carleton97 (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
carleton97) wrote2008-02-28 01:12 pm
carleton97) wrote2008-02-28 01:12 pm
fic: and weather in the heart alike, 2/2
Continued from here
Never let it be said that Trish Stump doesn't learn from her mistakes.
She makes sure Pete is solidly entrenched in a day of puppy-family bonding with Hemmy and Joe. She may have intimated that Hemingway was becoming a latchkey kid.
She's not proud.
Andy was last seen on the hunt for the ever-elusive vegan cookies (Trish hid them in the TAI bus. What?) and Charlie and Dirty and the rest of them are in the middle of a cut-throat Yahtzee tournament.
She trusts Bob has taken care of his own bandmates.
So here they are.
Another day, another venue.
Another empty room.
Trish pulls Bob across the room by his belt loops, not stopping until they are as far from the door as the small space will allow. Not that Bob is wasting any time either; as soon as Trish's back hits the far wall, his mouth is on hers and his hands are warm on her ribcage, just firm enough to not tickle. She tangles her fingers in the hair at his nape - he needs a haircut already and Trish thinks he'll probably look like Cousin Itt by the end of summer if they don't find someone with some scissors and a bare minimum of skill.
Someone not Brendon Urie, though.
Bob carefully slides his hands up her body, catching the curves of her breasts in his palms. His hands are hot, even through the thin fabric of her washed out t-shirt and bra (she has another, heavier bra she wears onstage - the last thing she needs is the internet covered in pictures of her nipping out). He brushes his thumbs in random circles until she pushes up against his grip and bites his lip.
"Stop teasing."
Bob bites back, catching the damp skin of her lower lip as he unfastens her pants. He leaves them hanging off her hips and slides his hand under the waistband of her underpants. Trish automatically sucks in when Bob's hand brushes over her stomach, hoping he'll just keep moving downwards, but he stops there, palming the warm curve of her belly until she relaxes. He kisses her again, smiling against her cheek at the little noise she makes when he pushes his hand further into her pants.
He stays like that, mouth against her temple and hand still between her legs until she squirms against him, grinding down onto his hand and reaching up to knot her hands in the sleeves of his t-shirt.
"I said stop fucking teasing."
Bob bends his fingers just enough to nudge the tip of one inside of her, then he stops again, moving only enough to gently pet at her. Trish makes a frustrated sound and tightens her hands in his shirt until he hears a couple of stitches pop in the collar. He shifts closer then, leaning his free arm on the wall above her head as he pushes two fingers carefully inside her.
Trish stops breathing for a second before exhaling on a gorgeous moan and grinding against the heel of Bob's hand. She never really pegged him for dirty talk, but he drops his head down and starts whispering truly filthy things into her ear. She turns towards his voice, pressing up on her tiptoes to mouth a sloppy kiss to the side of his neck before dropping back on her heels and panting her way through her orgasm.
Bob stills his hand, pressing hard against her until she relaxes a little. She tips her head back against the wall and smiles up at him. He bends down to kiss her before tilting his head to whisper again and stroking her softly. Trish whimpers a little at the sensation, but moves in rhythm with him, fisting her hands in the fabric his shirt. She falters, swearing as she comes around his fingers again, but Bob's arm is there, wrapping around her waist and holding her steady as he coaxes her body even higher. He keeps his hand moving the whole time, pressing and rubbing against her, not giving her a chance to come down at all.
She can't really tell if she's riding one huge wave, or if she's skipping from orgasm to orgasm, but it totally doesn't matter. Bob is there with her, holding her up, holding her close, and then he's right there with her, his arms tight around her, jerking his hips against her side and choking out her name. He stops stroking her, but leaves his hand pressed tight to her and that's enough to leave Trish shaking, hanging onto his shoulders to stay on her feet.
He's curled next to her, half leaning on the wall as he starts to go a little boneless. He nuzzles his nose through her hair for a second before using his grip on her waist to pull her close enough to kiss. Trish can't help but moan at the thick slide of his tongue into her mouth and she twitches against his hand.
Bob laughs disbelievingly into her mouth and his eyebrows are up near his hairline when he pulls back, "Again?"
Trish shrugs and can feel her face getting hot with embarrassment even as his fingers are starting to move again. He's leaning down to kiss her when the door swings open. Ray is three steps into the room before he notices them and claps his hand over his eyes.
"Jesus Christ, you two!"
Groping for the doorknob, he runs into the doorjamb on his way out and they can hear him swearing even through the closed door. Trish starts to giggle and drops her head to Bob's shoulder when she can't hold it up any longer. She's not going to stop laughing anytime soon, they've both seen her do this enough to know that, so he sighs and sketches a kiss to the corner of her mouth before easing his hand out of her pants and wiping it off on some of the paper towels sitting on the shelf next to them.
She's winding down by the time he has her pants done up again and she slumps forward into his arms, breathless with laughter, "I can't decide if Ray has the best or worst timing of everyone we know."
Bob laughs into her hair and pulls her away from the wall to stand on wobbly legs, "Come on, we've got a couple of hours until soundcheck. I need to change my pants, then we'll cuddle."
Trish makes grabby hands at him, "I can't walk that far, you killed me. Piggyback?"
He rolls his eyes, but turns around and squats down enough for her to hop on his back, "Your bus or mine?"
"Mine. I think we've traumatized your bandmates enough for today," Trish squirms around until she's comfortable, then locks her ankles around Bob's waist. "Giddy up!"
Bob hitches her up a little higher and starts towards the door, "If you kick me, I'm dropping your ass."
Trish squeezes him tight for a second, sort of giddy with afterglow and sheer happiness, "You'll never drop me, Bobby Bryar."
"You're probably right."
***
The first time Bob starts to go down on Trish, he ends up with a black eye. Again.
The thing is, they've been together for nearly three weeks and they're still two weeks away from a hotel stay. They've been together three weeks on tour, which is about six months in real time and they haven't managed anything more than a couple of handjobs.
If Bob didn't care about privacy at all, it wouldn't be an issue. Living in everyone else's pocket really doesn't slow anyone else down, but he sort of wants this thing with Trish to be ... special. Something more than just a series of hookups on tour, so he doesn't just pull her into his bunk and hope to god everyone else stays away for the next hour. Or six.
Instead, he spends his precious free time searching out quiet pockets in venues and bartering vegan candy and cigarettes for quarters of hours on his bus. Don't get him wrong, he loves making out with Trish and a handjob from her is better than, like, forty percent of the full on sex he's had in his life, but he wants more.
So when they get to Salt Lake City six hours early, a carton of cigarettes and a week of complaint free piggyback rides wins him three hours of uninterrupted dressing room time from Frankie. For twenty hours in the bus studio and the promise he never has to walk in on them again he gets the same from Ray. Gerard promises to keep himself and Mikey busy for three hours for two cartons of smokes, a bag of Sumatran blend, and eight hours of Bob as a drawing model at a date to be named later.
Bob never realized his bandmates were quite so mercenary.
He doesn't care, though. He'd probably have agreed to let Gerard draw him naked if it gets him this. If it gets him Trish warm under him on the saggy dressing room couch, half-naked and laughing as her pants get tangled around one ankle. Bob kisses the skin on her chest above the edge of her tank top and slides off the couch to free her foot from the twisted fabric. Her legs are smooth and white under his hands, somehow free of the mess of freckles that cover most of his skin. He tosses her pants up onto the couch next to her and kisses the inside curve of her knee. "So, hey. I had this thought."
Trish pushes his hair off his forehead before sprawling back on the couch, "Yeah? What kind of thought?"
"Something like this, maybe," Bob mouths a lazy path up her thigh, pushing her legs apart until he can nose at the black cotton and elastic curving over her hip.
Trish's breath catches and she squirms under his mouth, "That's a very nice kind of thought."
"Yeah?" Bob breathes against her for another second before hooking his fingers in the top of her panties and pulling them down a couple of inches, "I thought it was pretty smart of me."
He rubs his beard over the soft skin of her belly, loving the way the muscles jump as she tries not to twist away from the ticklish sensation. He sits back a little and eases her panties down slowly. He knows he's smiling like a total goof, but he can't help it. He's just so -
Ow.
Bob blinks at the white spots floating above him, dancing over the water stained acoustical tiles of the ceiling. His ears are ringing in time with the throbbing around his eye and it sort of muffles all the swearing and yelling Trish is doing above his head. He can hear Mikey talking to her, but stays on the ground, figuring at least this way he'll be out of firing range if she starts throwing stuff.
Hey, he's heard the stories.
He doesn't move until he hears the door slam. He tilts his head back enough to see Mikey staring at him upside down from next to the door.
"Did she knee you in the face?"
Bob sits up and turns around, gingerly pokes at tender skin around his eye, "Yeah, I think so."
"Ouch."
Bob resists the urge to bang his head against the wall, "Mikey, what are you - You know what? Never mind. Can you find me an icepack?"
"Dude, you're like a battered wife."
Bob sighs.
***
Bob is still lying on the dressing room couch an hour and a half later. The cold pack is a lukewarm lump in his hand and he seriously hates everything in the world right now. He wonders sometimes, when things are especially fucked up, if Frank wasn't right when he joked about Bob being cursed.
Because, really? He's never been all that accident prone. Even as a kid. Even after he grew a foot and a half the year he turned fourteen.
He's half-way convinced himself to ask Gerard if he knows anyone who can de-cursify him when the dressing room door opens and Trish shuffles in. She leans against the door and hunches her shoulders the way she does when she's embarrassed.
"Hey."
"Hi. You calmed down yet?" And that's a bit of a low blow, Bob knows, but he's got another black eye and Mikey called him a battered wife.
"Yes." Trish makes a little face and stares down at her toes. After a second, she peeks at him a little from under the brim of her hat, "So, uh. I'm sorry I kicked you in the face."
Bob shrugs since he's pretty sure that part was an accident, but, "And the yelling and door slamming and stomping off?"
Trish curls into herself a bit more, what Bob can see of her face turning red, "I'm especially sorry for that."
Bob tosses the useless cold pack onto the pile of shit in the corner and sits up, "More than giving me a black eye?"
She bites her lip and kicks at the floor, "Um. I might have forgotten to put my pants on before I left."
Bob tries to hold his laughter in, he honestly does, because Trish's sketchy control of her temper isn't funny, not really, but after everything else, the thought of her getting halfway back to her bus before realizing she's carrying her pants and shoes is too much for him. He's wheezing by the time he's done laughing and it takes him a while to catch his breath.
Trish looks decidedly unimpressed when he finally pulls himself together enough to look at her, "You need to stop smoking, asshole."
That sets Bob off again, laughing and coughing into his elbow, wiping away stray tears with the sleeve of his shirt until he relaxes against the back of the couch. Trish rolls her eyes and stomps over to sit next to him. He drops his arm over her shoulders and it only takes a tiny bit of pressure to have her curled against his side.
"I really am sorry for kicking you in the eye and yelling," She's playing with the hem of his shirt, brushing against the skin of his stomach in random touches.
Bob flicks her hat off and kisses the side of her head, "No big."
Trish twists under the weight of his arm, bracing her hand on his thigh and kneeling on the couch. She feathers a breath of a kiss over the puffy skin around his eye before squirming down to kneel between his legs, "You should let me make it up to you."
"Jesus Christ."
"I'll take that as a 'yes,' then," Trish pushes at the hem of his shirt until he pulls it over his head, sucking in a startled breath when she slides her fingers under the waistband of his pants and unfastens them.
She carefully works his pants and shorts over his hips, then strips them off his legs with a flourish. She leaves them in a crumpled heap on the floor, on top of his abandoned flip-flops, and stretches up the length of his body to kiss him. Trish's tongue is gentle against his and the washed-thin fabric of her t-shirt is a soft barrier between his cock and the warm skin of her stomach. Bob gets his hands under her shirt and peels it off as she sits back on her heels.
Bob's not going to lie, for him the answer has always been black and lace and flirty when the question was lingerie, but he's pretty sure pink and cotton and plain have just ruined the curve forever. She's beautiful and Bob tells her so.
Trish just makes a face before quirking a self-conscious little grin at him and licking her lips, "Just remember I have to sing later tonight."
And then it's just the hotwetsoft of her mouth sliding over the head of his cock. Bob jerks his hips up before he can stop himself and Trish shoves them back down, pinning him to the couch with strong, calloused hands - a drummer's hands.
"Sorry, sorry."
Trish leans up and drops a kiss on his chest, licking over his nipple before settling back between his legs, sucking his cock back into her mouth and pushing one of her hands down the front of her own jeans. Bob arches again before he can get his body under control, but Trish has the pointy end of her elbow jammed into his thigh, keeping him still. Her hand is wrapped around his dick, slowly jerking what she doesn't have in her mouth.
It's - Bob's thought about this. A lot. It's sort of impossible to see Trish's mouth - god, to kiss that mouth - and not imagine how it would feel sliding over him and Bob's always had a pretty vivid imagination.
He wasn't even in the ballpark with this one.
It's not that she's doing anything especially fancy or putting on a show for him, but there's something completely enthralling about the way she's moving, how she's touching him. He sort of wants to close his eyes, to focus on anything other the sight of that mouth stretched around him, but he can't look away. Her eyes are open too, meeting his as best she can through the wisps of her bangs and crinkling up like she'd be smiling if she could.
As she moves, he can see flashes of tongue and the edge of her hand moving slow and strong and perfect on him. Her hair is a tangled mess and Bob reaches to tuck it behind her ear, rubbing his thumb over the curve of her cheek before reaching up and back with both hands to knot them in the loose upholstery along the top edge of the couch. Her eyes flicker over his body once before dropping closed to let dark lashes fan on her flushed cheeks.
Bob closes his eyes when she does, narrowing his focus down to the pressure of Trish's hand on him, the wet sound of her mouth on his dick, the feel of her tongue twisting over him. It's almost worse this way, with nothing to distract him from the liquid pressure of her mouth. It's sort of embarrassing how quickly she has him squirming, fighting his natural urge to push for more, for deeper.
He's being loud - too loud for where they are - but he's never been able to be quiet, to be still like this. He doesn't really care right now since he knows how Trish feels about sound. How everything is music to her in some way. How she loves the break and twist of pleasure in someone's voice. How connected it makes her feel.
She hums a response to the noises he's making, a third above him, changing pitch a fraction of a second after he does and the vibrations of her voice are like electricity through Bob's entire body. She shifts a little, swallowing around him and sliding her hand off his dick to down between his legs. She cups his balls for a second, her palm warm and gentle against his skin, before reaching back and pressing hard behind them.
Bob seizes up for a second, his heels digging into the dirty linoleum and his hands tangling in the tattered upholstery. He twists desperately under Trish, fighting not to thrust into her mouth as he feels his orgasm start to knot in his stomach. He tries to warn Trish, he really does, but his voice is caught somewhere in his chest. She seems to know, though, and pulls back until she's only got the first couple of inches of him in her mouth. She swirls her tongue over the head of his cock and that's it for Bob.
He's not going to say he blacked out, but it's entirely possible things went fuzzy for a moment or two there. He can feel Trish's mouth, soft around him as she slowly pulls back and rests the flushed side of her face against his thigh. All he can hear for a long moment is the sound of his heartbeat thundering in his ears and he knows he's blinking stupidly at the ceiling.
When his heartbeat fades to a normal level, he realizes the soft sound that's been on the edge of his hearing is Trish humming in time with the quick movement of her fingers on his ankle. It takes him a few seconds to figure out she's composing something, but when he does, he stays still until she stops with a satisfied little sound.
He finally feels like he can move without embarrassing himself with spastic flailing and he untangles his aching hands from the fabric above his head and shakes out his wrists. He slides his fingers under the heavy weight of her hair to rest on the back of her neck. She pushes back into his hold and he uses his grip to bring her back upright and into kissing range.
She leans up to meet him, wrapping her arms around his neck and sprawling over him as he sits back. Her skin is hot under his hands and her mouth is slick and tastes a little like him still. She squirms a little when he gets his fingers under the waistband of her jeans, pressing against him and tugging at his hair. Bob pulls his hands out from her pants and traces the line of her spine up to the clasp of her bra. She pushes back into his touch again and Bob takes that as permission.
He unhooks her bra and braces his hands on her ribs to help her sit back on her heels again. She's reaching for the shoulder straps when the door flies open behind her.
"What's this about an interven - Goddammit!" Ray spins around and slams the door behind himself before shouting through the thin barrier. "You promised, Bob! Not cool!"
"It hasn't been three hours, dickface!" Bob shouts back, checking the clock hanging crookedly on the wall. "And tell Gerard he's a shitty Mikey wrangler!"
Trish moans pitifully and collapses in on herself from where she'd been frozen, dropping her forehead onto the tiny triangle of couch between Bob's legs. Bob sits forward and rubs over her back, "Hey, are you okay?"
"I'm fine." He can feel the big breath she takes before sitting up and reaching back to re-hook her bra. She grabs her shirt from the floor next to her and pulls it on before handing Bob the pile of his clothes. "Two weeks?"
"Thirteen days even," Bob tugs his t-shirt over his head waits until she's standing to pull on his shorts and jeans. Once he's dressed he settles back into the corner of the small couch and she straddles his lap to kiss him before settling herself in prime cuddling position so she can nap until soundcheck.
Two weeks of just this isn't so terrible.
***
The first time Trish almost has sex with Bob, she totally gets felt up by Frank.
She's in Bob's bunk, curled up against his back and sleeping off the exhaustion of three shows in the baking sun of Arizona and New Mexico. It's late, or maybe early - Trish isn't sure when one becomes the other - and she's suddenly awake. The bus is still and quiet except for the sound of the road under the wheels and Trish squeezes Bob, pushing her face through the tangled mess of his hair to kiss the back of his neck.
Nine days to a hotel room.
Bob makes a grumbly noise and flops around until his head is on Trish's chest and he's wrapped around her like an octopus. He rubs his cheek against her a little and whispers, "Why are you awake?"
Trish shrugs as best she can with his weight on her and whispers back, "Just am."
"Hmmmmm," Bob is half-awake at best and his voice scrapes along the bottom of his register. "'S quiet."
"Everyone's still asleep," Trish pushes his hair off his face and kisses the top of his head.
Bob hums again, tipping his head up to rub his beard over her throat as he kisses near her ear, "Wanna fool around?"
Trish...wants to do more than fool around.
She's never been one to jump into bed with someone, but she's known Bob - she's wanted Bob - forever and all this waiting has been killing her. They've been together for a month and it's pretty much the best relationship she's ever been in. Bob gets her, gets all the different parts of her, in a way no one outside of her band ever really has. She knows she's tempting fate by even thinking it, but she just wants to have sex with her boyfriend.
Right now.
Trish pulls Bob's head up so she can see his face in the dim light and rubs at the pillow crease in his cheek, "Let's have sex."
"What? Now?" Bob looks like he doesn't believe he's really awake.
"Yup. Right now." Trish squirms around as she pushes her underpants over her hips and kicks them down to the bottom of the bunk. Pulling her tank top off without jabbing Bob in the face with her elbow (again) is more of a struggle, so she leaves it after a few seconds of trying.
Bob blinks at her for a moment - just long enough for Trish to start second guessing her boldness - before he leans down and kisses her square on the mouth, "Thank god. I never thought we were going to get to the stupid hotel."
She grins at him and shoves her hand into the back of his boxer briefs, pushing them down until she can't reach anymore. He kicks them off the rest of the way and settles down half on top of her. She arches up into the weight of his hand on her hip, tugging his head down for another kiss.
He rubs at her side absently, rucking her shirt up under her boobs before brushing over her stomach and slotting his hand between her legs. His hands are so nice and Trish moves into his touch, arching her back and stretching as much as she can in the small space. Bob makes a noise in the back of his throat and bites at her jaw before moving up to kiss her again.
She combs her fingers through his hair, tugging gently until he's mostly on top of her and her tank top is the only barrier between them. She can fell his cock digging into her leg and she twists under him, trying to put him where she wants him.
"Shhhh," Bob pulls his mouth away from hers and scoots her up in the bunk so that her shoulders are propped on his pillows. He runs his fingers under the hem of her top and whispers, "Get rid of this," before kissing down her stomach and licking into her.
It's like electricity and Trish's entire body jerks. Her knee rams into the side of the bus and her arms get trapped over her head in the skinny straps of her tank top. She doesn't care her knee is throbbing or that her shirt is wrapped around her head and elbows. She doesn't care that she's probably biting through her lip trying to keep quiet the moan she can feel building in her chest. She doesn't care about anything but the way Bob's touching her.
A giggle is her only warning before a heavy weight drops on her and there's a too-small hand on her boob.
"Um. Holy shit."
There's a moment where no one moves, like a whole rest in the middle of a song, then it's a mad scramble of limbs in the bunk. Trish tries to untangle her arms and kick Frank off her without kicking Bob in the face (again) while Bob swears and threatens and grabs at Frank's hips to push him out of the bunk. Frank seems to be trying to slide off of her without grabbing her boob again, but he's laughing too hard and swatting at Bob too much to do anything other than curl up into a little ball and let himself be tossed onto the floor.
Trish hears him hit the ground with a thud, but he's still laughing as he scrambles to his feet and throws himself into Gerard's bunk.
"Gerard! Gerard! Wake up! I touched Trish's boob!"
"Shut the fuck up."
"No, for real! She was naked!"
"What?"
But Frank is already on his way into Ray's bunk, "Ray!"
"I heard, Frankie."
"It was awesome, Ray." He raises his voice, "You have great tits, Trish!"
Trish covers her face with her newly-freed hands and wonders if they'll let her kill Frank. She can play rhythm guitar for MCR and sing for her own band at the same time. They just have to tour together all the time.
Which, actually, is not a bad plan.
"Frank, you should probably go somewhere Bob can't kill you," Mikey's voice sounds like his face is buried under all of his bedding.
Bob lifts his head from where he'd let it fall next to Trish's hip, "There's no where you can go, Iero."
Frank makes a rude noise and heads into the lounge. Probably to find his phone and tell everyone he knows that he touched Trish Stump's fantastic tits.
She can totally play for both bands.
She feels Bob's hands on her wrists and lets him tug her hands down, "I'm pretty sure Worm'll help me hide his body if you want."
Trish sighs and pulls him up to lie next to her, "You kill him and Jamia goes after you. Then I have to kill her and all of a sudden it's Jersey vs. Chicago cage match and Ray is much bigger than Pete."
Bob snorts and reaches down to pull the crumpled sheet over them, tucking it around her shoulder and hip, but leaving her legs free, just the way she likes, "Everyone is bigger than Pete."
Trish concedes with a sigh, "Nine days?"
"Nine days."
"Crap."
***
Interlude: TABLE plans
A big hand appears from behind the venue manager's office door and tangles in Pete's hood, hauling him into the room.
"What the fuck, Toro? I almost pissed myself."
"We have to do something, Pete!" Ray's voice is even higher than normal, bordering on the truly shrill, and his hair seems to be moving independently of him, air currents, or any known science.
Pete is obviously transfixed by it for a moment before shaking his head and looking at the rest of the gathered group. Joe and Andy are confused and not a little freaked out by Ray freaking out. Frank and the Ways just look amused.
Situation normal, then.
"Something about what?"
"Bob and Trish!"
"I thought we already did, if what Joe walked in on last week was any indication." Pete leers at the room in general and isn't surprised when only Joe smirks back. Some fuckers have no sense of the absurd.
"That's exactly what I'm talking about. I love them both, but if I have to see Bob naked or Trish on her knees one more time, I'm either going to get cancer in my eyes or start breaking shit."
Pete's eyes light up, "Trish was on her knees?"
"No, Pete." Andy's voice is implacable.
"But - "
"No."
"Fine. Be that way." Pete leans back against the wall, "Okay, obviously if we've all walked in on them, it's becoming - "
"I haven't."
"What?"
"I haven't walked in on them," Gerard's mouth is all twisted into a frown.
"Jesus fuck, Gerard. Not this again." Frank looks like he desperately wants a cigarette despite the seven visible 'No Smoking' signs hanging on the walls.
"Shut up, Frankie. I'm just making sure Pete is being accurate."
"You shut up. You're just being a pissy bitch because you haven't seen hot-ass Bob or Trish naked."
"I am not! They're my friends and - "
"I call bullshit." Mikey doesn't even bother to look up from his magazine.
"Mikeyway!"
"You just said last night that it wasn't fair everyone has walked in on them but you."
"That was private!" Gerard has his hands clasped over his chest like a scandalized maiden. "Besides, it's not fair. I'm an artist. If anyone could appreciate seeing them like that it's me."
"Pfft. You're just jealous I touched Trish's naked boob."
"What?"
Frank hipchecks Pete back into the wall, "Settle down. It was an accident."
"See? It's creating dissent," Ray crosses his arms over his chest. "We need a plan."
***
Six days.
Six days.
Sixdayssixdayssixdays.
When he's not drumming or actively thinking about something else, that's the chorus in his mind. Once they get on the road tonight, they've got two days of travel thanks to a flooded venue in Tennessee, then it'll be three days.
If it weren't for his bandmates constantly lurking, he'd bounce and clap like a little kid.
"Here," Ray drops something onto his lap.
"What's this?" Bob picks up the manila envelope and bends up the little metal thing holding it closed.
"Keys to the rental outside, directions to the hotel, and plane tickets from here to Miami for the day after tomorrow," Ray shows him his duffel - already packed - and pushes him towards the bus door.
"Wait, what?" Bob stumbles down the stairs and sees a late model Ford parked next to their bus. Frank and Pete are chasing around the car, spitting at each other and playing keep-away with an ancient hackey sack.
Frank bounces off Pete's back when he comes to an abrupt halt in front of Bob and says, oddly solemn, "I took Trish over to the hotel about a half an hour ago."
Oh. Oh. Bob is retarded.
Bob nods and Pete just stares at him for a minute, like he's trying to read his mind or something, but then he steps back and whips the hackey sack at Frank's head before taking off across the parking lot with Frank in pursuit. Bob pulls the directions and keys out of the envelope and gets in the car.
Sort of.
He whacks his knees on the dashboard and nearly guts himself on the steering wheel first. He yanks violently at the seat release, muttering about fucking midget bass players as he slides back several inches. Ray's laughing as he opens the back door and sets Bob's bag on the seat.
"Eat me, Toro. I bet that short fuck did it on purpose."
Ray laughs again and shoots him the bird before executing a pretty impressive about face and heading back towards the bus.
"Hey, Ray?" Bob waits until he's turned around again before saying, "Thanks."
Ray waves him off and he's got his seatbelt on, the car started, and is on the highway before he even really thinks about it. The hotel isn't that far from the venue - not even fifteen minutes, he bets - and again it's like he hit a time dilation field or some shit because he's standing in front of room 409 (non-smoking, dammit) without really remembering how he got there from the parking lot.
He feels weird and out of sorts as he runs the keycard through the reader thing and waits for the light to change to green. Which is just stupid of him. It's not like either of them are virgins or that they haven't been doing lots of sexy touching in the past five weeks, but all of this - the hotel and the plane tickets and their friends - feels fraught somehow.
He really needs to stop watching fucking Dawson's Creek DVDs when he can't sleep.
The way Trish jumps up and fidgets with her hat when he drops his duffel next to the crumpled bedspread ("Bob, seriously, don't you watch CSI? That thing is, like, full of disease. Get it away from me." "You're a germophobe, Frank." "Don't come crying to me when you get the pox, dude.") doesn't do much for his own nerves and he leans back against the fire safety information card, "Hey."
"Hi."
Bob's pretty sure he's had more awkward moments in his life, but he'd be hard pressed to think of even one right now. He toes off his shoes just because he can, "So, uh - "
"Jesus, we're lame," Trish tosses her hat towards her suitcase. "Just get over here, Bryar."
And then Trish is half-way across the room and Bob is stumbling over his discarded shoes to meet her. They don't quite crash into each other, but it's a close thing. Trish hops up a little, wrapping her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist, biting at his mouth for a second before kissing him. Even though he's desperate - frantic - to touch her, everything in him relaxes a little when her mouth opens easily under his. He walks them back towards the bed, pushing the hand not supporting her ass up under her shirt and greedily touching all of her he can reach.
He stops walking when his shins hit the edge of the bed and he levers her up so that her face is a little higher than his. He pulls back from their kiss, dragging his mouth over the curve of her jaw and down to her neck. He sucks gently under her ear and feels the noise she makes as her hands scramble for purchase on his shoulders. He smiles against her skin and quickly rearranges his hold on her so that he can toss her onto the bed.
He's got his shirt over his head before she's stopped bouncing and swearing.
He feels clumsy as he works on the buttons of his jeans, but he's used to dealing with hands that don't quite do what he wants them to sometimes, so he's down to his boxer briefs by the time Trish gets her head clear of the neck of her t-shirt. He grabs the bottom of her jeans and pulls as soon as she gets them unfastened, dropping them on the ground to tangle with his. Her underwear doesn't match - black cotton panties and a light blue silky bra - but that's the last thing on his mind as he crawls up the bed and over her, tasting the skin of her stomach, her chest, her throat.
Trish has one hand wrapped around his bicep and the other on the back of his neck, calloused fingers scratching over his skin as she tries to tug him down on top of her, but he locks his elbows and nips at her ear in warning. He wants to settle onto her - into her - to feel all the ways she curves around him, but more than that he wants this to last, to be something he can pull out of his memory when they're on different sides of the world, so he stays propped on his hands and knees over her, kissing every bit of skin he can reach.
He finishes what he's pretty sure is going to be one hell of a hickey on the curve of her shoulder and kisses her again. Her hands slide off his shoulders and Bob can feel her squirming around, but isn't sure what she's doing until he opens his eyes to find her completely naked under him.
She smiles up at him and pushes her hands under the waistband of his shorts, working them down as far as she can without sitting up. He sits back on his heels to peel them the rest of the way off, kicking until they're off his feet, then Trish is yanking him down and they're skin to skin.
Trish shivers and stretches out under the weight of his body, brushing her toes against the outside of his calves and bracing her hands against the headboard, "Mmmmmm, you feel good."
"You do too," Bob pushes his face into the curve of her neck, scratching over her skin with his beard as he drags his open mouth over her chest. He follows the curve of her breast to her nipple, careful there to make sure it's just the softwet of his lips and tongue because he knows how sensitive she is.
Trish groans and drops one hand away from the headboard to tangle her fingers in his hair. He kisses the center of her chest and the peak of her other breast before licking a path down her abdomen, stupidly glad they finally have the time and space for him to actually do this instead of half-assing it in a sketchy bathroom. He shoulders her legs farther apart and bites at the tendon on her inner thigh, feeling her whole body tense against his mouth. Bob's not going to lie and say he loves going down on girls, but he for sure doesn't mind and giving Trish head is pretty awesome. She really, really likes it, for one thing and she's also ridiculously easy to get off.
He just breathes against her for a second before flicking his tongue against her clit and licking into her. She's wet already, soft and swollen against his mouth as he rubs his thumb over her clit and pushes his tongue inside of her. Her fingers are tight in his hair, tugging him closer to her as she twists under his mouth. She arches sharply, choking on a groan, and Bob presses two, then three fingers into her to feel the contractions of her body. He licks up to her clit and she jerks, her heel thumping on his back. He stays just like that - the flat of his tongue pressed against her and half of his hand inside her - as she shakes under him.
He crooks his fingers a bit more and she makes a noise Bob is pretty sure Gerard spent three days in the studio trying to nail for the psycho mermaid song. He's thinking about going for number four when something pointy jabs into the side of his head. He looks up and Trish pokes him in the temple again with the condom box, gesturing weakly with her other hand.
"Condom. Now."
"I was sort of doing some - "
"Now, fucker."
Bob's learned not to argue with that tone of voice. He sits back, sliding his fingers out of her and wiping them off on the sheet as he grabs the box from her shaky hand. He grits his teeth, rolling the condom on. This would be such a horrible time to lose his cool, he barely even wants to think about it. He looks up at her and he's just caught, completely unable to look away from her. She's fucking beautiful, spread out against the sheets, all pink and gold, lush curves, soft red hair spread out against the sheets, looking at him like... well, actually, she's looking at him like she's planning to stab him with something pointy if he doesn't get off his ass and fuck her already.
He shuffles forward on his knees, dropping down to one hand on the bed next to her shoulders. She hitches one of her legs around his waist and curls her hands around his arms, wiggling a bit as he gets himself into position. He carefully pushes into her a little, stopping after a couple of inches to drop down to his elbow and get the weight of his body off his stupid weak wrist.
Trish moans under him, "No stopping. Why'd you stop?"
Bob winces, hating his fucked-up wrists so much. He wants nothing more than to fuck her - as hard as possible, yes please - but he can already tell that with their height difference, he'd probably suffocate her if they try fucking this way. "My wrists," he says, knowing that he sounds sullen.
"Ohhhh." Trish squirms under him, making Bob's breath catch. "Roll over. I mean it, Bryar," she says, shoving at one of his shoulders. "We're not fucking up your wrists any more."
Bob rolls over onto his back, batting at the pillows until they're not all lumpy under his neck. Trish rolls her eyes at his semi-petulant fussing, but waits until he's done to swing her leg over his stomach and flop down on his chest, leaning up to kiss him for a long moment before sliding back a few inches and sitting up.
His hands automatically go to her hips when she raises up on her knees and reaches down to steady his cock so she can sink slowly down. And it's hotwetheaven, the feeling of her sliding down onto his cock. Bob braces his heels against the bed, getting enough leverage to push up a little, his hands guiding her hips as she settles onto him. He holds still for a few beats, just feeling it, as deep inside her as he can get, but Trish groans a little at the back of her throat and starts rocking up.
God, he's wanted to fuck her for so long, he wants this to last forever, but there's no way he can hold still once she starts moving. He rolls his shoulders and bends his knees up, using his grip on her hips to brace Trish against the upwards thrust of his hips. She makes a loud noise and props her hands on his chest to push back. It only takes a few seconds for them to find a rhythm together and it's perfect.
Bob knew it would be.
she leans over further, slowing down the rhythm, so that they can kiss, her hair falling around him in a sweet-smelling curtain. Bob slides one hand from her hip to her soft, heavy breast, thumbing the nipple gently. She breaks the kiss and smiles down at him, her devious, deceptively innocent-looking smile. "I want you to fuck me everywhere in this room - the shower, the desk - up against the wall, bent over the back of the sofa - "
Bob groans, his hands flexing on her hip and breast, probably squeezing too hard but holy shit.
She grinds down at him, her eyes fluttering closed as she bites her lip for a second before refocusing on him. She leans down again, biting at his neck and chest, "And then we're going to get your braces out and you're going to hold me down and fuck me on this bed again."
Bob snaps his hips up into her and her head drops forward, her forehead thunking against his sternum as she matches his new tempo. He can feel her hands fisting in the sheets as she pushes back onto his dick. She's still talking, whispering filthy things into his skin as her body gets tighter and tighter around him.
And he's got to hold on, hold on, because there's no way he's leaving her hanging, not after how long they've waited. Bob grits his teeth as he fucks her harder, faster, feeling the little spasms that mean she's getting close. Her voice goes breathy, strained, and then she's moaning, gasping "Fuck-- fuck-- Bob--" in a high, broken voice, in rhythm with the clenching of her pussy around him.
And Bob lets go, his rhythm falling to shit and his hands clutching at her hips and ass, just trying to get closer as his whole body siezes up. It feels like getting punched and he hasn't come this hard in years. It takes actual physical effort to loosen his arms from around her waist. He drops back to the wrecked bed, his hands starfished over as much of her back as he can touch. His pulse is a painful pressure in his ears for several seconds, but that tapers off quickly and he can hear her harsh breathing sync up with the motion of her back under his hands.
She's sprawled mostly boneless over his chest, her slowing breath and the gentle movement of her fingers on his neck are the only signs of life from her. Bob can feel the tiny aftershock spasms racing through her from where he's still inside of her and it sort of makes him wish he could get hard again, but he's not seventeen anymore and he has a feeling he's going to need to conserve as much energy as possible if he's going to survive the next two days.
He knows he needs to deal with the condom before it becomes an issue, but he also knows he never wants to lose the feeling of Trish over him and around him. After another couple of minutes, though, he doesn't really have a choice about moving and slides his hands up the soft skin of her back to tangle in her hair, "Hey."
Trish hums a low, lazy response and rubs the side of her face against his chest, pushing her head back into the impromptu scalp massage he's started. She tips her face up and he leans forward to meet her, kissing softly before he lets his hands wander down to her ribcage and push her up a few inches.
"We've got to move."
Trish sighs and sits up enough for Bob to get a hold of the bottom of the condom before sliding completely off of him and collapsing face down next to him on the bed. Bob gets up on shaky legs and stumbles into the bathroom to clean up a little. Trish is under the sheets when he gets back, a pillow over her head and apparently dead to the world, but she turns onto her side when he slips into the bed and scoots over until she's pressed up against him.
She pokes and prods at him until he's arranged to her satisfaction, then she drapes herself over him, wiggling until she's mostly on top of him and her head is tucked under his chin. Bob sinks back into the pillows, ready for a short nap before maybe ordering some room service.
"Tired."
It's hard for Bob to tell from her inflection if Trish is asking him if he's tired or telling him she's tired, but his answer is the same either way, "Yeah."
She giggles around a yawn, "Oldster."
"Hey, none of that." Bob jostles her just enough get a pinch to his hip in retaliation, "I'm saving my strength."
He can feel her smirk against his skin and then she bites him gently, "You're just lucky I didn't pack my strap-on."
"Jesus!" Bob actually twitches at the jolt of arousal that flashes through him at the thought of Trish fucking him, "You're going to kill me."
"Nah," Trish laughs again before settling back down, exhaustion obviously creeping over both of them, "You're tough."
***
The first time Bob tells Trish he loves her, she smiles up at him and says it right back.
***
Epilogue: WATER
"Are you going to tell me what's going on?" Trish stops in front of MCR's bus and crosses her arms to block Andy's path. He'd hijacked her from GarageBand this morning as soon as Pete and Joe had left to find someplace to walk Hemmy.
"All will be revealed in due time, young Jedi." Andy gestures towards the keypad, "Now use the Force to unlock the door."
Trish rolls her eyes and keys in the entry code, talking over her shoulder as she starts up the stairs, "You are a gigantic nerd."
"Let she who has not started a flame war at starwars.com cast the first stone, Patricia."
"Fuck off, Hurley, you know I was totally right - " Trish stops in her tracks when she realizes all of MCR is crowded around the top of the stairs, everyone but Bob looking sort of giddy. "Uh. Hey, guys."
Andy gently pushes her forward a little and scoots past her to sit at the kitchenette table. Everyone else takes this as a sign and they settle down wherever there's room, looking expectantly at Andy.
Trish settles in Bob's lap and brushes a quick kiss over his cheek, "What the hell is going on?"
Bob shifts a little, getting comfortable under her weight and slings his arm around her knees, "I have no idea. Gerard just told me to be here at eleven and not to tell Pete or Joe."
A banging interrupts them and Trish realizes it was Andy, "Why do you have a gavel?"
Andy grins, "I now call this inaugural meeting of WATER* to order..."
* Wentz And Trohman Eternal Romance (Andy isn't allowed to create any acronyms either.)
THE END
outtakes here
Never let it be said that Trish Stump doesn't learn from her mistakes.
She makes sure Pete is solidly entrenched in a day of puppy-family bonding with Hemmy and Joe. She may have intimated that Hemingway was becoming a latchkey kid.
She's not proud.
Andy was last seen on the hunt for the ever-elusive vegan cookies (Trish hid them in the TAI bus. What?) and Charlie and Dirty and the rest of them are in the middle of a cut-throat Yahtzee tournament.
She trusts Bob has taken care of his own bandmates.
So here they are.
Another day, another venue.
Another empty room.
Trish pulls Bob across the room by his belt loops, not stopping until they are as far from the door as the small space will allow. Not that Bob is wasting any time either; as soon as Trish's back hits the far wall, his mouth is on hers and his hands are warm on her ribcage, just firm enough to not tickle. She tangles her fingers in the hair at his nape - he needs a haircut already and Trish thinks he'll probably look like Cousin Itt by the end of summer if they don't find someone with some scissors and a bare minimum of skill.
Someone not Brendon Urie, though.
Bob carefully slides his hands up her body, catching the curves of her breasts in his palms. His hands are hot, even through the thin fabric of her washed out t-shirt and bra (she has another, heavier bra she wears onstage - the last thing she needs is the internet covered in pictures of her nipping out). He brushes his thumbs in random circles until she pushes up against his grip and bites his lip.
"Stop teasing."
Bob bites back, catching the damp skin of her lower lip as he unfastens her pants. He leaves them hanging off her hips and slides his hand under the waistband of her underpants. Trish automatically sucks in when Bob's hand brushes over her stomach, hoping he'll just keep moving downwards, but he stops there, palming the warm curve of her belly until she relaxes. He kisses her again, smiling against her cheek at the little noise she makes when he pushes his hand further into her pants.
He stays like that, mouth against her temple and hand still between her legs until she squirms against him, grinding down onto his hand and reaching up to knot her hands in the sleeves of his t-shirt.
"I said stop fucking teasing."
Bob bends his fingers just enough to nudge the tip of one inside of her, then he stops again, moving only enough to gently pet at her. Trish makes a frustrated sound and tightens her hands in his shirt until he hears a couple of stitches pop in the collar. He shifts closer then, leaning his free arm on the wall above her head as he pushes two fingers carefully inside her.
Trish stops breathing for a second before exhaling on a gorgeous moan and grinding against the heel of Bob's hand. She never really pegged him for dirty talk, but he drops his head down and starts whispering truly filthy things into her ear. She turns towards his voice, pressing up on her tiptoes to mouth a sloppy kiss to the side of his neck before dropping back on her heels and panting her way through her orgasm.
Bob stills his hand, pressing hard against her until she relaxes a little. She tips her head back against the wall and smiles up at him. He bends down to kiss her before tilting his head to whisper again and stroking her softly. Trish whimpers a little at the sensation, but moves in rhythm with him, fisting her hands in the fabric his shirt. She falters, swearing as she comes around his fingers again, but Bob's arm is there, wrapping around her waist and holding her steady as he coaxes her body even higher. He keeps his hand moving the whole time, pressing and rubbing against her, not giving her a chance to come down at all.
She can't really tell if she's riding one huge wave, or if she's skipping from orgasm to orgasm, but it totally doesn't matter. Bob is there with her, holding her up, holding her close, and then he's right there with her, his arms tight around her, jerking his hips against her side and choking out her name. He stops stroking her, but leaves his hand pressed tight to her and that's enough to leave Trish shaking, hanging onto his shoulders to stay on her feet.
He's curled next to her, half leaning on the wall as he starts to go a little boneless. He nuzzles his nose through her hair for a second before using his grip on her waist to pull her close enough to kiss. Trish can't help but moan at the thick slide of his tongue into her mouth and she twitches against his hand.
Bob laughs disbelievingly into her mouth and his eyebrows are up near his hairline when he pulls back, "Again?"
Trish shrugs and can feel her face getting hot with embarrassment even as his fingers are starting to move again. He's leaning down to kiss her when the door swings open. Ray is three steps into the room before he notices them and claps his hand over his eyes.
"Jesus Christ, you two!"
Groping for the doorknob, he runs into the doorjamb on his way out and they can hear him swearing even through the closed door. Trish starts to giggle and drops her head to Bob's shoulder when she can't hold it up any longer. She's not going to stop laughing anytime soon, they've both seen her do this enough to know that, so he sighs and sketches a kiss to the corner of her mouth before easing his hand out of her pants and wiping it off on some of the paper towels sitting on the shelf next to them.
She's winding down by the time he has her pants done up again and she slumps forward into his arms, breathless with laughter, "I can't decide if Ray has the best or worst timing of everyone we know."
Bob laughs into her hair and pulls her away from the wall to stand on wobbly legs, "Come on, we've got a couple of hours until soundcheck. I need to change my pants, then we'll cuddle."
Trish makes grabby hands at him, "I can't walk that far, you killed me. Piggyback?"
He rolls his eyes, but turns around and squats down enough for her to hop on his back, "Your bus or mine?"
"Mine. I think we've traumatized your bandmates enough for today," Trish squirms around until she's comfortable, then locks her ankles around Bob's waist. "Giddy up!"
Bob hitches her up a little higher and starts towards the door, "If you kick me, I'm dropping your ass."
Trish squeezes him tight for a second, sort of giddy with afterglow and sheer happiness, "You'll never drop me, Bobby Bryar."
"You're probably right."
***
The first time Bob starts to go down on Trish, he ends up with a black eye. Again.
The thing is, they've been together for nearly three weeks and they're still two weeks away from a hotel stay. They've been together three weeks on tour, which is about six months in real time and they haven't managed anything more than a couple of handjobs.
If Bob didn't care about privacy at all, it wouldn't be an issue. Living in everyone else's pocket really doesn't slow anyone else down, but he sort of wants this thing with Trish to be ... special. Something more than just a series of hookups on tour, so he doesn't just pull her into his bunk and hope to god everyone else stays away for the next hour. Or six.
Instead, he spends his precious free time searching out quiet pockets in venues and bartering vegan candy and cigarettes for quarters of hours on his bus. Don't get him wrong, he loves making out with Trish and a handjob from her is better than, like, forty percent of the full on sex he's had in his life, but he wants more.
So when they get to Salt Lake City six hours early, a carton of cigarettes and a week of complaint free piggyback rides wins him three hours of uninterrupted dressing room time from Frankie. For twenty hours in the bus studio and the promise he never has to walk in on them again he gets the same from Ray. Gerard promises to keep himself and Mikey busy for three hours for two cartons of smokes, a bag of Sumatran blend, and eight hours of Bob as a drawing model at a date to be named later.
Bob never realized his bandmates were quite so mercenary.
He doesn't care, though. He'd probably have agreed to let Gerard draw him naked if it gets him this. If it gets him Trish warm under him on the saggy dressing room couch, half-naked and laughing as her pants get tangled around one ankle. Bob kisses the skin on her chest above the edge of her tank top and slides off the couch to free her foot from the twisted fabric. Her legs are smooth and white under his hands, somehow free of the mess of freckles that cover most of his skin. He tosses her pants up onto the couch next to her and kisses the inside curve of her knee. "So, hey. I had this thought."
Trish pushes his hair off his forehead before sprawling back on the couch, "Yeah? What kind of thought?"
"Something like this, maybe," Bob mouths a lazy path up her thigh, pushing her legs apart until he can nose at the black cotton and elastic curving over her hip.
Trish's breath catches and she squirms under his mouth, "That's a very nice kind of thought."
"Yeah?" Bob breathes against her for another second before hooking his fingers in the top of her panties and pulling them down a couple of inches, "I thought it was pretty smart of me."
He rubs his beard over the soft skin of her belly, loving the way the muscles jump as she tries not to twist away from the ticklish sensation. He sits back a little and eases her panties down slowly. He knows he's smiling like a total goof, but he can't help it. He's just so -
Ow.
Bob blinks at the white spots floating above him, dancing over the water stained acoustical tiles of the ceiling. His ears are ringing in time with the throbbing around his eye and it sort of muffles all the swearing and yelling Trish is doing above his head. He can hear Mikey talking to her, but stays on the ground, figuring at least this way he'll be out of firing range if she starts throwing stuff.
Hey, he's heard the stories.
He doesn't move until he hears the door slam. He tilts his head back enough to see Mikey staring at him upside down from next to the door.
"Did she knee you in the face?"
Bob sits up and turns around, gingerly pokes at tender skin around his eye, "Yeah, I think so."
"Ouch."
Bob resists the urge to bang his head against the wall, "Mikey, what are you - You know what? Never mind. Can you find me an icepack?"
"Dude, you're like a battered wife."
Bob sighs.
***
Bob is still lying on the dressing room couch an hour and a half later. The cold pack is a lukewarm lump in his hand and he seriously hates everything in the world right now. He wonders sometimes, when things are especially fucked up, if Frank wasn't right when he joked about Bob being cursed.
Because, really? He's never been all that accident prone. Even as a kid. Even after he grew a foot and a half the year he turned fourteen.
He's half-way convinced himself to ask Gerard if he knows anyone who can de-cursify him when the dressing room door opens and Trish shuffles in. She leans against the door and hunches her shoulders the way she does when she's embarrassed.
"Hey."
"Hi. You calmed down yet?" And that's a bit of a low blow, Bob knows, but he's got another black eye and Mikey called him a battered wife.
"Yes." Trish makes a little face and stares down at her toes. After a second, she peeks at him a little from under the brim of her hat, "So, uh. I'm sorry I kicked you in the face."
Bob shrugs since he's pretty sure that part was an accident, but, "And the yelling and door slamming and stomping off?"
Trish curls into herself a bit more, what Bob can see of her face turning red, "I'm especially sorry for that."
Bob tosses the useless cold pack onto the pile of shit in the corner and sits up, "More than giving me a black eye?"
She bites her lip and kicks at the floor, "Um. I might have forgotten to put my pants on before I left."
Bob tries to hold his laughter in, he honestly does, because Trish's sketchy control of her temper isn't funny, not really, but after everything else, the thought of her getting halfway back to her bus before realizing she's carrying her pants and shoes is too much for him. He's wheezing by the time he's done laughing and it takes him a while to catch his breath.
Trish looks decidedly unimpressed when he finally pulls himself together enough to look at her, "You need to stop smoking, asshole."
That sets Bob off again, laughing and coughing into his elbow, wiping away stray tears with the sleeve of his shirt until he relaxes against the back of the couch. Trish rolls her eyes and stomps over to sit next to him. He drops his arm over her shoulders and it only takes a tiny bit of pressure to have her curled against his side.
"I really am sorry for kicking you in the eye and yelling," She's playing with the hem of his shirt, brushing against the skin of his stomach in random touches.
Bob flicks her hat off and kisses the side of her head, "No big."
Trish twists under the weight of his arm, bracing her hand on his thigh and kneeling on the couch. She feathers a breath of a kiss over the puffy skin around his eye before squirming down to kneel between his legs, "You should let me make it up to you."
"Jesus Christ."
"I'll take that as a 'yes,' then," Trish pushes at the hem of his shirt until he pulls it over his head, sucking in a startled breath when she slides her fingers under the waistband of his pants and unfastens them.
She carefully works his pants and shorts over his hips, then strips them off his legs with a flourish. She leaves them in a crumpled heap on the floor, on top of his abandoned flip-flops, and stretches up the length of his body to kiss him. Trish's tongue is gentle against his and the washed-thin fabric of her t-shirt is a soft barrier between his cock and the warm skin of her stomach. Bob gets his hands under her shirt and peels it off as she sits back on her heels.
Bob's not going to lie, for him the answer has always been black and lace and flirty when the question was lingerie, but he's pretty sure pink and cotton and plain have just ruined the curve forever. She's beautiful and Bob tells her so.
Trish just makes a face before quirking a self-conscious little grin at him and licking her lips, "Just remember I have to sing later tonight."
And then it's just the hotwetsoft of her mouth sliding over the head of his cock. Bob jerks his hips up before he can stop himself and Trish shoves them back down, pinning him to the couch with strong, calloused hands - a drummer's hands.
"Sorry, sorry."
Trish leans up and drops a kiss on his chest, licking over his nipple before settling back between his legs, sucking his cock back into her mouth and pushing one of her hands down the front of her own jeans. Bob arches again before he can get his body under control, but Trish has the pointy end of her elbow jammed into his thigh, keeping him still. Her hand is wrapped around his dick, slowly jerking what she doesn't have in her mouth.
It's - Bob's thought about this. A lot. It's sort of impossible to see Trish's mouth - god, to kiss that mouth - and not imagine how it would feel sliding over him and Bob's always had a pretty vivid imagination.
He wasn't even in the ballpark with this one.
It's not that she's doing anything especially fancy or putting on a show for him, but there's something completely enthralling about the way she's moving, how she's touching him. He sort of wants to close his eyes, to focus on anything other the sight of that mouth stretched around him, but he can't look away. Her eyes are open too, meeting his as best she can through the wisps of her bangs and crinkling up like she'd be smiling if she could.
As she moves, he can see flashes of tongue and the edge of her hand moving slow and strong and perfect on him. Her hair is a tangled mess and Bob reaches to tuck it behind her ear, rubbing his thumb over the curve of her cheek before reaching up and back with both hands to knot them in the loose upholstery along the top edge of the couch. Her eyes flicker over his body once before dropping closed to let dark lashes fan on her flushed cheeks.
Bob closes his eyes when she does, narrowing his focus down to the pressure of Trish's hand on him, the wet sound of her mouth on his dick, the feel of her tongue twisting over him. It's almost worse this way, with nothing to distract him from the liquid pressure of her mouth. It's sort of embarrassing how quickly she has him squirming, fighting his natural urge to push for more, for deeper.
He's being loud - too loud for where they are - but he's never been able to be quiet, to be still like this. He doesn't really care right now since he knows how Trish feels about sound. How everything is music to her in some way. How she loves the break and twist of pleasure in someone's voice. How connected it makes her feel.
She hums a response to the noises he's making, a third above him, changing pitch a fraction of a second after he does and the vibrations of her voice are like electricity through Bob's entire body. She shifts a little, swallowing around him and sliding her hand off his dick to down between his legs. She cups his balls for a second, her palm warm and gentle against his skin, before reaching back and pressing hard behind them.
Bob seizes up for a second, his heels digging into the dirty linoleum and his hands tangling in the tattered upholstery. He twists desperately under Trish, fighting not to thrust into her mouth as he feels his orgasm start to knot in his stomach. He tries to warn Trish, he really does, but his voice is caught somewhere in his chest. She seems to know, though, and pulls back until she's only got the first couple of inches of him in her mouth. She swirls her tongue over the head of his cock and that's it for Bob.
He's not going to say he blacked out, but it's entirely possible things went fuzzy for a moment or two there. He can feel Trish's mouth, soft around him as she slowly pulls back and rests the flushed side of her face against his thigh. All he can hear for a long moment is the sound of his heartbeat thundering in his ears and he knows he's blinking stupidly at the ceiling.
When his heartbeat fades to a normal level, he realizes the soft sound that's been on the edge of his hearing is Trish humming in time with the quick movement of her fingers on his ankle. It takes him a few seconds to figure out she's composing something, but when he does, he stays still until she stops with a satisfied little sound.
He finally feels like he can move without embarrassing himself with spastic flailing and he untangles his aching hands from the fabric above his head and shakes out his wrists. He slides his fingers under the heavy weight of her hair to rest on the back of her neck. She pushes back into his hold and he uses his grip to bring her back upright and into kissing range.
She leans up to meet him, wrapping her arms around his neck and sprawling over him as he sits back. Her skin is hot under his hands and her mouth is slick and tastes a little like him still. She squirms a little when he gets his fingers under the waistband of her jeans, pressing against him and tugging at his hair. Bob pulls his hands out from her pants and traces the line of her spine up to the clasp of her bra. She pushes back into his touch again and Bob takes that as permission.
He unhooks her bra and braces his hands on her ribs to help her sit back on her heels again. She's reaching for the shoulder straps when the door flies open behind her.
"What's this about an interven - Goddammit!" Ray spins around and slams the door behind himself before shouting through the thin barrier. "You promised, Bob! Not cool!"
"It hasn't been three hours, dickface!" Bob shouts back, checking the clock hanging crookedly on the wall. "And tell Gerard he's a shitty Mikey wrangler!"
Trish moans pitifully and collapses in on herself from where she'd been frozen, dropping her forehead onto the tiny triangle of couch between Bob's legs. Bob sits forward and rubs over her back, "Hey, are you okay?"
"I'm fine." He can feel the big breath she takes before sitting up and reaching back to re-hook her bra. She grabs her shirt from the floor next to her and pulls it on before handing Bob the pile of his clothes. "Two weeks?"
"Thirteen days even," Bob tugs his t-shirt over his head waits until she's standing to pull on his shorts and jeans. Once he's dressed he settles back into the corner of the small couch and she straddles his lap to kiss him before settling herself in prime cuddling position so she can nap until soundcheck.
Two weeks of just this isn't so terrible.
***
The first time Trish almost has sex with Bob, she totally gets felt up by Frank.
She's in Bob's bunk, curled up against his back and sleeping off the exhaustion of three shows in the baking sun of Arizona and New Mexico. It's late, or maybe early - Trish isn't sure when one becomes the other - and she's suddenly awake. The bus is still and quiet except for the sound of the road under the wheels and Trish squeezes Bob, pushing her face through the tangled mess of his hair to kiss the back of his neck.
Nine days to a hotel room.
Bob makes a grumbly noise and flops around until his head is on Trish's chest and he's wrapped around her like an octopus. He rubs his cheek against her a little and whispers, "Why are you awake?"
Trish shrugs as best she can with his weight on her and whispers back, "Just am."
"Hmmmmm," Bob is half-awake at best and his voice scrapes along the bottom of his register. "'S quiet."
"Everyone's still asleep," Trish pushes his hair off his face and kisses the top of his head.
Bob hums again, tipping his head up to rub his beard over her throat as he kisses near her ear, "Wanna fool around?"
Trish...wants to do more than fool around.
She's never been one to jump into bed with someone, but she's known Bob - she's wanted Bob - forever and all this waiting has been killing her. They've been together for a month and it's pretty much the best relationship she's ever been in. Bob gets her, gets all the different parts of her, in a way no one outside of her band ever really has. She knows she's tempting fate by even thinking it, but she just wants to have sex with her boyfriend.
Right now.
Trish pulls Bob's head up so she can see his face in the dim light and rubs at the pillow crease in his cheek, "Let's have sex."
"What? Now?" Bob looks like he doesn't believe he's really awake.
"Yup. Right now." Trish squirms around as she pushes her underpants over her hips and kicks them down to the bottom of the bunk. Pulling her tank top off without jabbing Bob in the face with her elbow (again) is more of a struggle, so she leaves it after a few seconds of trying.
Bob blinks at her for a moment - just long enough for Trish to start second guessing her boldness - before he leans down and kisses her square on the mouth, "Thank god. I never thought we were going to get to the stupid hotel."
She grins at him and shoves her hand into the back of his boxer briefs, pushing them down until she can't reach anymore. He kicks them off the rest of the way and settles down half on top of her. She arches up into the weight of his hand on her hip, tugging his head down for another kiss.
He rubs at her side absently, rucking her shirt up under her boobs before brushing over her stomach and slotting his hand between her legs. His hands are so nice and Trish moves into his touch, arching her back and stretching as much as she can in the small space. Bob makes a noise in the back of his throat and bites at her jaw before moving up to kiss her again.
She combs her fingers through his hair, tugging gently until he's mostly on top of her and her tank top is the only barrier between them. She can fell his cock digging into her leg and she twists under him, trying to put him where she wants him.
"Shhhh," Bob pulls his mouth away from hers and scoots her up in the bunk so that her shoulders are propped on his pillows. He runs his fingers under the hem of her top and whispers, "Get rid of this," before kissing down her stomach and licking into her.
It's like electricity and Trish's entire body jerks. Her knee rams into the side of the bus and her arms get trapped over her head in the skinny straps of her tank top. She doesn't care her knee is throbbing or that her shirt is wrapped around her head and elbows. She doesn't care that she's probably biting through her lip trying to keep quiet the moan she can feel building in her chest. She doesn't care about anything but the way Bob's touching her.
A giggle is her only warning before a heavy weight drops on her and there's a too-small hand on her boob.
"Um. Holy shit."
There's a moment where no one moves, like a whole rest in the middle of a song, then it's a mad scramble of limbs in the bunk. Trish tries to untangle her arms and kick Frank off her without kicking Bob in the face (again) while Bob swears and threatens and grabs at Frank's hips to push him out of the bunk. Frank seems to be trying to slide off of her without grabbing her boob again, but he's laughing too hard and swatting at Bob too much to do anything other than curl up into a little ball and let himself be tossed onto the floor.
Trish hears him hit the ground with a thud, but he's still laughing as he scrambles to his feet and throws himself into Gerard's bunk.
"Gerard! Gerard! Wake up! I touched Trish's boob!"
"Shut the fuck up."
"No, for real! She was naked!"
"What?"
But Frank is already on his way into Ray's bunk, "Ray!"
"I heard, Frankie."
"It was awesome, Ray." He raises his voice, "You have great tits, Trish!"
Trish covers her face with her newly-freed hands and wonders if they'll let her kill Frank. She can play rhythm guitar for MCR and sing for her own band at the same time. They just have to tour together all the time.
Which, actually, is not a bad plan.
"Frank, you should probably go somewhere Bob can't kill you," Mikey's voice sounds like his face is buried under all of his bedding.
Bob lifts his head from where he'd let it fall next to Trish's hip, "There's no where you can go, Iero."
Frank makes a rude noise and heads into the lounge. Probably to find his phone and tell everyone he knows that he touched Trish Stump's fantastic tits.
She can totally play for both bands.
She feels Bob's hands on her wrists and lets him tug her hands down, "I'm pretty sure Worm'll help me hide his body if you want."
Trish sighs and pulls him up to lie next to her, "You kill him and Jamia goes after you. Then I have to kill her and all of a sudden it's Jersey vs. Chicago cage match and Ray is much bigger than Pete."
Bob snorts and reaches down to pull the crumpled sheet over them, tucking it around her shoulder and hip, but leaving her legs free, just the way she likes, "Everyone is bigger than Pete."
Trish concedes with a sigh, "Nine days?"
"Nine days."
"Crap."
***
Interlude: TABLE plans
A big hand appears from behind the venue manager's office door and tangles in Pete's hood, hauling him into the room.
"What the fuck, Toro? I almost pissed myself."
"We have to do something, Pete!" Ray's voice is even higher than normal, bordering on the truly shrill, and his hair seems to be moving independently of him, air currents, or any known science.
Pete is obviously transfixed by it for a moment before shaking his head and looking at the rest of the gathered group. Joe and Andy are confused and not a little freaked out by Ray freaking out. Frank and the Ways just look amused.
Situation normal, then.
"Something about what?"
"Bob and Trish!"
"I thought we already did, if what Joe walked in on last week was any indication." Pete leers at the room in general and isn't surprised when only Joe smirks back. Some fuckers have no sense of the absurd.
"That's exactly what I'm talking about. I love them both, but if I have to see Bob naked or Trish on her knees one more time, I'm either going to get cancer in my eyes or start breaking shit."
Pete's eyes light up, "Trish was on her knees?"
"No, Pete." Andy's voice is implacable.
"But - "
"No."
"Fine. Be that way." Pete leans back against the wall, "Okay, obviously if we've all walked in on them, it's becoming - "
"I haven't."
"What?"
"I haven't walked in on them," Gerard's mouth is all twisted into a frown.
"Jesus fuck, Gerard. Not this again." Frank looks like he desperately wants a cigarette despite the seven visible 'No Smoking' signs hanging on the walls.
"Shut up, Frankie. I'm just making sure Pete is being accurate."
"You shut up. You're just being a pissy bitch because you haven't seen hot-ass Bob or Trish naked."
"I am not! They're my friends and - "
"I call bullshit." Mikey doesn't even bother to look up from his magazine.
"Mikeyway!"
"You just said last night that it wasn't fair everyone has walked in on them but you."
"That was private!" Gerard has his hands clasped over his chest like a scandalized maiden. "Besides, it's not fair. I'm an artist. If anyone could appreciate seeing them like that it's me."
"Pfft. You're just jealous I touched Trish's naked boob."
"What?"
Frank hipchecks Pete back into the wall, "Settle down. It was an accident."
"See? It's creating dissent," Ray crosses his arms over his chest. "We need a plan."
***
Six days.
Six days.
Sixdayssixdayssixdays.
When he's not drumming or actively thinking about something else, that's the chorus in his mind. Once they get on the road tonight, they've got two days of travel thanks to a flooded venue in Tennessee, then it'll be three days.
If it weren't for his bandmates constantly lurking, he'd bounce and clap like a little kid.
"Here," Ray drops something onto his lap.
"What's this?" Bob picks up the manila envelope and bends up the little metal thing holding it closed.
"Keys to the rental outside, directions to the hotel, and plane tickets from here to Miami for the day after tomorrow," Ray shows him his duffel - already packed - and pushes him towards the bus door.
"Wait, what?" Bob stumbles down the stairs and sees a late model Ford parked next to their bus. Frank and Pete are chasing around the car, spitting at each other and playing keep-away with an ancient hackey sack.
Frank bounces off Pete's back when he comes to an abrupt halt in front of Bob and says, oddly solemn, "I took Trish over to the hotel about a half an hour ago."
Oh. Oh. Bob is retarded.
Bob nods and Pete just stares at him for a minute, like he's trying to read his mind or something, but then he steps back and whips the hackey sack at Frank's head before taking off across the parking lot with Frank in pursuit. Bob pulls the directions and keys out of the envelope and gets in the car.
Sort of.
He whacks his knees on the dashboard and nearly guts himself on the steering wheel first. He yanks violently at the seat release, muttering about fucking midget bass players as he slides back several inches. Ray's laughing as he opens the back door and sets Bob's bag on the seat.
"Eat me, Toro. I bet that short fuck did it on purpose."
Ray laughs again and shoots him the bird before executing a pretty impressive about face and heading back towards the bus.
"Hey, Ray?" Bob waits until he's turned around again before saying, "Thanks."
Ray waves him off and he's got his seatbelt on, the car started, and is on the highway before he even really thinks about it. The hotel isn't that far from the venue - not even fifteen minutes, he bets - and again it's like he hit a time dilation field or some shit because he's standing in front of room 409 (non-smoking, dammit) without really remembering how he got there from the parking lot.
He feels weird and out of sorts as he runs the keycard through the reader thing and waits for the light to change to green. Which is just stupid of him. It's not like either of them are virgins or that they haven't been doing lots of sexy touching in the past five weeks, but all of this - the hotel and the plane tickets and their friends - feels fraught somehow.
He really needs to stop watching fucking Dawson's Creek DVDs when he can't sleep.
The way Trish jumps up and fidgets with her hat when he drops his duffel next to the crumpled bedspread ("Bob, seriously, don't you watch CSI? That thing is, like, full of disease. Get it away from me." "You're a germophobe, Frank." "Don't come crying to me when you get the pox, dude.") doesn't do much for his own nerves and he leans back against the fire safety information card, "Hey."
"Hi."
Bob's pretty sure he's had more awkward moments in his life, but he'd be hard pressed to think of even one right now. He toes off his shoes just because he can, "So, uh - "
"Jesus, we're lame," Trish tosses her hat towards her suitcase. "Just get over here, Bryar."
And then Trish is half-way across the room and Bob is stumbling over his discarded shoes to meet her. They don't quite crash into each other, but it's a close thing. Trish hops up a little, wrapping her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist, biting at his mouth for a second before kissing him. Even though he's desperate - frantic - to touch her, everything in him relaxes a little when her mouth opens easily under his. He walks them back towards the bed, pushing the hand not supporting her ass up under her shirt and greedily touching all of her he can reach.
He stops walking when his shins hit the edge of the bed and he levers her up so that her face is a little higher than his. He pulls back from their kiss, dragging his mouth over the curve of her jaw and down to her neck. He sucks gently under her ear and feels the noise she makes as her hands scramble for purchase on his shoulders. He smiles against her skin and quickly rearranges his hold on her so that he can toss her onto the bed.
He's got his shirt over his head before she's stopped bouncing and swearing.
He feels clumsy as he works on the buttons of his jeans, but he's used to dealing with hands that don't quite do what he wants them to sometimes, so he's down to his boxer briefs by the time Trish gets her head clear of the neck of her t-shirt. He grabs the bottom of her jeans and pulls as soon as she gets them unfastened, dropping them on the ground to tangle with his. Her underwear doesn't match - black cotton panties and a light blue silky bra - but that's the last thing on his mind as he crawls up the bed and over her, tasting the skin of her stomach, her chest, her throat.
Trish has one hand wrapped around his bicep and the other on the back of his neck, calloused fingers scratching over his skin as she tries to tug him down on top of her, but he locks his elbows and nips at her ear in warning. He wants to settle onto her - into her - to feel all the ways she curves around him, but more than that he wants this to last, to be something he can pull out of his memory when they're on different sides of the world, so he stays propped on his hands and knees over her, kissing every bit of skin he can reach.
He finishes what he's pretty sure is going to be one hell of a hickey on the curve of her shoulder and kisses her again. Her hands slide off his shoulders and Bob can feel her squirming around, but isn't sure what she's doing until he opens his eyes to find her completely naked under him.
She smiles up at him and pushes her hands under the waistband of his shorts, working them down as far as she can without sitting up. He sits back on his heels to peel them the rest of the way off, kicking until they're off his feet, then Trish is yanking him down and they're skin to skin.
Trish shivers and stretches out under the weight of his body, brushing her toes against the outside of his calves and bracing her hands against the headboard, "Mmmmmm, you feel good."
"You do too," Bob pushes his face into the curve of her neck, scratching over her skin with his beard as he drags his open mouth over her chest. He follows the curve of her breast to her nipple, careful there to make sure it's just the softwet of his lips and tongue because he knows how sensitive she is.
Trish groans and drops one hand away from the headboard to tangle her fingers in his hair. He kisses the center of her chest and the peak of her other breast before licking a path down her abdomen, stupidly glad they finally have the time and space for him to actually do this instead of half-assing it in a sketchy bathroom. He shoulders her legs farther apart and bites at the tendon on her inner thigh, feeling her whole body tense against his mouth. Bob's not going to lie and say he loves going down on girls, but he for sure doesn't mind and giving Trish head is pretty awesome. She really, really likes it, for one thing and she's also ridiculously easy to get off.
He just breathes against her for a second before flicking his tongue against her clit and licking into her. She's wet already, soft and swollen against his mouth as he rubs his thumb over her clit and pushes his tongue inside of her. Her fingers are tight in his hair, tugging him closer to her as she twists under his mouth. She arches sharply, choking on a groan, and Bob presses two, then three fingers into her to feel the contractions of her body. He licks up to her clit and she jerks, her heel thumping on his back. He stays just like that - the flat of his tongue pressed against her and half of his hand inside her - as she shakes under him.
He crooks his fingers a bit more and she makes a noise Bob is pretty sure Gerard spent three days in the studio trying to nail for the psycho mermaid song. He's thinking about going for number four when something pointy jabs into the side of his head. He looks up and Trish pokes him in the temple again with the condom box, gesturing weakly with her other hand.
"Condom. Now."
"I was sort of doing some - "
"Now, fucker."
Bob's learned not to argue with that tone of voice. He sits back, sliding his fingers out of her and wiping them off on the sheet as he grabs the box from her shaky hand. He grits his teeth, rolling the condom on. This would be such a horrible time to lose his cool, he barely even wants to think about it. He looks up at her and he's just caught, completely unable to look away from her. She's fucking beautiful, spread out against the sheets, all pink and gold, lush curves, soft red hair spread out against the sheets, looking at him like... well, actually, she's looking at him like she's planning to stab him with something pointy if he doesn't get off his ass and fuck her already.
He shuffles forward on his knees, dropping down to one hand on the bed next to her shoulders. She hitches one of her legs around his waist and curls her hands around his arms, wiggling a bit as he gets himself into position. He carefully pushes into her a little, stopping after a couple of inches to drop down to his elbow and get the weight of his body off his stupid weak wrist.
Trish moans under him, "No stopping. Why'd you stop?"
Bob winces, hating his fucked-up wrists so much. He wants nothing more than to fuck her - as hard as possible, yes please - but he can already tell that with their height difference, he'd probably suffocate her if they try fucking this way. "My wrists," he says, knowing that he sounds sullen.
"Ohhhh." Trish squirms under him, making Bob's breath catch. "Roll over. I mean it, Bryar," she says, shoving at one of his shoulders. "We're not fucking up your wrists any more."
Bob rolls over onto his back, batting at the pillows until they're not all lumpy under his neck. Trish rolls her eyes at his semi-petulant fussing, but waits until he's done to swing her leg over his stomach and flop down on his chest, leaning up to kiss him for a long moment before sliding back a few inches and sitting up.
His hands automatically go to her hips when she raises up on her knees and reaches down to steady his cock so she can sink slowly down. And it's hotwetheaven, the feeling of her sliding down onto his cock. Bob braces his heels against the bed, getting enough leverage to push up a little, his hands guiding her hips as she settles onto him. He holds still for a few beats, just feeling it, as deep inside her as he can get, but Trish groans a little at the back of her throat and starts rocking up.
God, he's wanted to fuck her for so long, he wants this to last forever, but there's no way he can hold still once she starts moving. He rolls his shoulders and bends his knees up, using his grip on her hips to brace Trish against the upwards thrust of his hips. She makes a loud noise and props her hands on his chest to push back. It only takes a few seconds for them to find a rhythm together and it's perfect.
Bob knew it would be.
she leans over further, slowing down the rhythm, so that they can kiss, her hair falling around him in a sweet-smelling curtain. Bob slides one hand from her hip to her soft, heavy breast, thumbing the nipple gently. She breaks the kiss and smiles down at him, her devious, deceptively innocent-looking smile. "I want you to fuck me everywhere in this room - the shower, the desk - up against the wall, bent over the back of the sofa - "
Bob groans, his hands flexing on her hip and breast, probably squeezing too hard but holy shit.
She grinds down at him, her eyes fluttering closed as she bites her lip for a second before refocusing on him. She leans down again, biting at his neck and chest, "And then we're going to get your braces out and you're going to hold me down and fuck me on this bed again."
Bob snaps his hips up into her and her head drops forward, her forehead thunking against his sternum as she matches his new tempo. He can feel her hands fisting in the sheets as she pushes back onto his dick. She's still talking, whispering filthy things into his skin as her body gets tighter and tighter around him.
And he's got to hold on, hold on, because there's no way he's leaving her hanging, not after how long they've waited. Bob grits his teeth as he fucks her harder, faster, feeling the little spasms that mean she's getting close. Her voice goes breathy, strained, and then she's moaning, gasping "Fuck-- fuck-- Bob--" in a high, broken voice, in rhythm with the clenching of her pussy around him.
And Bob lets go, his rhythm falling to shit and his hands clutching at her hips and ass, just trying to get closer as his whole body siezes up. It feels like getting punched and he hasn't come this hard in years. It takes actual physical effort to loosen his arms from around her waist. He drops back to the wrecked bed, his hands starfished over as much of her back as he can touch. His pulse is a painful pressure in his ears for several seconds, but that tapers off quickly and he can hear her harsh breathing sync up with the motion of her back under his hands.
She's sprawled mostly boneless over his chest, her slowing breath and the gentle movement of her fingers on his neck are the only signs of life from her. Bob can feel the tiny aftershock spasms racing through her from where he's still inside of her and it sort of makes him wish he could get hard again, but he's not seventeen anymore and he has a feeling he's going to need to conserve as much energy as possible if he's going to survive the next two days.
He knows he needs to deal with the condom before it becomes an issue, but he also knows he never wants to lose the feeling of Trish over him and around him. After another couple of minutes, though, he doesn't really have a choice about moving and slides his hands up the soft skin of her back to tangle in her hair, "Hey."
Trish hums a low, lazy response and rubs the side of her face against his chest, pushing her head back into the impromptu scalp massage he's started. She tips her face up and he leans forward to meet her, kissing softly before he lets his hands wander down to her ribcage and push her up a few inches.
"We've got to move."
Trish sighs and sits up enough for Bob to get a hold of the bottom of the condom before sliding completely off of him and collapsing face down next to him on the bed. Bob gets up on shaky legs and stumbles into the bathroom to clean up a little. Trish is under the sheets when he gets back, a pillow over her head and apparently dead to the world, but she turns onto her side when he slips into the bed and scoots over until she's pressed up against him.
She pokes and prods at him until he's arranged to her satisfaction, then she drapes herself over him, wiggling until she's mostly on top of him and her head is tucked under his chin. Bob sinks back into the pillows, ready for a short nap before maybe ordering some room service.
"Tired."
It's hard for Bob to tell from her inflection if Trish is asking him if he's tired or telling him she's tired, but his answer is the same either way, "Yeah."
She giggles around a yawn, "Oldster."
"Hey, none of that." Bob jostles her just enough get a pinch to his hip in retaliation, "I'm saving my strength."
He can feel her smirk against his skin and then she bites him gently, "You're just lucky I didn't pack my strap-on."
"Jesus!" Bob actually twitches at the jolt of arousal that flashes through him at the thought of Trish fucking him, "You're going to kill me."
"Nah," Trish laughs again before settling back down, exhaustion obviously creeping over both of them, "You're tough."
***
The first time Bob tells Trish he loves her, she smiles up at him and says it right back.
***
Epilogue: WATER
"Are you going to tell me what's going on?" Trish stops in front of MCR's bus and crosses her arms to block Andy's path. He'd hijacked her from GarageBand this morning as soon as Pete and Joe had left to find someplace to walk Hemmy.
"All will be revealed in due time, young Jedi." Andy gestures towards the keypad, "Now use the Force to unlock the door."
Trish rolls her eyes and keys in the entry code, talking over her shoulder as she starts up the stairs, "You are a gigantic nerd."
"Let she who has not started a flame war at starwars.com cast the first stone, Patricia."
"Fuck off, Hurley, you know I was totally right - " Trish stops in her tracks when she realizes all of MCR is crowded around the top of the stairs, everyone but Bob looking sort of giddy. "Uh. Hey, guys."
Andy gently pushes her forward a little and scoots past her to sit at the kitchenette table. Everyone else takes this as a sign and they settle down wherever there's room, looking expectantly at Andy.
Trish settles in Bob's lap and brushes a quick kiss over his cheek, "What the hell is going on?"
Bob shifts a little, getting comfortable under her weight and slings his arm around her knees, "I have no idea. Gerard just told me to be here at eleven and not to tell Pete or Joe."
A banging interrupts them and Trish realizes it was Andy, "Why do you have a gavel?"
Andy grins, "I now call this inaugural meeting of WATER* to order..."
* Wentz And Trohman Eternal Romance (Andy isn't allowed to create any acronyms either.)
THE END
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