asimplechord (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
asimplechord) wrote2009-12-20 11:13 am
asimplechord) wrote2009-12-20 11:13 am
Bob/Frank not!fic
So, ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
harriet_vane and sunsetmog both have declared the next few days (weeks?) WIP amnesty, and as my previous post mentioned, one of my major talents is half-finishing fic.
This particular not!fic has been half-finished for... maybe two years? I started it after watching a rebroadcast of MCR's SNL performance. You know that moment at the end, when they're all milling about on stage, and Frank is on Bob's back, and he half-chokes him?
Uh-huh. I loved the idea of this, exploring s/D and how to handle needs when you're crammed on a bus with at least four other dudes for a year, but I have to admit that I am never going to flesh it out into more than the porn it is now. I just don't have the inclination or skill to write it.
So, here. Have 1760 words of not!fic!
Warnings: Breathplay. Without a beta, and without plot. Also, completely fictional. Consider yourself warned, okay?
Bob/Frank breathplay not!fic:
The first time was an accident.
Bob laughs when Frank calls it that, because Frank climbing onto Bob's back for a piggyback ride is *not* an accident: it's an expected event, a daily, sometimes hourly, activity.
Frank realizing that his own personal climbing wall got off on asphyxiation? *Not* a daily event, and definitely accidental.
But yeah, here's how that little revelation came about.
My Chem were in LA to work on the new album, but things were... off. Mikey was there but not, Gerard was preoccupied, and Ray was impatient with everyone. Frank was just trying to distract Ray (stirring shit, Bob would mutter, if asked), and he'd never had much in the way of a sense of self-preservation. Bob rescued him before Ray could carry through on any homicidal instincts, literally pulling him out of Ray's hands and carrying him upstairs, leaving Gerard to deal with Ray's temper.
But when Bob tried to dump Frank off his back after the rescue, Frank tightened his hands around Bob's neck and squeezed his knees and ankles against Bob's ribs and hips. He liked his perch -- Bob's maybe the best of all the guys to climb, and the most indulgent, and Frank's comfortable there. He also liked the sound Bob made, one he thought he recognized after living on a bus together for months. Frank felt the muscles in Bob's back tense against him, and he looked down, over Bob's shoulder, but Bob's baggy jeans were hiding any further evidence.
Testing, Frank let his fingers glide over Bob's Adam's apple and squeeze again. Breath caught, and this time Frank wasn't able to hold on when Bob shucked him off his back with a quick, emphatic shrug and spun to face him.
Shuttered blue eyes met Frank's, and Bob muttered, "You're such a shit, Iero. You just can't resist causing trouble, can you?"
And, okay, Frank *had* been poking, but not for the sake of stirring up trouble. People always forgot the entire adage: curiosity might have killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back.
"Hey, no, it's not -- Look, I get off on having sex in public places and the possibility of getting caught, Bob, so it's like I have any room to criticize. I wasn't trying to be a dick." Sometimes it happened anyway, though.
Bob glanced away, and Frank could read his embarrassment in his red cheeks -- he was too fair-skinned to do anything but turn a brilliant crimson on the few occasions when his naturally prickly facade was breeched -- but Bob accepted the implicit apology.
"Lemme get my shoes, man. We'll go see if Stump's done for the day. He usually knows where the good local bands are playing. We'll hang out."
Frank didn't dwell on it. Like he'd said, he had no room to criticize.
*
The next time wasn't deliberate either, but it couldn't really be called accidental. The album was done, just post-production work and press to handle, but the relief and release they'd all expected to come with the end of recording hadn't materialized.
They come back from a meeting with Warner Bros & Riot Squad, and it's... tense. Frank tries being loud and obnoxious, doing his best to vent, bitching about their non-smoking room in the hotel Jeff booked for them (totally had this discussion before, it's *normal* for them) and goes to drop onto Bob on the sofa.
Bob snarled, "Give it a fucking rest already, Frank!"
He's surprised, because it's Bob, and Bob's never that abrupt. He's been quiet all day, but hey, that's Bob. Sometimes it's hard to tell his grumpy from just uncommunicative. Also, when Bob stood, he sort of *loomed* over Frank, it's almost intimidating, how much bigger Bob is than Frank. (Okay, so nearly everyone is bigger than Frank, he's used to it, but he doesn't usually *notice* it.)
In retaliation, Frank shoves at him. "Don't be take it out on me if you're mad because Gerard's grand vision means you'll be wearing more makeup." He goes to bump their hips together, to prove that he's joking, but Bob tries to jerk away.
Frank catches his wrists, tugs him to a stop. Keeps Bob's wrists in his hands as he stands on his tiptoes to look Bob in the eye.
Bob tries to avoid, so Frank squeezes them tighter as he orders, "Don't." For a second, Frank isn't sure if he's telling him not to go or semi-serious about Gerard's grand vision for this album.
Bob's breath catches. Frank knows his wrists have been sore, and he's about to apologize, but then Bob looks up and meets his gaze. Bob's shoulders, which had been ratcheted tight and high, drop a little bit. Frank squeezes again, more than just pressure - this time has to hurt. Bob's shoulders drop one notch lower and his eyelids droop.
"Is that what you need?"
Bob nods, and his breath evens, deepens. Frank invades his space, backing against wall and pushing Bob's wrists against the wallpaper on either side of his head. He presses them there, and he knows it has to hurt. He feels Bob's hip twitch against his, but he doesn't let go. Instead, his grip tightens again, and he doesn't let go no matter how much Bob bucks.
"Leave them."
Bob is still, and Frank thinks he's considering, looking inward, waiting to see if Frank can do this, ready to be disappointed.
Frank CAN.
He runs his palms down Bob's arm and then back up, feels the tension at his neck still. One hand rest over throat, other down his side.
"Look at me." Ramble about holding them up, being steady, doing exactly what Brian needed him to do for them (even though he's not really just Brian's anymore, not like he was at first). Bob's theirs now, *his* and he'll take care of him. Keeps talking, waiting until Bob looks at him, waits until he sees a spark of acknowledgement in Bob's eyes.
When he does, he rocks forward, thigh between Bob's, feels the semi there. Rocks against it. He knots one hand in collar of Bob's tshirt, lets the other drop to Bob's jeans, deftly unzips them. Then he's got the weight of Bob's cock in his hand, warm, feels it hardening. Frank keeps his eyes open on Bob's, as he twists the collar under his fingers, tightening and pulling. The stiffened fabric chafes, turning the skin red, and he knows it'll leave a mark. Frank thinks distantly that if they're going to do this, if Bob really likes that part of it, not just being dominated, they'll need to get a collar, need a safe word, in any case, but he's not going to stop for that now.
Bob's hips hitch against him, his cock jerking in Frank's hand. Bob's biting his lip, and Frank can feel his chest heaving as he struggles for breath - he twists his fists tighter, leans up on tiptoes and uses teeth to tug Bob's lip free, sucks on the lipring.
His eyes are open still.
"Let go. Come on, Bob, let go."
He watches as blue eyes go blind, and Bob obeys, and feels a curl of satisfaction in his gut when the wire-tight tension holding Bob up snaps, and he slumps.
That tension creeps back when Bob returns to himself, Bob's hand ghosts across Frank's crotch, and Frank's not going to lie: he's hard, turned on by the process, by the sheer hotness of Bob coming apart against him. But that's not that point now. Gently but firmly, he tugs Bob's hand away. They shuffles over to the bed, where Frank wrestles Bob's clothes off him and tucks him into bed.
When he's in the bathroom after, thoug.
"Fuck it."
Frank jerks off, hard and fast, thinking about the way Bob looked in front of him. When he's done, he takes a long, hot shower, washing away come and a vague sense of guilt before drying off and climbing into bed with Bob.
He wakes up to find Bob eyeing him.
"Are you freaking out?"
"Not exactly. Are you?"
"No."
"But you didn't want me to get you off."
"Not what you needed."
Bob is quiet.
"Is this going to be weird?"
"Do you want it to be? Because I look at us - and I mean us as in you and me, but also as in us, the band - as the equivalent of being in a dysfunctional relationship. Last night was just us making one aspect of it functional."
Bob considers him for a moment, then nods slowly. Frank feels as Bob lets himself admire Frank's bare skin, toes to sternum.
"Alright. I get that. It's sort of fucked up, but I can see it." He rolls over onto Frank. "In the interest of keeping everything... functional, I have to ask. Does this have to be about what I need, or can it be about what I want, too?"
Frank feels his cock weigh in enthusiastically, and leans back into pillows.
[And then there's a blow job. Frank gets reacquainted with the scrape of stubble on his thighs and the cool slide of lipring against hot skin. Bob takes direction really well.
And at first it's like they're just fucking occasionally with some dominance and submission going on, whenever Bob is keyed up enough to get twitchy, and Frank knows how to settle him. But then there's lots of misunderstanding and annoyance because Bob doesn't take care of himself - he got a Staph infection so bad he almost COOKED HIS BRAIN - and Frank ends up taking CARE of Bob because SOMEONE HAS TO. So, yeah, it's not just sex then, it's Frank making sure Bob takes his pills and gets his rest and doesn't DIE.]
*
Frank's grip shifts from Bob's shoulders to his neck and he squeezes. He can feel Bob, who had been shifting, rebalancing after Frank moved, still, then Bob's hands lift, helping to hitch Frank higher on his back. Frank lets his fingers dig in, just for a second, before he lets go, and then he leans toward Ray for a high-five and slides down to stand on his own. The applause and the noise distract everyone, and the guys are shaking hands and slapping backs, laughing about being on Saturday Night Live. Saturday Night Live!
Frank knows what he did, and Bob knows what that means for later. He smooths his tie down and smiles at whatever Tina Fey just said, and wonders how long before they head out.
harriet_vane and sunsetmog both have declared the next few days (weeks?) WIP amnesty, and as my previous post mentioned, one of my major talents is half-finishing fic.This particular not!fic has been half-finished for... maybe two years? I started it after watching a rebroadcast of MCR's SNL performance. You know that moment at the end, when they're all milling about on stage, and Frank is on Bob's back, and he half-chokes him?
Uh-huh. I loved the idea of this, exploring s/D and how to handle needs when you're crammed on a bus with at least four other dudes for a year, but I have to admit that I am never going to flesh it out into more than the porn it is now. I just don't have the inclination or skill to write it.
So, here. Have 1760 words of not!fic!
Warnings: Breathplay. Without a beta, and without plot. Also, completely fictional. Consider yourself warned, okay?
Bob/Frank breathplay not!fic:
The first time was an accident.
Bob laughs when Frank calls it that, because Frank climbing onto Bob's back for a piggyback ride is *not* an accident: it's an expected event, a daily, sometimes hourly, activity.
Frank realizing that his own personal climbing wall got off on asphyxiation? *Not* a daily event, and definitely accidental.
But yeah, here's how that little revelation came about.
My Chem were in LA to work on the new album, but things were... off. Mikey was there but not, Gerard was preoccupied, and Ray was impatient with everyone. Frank was just trying to distract Ray (stirring shit, Bob would mutter, if asked), and he'd never had much in the way of a sense of self-preservation. Bob rescued him before Ray could carry through on any homicidal instincts, literally pulling him out of Ray's hands and carrying him upstairs, leaving Gerard to deal with Ray's temper.
But when Bob tried to dump Frank off his back after the rescue, Frank tightened his hands around Bob's neck and squeezed his knees and ankles against Bob's ribs and hips. He liked his perch -- Bob's maybe the best of all the guys to climb, and the most indulgent, and Frank's comfortable there. He also liked the sound Bob made, one he thought he recognized after living on a bus together for months. Frank felt the muscles in Bob's back tense against him, and he looked down, over Bob's shoulder, but Bob's baggy jeans were hiding any further evidence.
Testing, Frank let his fingers glide over Bob's Adam's apple and squeeze again. Breath caught, and this time Frank wasn't able to hold on when Bob shucked him off his back with a quick, emphatic shrug and spun to face him.
Shuttered blue eyes met Frank's, and Bob muttered, "You're such a shit, Iero. You just can't resist causing trouble, can you?"
And, okay, Frank *had* been poking, but not for the sake of stirring up trouble. People always forgot the entire adage: curiosity might have killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back.
"Hey, no, it's not -- Look, I get off on having sex in public places and the possibility of getting caught, Bob, so it's like I have any room to criticize. I wasn't trying to be a dick." Sometimes it happened anyway, though.
Bob glanced away, and Frank could read his embarrassment in his red cheeks -- he was too fair-skinned to do anything but turn a brilliant crimson on the few occasions when his naturally prickly facade was breeched -- but Bob accepted the implicit apology.
"Lemme get my shoes, man. We'll go see if Stump's done for the day. He usually knows where the good local bands are playing. We'll hang out."
Frank didn't dwell on it. Like he'd said, he had no room to criticize.
*
The next time wasn't deliberate either, but it couldn't really be called accidental. The album was done, just post-production work and press to handle, but the relief and release they'd all expected to come with the end of recording hadn't materialized.
They come back from a meeting with Warner Bros & Riot Squad, and it's... tense. Frank tries being loud and obnoxious, doing his best to vent, bitching about their non-smoking room in the hotel Jeff booked for them (totally had this discussion before, it's *normal* for them) and goes to drop onto Bob on the sofa.
Bob snarled, "Give it a fucking rest already, Frank!"
He's surprised, because it's Bob, and Bob's never that abrupt. He's been quiet all day, but hey, that's Bob. Sometimes it's hard to tell his grumpy from just uncommunicative. Also, when Bob stood, he sort of *loomed* over Frank, it's almost intimidating, how much bigger Bob is than Frank. (Okay, so nearly everyone is bigger than Frank, he's used to it, but he doesn't usually *notice* it.)
In retaliation, Frank shoves at him. "Don't be take it out on me if you're mad because Gerard's grand vision means you'll be wearing more makeup." He goes to bump their hips together, to prove that he's joking, but Bob tries to jerk away.
Frank catches his wrists, tugs him to a stop. Keeps Bob's wrists in his hands as he stands on his tiptoes to look Bob in the eye.
Bob tries to avoid, so Frank squeezes them tighter as he orders, "Don't." For a second, Frank isn't sure if he's telling him not to go or semi-serious about Gerard's grand vision for this album.
Bob's breath catches. Frank knows his wrists have been sore, and he's about to apologize, but then Bob looks up and meets his gaze. Bob's shoulders, which had been ratcheted tight and high, drop a little bit. Frank squeezes again, more than just pressure - this time has to hurt. Bob's shoulders drop one notch lower and his eyelids droop.
"Is that what you need?"
Bob nods, and his breath evens, deepens. Frank invades his space, backing against wall and pushing Bob's wrists against the wallpaper on either side of his head. He presses them there, and he knows it has to hurt. He feels Bob's hip twitch against his, but he doesn't let go. Instead, his grip tightens again, and he doesn't let go no matter how much Bob bucks.
"Leave them."
Bob is still, and Frank thinks he's considering, looking inward, waiting to see if Frank can do this, ready to be disappointed.
Frank CAN.
He runs his palms down Bob's arm and then back up, feels the tension at his neck still. One hand rest over throat, other down his side.
"Look at me." Ramble about holding them up, being steady, doing exactly what Brian needed him to do for them (even though he's not really just Brian's anymore, not like he was at first). Bob's theirs now, *his* and he'll take care of him. Keeps talking, waiting until Bob looks at him, waits until he sees a spark of acknowledgement in Bob's eyes.
When he does, he rocks forward, thigh between Bob's, feels the semi there. Rocks against it. He knots one hand in collar of Bob's tshirt, lets the other drop to Bob's jeans, deftly unzips them. Then he's got the weight of Bob's cock in his hand, warm, feels it hardening. Frank keeps his eyes open on Bob's, as he twists the collar under his fingers, tightening and pulling. The stiffened fabric chafes, turning the skin red, and he knows it'll leave a mark. Frank thinks distantly that if they're going to do this, if Bob really likes that part of it, not just being dominated, they'll need to get a collar, need a safe word, in any case, but he's not going to stop for that now.
Bob's hips hitch against him, his cock jerking in Frank's hand. Bob's biting his lip, and Frank can feel his chest heaving as he struggles for breath - he twists his fists tighter, leans up on tiptoes and uses teeth to tug Bob's lip free, sucks on the lipring.
His eyes are open still.
"Let go. Come on, Bob, let go."
He watches as blue eyes go blind, and Bob obeys, and feels a curl of satisfaction in his gut when the wire-tight tension holding Bob up snaps, and he slumps.
That tension creeps back when Bob returns to himself, Bob's hand ghosts across Frank's crotch, and Frank's not going to lie: he's hard, turned on by the process, by the sheer hotness of Bob coming apart against him. But that's not that point now. Gently but firmly, he tugs Bob's hand away. They shuffles over to the bed, where Frank wrestles Bob's clothes off him and tucks him into bed.
When he's in the bathroom after, thoug.
"Fuck it."
Frank jerks off, hard and fast, thinking about the way Bob looked in front of him. When he's done, he takes a long, hot shower, washing away come and a vague sense of guilt before drying off and climbing into bed with Bob.
He wakes up to find Bob eyeing him.
"Are you freaking out?"
"Not exactly. Are you?"
"No."
"But you didn't want me to get you off."
"Not what you needed."
Bob is quiet.
"Is this going to be weird?"
"Do you want it to be? Because I look at us - and I mean us as in you and me, but also as in us, the band - as the equivalent of being in a dysfunctional relationship. Last night was just us making one aspect of it functional."
Bob considers him for a moment, then nods slowly. Frank feels as Bob lets himself admire Frank's bare skin, toes to sternum.
"Alright. I get that. It's sort of fucked up, but I can see it." He rolls over onto Frank. "In the interest of keeping everything... functional, I have to ask. Does this have to be about what I need, or can it be about what I want, too?"
Frank feels his cock weigh in enthusiastically, and leans back into pillows.
[And then there's a blow job. Frank gets reacquainted with the scrape of stubble on his thighs and the cool slide of lipring against hot skin. Bob takes direction really well.
And at first it's like they're just fucking occasionally with some dominance and submission going on, whenever Bob is keyed up enough to get twitchy, and Frank knows how to settle him. But then there's lots of misunderstanding and annoyance because Bob doesn't take care of himself - he got a Staph infection so bad he almost COOKED HIS BRAIN - and Frank ends up taking CARE of Bob because SOMEONE HAS TO. So, yeah, it's not just sex then, it's Frank making sure Bob takes his pills and gets his rest and doesn't DIE.]
*
Frank's grip shifts from Bob's shoulders to his neck and he squeezes. He can feel Bob, who had been shifting, rebalancing after Frank moved, still, then Bob's hands lift, helping to hitch Frank higher on his back. Frank lets his fingers dig in, just for a second, before he lets go, and then he leans toward Ray for a high-five and slides down to stand on his own. The applause and the noise distract everyone, and the guys are shaking hands and slapping backs, laughing about being on Saturday Night Live. Saturday Night Live!
Frank knows what he did, and Bob knows what that means for later. He smooths his tie down and smiles at whatever Tina Fey just said, and wonders how long before they head out.