need of a fucking cigarette. Frank smiles, then, and when he finishes with his last belt he reaches into an inside pocket of his jacket and pulls out a battered pack of smokes. He eyes it for a moment, and then tilts his head and looks at Bob, and then he throws him the pack of smokes.
Bob is too worn out to move to catch it on time, and it lands near him on the wrecked sheets.
"Won't you need these?" Bob asks, eyeing the pack warily, like it might bite his fingers.
"I'll steal more." The way Frank shrugs makes all his chains clank together, and Bob can't help but instinctively start feeling out the rhythm of it.
"Okay," Bob says lamely. "Thanks."
"Yeah," Frank nods at him. "See you later, fucker," he chirps, and then he's gone, closing the door too hard behind himself.
by nokomis305 and thesamefire
Frank/Bob, NC-17
6,630 words.
Summary: When the cops finally let them go after breaking up the riot at their show, Frank and Bob have some tension to work out. A "Desolation Row" video AU.
They've put their clothes back on after getting back from holding and Bob's has these stiff little wrinkles of dried blood. Frank tries to smooth them and Bob flinches, so Frank decides to investigate. It turns out that there are these bruises blossoming over Bob's pale skin and these little half-healed scrapes, and Frank brushes his fingers over them just to hear Bob let out those sharp little breaths.
Frank stops because he realizes belatedly he's hurting Bob, but Bob reaches over and grabs his wrist and hisses "Keep on," and his voice is low and rough.
So Frank drops the hem of Bob's shirt and tells him to take it off. Bob does, flinching as he pulls it over his head, and so Frank makes him turn around, hold his hands up against the wall like he's about to be frisked, and traces his fingertips over the bruises--one, he's sure, came from landing on the cymbals, the curve of it against Bob's shoulder blade, and he presses a kiss hard against the bruise and feels Bob's body quaver as he lets out a gasp.
Frank leans against Bob--Bob's bracing himself against the wall, arms shaking a bit as if he wants to put them down but refuses to yield to the pain--and unbuckles Bob's belt, pulls loose the chain wrapped around his hips. His feet are spread enough that his pants only tug down partway, but it's enough. Frank looks at the chain, weighing it between his hands before draping it across Bob's throat, ends danging loosely down his back.
Frank reaches around and tugs on Bob's cock a few times, and Bob let out a soft groan, hips bucking forward. Frank gathers the end of the chain--it's a thin one, not nearly as heavy in his hand as Mikey's would be--in one hand and tugs gently. Bob stills, and Frank keeps the hand with the chains steady as he strokes Bob's cock, not allowing Bob to move, tugging gently in reminder when Bob lets out noises that Frank judges to be too loud.
"Yes," Bob sighs at one point before Frank tightens the chain just enough to put pressure on Bob's throat. Frank himself is ready to explode, do anything for relief from the maddening hotness of what he's doing, and he settles for rubbing himself against Bob's ass, standing on tip-toes to hiss "I'm not going to fuck you," into Bob's ear, feeling the tension in Bob''s back as Frank bucks against him and squeezes his dick at the same time.
"Please," Bob asks, not quite begging, and Frank shakes his head before remembering Bob can't see him, Bob has his head bowed down between his upraised arms, is breathing heavily and his eyes are squeezed shut.
"Not gonna," he says, even as Bob tries to spread his legs wider, failing as his half-mast pants restrict movement. Frank lets go of Bob's cock long enough to shove his own pants down around his knees, hears the jangle of his belt and chains as he thrusts against Bob, dropping down to flat feet as his calves protest and ending up rubbing his dick against the inside of Bob's thigh, right up near his ass, and then resumes jacking Bob off.
"Fucking tease," Bob hisses out, and Frank tightens the chain in his hand, causing Bob to lean his head back, exposing his throat and how the chain is leaving red marks around his neck. Marks that might bruise, Frank dimly thinks, to match the ones the cops left across Bob's shoulders and torso and arms, and tightens it just that much more. Bob lets out a strangled groan as Frank also tightens his grip on his dick, then stills as his hips jerk forward as he comes. Frank loosens the chain, leaning up enough to lick at the new red line against Bob's freckled skin, when Bob begins to slump forward, boneless after his orgasm.
"Nuh-uh," Frank grunts, giving the chain a warning tug, "I'm not done," and continues rubbing himself against Bob's leg, wanting the hot tightness that real fucking would give him but refusing to give Bob exactly what he wants.
Bob holds himself taut, shoulders shaking from the effort, as Frank gets enough friction to get himself off, and then slumps against Bob's back, chain falling loosely from his fingers as his cheek is pressed against the vivid purple of the worst of the bruises, falling forward as Bob finally slumps forward, lowering his arms and letting out tiny pained sounds as he rubs his shoulders, pushing Frank away.
*
When Frank came, a lot of it probably ended up on Bob's pants, so Bob would be feeling it against his skin as he headed home.
At first it would be cold and wet, and it would warm up even as it got stickier and dried, and eventually his leg hair would be stuck to his pants, so it would hurt a little (but in that good way) when he pulls them off when he gets home.
And god, Frank fucking owes him.
Bob is already half hard again by the time he gets in his front door.
He's not sure what exactly it is that's got him turned on again. Is it just Frank? Or is it the pain, too--the way Frank was pressing at his bruises to make them throb sharply in counterpoint to the pleasant warmth around his dick? Bob swallows, and the sudden bruised feeling near his Adam's apple gets him the rest of the way hard, unexpectedly.
He lifts one hand to touch his throat lightly, trace by feel alone the lines he's sure are there.
Even though his throat is rough with stubble and the bottom edge of his beard, he can feel it, the raised lines in his flesh--not to mention the skin is so sensitive, more than he would have imagined.
He lets his hand drop slowly and he winces at the tightness in his shoulder and upper arm.
He pulls his shirt off again and twists to try to look at his back in the thin wedge of mirror he's got stuck to the wall in the corner. He can see the giant half-moon bruise from when he landed on his cymbals, and there are dark shadows of nebulous still-forming bruises across his ribs and spine. Bob makes a face and relaxes, shrugging a few times to try to loosen himself up.
All Bob wants right now is a hot shower. He wonders if he'll have enough water--let alone hot water--for it to even count as a shower. Doesn't hurt to try, he decides, and steps gingerly out of his pants, leaving them in a pile on the floor as he heads to his tiny shoebox of a bathroom.
The taps squeal angrily as he turns them on but the water does come, after a moment, and it's almost warm enough that he can pretend the shower is hot.
He steps into the tub, gritting his teeth against the sudden pain deep in his muscles, and stands under the spray, letting it hit his shoulders and back. It would be nice if it were hotter, if he had better water pressure, but then again, he wishes for a lot of things that are never gonna happen. So he stands there for as long as the water stays warm, one hand on his dick but only stroking lightly--he knows he doesn't have time to do it right before the warm water is gone--and he thinks about Frank, hot up against his back and also whirling around on stage in front of him, all wild hair and bright eyes and flying spit.
He groans, squeezes his dick, touches the fingers of his other hand to his throat again.
The spray feels good against his back, just enough to give him some relief, and he starts stroking himself a bit faster. Maybe he will be able to finish before the water, after all.
His eyes drop shut as he grits his teeth and runs his thumb along the slit in the head, trying to keep his movements tight and controlled; his shoulder hurts, still, and he's working through the edge of pain to move at all.
He takes a deep breath, feels the expansion of his lungs pressing against the bruising on his ribs, and he swallows once, twice, just to feel the pain in his throat again.
And he's close, so close, almost there when the hot water gives out, leaving him standing under a bitterly cold spray that brings its own edge of pain, but the thoroughly unpleasant kind.
Bob sighs, resigned to it by now after years of shitty apartments, and reaches back to turn off the tap, his other hand still on his dick, still keeping up the pressure around the head. He stands there, still jerking himself, holding onto the build he's got going in his groin and stomach and thighs, and his breath is starting to get shaky now, juddering as he exhales slowly, bracing himself against the pain.
He should get out of the tub, he realizes; it's slippery and he'll probably fall and kill himself if he keeps this up.
It's a careful step over the edge to get his feet planted firmly on the dry, unslippery floor of the bathroom, and he doesn't bother to dry off, instead opting to throw a towel around his neck to keep his hair from dripping everywhere.
When he gets out of the bathroom he stops dead. He's got his dick in his hand and Frank is sitting on his bed, looking at him with fire in his eyes.
"Oh," Bob says carefully. "I thought I locked the door."
"Picked it," Frank shrugs, like he does it all the time. And maybe he does, Bob thinks; he isn't exactly sure what Frank does when he's not playing with them in the band. You gotta make a living somehow, and it's getting harder and harder to do it honestly.
"So what's the occasion?" Bob asks, trying to keep his voice level. He realizes belatedly that he's still holding his dick, so he lets it go, lets his hand fall to his side as naturally as he can.
"Oh, you know," Frank says, the easiness of his words totally at odds with the hungry look on his face. "I decided that I have some business that should be finished."
"Oh," Bob echoes. He's totally naked except for the towel around his neck (which doesn't count at all) but he doesn't feel particularly exposed, not really. Not with the way Frank is looking at him.
"And what would that be?" Bob asks. He figures he has a pretty good idea of exactly what it would be, actually, but Frank's the one who broke into his damn apartment, so he's not averse to putting him on the spot, making him ask--maybe even beg--for what he wants. Even though Bob wants to get fucked, there's still this dance they have to go through first.
Frank gives Bob's dick a measuring look--and he's still hard, just standing there, wet and cold from his shower--and says, "I'm thinking you could guess."
Bob raises his eyebrow, because Frank left him a little high and dry just a little while ago and what the fuck, does he think Bob is just going to assume the position?
"I guess," Bob says, moving over towards the bed. He walks right up to Frank, who's lounging there like it's his own damn room, and pushes Frank's knees further apart. "I'm guessing that you can probably figure it out," Bob tells him, stepping in between Frank's knees and looking down at him.
So Frank gives Bob this look, this real shit-eating grin. "This really what you want?"
And Bob reaches down and slides his hand through the short sides of Frank's hair, tightens just where it gets longer near the back. "I think it's more about what you want, Frankie."
Frank looks at him, eyes Bob's dick where it's right in front of his face, and bares his teeth. "You sure about that?" he asks, like he's expecting Bob to back down. He's got his attitude back since the cops tried to beat some of it out, and that just makes it easier to nudge forward and say, "I'm sure."
Frank doesn't lean back, just keeps his lips pulled into a snarl and rubs his teeth against the head of Bob's dick like a dare, but he doesn't separate them and Bob knows if he's going to get what he wants--what he really wants--he's going to have to fight it out of Frank. He holds Frank's head still and nudges at Frank's mouth again, then backs off so Frank can give him a defiant look before he opens wide, this time covering his teeth with his lips as Bob pushes forward again.
Bob is almost surprised when Frank takes him in deep right away, but he realizes she shouldn't be--everything with Frank is always about upping the ante, trying to outdo each other, just for it's own sake.
Bob's thought about fucking Frank's mouth before--usually when Frank is mouthing off and Bob is running through a mental list of things that would shut him the fuck up--and he's kind of surprised that he's actually doing it, that Frank's hot and wet and sucking on him like it's a personal challenge, like Frank's gonna show him who's actually running the show.
Bob lets himself sink into a brisk rhythm, snapping his hips hard against Frank's face until he feels the tip of Frank's nose pressing into the coarse hair above his dick. Only then does he reach down to grab hold of Frank's hair, brushing it off his forehead and out of his eyes before wrapping it around his fingers, twisting and pulling until his knuckles are almost white.
Frank's face is going red and he looks up at Bob without pulling back, lips stretched around Bob's dick and looking defiant and more than a little determined, like no matter how hard Bob gives it to him, Frank is going to do him one better. Bob doesn't loosen his grip on Frank's hair; it doesn't even occur to him to ease up, not with his entire focus on the heat of Frank's mouth.
If Bob was on edge before, then he's dangerously close to losing it now. He keeps thrusting hard, feeling the build growing in the pit of his stomach, the heat spreading through his body. Everything is just hot and wet, so wet, and now there's spit frothing on Frank's swollen lips, right at the edges of his mouth, white and slick and sliding down Frank's chin to drip on Bob's bedspread.
It's that image right there that does it for Bob: Frank looking totally intense, his eyes watering as he fights down his gag reflex as Bob presses in as far as he can and holds himself there.
He doesn't warn Frank that he's about to come. His hand is going numb from where Frank's hair is wrapped around it, cutting off the blood flow, and he stares at that and at the spit spot on the bedspread and the drool still sliding out Frank's mouth as he takes Bob in, and Bob's hips jerk one more time as he comes.
He shudders as he feels Frank's throat working against his dick as he swallows by reflex, and Bob pulls out just early enough that he shoots one last time onto Frank's face before he's spent, his come a slick stripe across Frank's cheek and chin, where it's already mixing with the last remnants of spit and rolling off his face.
Bob's knees are weak and he flops down on the bed beside Frank, watching as Frank pants to catch his breath, and then flicks his tongue out to lick as much of the spit and come up as he can. He lifts his hand to swipe off the rest with the bit of sleeve sticking out of his jacket sleeve but then stops. Before Bob knows what's happening, Frank is straddling him, leaning down and saying, "Clean me up," presenting Bob with his wet chin expectantly, his hands on Bob's shoulders, holding him down.
Bob considers not doing it, stares at Frank with his calmest expression of 'like hell," and Frank just presses closer, mouth close like he's expecting a kiss and waiting until Bob flicks his tongue out.
Bob considers resisting but he can't deny there's something inexplicably hot about the situation: their mouths are together as Bob's tongue and lips move against Frank's mouth, his skin, but it's not a kiss.
Frank holds himself in close to Bob's face until he's satisfied with Bob's clean-up job. Bob has no idea what criteria Frank is using to judge--it's not like he can see his own face to tell if everything is gone or not, but most of it actually is when Frank pulls away. He doesn't move off Bob, though, and Bob is finally noticing how the chains and safety pins holding Frank's clothes together are pressing into his skin roughly, how Frank is leaving tiny scratches as he squirms to get more comfortable, and he wonders if Frank's throat is as tender as Bob's is now.
"Good boy," Frank says, the asshole, and Bob tries to sit up to... he doesn't know what, doesn't know if he wants to kiss or hit him in his red, well-used mouth, but Frank's weight keeps him pinned down as he struggles a bit, then leans back on his elbows to give himself at least the illusion of being on the same level. His shoulders protest, remind him of everything he's put them through in the last couple days, but he ignores it in favor of matching Frank smirk for smirk.
"You're the one who took the bone," Bob says, raising an eyebrow and twitching his hips a little, just enough for Frank to notice, and Frank grins.
"Just wait." There's a world of promise in Frank's tone, and Bob is still orgasm-stupid enough that he lazily leans his head back, because Frank's weight on him is just reminding him of earlier and how unsatisfying it had been to have Frank humping at his leg without actually fucking him.
And okay, Bob's come twice already today in just--he counts back quickly--has it really only been just under two hours? So yeah, he's tired, pretty fucked out, ready to just roll over and sleep until just after dawn when he has to get up and go to work, but there's still the small matter of Frank sitting on his chest... and Frank still owes him. When is he going to collect, if not now?
Bob can feel Frank's hand running up his leg, now, his nails pressing rough lines into Bob's inner thigh. Bob's legs fall apart automatically as Frank continues stroking, the jagged edges where he's bit them off to make playing easier making the sensation rougher than Bob would have expected, and as Frank moves closer to Bob's groin the sensitive skin feels like it's amplifying the sensation until the various places Frank is digging into him and stroking him is all Bob feels. Frank is half-turned, still straddling Bob's torso as he looks down at Bob's exhausted cock, skating his fingertips over Bob's balls before scratching down Bob's other leg. Bob's neck muscles are beginning to strain from trying to watch Frank, trying to predict what he's going to do.
Frank squirms a little and then looks down at Bob. "I'm gonna take off my pants, and you're gonna bite the pillow. Got it?" Frank's hand stills high on Bob's thigh and gives Bob a challenging look, like he's expecting Bob to argue.
Bob doesn't answer immediately, and the longer he waits the tighter Frank's grip on his thigh gets, ragged nail adding a pinching bite of pain to the pressure. "Got it," Bob sys finally, and Frank's look of triumph, he thinks, is a little premature
Frank lets go and rolls off Bob, one leg still draped over Bob as Frank hurriedly tries to unbuckle and push down his pants, raising his hips to drag them down, one of the cold chains slapping carelessly against Bob's dick. Bob flinches, tries to pull away, but Frank's still got him pinned enough that he really can't move very far. Bob's elbows are protesting so he finally drops down fully on his back, hissing as he remembers belatedly that his weight hits the worst of the bruises.
"Roll over," Frank says impatiently, pushing at Bob with one foot as he gets his pants off. Bob obeys, rolling over then propping his head on his arm and watching Frank get undressed gracelessly.
Once Frank kicks his pants free over his ankles he throws himself back at Bob, landing heavily on his hip before sliding back to kneel between his spread legs. Bob grunts at the sudden shock of it, but the pain fades after a moment. Frank shifts his weight and then starts to palm the swell of Bob's ass with one hand, rubbing it lightly for a moment before pulling away, and then smacking it sharply.
Bob grits his teeth and bites back a hiss of breath, but doesn't make a noise, doesn't react. He knows Frank is trying to get something from him, and he doesn't want to give it until he absolutely has to. Frank slaps his ass again, harder than before, and Bob presses his face into his pillow and bites down on it instead of gasping like he wants to.
Frank leans up against Bob's back, and Bob can feel the bite of the chunky metal zipper on Frank's jacket against his upper thigh. Frank's breath is hot on Bob's skin, ghosting along the line of his shoulder blade. Then Frank grabs hold of Bob's hips, his fingers digging in hard like he's trying to claw holes in Bob's very flesh, and all of a sudden Frank is biting Bob, right on the worst of the bruises on his back.
Bob can't hold himself back, not with the pain shooting out in hot electric spears to his fingers and toes. His whole body is alive with the hurt of it and he cries out, a harsh shout muffled by the pillow that's still dry between his lips.
His whole body is tense, now, coiled tight with pain and anticipation and want. "Fuck-- you--" he grits out between gasps of breath. The fabric against his mouth is getting wet, now; he's drooling and breathing damp air into it, and it's gross against his face.
When Frank slaps Bob's ass again, on the other side, it's almost a let-down after the intensity of the bite--the pain from that is still resonating in Bob's guts. "Yeah, about that," Frank drawls, and his teeth are still pressing against Bob's skin, but not nearly as hard as before.
Bob wants to push his shoulders back against Frank's teeth, try to get more, but he doesn't take his face off the pillow. "You gonna get on with it already?" Bob replies, making sure Frank knows he's doing exactly what Bob wants him to.
Frank pauses, like he's considering being a contrary bitch yet again, but Bob can feel his wet hard tip against him and knows Frank has to be desperate, has only gotten off once what feels like hours ago. And Frank'd had to jerk himself off, at that; there's no way he's going to back off now when he has the chance to have more.
Bob feels ungainly as he squirms a little, spreading his legs and practically putting his ass on display, but the result is that Frank has gotta know for sure he's not the one pulling the strings. Bob grins into the pillow. It changes briefly into a grimace as Frank digs his teeth in one last time before he sits back up, sliding his hands around from Bob's hips to his ass. Bob feels even more exposed as Frank spreads his cheeks, runs a fingertip down the line between them, deliberately skirting his asshole.
"So Bob," Frank says conversationally, "if I spit, y'think that'll be good enough?"
Bob huffs out an exasperated breath from his nose. Frank and his fixations, seriously. "Drawer to your left," Bob tells him shortly. One of Frank's hands moves off Bob's skin, and he can feel Frank's weight shifting. He hears the familiar little click as Frank pops the cap on the lube, feels a cold spot at the small of his back as Frank sets it down and puts his palm back on Bob's ass.
There's a touch of cool air when Frank spreads him again, and then there's something cold and wet and runny splatting against his skin. It takes Bob a second but he realizes that Frank fucking spat anyway, the little bastard. But then he feels Frank's fingertip, cold and slick, starting to press into him.
"More," Bob grunts at him, because it's been a while since one finger alone was enough to make a difference. Frank doesn't give him another, or at least, not right away; he lets Bob squirm as he crooks his single finger and slides it slowly in and out. It's all Bob can do to stop himself from pressing up against Frank's hand, like that would somehow force him to add another. But then Frank does, finally, and it's hardly a stretch, barely a burn, as it slides in next to the first. Bob hisses in satisfaction, spreads his legs a little wider.
Frank shoves his fingers in hard, picking up a steady rhythm as he drives in steadily, his other hand still holding Bob's ass, his fingers digging in hard as he squeezes in time with his thrusts. "You want more?" Frank asks him, his voice low and rough.
Bob shifts his weight, rolls his shoulders to try to work out some of the growing tension, presses his face into the pillow. He doesn't answer, not out loud; instead he lifts his hips into Frank's hands, urging him harder, deeper.
"I should make you beg," Frank mutters. "I bet you'd like that."
Bob grunts into the pillow, ass still in the air, and waits for more, but Frank, if anything, is just slowing the pace he'd set. "Please," Bob says into the pillow, but Frank slows his hand even more.
"Like you mean it," Frank practically sing-songs.
Frank has to be desperate, Bob knows, and he could probably call Frank's bluff, but then a finger disappears and Bob can't stop himself from whining, "More," not even trying to hide the pleading tone.
"Where are your manners?" Frank replies, and Bob can picture the smirk he's wearing, the same one he gets when someone underestimates his ability to inflict damage because of how small he is, and slides the one remaining finger out until just the very tip remains inside Bob.
"Fuck you," Bob growls, but then says, "Please give me more."
"More?" Frank says innocently, and Bob tries to push up, wishes he were in a position where he could throttle the bastard, and it's mostly the memory of Frank's eyes watering as Bob shoves into his mouth that keeps him steady enough to say, "More fingers. Please."
"I'm not sure that's the right attitude," Frank says as he adds the second finger again, followed by a third.
Bob squeezes his eyes shut, relishes the feel as he replies, "I'm not as good at giving lip as you."
Frank's hand disappears briefly off his ass and he slows his thrusting hand to lean forward, reach around and give Bob's nipple a sharp twist. The pain is only a momentary distraction from Frank's ministrations, and it settles into a dull ache that reminds Bob of the heat-waves of pain still radiating from the bite mark, the burn in his muscles. Bob is almost ready to give up this game. Let Frank think he wins so Bob can finally get what he wants.
"Please fuck me," Bob says, not waiting for Frank to prompt him. He ends up getting a mouthful of pillow as Frank abruptly leans down on him, chains jangling.
"You want me to?" Frank says roughly, more a taunt than anything else.
"Yes," Bob breaths out. His muscles are already starting to feel rubbery and abused, and he isn't sure how much longer he can last. "I want you to."
"Well, since you asked so nicely," Frank says. He presses a wet, open-mouthed kiss to the edge of Bob's shoulder blade before he sits up again. He's got his three fingers pressed deep in, now, right up to the last knuckles by the feel of it, and Bob shifts again, trying to tilt his hips to get Frank's fingers up against his prostate.
But Frank must be onto him because he pulls his fingers back, just a bit, and spreads his other hand against the small of Bob's back, pressing him into the bed. Frank wiggles his fingers just enough to tease Bob, push him a little harder, and then he pulls them out abruptly.
Bob only feels the sudden emptiness for a moment before Frank's dick is pressing into him, just barely slick enough. Frank keeps pushing through the resistance until he's all the way in, buried balls deep in Bob's ass, his hipbones pressing sharp points into Bob's skin. It's more than the three fingers had been; it hurts, it burns, it's exactly what Bob's been wanting ever since Frank cornered him in the police station and started pushing his buttons.
Bob grunts his approval into the pillow, and Frank shifts his hips against Bob's, pulls back to slam forward again. Bob realizes how desperate Frank must have been, almost marvels at Frank's self control as he thrusts against him roughly. Frank's arms are braced on either side of Bob's body. He never took off his jacket, and the rough teeth of the unzipped part of the sleeve bite into his side, the metal warm from Frank's body heat. When Frank pushes in again, Bob can feel a half-loosened safety pin on the hem of the jacket jab into his side, offering a pinprick of pain to counterpoint the burning pleasure of being fucked.
Frank keeps thrusting into him, grunting as he works himself deeper into Bob, sounding more frustrated than satisfied as he keeps adjusting his position. "Fuck this noise," he finally says, pulling out. Bob has enough time to make a protesting sound before one of Frank's hands is on his shoulder, the other grabbing his hair. "Up on your knees," Frank says, jerking him.
Frank's hand is tight in his hair, pulling it just a shade past painful, and Bob's throat gives a fresh reminder of earlier as he arches his head back on instinct, trying to loosen the grip. He ends up fully on his knees, staring at the spit-damp spot on the pillowcase before Frank loosens his grip and Bob falls down on his hands and knees, leaving his legs spread wide.
Frank presses his dick back in without preamble, a satisfied sigh hissing past his teeth, and his hands tighten on Bob's hips--Bob wonders how many finger-shaped bruises he's going to find in the morning--as he resumes fucking him.
It feels good, really good--and Bob's not going to lie to himself and try to pretend that a large part of the appeal isn't the fact that Frank is basically just using Bob's body for his own pleasure at this point. Bob is enjoying it, that isn't the issue--but even after the fingers, the biting, Frank's dick all the way inside him, Bob just doesn't have it in him to get off a third time tonight. So he grits his teeth and keeps his balance as best he can as his hands try to slide out from under him on his cheap, slippery sheets.
Frank is going hard, easily keeping up the pace he's set, and Bob knows he'll be feeling this for days. A tremor runs through his body at the thought, and Frank groans behind him, digs his fingers in, lets go briefly to smack Bob's ass again.
The muscles in Bob's thighs are tight, sore and getting even more so as he strains to hold himself up instead of just collapsing. "Come on," he grunts, and Frank digs his fingers in harder in response.
Bob can feel the heat radiating from Frank's body, the dampness of his sweat where their skin presses together, and Frank must be getting close by now, he's gotta be, after all the build-up. Bob is kind of impressed that Frank's still going, still fucking him just as hard as when he first slid his dick in. He likes the noises Frank's making, the grunts and gasps and the way that when he breathes in it sounds like he's holding himself together by sheer force of will alone. It's a lot like how he plays, and Bob is not going to be able to erase that thought the next time he sees Frank thrashing around stage.
Frank's hips start to stutter against his, then, the rhythm changing noticeably, and Bob is relieved to see that Frank is going to come soon, and that he himself is going to get to flop down and take his weight off his tortured muscles. He's looking forward to it; the imagined relief stands in glorious contrast to the reality of the tiredness in his legs, the aches and pains in his back, his shoulders, his whole damn body.
Bob is so focused on thought of finally getting to relax that it takes him completely by surprise when Frank moves again, his thrusts getting even more erratic as he leans in to bite down as hard as he can on the sensitive skin where Bob's neck meets his shoulder. It's pain, white hot and pure, stinging and throbbing, singing through what feels like every nerve in his body.
Bob screams. He can't stop himself, can't hold it in. It hurts his throat, feels like it's scraping it raw where it's already bruised, and his spit is so thick in his mouth he can't help but think some of it must be blood. His arms give out and he collapses face-first into the pillow. It feels like the only thing keeping up him on his knees are Frank's hands on his hips, holding him up with bruising force.
"Too much?" Frank asks between gasps of breath, using that teasing, sly tone he usually uses on cops he's fucking with. There's heat radiating out from where his hands are squeezing tight on Bob's hips, and Bob's throat is too hoarse to do much more than pant and try to catch his breath. "Or did that get you off?" Frank slides one hand to squeeze Bob's dick as if to make his point. He pinches at the line of flesh where Bob's torso meets his thigh, and Bob barely even registers the sensation.
"Fuck you," Bob manages to get out. It kind of feels like his throat is on fire, like that scream was the last thing he could handle, abusing his throat inside and out. Frank doesn't reply, just grunts and shoves Bob hard, pulling out just as Bob's legs give out underneath him and he falls to the bed.
Bob lands on his side, grimacing as it aggravates a whole new series of bruises, and he glares at Frank through the fringe of hair stuck to his forehead with so much sweat. He can tell just from the look on Frank's face that he's close, so close, and with the way his hand is moving on his dick now, fast, faster, he knows it's going to be a matter of moments.
Frank's mouth falls open--his jaw is totally slack and his lips are still flushed, still swollen, and if anything was going to get Bob hard again tonight, that would be it--and his whole body goes still for long moments, and then he's coming. It's like slow motion as the first spurt falls on Bob's hip, the second on his chest, the third on the fleshiest part of his ass, and it's only when Frank finally lets go of his dick and sags forward, landing on the sheets somewhere near Bob's knees, that time seems to pick up again.
"Fuck," Frank sighs, the word shaky between great huffs of air.
Bob stares down at him, watching the red in his cheeks fade slowly to pink, watching the heave of his ribs as he catches his breath. "What the hell?" he asks, but the question is lacking some of the punch it might have had earlier.
Frank laughs. "Have fun--" he starts, then pauses to suck in a deep breath. He stretches, long and catlike, pressing his arms up the bed and rolling his shoulders. "Cleaning that up," he finally concludes, still chuckling to himself.
Bob lacks the energy to grab Frank and wipe himself off with the t-shirt that Frank is still wearing, maybe rub his nose in it a little, so instead he just flops his head down on the pillow--the spit-smear is clammy against his ear--and wipes off with the corner of the blanket that's half-slid off the bed because, what the hell, it's not like it hasn't seen worse.
Frank clicks his tongue at him a few times, then squirms off the bed and starts looking around, presumably for his pants. Instead he picks up something Bob recognizes as the shirt he abandoned before his shower and wipes himself off with it, tossing it at Bob's face when he's done and then picking up his actual pants and jerking them on.
Bob bats the shirt away and then works up just enough energy to grab his pack of cigarettes off the nightstand. The pack is empty and Bob groans in frustration, crumpling the soft cardboard in his fist and throwing it at the wall, where it bounces away totally unsatisfyingly.
Frank looks over his shoulder at Bob from where he's standing near the door. He's re-buckling his belts and hardly fumbling at all, and Bob has no clue where he gets that much fucking energy, seriously, Bob is practically comatose and in desperate need of a fucking cigarette. Frank smiles, then, and when he finishes with his last belt he reaches into an inside pocket of his jacket and pulls out a battered pack of smokes. He eyes it for a moment, and then tilts his head and looks at Bob, and then he throws him the pack of smokes.
Bob is too worn out to move to catch it on time, and it lands near him on the wrecked sheets.
"Won't you need these?" Bob asks, eyeing the pack warily, like it might bite his fingers.
"I'll steal more." The way Frank shrugs makes all his chains clank together, and Bob can't help but instinctively start feeling out the rhythm of it.
"Okay," Bob says lamely. "Thanks."
"Yeah," Frank nods at him. "See you later, fucker," he chirps, and then he's gone, closing the door too hard behind himself.