mcr ficlet: Bob/Frank, R
Pairing: Bob/Frank
Rating: R
Summary: This was going to be for Porn Battle VI, but it got too long. I was working from the prompt smoke. Damn near PWP. 1200 words.
Frank is not one of those guys who looks like sex personified when he smokes. Now, it's not like he's disgusting or anything, but it's just not something that gets under Bob's skin-no more or less than Frank ever does, anyway. The thing is, when Frank smokes he's kind of jittery about it, mostly because he's usually talking nonstop, gesturing with his hands, so that the act of smoking gets lost in the act of being Frank Iero. A nice entertaining act, of course, but not one full of slow, sexy anything, much less drags off cigarettes.
So this is how Bob knows something's up. He's standing outside the bus one muggy night in Florida, dead on his feet, communing desperately with his last cigarette of the day, and he shouldn't even still have his eyes open, but he does. Normally, that wouldn't be a problem, especially not when it's just Frank there beside him, except for two things. One, Frank's totally, eerily calm-still and quiet. And two, the way he's smoking looks so seductive that Bob wouldn't be surprised if he started fellating the cigarette.
Or Bob.
Jesus.
Bob would love to say Frank's not doing it on purpose (not that that would make it easier to deal with), but he knows Frank. Frank thinks a placid expression and slow, sensual movements (when he can manage them, that is) are the surest way to get people to take him seriously. So Bob watches him tilt his head back and slowly exhale smoke to the sky, his neck stretched long and his lips pursed in a way that makes Bob want to muster every fucking bit of energy he has left to shove him up against the side of the bus and suck in that full lower lip and push his tongue--
"Bryar?" Frank says, languidly waving his cigarette in Bob's face to get his attention.
Which he already had, dammit. Not that Bob can answer him to say so. His mouth doesn't work just now. Or he can't think of how to make words. It's probably because all the blood in his body is rushing south. Right about now, he feels every bit as jittery as Frank always seems.
Of course, he tries to look casual, even if his voice croaks a little.
"Yeah?"
"Is it the band thing?"
"Hmm?"
"Why you've never jumped my bones."
Bob coughs, startled, (of all the fucking times to finally have this discussion…), but he also makes the mistake of looking at Frank again, at his fluttering eyelashes and his lips dark and wet like he's been chewing on them the way he does when he's nervous.
Fucking shit.
When Bob's nervous, he doesn't chew on his lip or even worry his lip ring. He just pulls inside himself like a turtle, at least metaphorically or something, all the while trying to seem like he's not pulling in. Humor helps. So does being an asshole. Well, sort of. He's usually good at combining the two to good effect.
Bob casts off the ashes hanging from his cigarette then he turns his head back to the view over the parking lot, taking another lazy drag as he mutters, "Maybe it's shit like this, Frankie."
"Like what?"
"Like you trying to get me hard by acting like a femme fatale in a 40's noir film."
And, fuck-he just said, get me hard, didn't he? Fuck.
Frank suddenly launches himself from his position leaned up against the bus and steps in front of Bob, obstructing his view with his grinning face. He looks this close to cracking up, except it would ruin his vibe here or something, so he holds back. Impressively. Every hair on Bob's neck stands up, which is stupid. This is Frank. Frank who's looking at him kind of like he wants to devour him.
He leans in just enough that Bob can see his eyes even more clearly, sparkling with mischief and something else entirely.
But when Frank speaks, he does it so slowly and seriously: "But would a femme fatale in a fuckin' noir film offer to get down on her knees right here and blow you?"
"Fuck that," Bob says as calmly as he can. "Are you offering?"
"Depends. Is it a band thing?"
"What? No."
"Then you're an idiot."
"I'm not--"
"Because I could've been doing this weeks ago, you know. But I haven’t been, because you're a stubborn idiot."
"So are you," Bob offers lamely, hiding behind his cigarette again. Something normal, anyway. More normal than going hot all over with Frank this close. He really did think he had a good handle on this shit.
Frank smirks and says, "And this, Bryar, is why I didn't let your retarded behavior deter me."
"Retarded?"
"Do you want me?"
"What? Frank, I-"
"Look, I know you do, I've seen how you look at me, so don't bullshit me. Now, the even more important question: do you know what you look like when you smoke?"
"Uh. What?" Sighing out a breath carefully, he says, "No?"
"Like every fucking fantasy I ever had, that's what."
Bob wants to roll his eyes, but it's such a fucking Frank thing to say, and Frank's looking so goddamn serious, and, fuck, Frank's hands are already settling on Bob's stomach and drifting down to his belt, deftly pulling and working loose the buckle. And then Bob's not actually so certain his tired legs are going to keep him up anymore, not as wobbly as he's suddenly feeling.
Frank pauses with his hands curled down under Bob's waistband, just at his fly. His fingers are almost brushing the head of his dick, which is so hard it's already leaking a little.
"So, why?" Frank asks coolly, with a question in his eyes.
"Why what?" Bob says, trying to keep the impatient whine out of his voice.
"Why be retarded?"
Bob chokes on a huff of breath. "I figured if you were...serious, you'd've done something by now."
At that, Frank finally cackles, and his voice shifts to something more normal: higher, sharper, more apt to trip over its fucking self just to get the words out.
"You know what, you're one dumb motherfucker. Me being a crazy bastard doesn't have anything to do with whether I have the balls to make moves, not on a stoic asshole like you." His voice drops again, but there's still some playfulness in it when he adds, "And you being a stoic asshole, by the way, doesn't mean you have to go around stopping yourself from shoving me down on my knees and fucking my mouth whenever you fucking want it."
"Jesus," Bob says as Frank drops down to the ground. As he pops open the button on Bob's fly, Bob stands there still holding his cigarette-lamely or like a life-preserver, he's not sure.
"How's this for serious?" Frank says when he finally pulls the zipper down and gets his strong hand curled around Bob's dick, pulls him out of his boxers, and gives him a hard stroke.
All Bob can manage is a weak groan. He finally flicks the cigarette out of his hand, watching the red end of it flip away in the darkness, and when he looks down again, Frank's watching his mouth.
Soon, of course, Bob's watching Frank's again-obscenely red as it opens and the tip of his tongue darts out as he closes his wet, full lips over the head of Bob's dick. And that? Pretty much the dirtiest thing Bob's seen in fucking forever. Maybe even sex personified.
~
Rating: R
Summary: This was going to be for Porn Battle VI, but it got too long. I was working from the prompt smoke. Damn near PWP. 1200 words.
Frank is not one of those guys who looks like sex personified when he smokes. Now, it's not like he's disgusting or anything, but it's just not something that gets under Bob's skin-no more or less than Frank ever does, anyway. The thing is, when Frank smokes he's kind of jittery about it, mostly because he's usually talking nonstop, gesturing with his hands, so that the act of smoking gets lost in the act of being Frank Iero. A nice entertaining act, of course, but not one full of slow, sexy anything, much less drags off cigarettes.
So this is how Bob knows something's up. He's standing outside the bus one muggy night in Florida, dead on his feet, communing desperately with his last cigarette of the day, and he shouldn't even still have his eyes open, but he does. Normally, that wouldn't be a problem, especially not when it's just Frank there beside him, except for two things. One, Frank's totally, eerily calm-still and quiet. And two, the way he's smoking looks so seductive that Bob wouldn't be surprised if he started fellating the cigarette.
Or Bob.
Jesus.
Bob would love to say Frank's not doing it on purpose (not that that would make it easier to deal with), but he knows Frank. Frank thinks a placid expression and slow, sensual movements (when he can manage them, that is) are the surest way to get people to take him seriously. So Bob watches him tilt his head back and slowly exhale smoke to the sky, his neck stretched long and his lips pursed in a way that makes Bob want to muster every fucking bit of energy he has left to shove him up against the side of the bus and suck in that full lower lip and push his tongue--
"Bryar?" Frank says, languidly waving his cigarette in Bob's face to get his attention.
Which he already had, dammit. Not that Bob can answer him to say so. His mouth doesn't work just now. Or he can't think of how to make words. It's probably because all the blood in his body is rushing south. Right about now, he feels every bit as jittery as Frank always seems.
Of course, he tries to look casual, even if his voice croaks a little.
"Yeah?"
"Is it the band thing?"
"Hmm?"
"Why you've never jumped my bones."
Bob coughs, startled, (of all the fucking times to finally have this discussion…), but he also makes the mistake of looking at Frank again, at his fluttering eyelashes and his lips dark and wet like he's been chewing on them the way he does when he's nervous.
Fucking shit.
When Bob's nervous, he doesn't chew on his lip or even worry his lip ring. He just pulls inside himself like a turtle, at least metaphorically or something, all the while trying to seem like he's not pulling in. Humor helps. So does being an asshole. Well, sort of. He's usually good at combining the two to good effect.
Bob casts off the ashes hanging from his cigarette then he turns his head back to the view over the parking lot, taking another lazy drag as he mutters, "Maybe it's shit like this, Frankie."
"Like what?"
"Like you trying to get me hard by acting like a femme fatale in a 40's noir film."
And, fuck-he just said, get me hard, didn't he? Fuck.
Frank suddenly launches himself from his position leaned up against the bus and steps in front of Bob, obstructing his view with his grinning face. He looks this close to cracking up, except it would ruin his vibe here or something, so he holds back. Impressively. Every hair on Bob's neck stands up, which is stupid. This is Frank. Frank who's looking at him kind of like he wants to devour him.
He leans in just enough that Bob can see his eyes even more clearly, sparkling with mischief and something else entirely.
But when Frank speaks, he does it so slowly and seriously: "But would a femme fatale in a fuckin' noir film offer to get down on her knees right here and blow you?"
"Fuck that," Bob says as calmly as he can. "Are you offering?"
"Depends. Is it a band thing?"
"What? No."
"Then you're an idiot."
"I'm not--"
"Because I could've been doing this weeks ago, you know. But I haven’t been, because you're a stubborn idiot."
"So are you," Bob offers lamely, hiding behind his cigarette again. Something normal, anyway. More normal than going hot all over with Frank this close. He really did think he had a good handle on this shit.
Frank smirks and says, "And this, Bryar, is why I didn't let your retarded behavior deter me."
"Retarded?"
"Do you want me?"
"What? Frank, I-"
"Look, I know you do, I've seen how you look at me, so don't bullshit me. Now, the even more important question: do you know what you look like when you smoke?"
"Uh. What?" Sighing out a breath carefully, he says, "No?"
"Like every fucking fantasy I ever had, that's what."
Bob wants to roll his eyes, but it's such a fucking Frank thing to say, and Frank's looking so goddamn serious, and, fuck, Frank's hands are already settling on Bob's stomach and drifting down to his belt, deftly pulling and working loose the buckle. And then Bob's not actually so certain his tired legs are going to keep him up anymore, not as wobbly as he's suddenly feeling.
Frank pauses with his hands curled down under Bob's waistband, just at his fly. His fingers are almost brushing the head of his dick, which is so hard it's already leaking a little.
"So, why?" Frank asks coolly, with a question in his eyes.
"Why what?" Bob says, trying to keep the impatient whine out of his voice.
"Why be retarded?"
Bob chokes on a huff of breath. "I figured if you were...serious, you'd've done something by now."
At that, Frank finally cackles, and his voice shifts to something more normal: higher, sharper, more apt to trip over its fucking self just to get the words out.
"You know what, you're one dumb motherfucker. Me being a crazy bastard doesn't have anything to do with whether I have the balls to make moves, not on a stoic asshole like you." His voice drops again, but there's still some playfulness in it when he adds, "And you being a stoic asshole, by the way, doesn't mean you have to go around stopping yourself from shoving me down on my knees and fucking my mouth whenever you fucking want it."
"Jesus," Bob says as Frank drops down to the ground. As he pops open the button on Bob's fly, Bob stands there still holding his cigarette-lamely or like a life-preserver, he's not sure.
"How's this for serious?" Frank says when he finally pulls the zipper down and gets his strong hand curled around Bob's dick, pulls him out of his boxers, and gives him a hard stroke.
All Bob can manage is a weak groan. He finally flicks the cigarette out of his hand, watching the red end of it flip away in the darkness, and when he looks down again, Frank's watching his mouth.
Soon, of course, Bob's watching Frank's again-obscenely red as it opens and the tip of his tongue darts out as he closes his wet, full lips over the head of Bob's dick. And that? Pretty much the dirtiest thing Bob's seen in fucking forever. Maybe even sex personified.
~