Edited. Now without the silly mistakes [hopefully]. Also changed the chapter order slightly.
The house was two-story. That much Bartholomew knew from his nearly everyday scale to the chimney. A climb he was currently making, hoping that Frankie was following. He'd made it to a second window ledge when he heard a click and a creak. Instantly he dropped back to ground level, sniffing cautiously.
Bartholomew sensed an open space before him that hadn't been there before and that Frankie was inside of it. It made him feel uneasy to think that there was a sudden hole in the side of his home. He didn't want Commons just walking in whenever they pleased. 'cause the Commons were gross and smelled bad. Well, worse. But still counts.
"Get in here, bitch." Frankie was speaking to him, he presumed, seeing how he couldn't smell any one else about. "I don't want any of those nasty fuckers in here." Bartholomew crawled forward, slipping through the hole before he felt a slight wind on his side and heard a slam as the hole closed up.
His hackles rose and he flipped around growling at the once-hole. A foot connected with his side a second later and he yelped, falling heavily on his side. "Dumbass, it's a fucking door. Stop fucking growling at it." A shoe nudged his knee as he pushed himself up into a crouched position. "And stand the fuck up. God."
All the mean comments were not something Bartholomew liked. But he somehow knew not to set Frankie off. Not in an enclosed space where he couldn't hide easily, at least. So he simply stood up, unconsciously standing on his toes and hunching over slightly, and followed after Frankie.
It was a meandering walk that Bartholomew grew bored with quickly and ended up dropping back down onto his hands. If Frankie noticed, he didn't say anything, just kept going into every room, opening up a bunch of holes in the walls.
Finally Frankie opened another, but stopped and walked in. With the others he stood on the outside and just looked in, but now he was walking in deeper, making Bartholomew follow reluctantly, sniffing the air cautiously. Smelled relatively clean. Cleaner then the couch he'd been bloodying up the past few days. But it sparked a memory, a cloudy one, but something none-the-less.
Something with him. And Frankie. He couldn't make out the details but it made his stomach tighten and him feel hot. Weirdweirdweird. He wondered what Frankie was thinking about, briefly, before starting to back out of the room, suddenly feeling claustrophobic.
A long wet appendage wrapped around one of his wrists, knocking him off-balance and onto the floor. He could feel Frankie looming over him, and he had a bad feeling about this. "Y-your jumper? You want that, right? It-it's on the couch." He wanted out of this room. Away from Frankie. This felt bad. His chest felt like it was aching, and he knew that if he had tear-ducts he'd be crying. He didn't even know why he would be, but he knew he would.
This situation was too familiar in a way the Bartholomew didn't understand. And that made him even more uneasy. Frankie was pulling him up, onto his feet and pulling him deeper into the room. Panicking, Bartholomew let out a low screech and tried to backpedal away. When he realized that it wasn't working, he clawed out, catching the tongue wrapped around his wrist, slicing it apart.
Frankie growled at this and reached out, grabbing Bartholomew's upper arm with his right hand, and then hauling him around and throwing him.
He expected to hit a wall, or something else equally hard, but instead he landed on something springy and soft. Bartholomew didn't have time to enjoy it before Frankie crawled on after him. A bed. He thought suddenly, realized that's what he was on. What Frankie had put him on. What they were currently on together.
"Frank-" A hand covered his mouth and Frankie's breath was suddenly on his face. "Shut up." Bartholomew snapped and brought both hands up, clawing at any part of Frankie he could reach. He could feel the blood pouring from the wounds and onto him, soaking his already filthy hoddie.
Frankie gave a harsh cry, sat up and slammed his right arm down on Bartholomew's chest. Yelping very much like a dog would, Bartholomew's body fell limp and he gasped desperately for breath. The impact broke the two ribs that had already been on the mend, one pressing itself to his lungs, nearly puncturing it.
Whimpering, Bartholomew stayed still as Frankie's hands searched his body. He felt fingernails run over the tape that bound his hoodie tight to his body. Frankie growled irately, and started ripping at it, pulling it off of Bartholomew before going for the hoodie itself. Bartholomew didn't fight him as he pulled it over his head, casting it to the side. He didn't so much fear for the punishment if he fought back, so much to deep seeded fear that Frankie would leave him if he did.
After spending so much time trying to get Frankie too him, he didn't want to throw it all away just because he was uncomfortable. No. He'd suck it up. For Frankie. At least for a little bit.
Frankie was touching him again, feeling of his chest, and though Bartholomew couldn't see it, he knew that Frankie had a disappointed look on his face. As if Bartholomew had somehow lied to him by luring him here, but not having when Frankie wanted. Even if Frankie didn't know what it was he was looking for. His fingers bent and his nails bit into Bartholomew's skin, raking down to his heavily scarred stomach, leaving in their wake raised red lines.
Bartholomew flinched and squirmed, trying to make himself feel better. He was restless and it was getting hot and all he wanted was to get away. But he couldn't. Just couldn't. He'd decided to do as Frankie wanted. So he couldn't go away. Frankie wouldn't want that. And Bartholomew didn't want anything Frankie didn't want. Shifting, Frankie pressed his hips to Bartholomew's.
Bartholomew let out another yelp, and couldn't stop himself from trying to crawl away. Turning away from Frankie, and digging his nails into the bed, trying to pull himself. But his upper body strength wasn't enough, not with the dead weight of Frankie on him. Making it rather easy for Frankie to reach over his head and hold his hands down against the mattress.
And the fact that Frankie was pressing against this back now didn't seem to deter him from his task. In fact, he chuckled and pressed harder against Bartholomew. "That makes things easier." With a wet plop, one of his tongues landed on the middle of Bartholomew's back.
"GETITOFFGETITOFFGETITOFF." Bartholomew's voice was rising obnoxiously, as he struggled; trying to find some sort of footing, or leverage that he could use to get away with. Frankie wasn't letting up though, the tongue coiling around his waist, and over the scars on Bartholomew's stomach.
As Bartholomew let out a screech, there was a loud explosion outside, drowning him out. Frankie lost his focus, allowing for Bartholomew to wiggle until he was on his side, a foot pressed against Frankie's hip. He kicked out, throwing the other back and into the opposite wall. Then he sprang from the bed and out the door, botching his landing a bit, his shoulder ramming into the doorframe.
Scrambling, he leapt down the stairs and made for the chimney. Frankie wasn't far behind, screaming and cursing. But his shot at trying to grab Bartholomew missed, and he was left alone in the house as the Hunter climbed up the chimney and outside. He was a bit shook up from the mad dash away, but the second he reached open air he could smell the humans.
He stood on top of the chimney, for once choosing to be on two legs, and sniffed. At least two, but the scent of smoke and fire was too strong to tell exactly. He dropped down and crawled to the edge, already forgetting about what had happened. There was a human just under the ledge where he sat. Another was twenty feet [give or take] away, being attacked by a horde of Commons.
"Healing!" It was a woman below him. And she had something sterile smelling with her. From experience, Bartholomew knew those were the ones to attack, given the chance. So he did, even with the risk of the other human not too far away. With a sharp echoing cry, he dropped on her, knocking away not only her medical supply but her pistol as well.
As he sunk his claws into her chest, he had a sudden realization that that was what Frankie had been feeling for. Those weird soft mounds on a females' chest. He frowned, claws only raked halfway down her torso. Why would Frankie think he had some? Couldn't Frankie see he was a guy? Guys don't have soft chests.
The women beneath him was screaming for help and grabbing at his bare arms, trying to get him off. But he wasn't moving and he turned his face towards hers, making it look like he was looking her in the face. "Why's your chest better than mine?"
"The Hell?" The women momentarily faltered, but Bartholomew caught the scent of the other human behind him, the click of a gun being cocked resounding in his ears. With a snarl he gave another tear at her, slicing all the way down her stomach, intestines spilling beneath his fingers.
As the gun went off, Bartholomew could scent a Smoker near by. Frankie? Where the hole he had opened earlier had been. The bullet caught him in the shoulder and he spun off the women, landing face first in the blood soaked dirt. His resulting scream was weak as spasms of pain wracked through his body.
He heard a faint yell as he writhed on the ground, gripping his shoulder. He whimpered, and called out. "F-Frankie!" But no one was coming for him. All he had was the woman next to him, but she was nearly dead now. He let out a sob, clawed out, and caught the woman's arm, dragging her to him.
"They can talk. Theycanfuckingtalk." Bartholomew could smell the fear practically radiating from her. But he didn't care. She had got him shot. And that wasn't nice. Not nice at all. So he leaned over, taking hold of her jugular, and bit, easily slicing through the tendons and muscle with his teeth. He pulled the flesh away, ignoring her dying gurgles.
Eating always helped him heal faster, he had noticed. So he was happy to just chow down on the woman, regain his strength. But something hit his side knocking him over and onto his wounded shoulder. He shrieked, and tried to attack out, but his arm was too weak, and the other was clamped over the hole, trying to stop the bleeding.
Rough hands hauled him up, and shook him. "YOU STUPID FUCK." Frankie's voice. That was Frankie's voice. "GOT YOURSELF FUCKING SHOT." Frankie had saved him. Frankie had saved him, again. "IF NOT FOR ME, IT WOULDA BEEN IN THE HEAD, YOU FUCKING TWAT."
Frankie did care. He did. Hereallydid. Bartholomew just knew it now. And that made him happy. So damn happy. He grinned stupidly, even as he was dragged through the hole and thrown against a wall. "Like nearly getting killed? Do ya, bitch?" He shook his head, but couldn't stop grinning. "Fucking looks like you do. Stop fucking smiling like that." Frankie continued to curse under his breath as his fingers dug into Bartholomew's bullet wound, extracting the piece of lead so that he would heal faster.
Bartholomew moved forward, hands grabbing for Frankie, but Frankie held him back. "Fuck you, you little bitch. Wouldn't let me touch you earlier. What makes you fucking think you can touch me now?"
"B-but." Bartholomew strained against Frankie, trying to get closer. "You didn't care enough before. Now you do. Now I- I wanna touch you." The hot feeling was overcoming Bartholomew again, stemming from where Frankie's palm was pressed against his bare chest. But it didn't scare him like before. He actually liked it. He wanted it more. And he knew that Frankie could make that happen. "Come on." He whined, fingers clutching at Frankie's arm, feeling over the lumps and tumors that covered it.
Frankie faltered, like he didn't know what to make of Bartholomew's sudden change of attitude, but he didn't need to be told twice, and pushed Bartholomew back against the wall, quickly pressing against him. This situation felt too familiar, but at the same time so strange. Frankie moved his hand from Bartholomew's chest around to his back, his other hand joining it as it slid into the back pockets of Bartholomew's pants.
Bartholomew let out a small noise in protest, but didn't make to get away. As he was lifted, he reached out to hold onto Frankie's shoulders, legs wrapping around his waist. He started to lean towards Frankie, but was caught off-guard as Frankie rutted against him.
Gasping at the unfamiliar heat coiling in his lower stomach, Bartholomew scratched at Frankie's back. He was hitched up higher, making the bulge in Frankie's pants, very apparent. Bartholomew's chest seized up and he dug his claws deeper into Frankie's shoulder blades.
This was weird. And Bartholomew didn't really understand what was going on. And that only made him nervous. Maybe he shouldn't let Frankie do this. Maybe he should get away. Frankie moved against him. Or maybe he should stay. It felt good, in an unfamiliar, kind of scary kind of way. Even if he was having trouble breathing. And his pants felt much too tight. And the room only kept getting hotter.
It was just a moment before Bartholomew was gasping, his legs rubbing against either side of Frankie's waist as he came. He only clutched Frankie harder though, his face buried in his shoulder. Frankie was still thrusting against Bartholomew, either not noticing that Bartholomew was finished or not caring.
Just a few more minutes before Frankie came to a shuddering halt, Bartholomew still clutching him helplessly. He tried to pry the Hunter off him, but it didn't work, he continued to cling to him like a leech. "Get off, bitch. 'm done." Bartholomew simply flexed his fingers, gouging deeper into the skin. "GET. OFF." A tongue slid out and around Bartholomew's throat.
Bartholomew instantly let go, falling in a heap on the floor. "GETITOFF." He screeched, clawing at the wet muscle. It was retracted before he could do serious harm. "Ihateit." He muttered, bringing up his knees to his chest. It was weird. He felt dirty. Which seemed silly because of course he was dirty. He was covered in grime and guts and who knew what else. But somehow, what he and Frankie had just done made him really feel dirty.
And it took him a few second to realize that Frankie was walking away. He hesitated, not sure if he should follow or not. He didn't like feeling like this. But he knew he liked Frankie. So maybe it was just a temporary feeling. Maybe the dirtiness would pass. Then it would all be okay. And Frankie would let him touch him in other ways. Less. . . Dirty-feeling ways.
Frankie stopped just as he was about to exit the hole he'd reopened. "Bitch, you coming or not? The ugly fucks ain't eaten our kills yet. Get yer ass over here."
Bartholomew didn't need to be told twice either.
