In a new world where people ran on instincts scents were important.
A scent could distinguish if someone was a friend or a foe.
If someone could be eaten, or if they should be left the hell alone.
And more importantly.
Who belonged to who.
"Quit squirming bitch" Frankie snarled, pressing down on Bartholomew's chest while he rubbed against him, though instead of it being done in lust instead this time it was out of necessity. A spitter had managed to land a direct hit onto Bartholomew's back and while his skin hadn't been melted away (his clothes had taken that role instead) the rancid after goo from the acid was clinging to his flesh making him smell worse than that dead dog he and Frankie found shoved into a bin a few days back.
Bartholomew whined and carried on squirming a little, not liking the way Frankie's clothes were rubbing against his bare flesh making him get carpet, well, jean burn on his legs turning them a light pinkish colour up and along his thighs.
Frankie just snarled and rolled his visible eye, pausing in his actions to lean back and yank down his jeans, leaving him in what looked to be a pair of batman boxers. "There? Happy now faggot?" he asked bluntly before returning to the task at hand, trying to force his scent onto the hunter by pressing flesh against flesh.
Bartholomew smiled and then nodded, pressing against Frankie much like a cat, writhing around with him upon their bed in their underwear, loving the feeling since Frankie was actually TOUCHING him. Not like the ways he normally touched him, like when he grabbed his arm or hit him or even when he fucked him. This was….nicer touching. It was a little rough, but hay everything with Frankie was rough. Apart from when he was sleeping. Then he looked like a kittycat…..in a way. But this touching was the kind of touching Bartholomew liked, mainly because although it wasn't a real hug, Frankie's arms did go around his back together at the same time, and when that happened their faces were pretty close together, and although the moment only lasted a second it was still there, and it made Bartholomew feel all nice and warm and tingly and ohgodhewantedtotouchhim.
"It'd be faster the other way" He said smiling, having ended up perched on Frankie's lap with his back to him, looking up over his shoulder, or at least moving his head to make it seem like he was.
"Other way?...heh, little slut" Frankie said with a smirk, seeing bartholomews smile falter for a second with the nasty words but then quickly come back as he started touching him again, up his sides and thighs, on his shoulders and neck and all over his tummy and lower and lower and ohgodsofuckinglowyesyesyes!
And it was only then, afterwards when they both lay on the bed all sticky and sweaty and smelling of sex did Bartholomew come down from his high, did the fuzzy feeling go and get replaced with that not so fuzzy feeling, when Frankie wouldn't let him snuggle. When he'd punch him in the nose the second he tried to get close. When he'd decide that no, tonight Bartholomew would sleep alone, and to make it worse he'd even let him have the bed while Frankie went downstairs onto the more uncomfortable couch, but in doing so left Bartholomew there upstairs in the big room, in the big bed, completely and utterly alone.
Then he didn't like it as much.
Then he really….really didn't like it.
