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Bob got his wrist smashed breaking up a fight in the bar and had to go through a bunch of surgery and rehab to get the hand functional again. After that, Brian refused to tie him up anymore.

Bob pointed out that he had two hands, one of which was in excellent condition and would not be damaged by handcuffs, rope or scarves. But Brian could be a worst-case-scenario kind of guy at times. He insisted that was exactly why he wouldn't do it -- because they had to be extra careful to keep the good hand safe.

"You are a paranoid motherfucker," Bob told him.

"Fuck you," Brian said, distractedly because he was making stir fry at the time. "I'm cautious."

It was a valid point. And it wasn't like getting tied up was the only thing Bob liked to do. But he did get in the mood sometimes, and not being able to ask for it made him a little grumpy.

Months and months and months later, Brian still wouldn't budge on that. It was three o'clock in the morning on a Sunday, and Bob was killing people on the Xbox. He'd got the bar cleaned up and closed down and left Brian doing paperwork in the office and gone upstairs to their apartment.

Tending bar meant that Bob had to serve a lot of assholes. He had to get them their drinks and take their money and listen to them talk shit about sports teams, their bosses, their girlfriends, women in general, whatever ethnic group they couldn't stand, the President, whatever. Sometimes Bob could tune it out. Other times he got to the end of the night and he'd been holding himself back from hitting people or spitting in their drinks for hours and he was about to come out of his skin from all the suppressed rage.

This was one of those nights. Brian came up, got an ice cream from the freezer and sat on the arm of the couch to eat it and ramble about taxes and inventory and other shit that Bob didn't pay attention to in favor of killing people over WiFi.

"Hey," Brian said finally. "I'm going to bed."

"Okay," Bob said. "Good night."

"Come with me."

Bob's team was kicking ass; he sniped two dudes at the far end of the next building over, through the cracked corner of a dirty window.

"Not tired," he said.

Brian's shin nudged his back, and Brian threaded his fingers through Bob's hair. Bob had showered after he got off shift, to wash the sweat and the stench of other peoples' smoke off him. His hair was still damp in places, sticking together in crusty almost-dry locks in others. Brian used his fingertips to break up the locks and smooth them out.

"That's good, because I wanted to fuck anyway," Brian said. He wrapped a lock of hair around a finger and gave a gentle tug.

Bob ignored it. "I'm not in the mood."

Brian tugged harder. "Bullshit. Yes you are."

Yes, Bob was. Bob felt like he wanted to break things or hit things. He was riding that edge of tired where he was exhausted but he was too wound up to go to sleep. He felt like one big itch that he couldn't scratch. What he wanted was for Brian to make him settle down -- tie him down and fuck him senseless, and then drape himself over Bob like a hobbit-sized blanket. And then Bob would be able to sleep.

But he didn't get to do that anymore. So. Fuck it.

"No," he said, and threw a couple of grenades at a guy who didn't see him coming and blew the fuck out of him. "I'm not."

All of Brian's fingers tightened in Bob's hair; he pulled down to tilt Bob's face up.

"Bob. Turn off the fucking game and come to bed."

Then he let go and disappeared down the hall. Bob heard the bathroom door close and the sink come on.

Bob's team death match finished, and he debated joining another one. But he figured he'd have to go to bed eventually, and there was no way he would actually turn down sex with Brian, so he switched everything off. He checked the door to make sure it was locked, and went to the bedroom.

The bed was still a mess, because they never made it. He flopped down on his back, his arms thrown out, and imagined Brian pinning his wrists to the bed.

Which was something else Brian wouldn't do anymore, dammit.

A slap on the side of his knee made him scowl down the length of himself at Brian. Brian rolled his eyes.

"Up. Sit in the middle of the bed. No," Brian said as Bob grudgingly squirmed toward the middle of the bed. "Might work better if you kneel."

He stood at the end of the bed, watching Bob maneuver. He'd taken off his shirt and his tattoos were bright on his skin; Bob liked the way they looked on him better than any shirt. The fly of his jeans was popped, but not pulled open.

When Bob was sitting on his heels in the middle of the bed, Brian moved around to the side.

"Scoot back a little more." He crawled onto the bed behind Bob. "There. Stop. Close your eyes."

Bob did. "What are you doing?"

He could hear rustling; the bed trembled.

"You'll see."

He felt Brian reach around him, and then a cool, firm touch against his throat.

He jerked, startled. He meant to say "what the hell" but the collar brought him up short and all he managed was something along the lines of "hhhrrnnngk."

Brian tightened it quick. Bob only had time to get his hands up and touch it; by the time he hooked his fingers into the thin space beneath it, it was fastened.

"The fuck, Schechter," Bob said. It felt weird. It was a collar. Bob didn't know how he felt about that.

Brian was already slipping off the bed and going back to stand at the foot of it.

Sliding his hand back, Bob felt where the cord attached to the back of it, attached him to the headboard.

"Seriously?" Bob said. "Like a fucking dog?"

He started to shift, get off his knees and scoot back to get some slack in the cord, but Brian's sharp "Don't" stopped him.

"Stay," Brian said.

Like he was talking to a fucking dog.

"Fuck you," Bob said. He fumbled at the back of the collar, trying to find where it buckled.

"That won't do you any good," Brian said. He held up a little key. "There's a tiny little padlock. It's kind of cute, actually."

And then Bob didn't know what to say. If he could have taken it off himself, he would have. But this was different. When Brian shoved the key into his pocket, Bob just watched, and didn't object.

"Shirt off," Brian said softly. "But stay there while you do it."

Undoing the buttons on his flannel shirt was no big deal. But when Bob twisted a little to shrug it off his shoulders he jerked against the collar again. There were no rough edges to it, but it was stiff leather, and snug. And there was absolutely no slack in the cord.

"Pants," Brian said.

Bob had to push himself up off his heels, up to his knees to work the button and the zipper on his fly. He kept his knees planted; he figured Brian would stop him again if he tried to scoot back. But when the rest of his body went up and a little forward, the collar around his neck made him lean back, tilt his head back to keep the pressure off his throat.

The bed shook and dipped, and he almost lost his balance and fell over. Brian caught him, first his arm, then the collar.

Getting up on his knees against Bob, keeping hold of the collar, Brian cupped his other hand around the back of Bob's head, tangled his fingers in Bob's hair. He ducked in to kiss him, but not all the way; he pulled Bob's head forward until their mouths met.

Bob managed to take a breath before the collar pressed too hard against his throat, and for a minute he was okay. Brian let go of the collar and slid his hand down Bob's stomach, pushed into Bob's partly open pants. It made Bob's stomach shudder and made him try to suck in a breath when Brian pressed the heel of his hand against his cock and curled his fingers to cup his balls.

He couldn't suck in much of a breath, though. Brian kept kissing him, wet and hard, and stroked him. Bob got his hands up and gripped Brian's arms -- not pushing him away, just holding on, holding on, holding on until Brian let go of his head and broke the kiss.

Bob dropped his head back and sucked in air. He would have fallen back if not for his hold on Brian's arms and the way Brian shifted his grip from Bob's head to the collar. While Bob gasped, Brian just knelt where he was, gently rolling and squeezing Bob's balls, dragging his fingertips along the skin from Bob's asshole forward, occasionally sliding his hand up to wrap loosely around Bob's cock and thumb the head.

Bob's gasping turned ragged. He tried to hold them in, but his mouth was hanging open to get air and a few incoherent noises slipped out.

"I told you that you were in the mood," Brian said.

He pulled his hand out of Bob's pants, ignoring Bob's whine of objection, and ducked his head to lick Bob's neck, from his jaw down to where his exposed throat was covered with stiff leather.

"On your back," Brian said against Bob's collarbone. He shrugged Bob's hands off his arms, planted his knuckles against Bob's chest and shoved.

Bob fell gracelessly, trying to catch himself with his hands and failing. His legs folded up awkwardly beneath him. Now there was slack in the cord tying him to the bed, but not enough to do him any good. Brian held his hips down so he couldn't shift to get his legs unbent, and when Bob went up on his elbows, the collar jerked him back before he could get far enough up to get comfortable.

Letting go with one hand, Brian pulled Bob's zipper the rest of the way down. Then he tugged at Bob's boxers until he got them far enough down in the front to free Bob's cock.

Then there was nothing but air around it. Brian swirled his fingernails in circles over Bob's stomach, making Bob jerk at the almost-ticklishness of it, making Bob get harder without touching him. Bob didn't need to be touched, though, not when he was bent back like that, exposed like that, with Brian making his skin twitch and shiver, completely helpless to do anything about it.

He was glad Brian didn't like him to talk when they were doing things like this, because Bob wasn't sure what he wanted to say, please or shit or more or --

"I can't decide if I want to jack you off and make you come like this," Brian said. His voice was low, and very serious in the way that meant he was so turned on that he had to concentrate in order to not stop what he was doing to Bob and just go straight to getting himself off. "Or if I want to fuck you."

Bob closed his eyes and pressed his lips together. When Brian finally took hold of Bob's dick and moved his hand in a slow, loose twist, Bob strained up against the collar, choking himself on purpose to keep the desperate moan in.

But his cock still twitched, and his thighs went tight with trying to thrust up at the air.

"What do you want, Bob?"

Brian tugged on the waistbands of Bob's jeans and boxers, yanked to inch them down. The force dragged Bob toward him, and suddenly the slack in the cord was gone completely and the collar was uncomfortably snug. Bob could still breathe, but talking would have been an issue, even if he'd wanted to try.

Brian swiped precum from the tip of Bob's cock with a fingertip, and Bob heard him suck it off.

Then he pushed his hand back into Bob's underpants, squirmed the spit-damp finger back between Bob's ass cheeks and pressed against his hole.

"I think I definitely want to fuck you," Brian said. He pushed the finger in, just a little, just enough to make Bob clench around it and make his cock jump. "Yeah. I don't want you to come like this."

Brian kept pushing, deeper by increments, rough because spit pretty much sucked as lube. Bob caught his lip between his teeth. He concentrated on his teeth digging into his lip and the collar digging into his throat to keep from coming.

Then Brian's finger was all the way in, and he was using that hand -- curling that finger just a bit, and it made Bob's whole body jerk -- and his other hand to lift Bob's hips.

"Straighten out your legs," he said.

It took some maneuvering, and some delicacy, and every movement shifted Brian's finger in him. By the time Bob got his legs situated, his eyes were watering and he was sweating and shaking. But he'd held back. He hadn't come.

When he was on his back, Brian pulled his finger out and worked Bob's pants off. Bob didn't help. Every tug pulled him against the collar; he hooked his fingers in the collar and held on to keep enough room to breathe.

Then he was naked, except for the collar. He panted, feeling his face going a little red, then his neck and chest; he was desperate to hump something. While he watched Brian get off the bed long enough to strip his own pants off, it crossed Bob's mind that for all that he couldn't make himself let go of the collar his hands were as good as tied.

Fuck, he thought, closing his eyes, because that went right to his dick. Shit like this was why he loved that midget motherfucker, seriously.

When Brian got back on the bed, he didn't bother getting a pillow or anything. He lifted Bob's hip and shoved until Bob was mostly lying on his side except for his shoulders. Bob couldn't switch his grip on the collar to roll completely onto his side. He was pretty sure if he let go at all the collar would choke him.

That thought went to his dick too, and he gagged out a moan.

Brian shoved Bob's top leg up and out of his way and straddled his bottom leg. It felt like it took for fucking ever for Brian to get the condom on and slick up. But finally he grabbed the crease of Bob's leg with a slippery hand, lined up, and sank in.

He didn't stop along the way to let Bob adjust, just pushed him open and open and open. With Bob's leg shoved up Brian could go deep, and he did, not stopping until he'd filled Bob up and his balls nestled up tight against Bob's ass cheek.

He started slow, with long deep thrusts. He'd let a thrust push Bob up the bed just a bit, letting the collar go a little loose for the space of a couple of breaths. Then he'd pull out, and then yank Bob back down onto his cock, jerking the collar tight around Bob's throat again.

Like that, over and over. At some point Bob's gasped breaths turned into strangled sobs, and Bob couldn't stand it anymore. He let go of the collar with one hand, pushed his hand beneath his bent leg to squeeze his cock.

When he thought he could stop himself from coming for just a little longer, he let go of his dick. Then he let go of the collar entirely, and let his other hand fall to the bed, and let Brian decide whether or not he should breathe.

Brian made a harsh noise, shifted on his knees, scooting backwards and pulling Bob with.

Bob heard himself choke, heard his gasping vanish to nothing. That felt separate from the way the collar pressed painfully hard into his throat. And it all felt separate from the way Brian folded over him, braced himself with a hand on the bed, and started pounding fast and hard.

Bob's head felt fuzzy; all sensation centered in his ass, in Brian's cock stretching-filling-breaching him too much and too fast. Centered in the warm clenching in his belly, the involuntary way he tightened around Brian to make it feel more.

Every thrust inched him up the bed, though. Air started to come more easily and the fuzziness took on edges again. His hand had gone slack around his cock; Brian batted it aside and started tugging, twisting with his lube-slick hand.

That was permission. That was all it took, and Bob was spilling over Brian's hand, the bed, his own useless arm.

Brian fucked him through it. His rhythm stuttered, but he kept going until Bob started making those helpless grunting sounds he always made when he was coming down off his orgasm and Brian's cock in his ass was starting to feel like too much in the bad way. Then Brian sank in deep and stayed, pressing his forehead against Bob's shoulder, his breath puffing in hot bursts against Bob's skin.

He didn't stay like that long. He slid out, carefully, and then hitched himself up the bed until he could reach the collar. Weaseling a finger beneath it to check the tightness, he said, still breathless, "Okay? Still breathing?"

Bob didn't bother trying to make words, just made a shaky affirmative noise. He felt used up. His throat was sore. So was his ass. Sore in the way he liked, though. And the rest of him felt warm and boneless. Perfect.

He didn't realize he'd started dozing until Brian's tugging on the collar brought him up out of it a little. Brian unfastened the collar and slid it gently off. The next thing Bob felt was Brian's thumb brushing over the skin of his throat. Probably over red marks. Maybe already bruises. Bob thought he would have to turn into one of those douchey guys who wears turtlenecks if they kept doing this. And they were definitely going to keep doing this, so.

He also thought that whenever he saw a guy in a turtleneck from now on he was going to wonder if the guy wasn't a douche, was maybe just hiding bruises.

Brian noticed Bob looking up at him through heavy eyes; Bob discovered he was smiling when Brian smiled back.

"That was good?" Brian said, now running his thumb over Bob's lip.

Bob was too close to being asleep to speak or nod, so he just left the smile on his face.


Brian leaned away to switch off the lamp, and in the darkness curled up against Bob's side and pulled the sheet up over them. He hooked a leg over Bob's, and Bob groped until he found Brian's arm so he could pull it across his chest and cover it with his own.

Brian yawned, and into Bob's shoulder added, "Now hopefully you won't be such a bitch every time you feel like getting tied up."

Bob made a mental note to tell Brian to fuck off in the morning, and then fell asleep.