Frank always has bruises the next day, and he wears them like a badge. Like he fucking wants someone to ask. He laughs big and loud with the techs, head tossed back as he downs the dregs of his beer, and Bob can see the purpling skin at the base of his neck from last night, the yellow higher up, just under his jaw, from a few nights before.
Every time, Bob tries to kiss them better. He's got this idea that if he can just spread Frank out and touch his lips to the bruised skin - the small fingerprints of blue-black along his hipbones, the wide and messy purple shapes on his knees - then he'll stop leaving them there.
"Pussy," Frank grunts, and sits up almost immediately from where Bob's pushed him down on his back on the hotel bed, "if I wanted fucking T.L.C. I'd call your mom." His mouth is ugly twisted up like that, his eyes narrowed. Bob just wants to get him on his back, wants to press his lips to the mark on Frank's neck, the ones beneath his t-shirt that he can't see.
"Lie down," Bob presses between gritted teeth.
"Man up," Frank spits out, and Bob pushes his thumb hard and bruising into Frank's lips, to keep them closed, to push them open, he doesn't really care. Frank takes it in this time, sucking wet and obscene.
Frank bucks up against Bob, the hard line of his dick against Bob's stomach, eyes glassy and challenging. Bob uses his other hand to push Frank's t-shirt up to his armpits, skating his clammy palm across the inked skin to hover over the small bruises along Frank's ribcage.
"Then take it like one," Bob says in a voice that he never knows how to use when Frank's smoking with Mikey behind the buses where they're not supposed to, when Frank steals food from his plate, smiling big and easy and bright. Bob's fingertips fit to the bruises in a way that makes his stomach bottom out every time, in a way that makes him think: mine.
Bob tries to kiss them better, but Frank won't let him.
"Fuck," Frank hisses around Bob's thumb and slams his fists down on the bedspread, shoving his hips up into Bob, eyes squeezed shut. "Come the fuck on, Bryar." Sweat breaks out across Bob's back as Frank licks at the pad of this thumb and bites down hard.
Bob knows Frank won't kiss it better, later. But he also knows that next time, Frank's teeth will seek out the exactly same spot to sink in. Really, it's not all that different.
Sink Right In - Bob/Frank
Every time, Bob tries to kiss them better. He's got this idea that if he can just spread Frank out and touch his lips to the bruised skin - the small fingerprints of blue-black along his hipbones, the wide and messy purple shapes on his knees - then he'll stop leaving them there.
"Pussy," Frank grunts, and sits up almost immediately from where Bob's pushed him down on his back on the hotel bed, "if I wanted fucking T.L.C. I'd call your mom." His mouth is ugly twisted up like that, his eyes narrowed. Bob just wants to get him on his back, wants to press his lips to the mark on Frank's neck, the ones beneath his t-shirt that he can't see.
"Lie down," Bob presses between gritted teeth.
"Man up," Frank spits out, and Bob pushes his thumb hard and bruising into Frank's lips, to keep them closed, to push them open, he doesn't really care. Frank takes it in this time, sucking wet and obscene.
Frank bucks up against Bob, the hard line of his dick against Bob's stomach, eyes glassy and challenging. Bob uses his other hand to push Frank's t-shirt up to his armpits, skating his clammy palm across the inked skin to hover over the small bruises along Frank's ribcage.
"Then take it like one," Bob says in a voice that he never knows how to use when Frank's smoking with Mikey behind the buses where they're not supposed to, when Frank steals food from his plate, smiling big and easy and bright. Bob's fingertips fit to the bruises in a way that makes his stomach bottom out every time, in a way that makes him think: mine.
Bob tries to kiss them better, but Frank won't let him.
"Fuck," Frank hisses around Bob's thumb and slams his fists down on the bedspread, shoving his hips up into Bob, eyes squeezed shut. "Come the fuck on, Bryar." Sweat breaks out across Bob's back as Frank licks at the pad of this thumb and bites down hard.
Bob knows Frank won't kiss it better, later. But he also knows that next time, Frank's teeth will seek out the exactly same spot to sink in. Really, it's not all that different.