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Frank’s put in his favorite DVD, the one with the three chicks eating each other out at a sleepover before they get gangbanged by some dude who comes in halfway through with no plot point at all.

He’s sprawled back on the couch, jeans shoved down, hand around his cock, just jacking himself nice and slow. Jamia had some dumbass work thing to go to, so he’s got no plans tonight and he wants to make this last.

The dark-haired chick is really going at it - face down, hand between her own thighs, stroking herself, but never letting up with her tongue against the other girl’s clit. Frank shifts a little to get more comfortable, squirts more lotion into his palm. The scene is hot but man, he doesn’t even know, this whole thing with the shaved pussies, it just looks weird. Maybe he's supposed to be into that or something, but he’s gone down on girls who shave it all off, or get that shit waxed, and it doesn’t matter how smooth it looks, it always feels rough against his face and under his tongue, on top of just plain looking wrong.

Jamia doesn’t shave the way the girls in this movie do - she neatens up, as she tells him sometimes as she’s wriggling out of her jeans on his bed and dragging his head between her thighs, but she’s still got a full bush. He likes the way it feels when he buries his face between her legs, eating her out while she digs her heels into the bed and arches up against his face, saying the filthiest fucking things.

God. He’s leaking into his palm now, and the scene in front of him has switched to the gangbang portion of the evening. He doesn’t know how he missed that - the girl bucking and twisting on the other girl’s fingers just before the dude walks in is one of his very favorite parts. He lifts his hips a little bit, pushing himself up into his hand. It’s slick and hot and feels so fucking good. He loves this part - the dude in the video is a prince among men; once he’s hard, he stays really fucking hard, and Frank just loves how he bangs the three of them right in a row before coming on the red-head’s face.

Frank’s getting into it now, has to slow down his strokes so he doesn’t come too quick, though he can’t help but let his thumb flick up under the head of his dick once, twice, oh man.

Jesus,” he groans out loud - it feels so fucking good. Jamia has this way of doing it with her tongue that just fucking kills him every time. He’d never even found a girl who could figure out how to do it while giving him a handjob, not even when he tried to show them. With J, he hadn’t even had to tell her how he liked it - she’d known, just from how he bucked into her mouth the first time she flicked her tongue there. She’s so fucking good at giving head.

The girls on screen are getting louder and louder, yowling like cats while the guys fucks his way into them, and Frank fumbles for the remote with his free hand, shuts it off, that shit’s distracting. He’s stroking himself faster, harder, biting his lip, because he’s close now, he’s trying to hold it back. Jamia took him so far down last night, pinning his hips against the door so he couldn’t gag her with his cock, but she took him all the way in anyway, and it felt so fucking good, got him so hot. Her fingers digging against his hips so hard, all he could do was take it, as she swallowed around him, and Jesus, fuck, fuck -

Fuck.” He’s coming so hard he can’t breathe, like a kick in the stomach. “Jesus fuck.” He’s shuddering through it, his cock jerking, balls throbbing, his whole body hot and lit-up.

When he finally blinks his eyes open, panting for breath, his whole hand is covered, sticky with lube and come, and it’s all over his stomach, too, and some on his t-shirt, even though he’d pushed it up. “Goddamn.” That was so fucking good. It’s quiet in the house with the porn shut off, and dim, and he’s fucking wrung-out. He manages to take his hand off his cock, grimacing at it, then wipes it off on his t-shirt before gingerly tugging the shirt off over his head. He uses the inside of it to wipe down his belly, too, then balls it up and tosses it in the direction of his bedroom. He tugs his briefs and jeans up, leaving them undone as he sags back against the couch.

He ends up dozing there, his hand still tucked in the front of his jeans.


They're kind of exclusive - he thinks. It's been a week since he's seen her and he's fucking bored. Maybe he could go pick up someone else for a night if he wanted. - it's not like they've fucking talked about this or anything.

The thing of it is, though, he doesn't want to. He just wants to fucking see Jamia and just - oh, fuck it. He picks up the phone to text her, starts typing it in, even, then mutters to himself, “Fuck, get some balls,” and calls her. Hits her number real quick before he can get any second thoughts and he stands there, staring at the wall of tools at his Uncle Jimmy’s body shop while he rocks up onto his toes, back onto his heels, waiting for her to pick up.

“What,” she answers, sounding cranky, and he feels immediately better, just because she picked up anyway. He’s such a fucking goddamn pussy he can’t even take himself.

“Hey, so, tonight.” He chews on his lip for a second. Fuck. It. “You want to go out?”

“Are you buying?” she asks.

He smiles before he can help it. “Yeah,” he says. “And I’ll even share my smokes as an incentive.”

“Then fuck, yeah,” she says, and he’s just grinning stupidly into the phone before he remembers his next question and his stomach gets all tight and weird again.

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll pick you up. Let’s, uh.” He stops talking and she blows out an exasperated breath in his ear. His dick gets a little hard. He needs some fucking help, man. “Let’s - I’m going to take you someplace different. Okay?”

“I can’t handle anything fucking fancy.” She sounds tired. “I really fucking can’t, and it won’t impress me, so don’t even fucking try.”

“It’s not fancy,” he snaps back. “Fucking trust me on that.”

“Good.” She’s quiet for a second. “Okay, then, where.”

“No place. Whatever. It’s just this place, okay? It’s got beer, it’s got burgers, whatever, you’ll like it.”

“Okay.” She’s silent again, like she’s thinking about it, then she says, softer, “Okay, then. Gimme ‘til like seven thirty, okay? It’s gonna be a long fucking day, and I might have to get myself off when I get home just to chill out.”

“I -”

She hangs up, and he’s left there clutching the phone dumbly to his face, thinking about her squirming on the bed with her jeans and panties around her knees, her fingers between her legs, head back, mouth open, jerking off before she can even do anything else.

Jesus Christ. She's kind of the best girl ever.


Frank picks Jamia up in his old beater - it runs great, he’s all over that engine, rebuilt it with a little bit of help from his uncle, it just doesn’t look that great on the outside. He’s going to get some body work done when his band starts getting bigger, making some more money. He’ll get there.

He gets to her place a little bit early - just like ten minutes or so, just to see - but when she answers the door, she doesn’t look flushed or out of breath or anything, so maybe she didn’t have time to get herself off. She’s got on a denim miniskirt, a black tank top, motorcycle boots. Nothing’s real short or slutty, but it’s all snug, hugging all of her fucking amazing curves, and it makes him want to bite her hips. It makes her look tough - not like she’s trying too hard, though. It all just works on her.

“I need a beer in the worst way,” she says when she opens the door.

“I can help you with that.” He watches as she bends over her purse on the table, and he can’t help reaching out to grab her hip, soft and warm under his fingers.

She pushes against his hand like she likes it. “Okay,” she says, sliding her ID, credit card, and some cash into one side of her bra, and then picking up her cell phone and sliding it into the other. “Let’s go.” She palms both sides of her rack and everything settles into place - you can’t even tell she’s using her bra as a purse.

She’s heading towards the door, but Frank slides his fingers through her belt loops and pulls her in, kissing her because he can’t not. She kisses him back - quick at first, then moving in closer when he doesn’t let her go - he’s not done yet, he hasn’t seen her all week. She shoves him back, finally, one hand firm against his chest. “Seriously,” she says, and now her cheeks are flushed a tiny bit, he thinks. “Beer.”

“Right.” Frank runs a hand through his hair. “Let’s fucking go already.”

“Yep.” She brings her hand up to his mouth, pressing against it, and when he opens up without even thinking about it, she pushes her fingers inside. His mouth is suddenly full of the hot taste of her, salty and unmistakable - fuck, fuck, that’s her pussy he’s tasting, on her hand.

She slides her fingers out of his mouth and grins at him. “Let’s go.”

He gives himself a huge amount of credit that he just fucking rolls with it, nods shakily and follows her out the door. And if his dick is pressed hard against the front of his jeans, who can fucking blame him?


Of fucking course Toro’s at the bar with two bottles of Heineken in one hand and one of those queer fancy glasses of fucking Stella in the other. He spots them the second they walk in the door, and gives Frank this big fucking grin, like Frank’s his best friend in the whole world.

Which, whatever. Toro’s probably the nicest guy on Earth, and can shred like no one Frank’s ever seen on the local band circuit. He’s a good guy. Frank had just kind of hoped he could ease into this whole thing.

But nope. Toro’s calling, “Frank! Frankie!” from across the room and gesturing them over with his head, which sends his massive hair flying crazily.

Frank looks at Jamia, but she’s scanning the room, taking in the place - it’s got a long, worn bar all along the wall right when you walk in, and a half-wall down the middle of the place, splitting it off from an area scattered with tables - all wood, scarred with scratches and stained with beer. The bar keeps the lights low but not fucking dim, the music on the juke box is great and doesn’t play too loud, so you can hear yourself think, and the whole place just feels like coming the fuck home to Frank.

Usually just walking in the door is enough to make his shoulders relax without him even thinking about it. Tonight, he has to swallow before he says to Jamia, “That’s, uh, my buddy, Ray.”

“Cool,” she says. “Oh, dude, they have PBR on tap.” She heads over, bellying up to the bar next to Ray, and Frank catches up quickly. She’s up on her toes, leaning in so her tits get the bartender over to her faster. “I’m Jamia,” she says over her shoulder to Ray.

“This is Jamia,” Frank says a beat behind her.

“Nice to meet you,” Ray says, like he means it.

“Two PBRs and two shots of whiskey,” Jamia’s saying to the bartender, while Ray makes big eyes at Frank behind her back, all Is this her? This is her, isn’t it? This is the girl. You like this girl.

Frank does his best to ignore him. After one quick jerk of his head to say yeah and shut up about it now.

Jamia turns around and hands Frank a beer and a shot, then grabs her own and grins at him and Ray. “Okay,” she says. “Now, it’s Friday.”

Frank tosses a twenty on the bar and clutches his beer in one hand and the shot in the other, his palms weirdly sweaty as he follows along behind where Jamia is chatting with Ray already, Ray’s head tilted down so he can hear her. She looks cool, calm, collected. Frank thinks he might have to veer off to the men’s room to throw up.

He just swallows, though, and squares his shoulders, and concentrates on the fact that he’s gonna do the shot currently clutched in his sweaty hand just as soon as they sit down.

Ray’s there with Gerard and Pedicone, of course - it’s a Friday night, where else would they all be? It’s not like Frank set this up, but he just - knew. Gerard’s talking intently, all up close in Pedicone’s face - it might look like a fight to anyone else, but from the way Gerard’s gesturing, Frank’s pretty sure they’re having their Lord of the Rings argument again.

They’re at one of the tables, and Jamia slides up onto a stool, her skirt pulling tight and high over her thighs. Frank’s right behind her and he sits down next to her, puts down his beer, and slams down his shot.

“This is Jamia,” he half-wheezes across the table at Gerard and Pedicone through the burn in his throat. He gestures at her next to him, then he drinks half his beer in two blissfully cold gulps.

“Hey,” she says, downing her own shot and only coughing a little through the kick.

“I’m Gerard,” Gerard says, looking delighted to meet her. “I’m delighted to meet you!”

Frank rolls his eyes and Jamia’s face is a fucking picture as she looks at Gerard’s outstretched hand, to Frank’s face, to Gerard’s face, and back to Frank.

“Is he for real?” she asks.

Gerard keeps holding out his hand expectantly as Frank takes a long sip of beer. “Yep.”

Jamia shakes Gerard’s hand dubiously and Gerard clasps his other hand around hers as he pumps it up and down. Frank pretty much chokes on his beer as he laughs at Jamia, who’s watching her own hand go up and down in Gerard’s with this completely perplexed expression.

“Your friends are weird,” she says to him, tugging until Gerard releases her hand.

“Not really,” Pedicone says, swigging his beer from the bottle. “Gee is, maybe a little. The rest of us are just awesome.”

“I am a little weird,” Gerard says to the table at large, taking a big gulp from his delicate glass of Stella.

“That’s Pedicone,” Frank says, gesturing to him with the neck of his beer bottle.

“Mike,” Pedicone says, giving Jamia a normal handshake.

“And you met Ray,” Frank says, watching as Ray leans forward a little like he’s going to shake her hand, then withdraws it, with a look at Gerard, and waves instead. Like a weirdo.

Jamia waves back, carefully, and then looks at Frank. “I’m gonna need another shot.”

“On it,” he says, signaling the waitress.

She brings them two more shots and he and Jamia down them at the same time as Gerard is leaning forward over the table, intently telling them about his latest art project. It sounds like it should be really fucking dull, but it isn’t, because Gerard is Gerard, and Gerard is fucked up.

“And then I thought about how the dead could, you know, represent everything you wished for and hoped for and failed at in life, and that’s, of course, where the bats come in.” He beams at both of them and Pedicone grins as he brings one hand up to rub at the back of Gerard’s neck. Gerard leans back into it, giving him a small smile over his shoulder. “What?” he says. “I like bats, okay?”

“I know,” Pedicone says, leaning forward to grab his beer with his free hand. “It’s cool. You’re cool.”

“I’m so not cool,” Gerard says.

“You’re really not,” Jamia confirms.

“I know, right?” Gerard leans forward to rest his hand over hers.

“You’re really weird,” Jamia says, not unkindly.

Frank watches, uneasy, as Gerard blinks at her a few times.

Gerard looks at Frank. “She totally gets me,” he says, sounding motherfucking enchanted.

Frank grins at him. “Told you.”

Jamia slants a look at him. “You did?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Frank says, and orders a round of shots for the table.


Gerard is hammered by eleven, and Frank’s feeling no pain himself. He tells Ray and Pedicone to order them another couple of shots, and he and Gerard head out for a smoke while Jamia’s in the bathroom. Frank has to keep reaching out to tug on Gerard’s arm to keep him heading in the right direction, but Gerard’s a happy drunk, and he just grins his warm, dopey grin up at Frank and lets him steer.

“She’s a nice girl, Frankie,” he says when they get outside and light up. He looks wrecked - his hair is insane and unwashed, badly-dyed black tangled crazy and falling in his eyes.

Frank snorts, taking a long drag and leaning back against the rough brick of the wall alongside the bar. “Nice, my ass,” he says. “She’s fucking dirty.” He gets this warm feeling in his stomach and without thinking, he tilts his head against the brick to see if he can peer in through the front window to see their table. He can’t, but that’s fine, whatever, nothing to see anyway.

Gerard shakes his head. “She gave me an awesome idea about using severed limbs as symbolism for corporate culture.” He takes a drag of his own cigarette, blows the smoke out from the corner of his mouth. “She’s awesome,” he says, and starts to slide a little sideways against the wall.

Frank reaches out and props him up again. “Whatever,” he says. “She’s not a giant pussy like you.”

“I know, right?” Gerard says happily, and drops his smoke on the ground. “Oops,” he says, peering down at it.

“Let’s go back in.” Frank takes a last drag and drops his own next to Gerard’s, crushing them both under his boot. He pushes Gerard ahead of him and Gerard keeps stumbling back into him as he earnestly explains over his shoulder just how great Jamia is and how her hips could bring down nations.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Frank mutters, as he steers Gerard towards Pedicone.

Gerard has less trouble climbing back into his seat than Frank thought he would. “You’re awesome,” he explains to Jamia.

Jamia’s drinking Frank’s shot. “Tell me something I don’t know,” she says, voice all shot and throaty.

“Fucker,” Frank says as she puts down the empty shot beside him.

She leans into him and just that, the press of her body beside him, and he can’t catch his breath for a minute. He wants to take her into the bathroom and fuck her up against the wall; wants it so bad he can’t even speak for second. “You love it,” she says.

All he can do is nod jerkily. Fuck. He is so fucked, it isn’t even funny.

They make it through another pitcher, talking about the Robot Chicken Star Wars specials. Frank can’t believe they’re all getting into it and they all have opinions, Jesus, what is his life?

Ray finally gets up with a sigh, checking his phone. "Early practice tomorrow," he says. "I gotta take off." He grins at Jamia. "It was really nice meeting you."

"Same," Jamia says, grinning back, and Ray makes big eyes at Frank over his shoulder as he heads out, mouthing This one's a keeper at him. Frank just rolls his eyes at Ray, but he can't stop himself from grinning back at him.

Gerard’s blinking and drooping onto Pedicone’s shoulder. “Baby, I’m so drunk.” He turns his face into Pedicone’s neck, eyes shut, leaning bonelessly up against him. “Take me home. Let’s go home.”

“That’s it for this one.” Pedicone rubs Gerard’s shoulder, dropping an easy kiss on the top of his head. He gets up, keeping one hand on Gerard’s arm to keep him in the chair, as he throws some cash on the table. Gerard’s grinning happily at him, and when Pedicone tugs on him, he slides off the chair to lean up against him.

“You need help getting him to the car?” Frank asks.

“Nah.” Pedicone holds out a fist for Frank to bump, which he does, and then he flashes Jamia a smile. “Nice to meet you,” he says. “Don’t know what you’re doing with this asshole, but hey, I’m not one to judge.”

Jamia grins back at him. “I’m just in it for the booze,” she says.

They both watch as the two of them head out, Gerard snug up under Pedicone’s arm, Pedicone leading him with the ease born of a lot of experience.

Frank looks at Jamia. She’s watching them walk away together, and when she turns her gaze back to him, he jerks his chin up without even meaning to.

She just looks at him. “Problem?”

He’s drunk enough that they’re going to have to take a cab home. “No problem,” he says, but he can’t stop eyeing her.

“They’re cute,” she says.

“So what?” Frank shoots back.

“So nothing.” She’s shifting closer, sliding a hand up his thigh even as she snags his beer from in front of him. “I liked them.” She’s really close to him now, and her hand is warm on his thigh, and just, fuck, she smells so good - she’s all warm skin and soft hair and she’s smiling that fucking dirty smile.

“There’s nothing wrong with it,” he says, and he has no idea why he can’t keep his fucking mouth shut.

“With what?” Jamia sounds genuinely curious.

“With them.”

“Well.” Jamia looks dubious and a slow burn starts in Frank’s belly. He’s used to it, used to them, and Gerard goes both ways, anyway, doesn’t seem to really have any big issue with switching teams. And Pedicone is all dude, you’d never even know, fuck, you’d never even think. Frank had had no idea, not one fucking clue - Gerard was a handsy drunk, everyone knew that, it didn’t mean anything.

Until Frank had walked out for a smoke when they'd been out drinking one night and glanced down the alley and there was Pedicone, making out with Gerard for all he was worth. It was dim and Frank couldn't see everything, but he knew Pedicone had Gerard pinned against the bricks, knew that Gerard’s leg in his big, stupid boot was hitching up around Pedicone’s thigh. Gerard had his head pushed back against the wall, and Pedicone’s mouth was busy on his neck, and when Frank had realized how long he’d been looking, he jerked around like he’d been burned and dropped his smoke on the ground half-finished. He went back inside, where the noise and the crowd and the beer made some sort of sense, and he pretended not to notice the dark spot, getting darker, on Gerard’s neck when they two of them came back, Gerard still breathless and Pedicone looking pleased.

He's still watching Jamia - he really doesn't want to fight about this, but he will if he has to.

She shrugs. “They maybe have a few too many opinions about Lord of the fucking Rings.”

Oh. Frank grins at her, because, yeah, they fucking do. “Pedicone says Gerard puts on Fellowship every night. In the bedroom. He falls asleep to it.”

“There’s nerd, and then there’s nerd.” Jamia’s sliding her hand in between his legs, and leaning up to bite his earlobe, and they’re still at the table in the middle of the fucking bar.

“Yeah.” Frank’s not sure what they’re talking about anymore. He’s half hard and Jamia’s hand is high and tight on his thigh. He’s looking around wildly for the waitress, and when she comes by, Jamia doesn’t move her hand, just squeezes tighter while Frank fumbles his wallet out. He practically throws his credit card at the waitress and by the time she comes back, Jamia’s whispering in his ear all the things she's gonna do to him tonight. "Gonna get you so hard, climb on top of you, fuck you 'til you don't know your own name."

Frank's not sure he knows his own name right now. He has to squint one eye closed to sign the slip and he has a harder time than usual calculating the tip. He gathers up the cash the other guys left and stashes it in his wallet.

They stumble outside together and half of Frank hates this, hates who they are. They’re that couple, they’re those people. But Jamia is so soft and so fucking warm beside him, and she’s got ideas about tonight. She's flagging a cab in that way she has - utter confidence that the cab will stop for her, and it does, she has that kind of karma (and those kind of tits).

She drags him into the cab behind her and he doesn't even remember the ride home - just flashes of her grabbing his hand and pulling it under her skirt, her breath whiskey-sharp and hot against his ear as she tells him how hard she's going to fuck him when they get back to his place.

Frank's pretty drunk and really hard and he hits his head getting out of the cab, so intent on Jamia's hips in her tight denim skirt that he barely even feels it. Jamia's busy working his belt open as he tries to get his key in the door, and when he finally gets it turned, the two of them fall in, barely staying on their feet, but managing it.

Which is good, because he swears to fucking God, if they go down here, he's gonna shove her skirt up and fuck her right there on the floor, screw what the neighbors might hear.

Jamia's got her hand hooked in the front of his jeans, and she's dragging him to the bedroom - backwards and stumbling a little, but she doesn't stop until they hit the bed.

"Jesus Christ." Frank watches as she arches up, dragging her panties down and off over her boots, leaving her spread-open on the bed, skirt still on. She digs her booted heels into his bed and shoves her hand in his hair, dragging his face between her legs.

Some part of his brain is telling him that he should take a little control here, that he should be the one pushing her to her knees, but she smells so good and tastes even better - sharp and sweet and all he wants is to get his tongue inside her.

Her thighs are around his face and he licks her, rough and steady, going in deep and oh yeah, there they go, her thighs tight and tense around him and he's grinding his dick against the bed with how bad he wants to fuck her.

But first things first. He's got her going now, she's cursing like a sailor and rocking against his mouth, and Jesus fuck, she tastes good. He loves how filthy she sounds, he loves it when she digs the heel of her boot into his back and says, tight and harsh and so fucking close. "Like that, just like that, don't you stop, motherfucker, don't you fucking stop, don't - "

She arches up tight, and holds it, and he's focused, licking her fast and keeping his tongue tense and right where it works best. He feels the burn in his tongue as he works to keep it going steady, but he just has to keep it going a little more, he knows she's about to pop. She comes with her thighs so tight around his ears he can barely hear her grinding out curses as she shakes her way through it.

His face is wet with her when he pushes himself up, and she's spread-open in front of him, the front of her t-shirt damp with sweat, her hair fucked out and messed up, and she's got that look on her face like that just barely took the edge off - she's ready for round two.

His jeans are open from her undoing them back at the door and he shoves them down his thighs and kicks them off. He's so fucking hard and ready for her. "Gonna fuck you so hard," he says, jacking himself a couple of times as he kneels over her.

"Fucking do it." She snarls it, and Frank's dick jumps in his hand as he fumbles a condom out of the bedside table. She's got her hand between her legs, stroking as she watches him slide the condom on, and Jesus. Fucking just -

"That's what you did, huh? Before I came over tonight? That's how you do it, how you get yourself off." He can't take his eyes off the way her hand is moving, slower and softer than he would have thought, like she's teasing herself.

She grins up at him. "Yep," she says, and keeps her eyes on him as she slides two fingers inside herself.

"Jesus, you're so fucking dirty." He's pushing her hand out of the way, so he can get in there, God, he needs to be in there.

"Yep," she says again, laughing, but when he slides inside her, she gasps and tightens up all around him, so fucking perfect he could die from it. "Yeah," she says, looking up at him, and then quirks a small smile again and reaches up, sliding her still-slick fingers inside his mouth, just like earlier.

It's fucking hot and she's so tight around his dick that he can't breathe, he can't think, he just wants to fuck her through the floor. But she's sliding her fingers in and out of his mouth, so slow and steady, and it's making him crazy - he can't help but match the pace with his dick, fucking into her in the same rhythm, and he's so hard and so fucking turned on by all of it, everything - the hot, sharp taste of her, the feel of her fingers sliding into his mouth, how her pussy feels as he pushes in, and in, and in, again and again. Her cheeks are so pink and her eyes are huge as she looks up at him. She's panting as he groans around her fingers.

“Frank,” Jamia says, her voice all blown-out. “Fuck, Frank.”

Something flips over in his stomach when she says his name like that, and he trembles against her, moaning.

She slides her fingers out of his mouth to reach back and grab the headboard, pushing herself up to meet him thrust for thrust. Her t-shirt is damp with sweat around the neck, and he paws at it, shoving is up so he can see her tits, in her lacy black bra, so fucking hot, bouncing with the rhythm of him fucking her.

"Fuck." He can barely get the word out, he's just so fucking hot for her. His whole world has narrowed to his dick inside her, how hot and tight she is around him, and her eyes on his, watching him as he fucks her so deep. "Fuck, yeah. Fuck, yeah."

He wants to take her with him, wants her to come again, but it's too much, he's too fucking close, he can't stop himself as he pushes into her again, and again, and again, and then he's coming, so fucking hard it feels like his brain explodes.

When he comes back to himself, he's collapsed against her, his mouth against her neck, and he's still all the way inside her. Fuck. Fuck. He feels completely wrung out, but half like he could go again in no fucking time.

He blinks his eyes open and pulls out with a groan, collapsing beside her and trying to find the energy and coordination to deal with the condom.

Jamia rolls over next to him, her hair a halo of crazy around her head. Her eyes are all heavy and sleepy and she blinks at him slowly.

He's just drunk enough, just gone enough, and he reaches over, pushes her hair out of her eyes like a fucking tool.

She's looking at him, sleepy-eyed and a little curious, and when he kisses her, she still tastes like whiskey, but between them is the taste of her still sharp against his tongue and it makes his chest tight, a little, and he has to pull away from the kiss just to breathe.

She falls asleep while he's busy getting the damn condom off, and she snores a little, too, but even that doesn't stop the stupid tight feeling in his chest that is keeping Frank from falling asleep. Jamia's still got her boots on and he's slow at getting them unzipped. When he finally pulls them off and lets them fall heavily to the floor, she mumbles against the pillowcase and rolls over, snoring a little bit more softly.

He leaves her skirt on. She'll be fine.

He gets up to find himself another shot of whiskey, fumbling it as he tries to pour it into the shot glass, and he licks it off his hand from where he spilled. The light in the kitchen from the streetlights outside seems too bright, and when he throws back the shot, it goes down warm, but doesn't give him that numbness he's looking for.

He ends up crawling back into bed beside her, his feet cold from the kitchen floor and his head dizzy from that last useless shot. He tugs a blanket over them both and is warm almost right away - she puts out heat like a generator. He's drunk and he's tired and he's probably getting sick again. That's the feeling in his chest - he's almost sure of it.


Frank isn't even sure whose house this is, but it's a pretty good party. Mikey knows whose house it is, because Mikey knows everybody. Even Jamia’s known Mikey longer than Frank. They'd worked together at some record company - the one Jamia worked at before the one she's at now - which is something Frank doesn’t know until they show up at the party. Jamia sees Mikey, grins that shit-eating grin she has, and goes up to punch him on the shoulder and then hug him really tight.

"Everyone knows Mikey," she says when Frank asks.

Gerard is drunk when he gets there, rolling up to Frank and Jamia where they're hanging outside, and patting Frank clumsily on the arm. "Hey," he says. "You brought Jamia!" He smiled at her, only a little loopy. "I love Jamia."

Jamia eyes him. "You're not so bad yourself."

Gerard offers her a hand to shake, and Jamia takes it, grinning at Frank. "I had no idea this was Mikey's brother who never comes out of the basement."

"I'm always Mikey's brother." Gerard runs his hand through his already wild hair.

"And he sometimes comes out of the basement," Frank points out. "Hey, where's Pedicone?"

"He had to work tonight." Gerard looks around at the party a little glumly. "Sucks that he has to miss this."

Mikey comes along and Gerard sidelines him, the two of them heading off across the yard, Gerard talking intently the whole way.

"They don't look anything like brothers." Jamia's patting her pockets, looking for her smokes. Frank shakes one out of his pack for her, and she takes it, fishing a lighter out of her bra. "It's so weird."

"Every once in a while, you'll see them from this angle, and they look alike for, like, a second." Frank takes a drag of his cigarette. "That's even weirder."

Gerard and Mikey are gone for a while, and Frank's talking to some dude about maybe buying a used amp off him. He turns around when Gerard slumps up against him, absolutely reeking of weed.

"How'd you get Mikey to share?" Frank asks. Mikey is notoriously closed-fisted when it comes to sharing his stash.

"I'm his brother," Gerard explains, solemnly. His pupils are completely blown and he slides down to the ground carefully - not really falling, more like a controlled drop.

"You want another beer?" Jamia asks Frank. "I need another beer."

"Yeah, sure," says Frank. In for a penny.

"Me, too," Gerard pipes up from down by their feet. Jamia looks down at him, and Gerard inches closer to Frank, reaching to hook Frank's leg over his shoulder so he can hang on to it. "Please," he adds politely.

Jamia pets his head as she heads off to find the cooler, and Gerard peers up at Frank. "She's delightful."

"Sure," says Frank, watching the sway of Jamia's hips in her jeans as she goes. "That's one word for it."


The party's good. Frank is pretty toasted, and pretty happy about it. Jamia's keeping up real good, too - she's not stumbling or anything, but Frank is pretty sure she's a beer ahead of him. Frank's talking to Toro about the new band Toro's apparently playing drums for - "Which is the stupidest fucking thing I ever heard," Frank tells him. "Because you're the best guitar player I know, so why are you fucking around with drums?"

Ray's about to answer, but he looks over Frank's shoulder and his eyes get wide. Frank turns around just in time to see some big guy punching Gerard in the face with a drunken sweep of his arm.

"What the fuck." Frank drops his beer as Gerard staggers back, but not going down by the grace of whatever God is watching over him. The guy punches him again, and that's when Gerard goes down like a sack of bricks, what the fucking fuck.

Frank's vision goes fucking red and he launches himself at the douchebag, getting one vicious punch into his stupid doughy face before the guy staggers back into a group of his friends. Frank lunges at him, and the guy's friends start backing him up, but Frank doesn't fucking care, he'll kill all of them.

"Motherfucking kill you," he yells. The drunk guy curses back at him, and Frank is going to stab his face off. "Dead, kill you fucking dead, you fucker!"

It gets hazy after that - the guy's friends are yanking him away, and Frank is going after him, gonna fuck him up, but something's holding him back, motherfuck, someone is hanging onto him. Frank doesn't care, he just keeps dragging himself forward, fuck it. "Fuck you, fuck all of you, gonna kill your mother, you fuck."

The crowd falls back around them and the guy is gone, and Frank is pissed. The arms around his waist loosen and he wheels around, fist pulled back, livid, furious, but it's just Ray, Ray fucking Toro, hands up, going, "Calm down, dude, take a breath. It's okay, it's okay, chill."

"Fuck." Frank wheels around again, because he's seriously gotta hit someone. "Motherfuck." He swings at a tree, hitting it so hard pain explodes through his hand, his whole arm, and he goes staggering backwards, cursing and gasping.

"You okay, man?" Ray's got a steadying hand on Frank's shoulder.

Frank can't even talk, just has to bend over, resting his good hand on his knee, his other hand tucked up against his stomach, as he tries to take deep breaths in through his nose. The punch took most of the anger out of him, but he's still shaky with adrenaline, and now pain, too, his entire hand throbbing. "Yeah. I - fuck, Toro, why'd you hold me back?"

"He was drunk off his ass," Ray says, looking apologetic. "I really think he might have killed you. Or you might have killed him," he adds, when Frank looks up with a snarl.

"What the fuck even happened?" Frank looks around. The party is still milling around the yard, a few people still staring at them, but they're all the way on the other side of the house from where it'd started. Frank doesn't even remember how they got all the way over here. "Fuck. Let's go find Gee."

They head back and find Gerard sitting on the ground between Mikey and Jamia, his head resting on Mikey's shoulder. The two of them are passing a crumpled cigarette back and forth.

Frank drops down beside them. "What the hell happened?"

Gerard lifts his head. His lip is swollen and bleeding a little, and Jamia is holding a cold beer can up against his face - Frank can see his cheek is red and starting to bruise up already when Jamia pulls the beer away, takes a sip, then presses it gently back against Gerard's face.

Gerard blinks at Frank and hands the smoke back to Mikey. "I got beat up," he says. "Look at my face, Frankie. He beat me up."

Frank frowns. "Yeah, I can see that, Gee." He pulls the sleeve of his hoodie over his hand and presses it against the still-bleeding cut on Gerard's lip.

Mikey shrugs a little, looking pissed in that way you can only see if you know him pretty well. "No one saw what started it. I don't even know who that guy was." He frowns a little, looking at Gerard's face, and Frank bets Mikey knows how to find out.

"What about you, Gee?" Ray leans in to ask. "Do you know what happened?"

Gerard thinks for a second. "He hit me." He looks at Ray expectantly.

"Okay." Ray sighs and pats his knee. "I'm glad you're okay."

"What happened to you?" Gerard is looking at Frank's fucked-up hand. His knuckles are raw and bleeding and his whole hand hurts like a motherfucker. "Did you get beat up, too?"

"Yeah." Frank tries to straighten his fingers out, winces. "I got hit by a tree."

"Oh." Gerard has his thinking face on. "Like. By an Ent?"

"By a what?" Frank's cradling his hand against his chest, trying to focus through the pain.

"Like in Lord of the Rings." Mikey explains.

Frank looks at him blankly.

"The big trees? They can walk and stuff. They're the ones who changed the whole fucking deal at the Battle of Helm's Deep."

Gerard's still gazing at Frank, nodding along to Mikey's explanation.

Frank looks at the both of them for a long moment. "Yeah, Gee. Kind of like an Ent."

"Huh." Gerard's looking a little confused, but Mikey gives him a small nudge, and Gerard puts his head back down on Mikey's shoulder with a sigh.

Jamia looks at Frank's hand, and then she digs into the cooler sitting on the ground next to them and pulls out another can of beer. She takes his hand, presses the can against the back of it. "Hold that here," she says, and then takes another sip from the one she's using on Gerard's face.

Frank holds the can against his fucked-up knuckles and looks at her, sitting there calmly.

He thinks he loves her.

He thinks he's fucked.

He takes her home and she rides his face, and he thinks, hazily, that the happiest place on earth is between her legs. Her soft thighs press against his cheeks and he keeps this tongue stroking steadily as she arches and slides and moans above him. He gets so into it, into the sounds she makes, the way her hands are braced against the wall over his head. She pants, “Fuck, yeah, Frank, come on, come on, don’t fucking stop, gonna come all over your face, you want it, you know you fucking - Jesus - want it, fuck.”

He hangs onto her spectacular ass with both hands and his face is soaked with her. He can hardly breathe, and he's so fucking hard it hurts. He just holds on, his hips pushing up into the air because he can't fucking keep still, not through this, fuck, fuck, he loses the rhythm because he's coming, fuck, without even anything touching him. His back wrenches up hard and he gasps against Jamia’s pussy, completely losing it, feeling his come spatter hot all over his stomach.

“What, fuck you, fuck you, don’t stop, you - oh.” Jamia’s voice trails off and he can feel her move, look back over her shoulder. “Oh fuck, that’s so fucking...Jesus, Frank.” Her voice is pitched low, hot and kind of wondering, as she reaches back, running her hand through the come on his stomach.

Jesus. He grabs her ass tighter to get her attention back. “Shut up and fucking come already," he mutters.

She laughs breathlessly. “Oh, I will, you better hang the fuck on.” She grabs his head to drag his mouth back against her pussy and he doesn't even give a fuck that he has come in his hair now, because all he wants in his life is to eat her out and make her come just as hard as he had. He shoves his tongue inside her as far as he can before stroking it up over her clit again and again as she rocks down against him, moaning and cursing.


Somehow, without notice, they're spending almost every night together. Sometimes at Jamia's, but usually at Frank's (her roommate is constantly bitching about how noisy they are. Frank thinks she's just jealous because she's not getting any). But as the weeks go by, they're going home together more and more often, to whichever apartment is more convenient.

Jamia likes the same TV shows as Frank and she'll watch the Food Network with him until three in the morning and not bat an eye. She doesn't eat like a girl - they'll order in most nights, and she'll eat pizza loaded up with every vegetable known to man, and fight him for the last slice, and steal his beer, too.

It's easy with her and he's not used to that. He doesn't have to make excuses to her if he wants to hang out with his friends without her. The first time he does it, he gets edgy as he says he's going out with Pedicone and they're getting some beers and he'll probably just head back to his place after and that's that. She just watches him, waiting as he runs down at the mouth, and when he finally stops talking, she shrugs and says, "Cool," and goes back to her book.

It's so easy, it's weird. He goes out with Pedicone and stays out too late, so he's not sure if he's still drunk or on the edge of a hangover when he wakes up in the morning. He thinks about calling her after band practice the next day, has his phone out and her number up, but he frowns at it, and puts it away, instead.

He doesn't call her that night, either, so by Friday, it's two nights that he's slept alone at his own place. Not a big deal, no different than anything he would have done a couple of months back. Fuck, maybe he'll just stay home tonight, too.

An hour later, he's standing outside Jamia's door with a twelve-pack of Rolling Rock. She'll probably be out or pissed that he hasn't called, but what the fuck ever, it's Friday night, and Ray's not answering his phone.

She answers the door in her pajamas - cut-off sweatpants, a tank top that's straining against her rack, and her hair pulled back into messy pigtails. She's home - in for the night - and he's man enough to admit that he's relieved.

She grins when she sees the twelve-pack. "Sweet," she says, and steps back to let him in, snagging the beer from his hand, and closing the door with her hip.

She comes back from the kitchen with two open beers, gives one to Frank, and drinks half of hers with two big swallows that do amazing things to her breasts. He's still just standing in her foyer like a tool, but she's watching him over the top of her bottle and her eyes are bright. "Drink up," she says, gesturing at him with her bottle. "I've got an idea for later. And Heidi's out for the night, so we don't even have to be quiet."

Her idea for later is, apparently, drinking beer and playing Mario Kart until she beats him for the third time running, then climbs into his lap on the floor in front of the couch, sending his controller clattering to the floor as she kisses the fuck out of him.

Her tits are pressed against him, practically against his chin, and she's moving her hips, sliding as close as she possibly can get. He gets hard so fast it makes his head spin. Jamia starts to rock against him and his dick is pressed up hard against his jeans, hard against her, and her pussy is so hot, he can feel it through the denim.

When she pulls back, he's panting like a fucking dog. Jamia's got that hot, dirty look in her eyes and her cheeks are flushed. She presses up against him hard one more time, then takes a shaky breath, picking up his beer off the floor and finishing it in two quick swallows. She gives him a quick beery kiss and says, real low, "Come on," and drags him off the floor and to her bedroom.

She's got her top off before she even hits the bed and she's wearing a black bra that pushes her tits together and he wants to put his face right in there. Fuck, he wants to put his dick right in there. "Fuck, yeah," he breathes, when she pushes herself back on the bed, wriggling out of her sweatpants. "Jesus, I want to tit-fuck you."

She laughs breathlessly, but her bra is off in the next second and she moans like she does every night when she gets it off, satisfied. "Do it," she says, shimmying her way up the rumpled bed and flopping down flat on her back, palming her tits together. Her eyebrow goes up, which means this ain't a free lunch, she's got a plan, but he's pretty fucking on board with the plan so far this night, and he's never going to say no to sliding his dick between her perfect tits.

They do this, she lets him, she likes it - not as much as he likes it, but he sees her face when she watches him losing his fucking mind between her tits - she likes it. He gets the lube she keeps in her bedside table, strokes himself a little with his hand before running it down between her breasts. When he moves up, straddles her, she holds them together for him, lets him slide in, and God, he'll never get over this - it's so fucking good, so hot, so fucking dirty how she thumbs her hard nipples, watching him as he looks down. His dick is slick and obscene and he's so fucking hard, he feels huge.

"Fuck, yeah," he mutters down at her. "Jesus, fuck, yeah."

She's got her mouth open, breathing hard, and her lips are red, and she looks fucking ready, turned on, amazing. "Don't come," she pants.

"Not there yet," he manages. God, give him some credit for some stamina, jeez.

"Not here," she says. "Not on my tits."

He stares down at her, so surprised, he stops thrusting. "But that's the best part!"

Her smile is slow and wicked. "Not tonight, it isn't."

She lets go of her tits and he whines a little in disappointment. It's not the same when she's not holding them together, not the soft, slick cave that's perfect for his dick. But she's running her hands over his hips, digging in tight with one, holding him there, while she slides her other one back, stroking his ass. Her hand is slick with the lube from her tits, and soft.

He sucks in a breath, hanging on to the headboard tightly, and when she strokes down between his ass cheeks, he shudders all over, his hips moving so his dick slides forward a little over the skin between her breasts. "Fuck," he breathes out.

She makes this low sound in her throat, still looking up at him, as she presses one finger in. He's panting now, the room feels hotter than before. He rocks back against her hand before he can help it. She's watching him, her cheeks really red, her eyes dark, and he shuts his own eyes as she starts stroking. Fuck, fuck, this is - fuck, it gets him going so fucking hard every time they do it, and that can't be okay, right? He's harder than he was before, and when she pulls her finger out, he makes this little gasping noise before he can stop himself.

When he blinks his eyes open, she's reaching for the lube, slicking her fingers up more. He stares down at her - her nipples are really fucking hard, standing right up - just focusing on breathing, as she reaches back around. When she pushes back in with two fingers, his dick jumps, skidding forward on her chest, and he's leaking onto her skin.

Fuck. Fuck.

He's gritting his teeth hard, but he's still making this little groaning noise every time she rocks her fingers in and out of him. He feels frantic, like he might come any second, might just explode all over her chest and neck and chin, without anything more than the slide of her fingers in his ass and his dick over her skin to help him along.

"Hang on," she says, "Okay?" Her voice sounds like he feels: rough and lost in this whole thing. It makes him feel a little bit better - she's not her usual cool self tonight, either. This is something different, something more.

His heart is beating in his ears and he has to really concentrate to get the word out. "Okay." He gasps again, as she twists her fingers inside him. "Fuck. Fuck. Okay. Just -"

He doesn't know what he's going to ask for, because he doesn't really know what they're doing here, what comes next. He makes an embarrassing whimpering noise when she pulls both fingers out, but she just says, "Hang on, hang on, just -" and moves under him, tipping him off of her. He shifts awkwardly until he's beside her on the bed, his breath tight in his chest, his dick so fucking hard he can't think or move or breathe.

"Jamia," he says, when she leans over him, kisses him at the same time as she wraps one warm hand around his dick. He moans and thrusts into her fist. "You're fucking - killing me."

She's half on top of him, and she's wet and hot against his thigh. She kisses him again, as he tries to control his hands enough to grab onto her hips.

"Oh, just wait," she says when she pulls back, and she sounds teasing, but her eyes are sharp and serious, and his whole body feels tight, because he wants it, he wants whatever this plan is. He wants it however she wants to give it to him.

She leans up and over him to get to the bedside table, and her tits sway against his face, soft and warm. He pulls one closer, biting at her nipple hard enough to make her gasp and shudder against him. When she shifts back, she's holding a slim blue dildo in her hand. "I want to try," she says, looking down at him. "I want to try, can I try?"

He can't focus, can't get his brain around it. "That's not yours," he says, blinking. She's got her favorite toy, it's one of those rabbit things that look ridiculous but get her off so fast and furious he can't help but find it hot. That's her go-to toy - he's never seen this one before.

"No," she says, wrapping her hand around his cock again. "This one's for you."

It's only her hand moving so firm and hot on his dick that keeps him from jerking back. "No."

"Frank," she says, her voice soft. She's rubbing up against his leg, and she's so slick, so hot. Her voice isn't wheedling, or exasperated - it's just turned-on, intense, asking, really just asking.

"No," he says again, because that's the only word going through his brain right now. He didn't - he wasn't - that's not the same thing as her fingers. Not even close. That's not -

"Okay," she says, studying his face. "Okay," she repeats, putting the...thing aside. "We don't have to. Not if you don't want to." She kisses him, messy and hot, and goes back to stroking his dick, slow and steady. "I just - " She stops, breathing against his neck, like she's trying to gather her thoughts.

He's so fucking confused, between his turned-on dick, that hadn't been allowed to come all over her tits, and his brain, which is still freaking the fuck out. "What?" He's down to one-syllable words here.

"It gets me so hot, to be inside you like that." She's shifting, keeping her face down against his shoulder, biting and licking him. "I just...fucking..." She grabs his hand, pulls it down between her legs, and fuck, fuck, she's not kidding, she's fucking wet, soaked with it, and when his fingers slide over her, she jerks and moans like she can't help it.

"Fuck," she says, rough and breathless. "Fuck, I fucking need -"

Wordlessly, he rolls her onto her back, slides the underside of his cock up against her, over her clit, and she shakes. "What?" he asks. "This? Say it. Say it."

She nods, grabbing at his hips and yanking him closer. "Your cock, fuck, need you to fuck me."

It takes all of his brain power to get the damn condom on. When he slides inside her, she's so fucking wet and hot and tight, he feels like he might lose his fucking mind. He's dizzy with it, fucking her hard and fast, driving inside her, her headboard banging against the wall and his arms shaking as he holds himself up. He pushes into her again and again, and she's arching and writhing under him. He knows she's close when her thighs tense up around him and he tries real hard to stick to that rhythm, that angle, rocking into her as steadily as he can. Which, Jesus, is not that steady, as her moans get louder, her fingernails digging into his back.

She comes around him, hard and shaking through it, her mouth open and wet and gorgeous. He wants to keep going, fuck her through the mattress. He wants to pull out, strip off the condom, and jerk himself off all over her like in a porno. He wants to put his dick in her hot, wet mouth and have her swallow him down.

He's all the way inside her when he says, "Do it."

She gets it right away and runs her hand down his back questioningly. "I - yeah?"

"Yeah," he says, pulling out before he changes his mind. He takes off the damn condom, and wraps his hand around himself, tight. Hang on. Hang on. "Yeah, just -"

"God, yeah," she says. She's on her knees beside him in a hot second, running her hands down his back, stroking him, before she pushes inside, two fingers, right off. They're so slick and he's so ready, all he can do is moan. He's not even - he doesn't even know -

"Like this," she says, pulling her fingers out and guiding him to lie face-down on the bed. Not on his knees, then. Okay. Okay. His dick is pressed against her rumpled, sweaty sheets, and he can't help but move against them a little.

"God," she says, pressing herself up against him all along his side. He closes his eyes, concentrating on that, the feel of her tits pressed against his side, her cunt, still wet and hot, up against his hip. "God, you're so -" He feels her tracing over the tattoos on his back, her fingers light but not tickling. "So -" She's down by the guns on his lower back now, and when she runs her fingers over them, he shivers hard, and presses back against her hand without meaning to.

"Fuck," he slurs against the pillow. "Fucking just -"

She's got her hand firm against the small of his back now, and two fingers back inside, and he makes this sound in his throat and buries his face harder against the pillow. He can't stop moving his hips, can't stop lifting them back against her.

She pulls her fingers out slow and steady, and pushes back in with....something that isn't her fingers. Just as slow and steady, just as good, bigger, deeper, fuck, fuck, he feels like it's breaking him apart. He's dizzy and his whole body is shaking, and she moves it in and out of him very slowly. He's making these noises into the pillow as she does it, and she's muttering in his ear, practically panting herself. He can barely hear her, his heart is pounding in his head, but she's saying how hot this is making her, how she gets off to the idea of this all the time, how him letting her do this is so hot, so hot, so fucking, fucking hot.

She's sliding it in and out, not even that deep, but it feels good, so good, and when he comes, it's in this rush that goes through his whole body, hard and hot, like a wave of orgasm that doesn't end. He's making a lot of noise and he can't breathe, there's not enough air, and when she pulls it out, all he can do is gasp against the pillow. He can't stop shaking.

It takes him what feels like forever to roll over, to grab Jamia, pressing his face up against her and biting her nipples as she pants and strokes herself off right there, her hand moving hard and fast between her cunt and his hip. She comes, shaking hard and moaning so deep he can feel it with his head against her chest.

Afterward, she curls up around him, her head resting on his chest, her whole body limp and damp against him. He feels - okay. It helps that Jamia seems so clearly blown away by it, mumbling against him, "You're so fucking awesome, Frank, that was so -" She trails off, pressing her lips against his chest. "I want -" She stops, wriggling against him a little.

"What?" he asks, running his hand down her shoulder. He feels fucked-out and hazy, happy.

"Just." She turns her head, presses her teeth into his shoulder, biting down just a little. "I want to try that for real, sometime." She takes a breath. "You know."

He really doesn't.

"Strap it on," she says all in one breath, then bites him again. "Just - sometime. Just to try it."

He doesn't know what to say. "I - J, I don't -"

"Just - you and me, you know?" She rolls over, leans up over his chest, looks at him, her eyes dark, eyelids heavy. "I've never done it," she says finally. "I want to try. With you."

"Maybe," he says, after a few seconds. "I - maybe. Okay?"

"Yeah." She kisses him, soft and slow. "Okay. Okay."


"Sorry I was late." Pedicone takes a long sip of beer. "Gee got into the rum last night. He kept me up way too late talking about comic books."

Frank shakes his head, grinning. "Gerard, man. Such a nerd."

Pedicone shrugs. "He gives great head, even when he's wasted. I call that a win." He gives Frank a dirty smile, and Frank tries not to blush or make a face - a blowjob is a blowjob, and who doesn't like a good sucking off, right?

"At least it was worth it," he manages, and waves the waitress down, ordering them more shots.

The waitress brings them six shots when Frank asks. He'd chosen this place on purpose - it’s big, and the waitstaff doesn't suck, and the booths aren't right up against each other. He likes this place pretty much always, but it really suits his needs tonight.

He waits until the waitress goes away before picking up a shot and downing it as Pedicone does the same. He breathes through the burn, looking up at Pedicone, and opens his mouth, then shakes his head quickly, and downs two more shots right in a row.

His chest seizes up and he almost chokes, and when he looks up after his coughing fit, Pedicone is just sitting and waiting, one arm on the table, one slung over the back of the booth. He's entirely muscle and tattoo, shaved head and looking tough, even though he's just sitting there.

"You just don't look like a fag," Frank says when his chest opens up enough to give him air to speak.

Pedicone nods, shrugs. "I get that a lot."

"Yeah." Frank says. He looks at the two shots in front of Pedicone for a while. "Yeah. Okay. Can I ask you something?"

That came out sounding so girly. He grimaces at himself.

Pedicone, though, just nods and shrugs again. "Sure, man."

"The ass stuff," Frank says in a rush, and then he doesn't know where to go from there. Obviously he just can't leave it at that - it's about a million times worse than just asking the goddamn question. "I just wanted to ask - I mean, listen, liking that, is that how you knew you were gay?"

He feels the simultaneous rush of relief for getting the question asked and complete disgust at himself for sounding like such a fucking tool.

Pedicone just thinks for a second, though, turning the shot glass around in front of him thoughtfully. "No, that wasn't it." He drinks the shot like it's fucking juice, no kick, no burn. "That stuff just feels good, you know?"

"Yeah," Frank says without meaning to. Now he both wants the waitress to bring him a drink and a fucking shot now, and also for her to not be anywhere near them while this conversation is going on. "I mean -"

Pedicone waits him out.

Frank breathes in through his nose, out through his mouth. "Jamia," he says carefully, "has these ideas, and they're, you know." He stops, takes another breath in through his nose. "Just. Different than anything I've ever..." He looks up at Pedicone, who's watching him, but his eyes are just curious, not judging. "And it's good, you know? She's good, and I -" There's not enough air in here, he has to stop, swallow, before can finish. "I - like it. I mean, you know - it's not something I'd ever let anyone else do, but with her -" He trails off.

Pedicone's face breaks into a smile. "Aw, man, that's not gay. That's love."

Frank's sense of relief is physical - he feels his whole body relax, and he leans forward over the table. "Right? Right. Okay, I just, listen, I gotta ask you about the -"

"Another round, boys?" the waitress asks brightly, appearing out of fucking nowhere, and Frank almost swallows his tongue.

"Yes," both he and Pedicone say at the same time.

She brings them beers and shots because Frank plans to get wasted enough to ask every embarrassing question in the world.

"So, I mean, do you - I mean, the lube thing, is there one that's, you know, better?" He's pretty sure his face is on fire, but whatever, who the fuck else is he going to ask? If he wanted to talk feelings like a fucking chick, he’d go to Gerard, but right now, he needs logistics.

Pedicone shakes his head, grinning. "You ask me, there's not a huge difference. Anything you find at the pharmacy is gonna be pretty good." He takes a sip of beer. "But you ask Gerard, and that motherfucking princess will go off on a rant about how if it's not Liquid fucking Silk, it's no good, it's not smooth enough."

He says that last part with a perfect imitation Gerard's wide-eyed look of indignation and Frank cracks the fuck up. Pedicone holds the expression for a handful of seconds before he starts laughing, too.

"It's British," Pedicone adds, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes.

Frank almost snorts beer out his nose.

"And twenty-four bucks a bottle." Pedicone can barely get the words out, he's laughing to hard, and Frank's giggling so bad he can't breathe.

Finally, he gets himself together, bangs his hand down on the table. Focus, here. Okay. "So listen," he says. "Then there's the whole -" Frank's not even sure he can say the word. "The whole, fuck, dildo. Thing. And I don't even know who to ask about that."

Pedicone shrugs. "What do you want to know?"

Frank leans back, frowns at him. "How the fuck would you know anything about it?"

Pedicone just grins at him, real dirty.

Wait. Frank leans forward, pointing with one hand and clutching at his beer with the other. "Two dicks. You guys have two dicks to work with. What the fuck do you need a dildo for? You're just fucking with me. Are you fucking with me?"

"I'm not fucking with you." Pedicone is laughing now, and possibly blushing a little. "I swear, it's something that we just - "

"Two dicks," Frank says again.

Pedicone waves him off, laughing harder, and takes a long drink of his beer. "Okay. Okay. Listen. Sometimes you just want something different. Sometimes you want to get fucked, okay, after he's already gotten off. Sometimes you just want something there while you get sucked off. You know?"

Frank knows he's staring, but he can't stop. Because, yeah, fine, he fucking knows about that last part, but he'd just never thought - he'd never really thought about the specifics of what Gerard and Pedicone do, and that's all real...vivid. Pedicone has his head up, but his hand is wrapped pretty tight around his beer still, and his face is definitely red.

Frank nods jerkily and takes a breath. He finishes his beer in two big gulps. "She wants to fuck me."

Pedicone eyes Frank. "Well. Yeah."

Frank shakes his head, leans forward over the table and beckons Pedicone closer. "She wants to fuck me. You know. She wants to...strap it on."

He almost can't get the words out, it's too weird, too - he doesn't even know. He can't even picture it. Or, well, he can, and the quick, sharp mental image of Jamia with some sort of...harness, he guesses, a thick cock jutting out - he feels dizzy with it.

Pedicone looks at him, eyebrows up. "Dude, that's hot."

"It really fucking is," Frank says helplessly. He fiddles with the shot in front of him, his brain slippery with booze as he tries to get the question lined up in his head. "Does it -" He stops, trying to think of the words. "When you guys - I mean, when you're, you know, fucking him, do you feel like you're - like he's -"

Pedicone's shaking his head. "Other way around, dude. Gerard's not into bottoming."

Frank feels his face flush at the word. And then - "Wait. What?"

Pedicone shrugs, smiles. "Mostly, it's me."

Frank's maybe drunker than he thought, and his head is spinning. He'd thought - he'd just always assumed - "Huh."

Pedicone's watching him. "So what was your question."

Frank's sort of just internally rearranging his whole world order. It takes him a second to reel his thoughts back into place. "Uh. Okay. So, the whole - " Fuck. "I mean, when you're face-down and it's just - you know. Doesn't it make you feel like you're, I don't know - " He breaks off, hands spread.

"Submissive?" Pedicone asks.

Frank waits for that tight feeling in his chest, but maybe he's too wasted for that. "Yeah," he says. "That."

Pedicone leans on the table. "That's not what it's about. I mean, okay, sure, it can be, if that's what you're into, but it doesn't have to be. Getting fucked isn't a submissive act by definition, right? Do you think Jamia's being submissive when you fuck her?"

Frank thinks about Jamia on her back, slick and open, hips working up against him as she bites his neck and grits out filthy, filthy things into his ear. "No," he says firmly. "Uh-uh, that's not - no."

Pedicone nods. "Exactly. So stop being a fucking pussy, do this shot with me, and let Jamia fuck your ass."

"Check, guys?" The waitress appears beside them, and they both freeze for a second before Frank nods stiffly. He and Pedicone stare at each other, then break into laughter (edging on hysteria on Frank's part, but that's okay) and do the shot.


Frank's planning on talking to Jamia about it. And by "planning," he means showing up with a bottle of good vodka and doing shots with her until he's drunk enough to ask if she has the strap-on stuff, or is it something she needs to shop for.

He's waiting until Friday. On Thursday, he wakes up fine, but by early afternoon, his throat starts hurting, and by the time he gets home that night, he's so fucking tired, all he can do is collapse on the couch with his shoes still on. He falls into a weird, anxious sleep and when he wakes up, his apartment is dark, his throat is on fire, and his whole body hurts.

Fuck his life.

He crawls off the couch and makes it to the bedroom. He drags his clothes off and every brush of fabric against his skin hurts. He's shivering, too, and it takes him longer than it should to figure out how to put on sweatpants. He layers on an old t-shirt and his warmest hoodie, but he's shaking too hard to get the zipper done up. He crawls into bed, fumbling for his cell phone. It takes him way too long to text Jamia and when he's done, all he can do is close his aching eyes. He should get up, get water and drugs, and he's going to, in just a second.

When he wakes up, the room is a deeper dark, that middle-of-the-night feel, and he's disoriented and pretty sure he's been hit by a truck. He pushes himself up in bed - he's too hot now, and he wants to get his hoodie off - and starts coughing immediately, thick and painful. Everything hurts and he can't think straight and the TV is on in his living room.

He manages to get up - maybe whimpering a little, fucking hell, he needs drugs and he needs them now - and when he pushes open his bedroom door, he sees Jamia sprawled on his couch with his remote in her hand and a bottle of his beer on the coffee table.

"I didn't give you keys," he says, blinking in the too-bright light of the living room.

She sits up, shrugs. "I picked the lock."

She's not wearing a bra - her tits shift under her shirt and it's kind of mesmerizing. He can't quite focus here (she picked his lock.) and he feels sort of like he might fall down, so he hangs on to the door frame.

"You look like shit," she says, studying him from the couch.

He tries to glare. "Fuck you," he says, or means to, but he starts coughing again and oh, he might actually fall down now. He's only kind of aware of Jamia suddenly beside him, manhandling him to the couch.

"You're such an idiot," she says. Her hand is cool against his forehead for a second, and she scowls at him before getting up and stomping to the kitchen.

He presses his face against the couch cushion and pulls his cold hands into the sleeves of his hoodie. What is she even doing here?

"Sit up," she commands when she comes back. "Take these and don't be an idiot."

"Shut up." He pushes himself up and takes the drugs from her hand, and the glass of water, too. "Why are you even here? I told you I was crashing tonight." He swallows the pills, wincing at how bad it hurts his throat, before he lies back down. His head feels so fucking heavy.

"No, you told me 'M crtg ngrgh.' I thought you were either having a psychotic episode or making a wild call for help." She shrugs, nudging his feet out of the way so she can curl up on the end of the couch. "Either way, I thought it would be fun to see."

His head hurts and he's cold again and her thighs are soft and warm against his feet. He glares at her. "Go the fuck home."

She picks up the beer - his beer - from the coffee table and takes a long sip.

"Seriously." Jesus Christ, being sick isn't a spectator sport. "I don't need you here."

"Obviously," she says, sounding both bored and kind of amused. He hates her a little. "You're clearly fine."

"I'm sick, okay." He's so fucking tired and his eyes are aching and he knows he looks like shit. "It's not new." It's not. He gets sick every time there's a stiff breeze.

"Mmm," she nods, studying him.

"Go home," he says again, tiredly. His nose is running and he wipes it on the sleeve of his hoodie.

"Shut up." She flips on the TV again, turns the sound down low. She reaches up to shut off the light beside her, and the room is dim enough that it doesn't make his eyes ache anymore.

"Go home," Frank mumbles against the couch. He hates this. He hates her. She should go home. Fuck, he's so cold, he's shaking. "Seriously."

"Shut up," she says again, and he feels the heavy weight of the blanket from the back of the couch settling over him. "Seriously."

He's going to tell her to fuck off and leave him alone, that she should go home and stop drinking his beer. He's just so fucking tired and his eyes won't stay open. He's still shivering a little, even with the blanket, and he curls up tighter underneath it. He can feel Jamia shifting a little on the couch beside him, and then her arm settles on him, a warm weight. He's pretty sure she's using his butt as an arm rest.

He's pretty sure he doesn't actually mind.


Frank gets sick a lot and he's used to it, but this is worse than usual. He doesn't make it to work at all that week - he can barely get out of bed to piss. The coughing doesn't go away - it gets worse instead, thick and gummy in his chest, and even propping pillows behind him so he's sleeping almost sitting up doesn't make breathing that much easier, in addition to annoying the fuck out of him, who the hell can sleep sitting up?

Jamia doesn't go away either. She takes his set of keys that first morning when he wakes up and somehow he's back in bed and she's still there. She's blowing her hair dry in his bathroom - he can see her from the bed and she's just in her bra and panties. She's all curves and he's sick and foggy enough that he just gets a little mesmerized watching her, instead of wishing he could stick it in her.

It's depressing.

He falls back asleep before she's done and when he wakes up, there are drugs and water and tissues on his night stand. He's too fucking shot to get out of bed and he's stupidly grateful that he doesn't have to. He keeps up with the aspirin all day, but still feels like shit that night. His fever spikes at about five and he has really whacked-out dreams that jerk him half-awake but not enough to keep him from falling right back into them.

He wakes up fully at about ten at night and his whole place is quiet and dark when he peers out into the living room. He can't breathe through his nose and he has to pee. He shuffles to the bathroom and takes care of business, then leans on the counter in front of the mirror, assessing the situation. He's got huge dark circles under his eyes, and his skin is washed-out and pale, except for how his cheeks are all red with fever. He's dirty and his hair is greasy and he looks and feels like shit.

No wonder Jamia didn't come back tonight. Not that he fucking cares. He takes care of himself. It's cool.


He tries to stay awake but falls into an uneasy sleep again and when he wakes up, Jamia's easing his bedroom door shut. He doesn't know what time it is - hell, he's not sure what day it is - and he doesn't know what she's doing here.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" he asks, or tries to, because he starts coughing after the "what" and can't stop. It doesn't let up enough for him to catch his breath and he can't stop. He can't even sit up enough to try to get some more air. His eyes are tearing and his chest feels like it's being ripped apart and he can't breathe.

Jamia is immediately next to him on the bed, hauling him upright, holding him there, and she's talking to him, telling him something, but he can't hear her over the pounding of his heart in his ears. She gets him up enough that he can drag in some air around the coughing, and it slows down a little, lets him gasp in oxygen as she holds him from behind, propping him up with her body.

When he can finally catch his breath, wheezing in air, she waits, still saying, "Breathe. It's okay, Frankie. Breathe. Slow. Breathe," and he realizes it's what she's been chanting this whole time.

He nods jerkily, and does - dragging in air and sagging back against her.

"Okay?" she says, easing out from behind him, but stuffing pillows back there to keep him sitting up.

He nods again, not trusting himself to talk, just hanging onto this breathing thing for right now.

"Okay." She's kind of pale, but has these bright red spots high on her cheeks, like she's the one with a fever, not Frank. "Okay," she says again. "So we're going to the emergency room."

Fuck that. "No fucking way," he says, but it comes out raspy and thick, which doesn't make the best statement.

It apparently doesn't matter, because she's ignoring him anyway. Instead, she starts digging his wallet out of the discarded jeans on the floor from however many days ago, and flips through it until she’s got out his insurance card, what the fuck.

He makes an indignant noise from the bed, and she still ignores him. She's taking deep breaths in (showoff) and gathering up some stuff in a bag, then shoving his sneakers into his hands. "Put them on," she commands when he looks at her and shakes his head. "Or I'll put them on for you and make you call me mommy."

He frowns, and shuts his mouth, and puts them on.


Frank fucking hates the emergency room. It's useless and horrible and he's spent more time there than he ever, ever wants to add up. He and Jamia spend the ride over grimly not talking to each other, and every time he coughs, her hands tighten on the steering wheel. He finally just lays his forehead against the cool glass of the car window and concentrates on breathing in and out shallowly.

He's exhausted before they even walk in the door, and there's a wait, because there's always a wait. The ER is full of disgusting sick people. He makes Jamia drag him to a seat in the corner, so the weird dude bleeding from the head is as far away from them as possible. He feels like an idiot for even being there. He sits stonily beside Jamia with his hood up and his arms crossed over himself, feeling cold and clammy and horrible. He slides down against her shoulder when he can't keep his head up anymore, but ends up coughing again, thick and gross. It doesn't let up, and he gets a little panicky when he can't catch his breath again, it feels like his lungs are tearing and there's no fucking air.

Jamia's there when his eyes clear and he's able to wheeze in one breath, then another. She's on her knees in front of him, holding onto his shoulders and doing that quiet, steady talking thing. "Breathe, it's okay, breathe, you got this, it's okay. You okay, Frankie?"

Frank waves weakly, batting her away, nodding and drawing in shallow breaths.

"Okay, then," she says grimly, pushing herself to her feet. She eases him back so he's propped against the wall, presses her hand against his forehead for a second. "I'll be right back."

She's got this look of contained fury on her face and he sort of wishes he could keep his eyes open long enough to see what she's going to do. She disappears around the nurses' desk and he curls in on himself and just breathes, in and out, in and out.

The next thing he knows, she's got her arm under his, dragging him to his feet. "The doctor," she says carefully and calmly. "Will fucking see us now."

Frank has never, in his long and intense experience with hospitals, ever known anyone to best an ER nurse. Not even his mom. "You're hardcore," he rasps out.

"Fuck, yeah," Jamia says, and guides him around the corner.

When the doctor tells him he has pneumonia (again), Frank tells her to go fuck herself between coughs. The doctor rolls her eyes and talks about admitting him - which Frank would literally rather die than allow that to happen - but finally says that she thinks they caught it early enough that he'll probably be okay on his own.

She hands Jamia the prescriptions - probably because Jamia spends the entire time standing grimly by the bed and rolling her eyes whenever Frank gets nasty - and talks right over Frank's head like he's some kind of kid, giving Jamia instructions on how to take care of him.

Frank's livid on the way out but he can't move that fast or breathe that well or kick anything. Jamia's cheerfully stony beside him, ignoring his curses and staying right next to him, stopping with him right outside the door when he has to hang onto a pillar for a minute or two to catch his breath.

She waits until they get in the car - he has to hang onto the frame and the car door to get in, but he doesn't let her help him, and to give her credit, she doesn't try - to say, as she starts the car, "Pneumonia."

He shrugs, scowls. "So fucking what."

"Pneumonia," she says again. She sounds tired, but when he looks over at her, she's just glancing in the rear view mirror and putting the car in gear.

He shrugs again. "It happens."

She doesn't look at him as she guides the car out of the crowded parking lot of the ER. "A lot?"

He frowns. "Sometimes."

This sucks so fucking hard he can't even take it. She takes him home and leaves right away and he feels like an asshole for the entire forty-five minutes she's gone, until she comes back with his filled prescriptions and her overnight bag. Then he's furious again. He's pissed off, he's sick, he's exhausted, and he needs a fucking shower. She shouldn't even be here. He doesn’t need a goddamn keeper.

"You can go home." He pushes himself up off the couch, staring at her. He's got to hang on to the back of the couch to stay upright, but he's managing.

"I don't want to." She's busy reading the instructions on the prescriptions. "And you can shut the fuck up."

"I don't need you here." He glares at her. "You don't have to take care of me."

She looks up at him, finally. "You're right," she says. "I really, really don't." She glances once more at the instructions, then lines up the two bottles on the table. "Okay, you're going to start with these now, and I'll wake you up in four hours to take your next dose." She looks up at him again. "Okay?"

She sounds a little bit like she's asking, a little bit like she's telling, and he's so fucking goddamn tired, he just - fucking gives up. All he does is nod. "Yeah," he says, making his way around to sit down on the couch. His head feels too heavy to keep up and he lets it fall back against the cushions. "Yeah, okay."

He takes the pills when she gives them to him. The clock on the DVD player tells him it's four AM. Jamia sits down beside him on the couch and when he puts his arm around her, she lets her head rest against his chest. Her hair smells like flowers, and it's a nice smell, against his own sweat and grime. She loops one arm around his waist, holding onto him tight. He can still feel his breath kind of rattling in his chest, but he's warm, and she feels good up against him.

She's got her fingers wrapped tight into the side of his hoodie, and when she lets out her breath, it feels a little shuddery against his chest. He doesn't say anything, and neither does she.


Frank gets sick fast, and gets well slow. It's another week before he can keep his eyes open for more than a couple of hours at a stretch. He misses work, he misses his band - they have to postpone a gig - and fuck, he misses, like, being out in the world.

Jamia's over almost every night, not nursing him back to health, but there. They order in food, they watch a fucking full season of Real Housewives of New Jersey in a week, in the increments of time he can stay awake. He wakes up more than once, half-asleep and confused, drooling on Jamia's thigh, but she never seems to mind.

He's back at one hundred percent in about a month, which he calls a win. "I'll never underestimate the ability to take a deep breath," he says to the guys at the bar, and they toast to it, Gerard beaming at him across the table as he leans in and intently makes sure he clinks everyone's glass.

Frank has given Jamia her own set of keys to his place. She can apparently break in any time she wants anyway, so he figures why not. She's talking to Gerard across the table now, leaning forward so her tits are practically resting on top of it and giving Gerard one hell of a view, but of course he's oblivious, meeting her eyes and sketching something with his fingertips on the tabletop as he talks to her.

They have drinks, and dinner, and everyone shows up - hell, even Mikey makes a drive-by and sits with them, drinking some ridiculous pink concoction with red sugar on the rim and a fucking flamingo swizzle stick in it, and somehow manages to make it look cool. Frank is buzzed and happy and he can breathe, and knows he must have a stupid fucking smile on his face by the end of the night, but he can't help it - life is pretty okay sometimes.

They peel off pretty early, which is okay by Frank, because Jamia's been feeling him up under the table all night, and they haven't fucked since Frank got sick. When they get back to Frank's place, she waits until they're inside before she slams him hard up against the wall. He could push her away if he wanted, but he doesn't, because she's all over him, climbing him like a fucking tree, and he's not an idiot.

She gets his jeans open right there against the wall, wraps her hand around him and strokes his cock as she pants into his mouth. Jesus Christ, he wants her so fucking bad. The two of them stagger back, and he wants to fuck her on his dining room table, wants to bend her over the goddamn couch, wants to just push her jeans down over those soft thighs, and go to town.

They end up on the living room floor, Frank shoving her jeans down and oh fuck, oh man, she's not wearing anything underneath, her pussy's just right there, and he almost fucking comes right on the goddamn spot, Jesus fuck. He shoves her jeans down over her thighs while she groans underneath him and demands he go faster. He's so fucking hard and she's so fucking wet and it takes every ounce of willpower he has to take the time to slide on a condom before he's pushing inside her. Her jeans are still wrapped around one ankle, and his are still somewhere in the foyer where he kicked them off.

She's got her legs around him tight once he's in her, and he fucks her on his floor, quick and dirty. She's panting filthy things in his ear, and he feeds it right back to her - yeah, he's hard, yeah, he's big, yeah, he'll give it to her until she can't take it anymore. He bends her back on the floor, feels hard as a rock, huge, like he can do this forever.

He never wants it to stop, even when he's hanging on by a thread, as she's writhing and coming around him. "God, yeah," she pants raggedly against his shoulder. "Don't stop, fucking just - "

She digs her teeth into his neck, and he groans, fucking her hard and fast. He feels crazed, lost in her, he wants to fuck her forever. She's got her thighs up around his hips, soft and damp with sweat, and he's pretty sure he's never been this hard in his life. He digs his fingers into her hips, holds her there, keeps fucking her, so hard, so hard.

He comes, moaning helplessly against her hair and holding himself as deep inside her as he can. He shakes through it, his face against her neck, as she holds onto him, dragging in deep, shaky breaths underneath him.

Afterward, he rolls off of her, slowly and painfully, and they both lie there on his living room floor, panting up at the ceiling. He likes the sound of her ragged breathing, as he waits for feeling to come back to his extremities. "Fuck," he says, with deep satisfaction.

"Fuck," she agrees, wriggling beside him a little as she tugs her shirt down and rolls over to press against him. "That was awesome."

"It really fucking was." She's warm against his side, and she's naked from the waist down, except for the jeans still stuck around her ankle. It should look ridiculous, and does, but there's her ass right there, soft and perfect under his hand when he rolls towards her to grab it.

She's completely fucked out in a way she doesn't get very often - sleepy and sated, pliant as she shifts around so her head is on his shoulder, her thigh slung over his.

"Bed?" he asks, sliding his hand over her thigh, then over her ass, then back again. It's mesmerizing.

"Mmph." She rocks against him a little, not opening her eyes. "Only if you carry me."

He laughs and grabs her, rolling them so that she's on top of him, even as she growls sleepily and struggles a little. She feels heavy and soft, and her hair smells good. "You should fuck me," he says.

She goes a little tense on top of him, but she doesn't lift her head off of his chest. A few beats go by before she says, "Yeah?"

"Yeah," he says. He's a little fucked-out himself, maybe a little giddy with it. He hadn't planned on talking about it right now, but he feels okay about it. It didn't sound weird when he said it, and his heart is maybe beating a little faster, but that feels more like...anticipation.

Jamia lifts her head, putting her chin on her hands as she crosses them against his chest. She looks at him, her face completely unreadable, her hair a messy halo around her head, her cheeks still flushed red. She leans up and kisses him, quick and firm. "Bed," she says then, firmly. "Don't want you to get sick again."

He grins and rolls them over, Jamia bitching and cursing him, but giggling at the same time. He presses down against her, kissing her, then levers himself up and off. Fuck getting sick - he feels invincible right now. He stretches in front of her, naked and ridiculous, and he doesn't care. She's rolling her eyes but grinning at him, and he reaches down, hauls her off the floor, laughing as she has to hop for a second to kick the jeans off her foot, finally.

She's pretty great.


They don't do it right away. They don't even talk about it, really, but when Frank asks, finally, a few days later, it turns out that Jamia does, in fact, own what she needs to strap it on. The strap-on itself is red, with swirls, and it should look funny, and does, the first time she shows it to him, all on its own like that. It's thin, though, not that much bigger than a couple of her fingers, and he's relieved about that. He was picturing something like out of a porn movie, but this seems more manageable.

It looks ridiculous in her hand, and feels ridiculous when she hands it to him, so he can just heft it, feel it for a second.

But when she comes out of the bathroom wearing it, black harness wrapping her round, smooth hips - fuck, that's leather, and it's hot, it's fucking hot, the straps around her hips, her thighs, her ass. He'd thought about the strap-on, sure, but somehow he'd never fully pictured this.

"I -" he says, and then he can't say anything else, his brain is shot. All he can do is press one hand against his dick, getting hard in his jeans as he looks at her.

She kept her bra on, too, a black one that sort of goes with the harness. It's barely holding her in, her tits almost spilling out of it. She left her hair down so it falls dark and messy around her shoulders. She looks stupidly hot, and the strap-on itself, maybe is a little weird-looking, but something about the fact of her wearing it, the fact of her moving closer to the bed but not yet climbing in, giving him a few seconds to just look at her - that is hot. That is just - doing something to him.

He gets up on his knees on the bed. He's got his shirt off, but he's still wearing his jeans - somehow he stalled out on undressing while he was waiting for her to come back out. He'd started off strong, getting rid of his shirt and socks, and then spent the next few minutes trying to decide if he wanted the lights on or off, what would make it worse. Better. Whatever.

He'd decided on mostly off - just a bedside lamp - but now he wishes he'd left them on. He wants to see more. His breath is coming fast and he's half-hard in his jeans already and he sort of feels like a tool.

When she gets near the bed, she stops, standing hip-shot with her chin up, but her cheeks are pink and he feels a little better. "Fuck," he says. "You're pretty like this."

It makes her laugh, and the tension eases a little more. He grabs her hips, pulling her up onto the bed on her knees with him. He runs his fingers along the straps digging slightly into the soft skin of her hips, tugging on it a little to run his fingers underneath. His dick is completely fucking hard, pressing up against the zipper of his jeans. Jamia's breathing hard, too - she's watching him and when he wraps his hand around the curve of her thigh, feels where the strap goes down between her legs, she moans a little, quick and high, like she can't help it.

Fuck. Fuck, she's so fucking hot like this.

He feels like he should say something, but his mouth is dry and he doesn't have any words anyway. He just hangs onto her thigh with one hand, tucking the tips of his fingers under the leather strap.

His cock is so hard it hurts. He wants to take it out, but he's kind of into the tight, hot feel of the denim holding him back, and he just presses forward a little, looking for friction. He gets it, when the dildo - fuck, fuck, fuck, that's so weird - rubs up against the front of his jeans right where he's so fucking hard, and the sound that comes out of his throat is really loud and really embarrassing.

"Fuck." Jamia's got her head dropped down, watching as she slides up against him. He looks down, too - he can't help it - and he can see how fucking hard he is, his cock outlined against the denim, and watch how the smooth strap-on, moving with the shift and sway of her hips, presses against him. "Fuck, Frank, Jesus -"

She sounds shaky, and turned-on - not smooth and sure. It should probably make him nervous - someone here should know what they're doing - but it just gets him going harder.

"Jamia." He sounds pretty breathless and shaky too. "You're so fucking - you're killing me, can you please - please -"

He can't say the words - he can't. All he can do is groan and push his hips against her, and the friction between them is so fucking intense, he can't take it. He flips open the top button of his jeans. Jamia's still just looking down, watching him, her dark eyes flickering between his face and his dick.

He knows he's pressed up hard against the denim, and when he gives a tug, looking at Jamia's face, the rest of the buttons give, and she makes a happy noise in her throat and he's really glad he went commando. He's hard and hot and feels fucking huge. She's still on her knees, watching him, and he wants to - he doesn't even know. He takes a breath and reaches forward, wrapping his hand around the strap-on.

Jamia makes this sound in her throat, turned-on and surprised, and then Frank's too busy kissing her to be more than a little weirded out by the smooth, cool feel of the silicone against his palm. Fuck, she's so fucking into this, it's like he's touching her. He kind of hadn't expected that. He kind of thought that it was all about him. That she was into this to bend him over and put it in him and have at it, but - clearly it's more than that.

Jamia takes a breath and reaches for the condoms and lube on the bedside table. He's a little confused at the condom, but she just looks at him. "Do you want to be the one to wash this, after?"

Which, no. No, he doesn't. He hadn’t actually considered that part of it. At all. For a half second, he thinks maybe they should stop now, before something embarrassing happens. But the bigger part of him is so turned the fuck on that he's just not gonna think about it. Fuck embarrassment.

She pushes his hand away and looks down, frowning with concentration as she slides the condom on. It's weirdly hot, watching her do that to herself, and she's breathing harder, too, like she's turning herself on.

When she gets the condom on, she squirts lube in her hand and wraps her slick fingers around the dildo, and he just gets fucking harder, watching her, Jesus. He moves them, lying back on the bed next to her. When he looks up at her, her eyes are wide and hot, watching him. She makes a move like she wants to slide up over him, but of course the dildo is in the way. She moves forward on her knees anyway and straddles him. Her eyes are on him, intense as she slides the strap-on up against him, up against his dick, cool, slick silicone over his skin and his breath catches in his throat. He has his hands on her hips, arching up against her. It feels so fucking good, he can't even really process it, God, it's so fucking hot, it's so much.

He pushes back on her hips, makes her slide back and off of him. She shakes her hair out of her face, her expression a cross between pissed off and bored, which, he's learned, means she's concerned - any other chick would be biting her lip and asking anxiously if he was okay.

He's looking at her, on her knees beside him, strap-on jutting out and obvious, but somehow working for her, something about it not looking weird or silly or wrong - and he lifts his hips, pushes his jeans the rest of the way down and off.

"Frank," she says, like she's about to follow that up with a question.

He just shakes his head, and rolls over.

Fuck. Fuck. It feels fucking real now, and he presses his hot face against the pillow, rubbing his hard dick against the sheets, rolling his hips just to get some relief. He's so fucking hot for this, it's stupid.

"Fuck, yeah," she says. She's behind him now, smooth as anything, and he's just fucking glad she didn't ask him if it was okay, didn't try to make sure. She's Jamia and she's his and all she does is reach for the lube on the bedside table.

Her fingers are something he's used to. She's not careful with him - she knows what he likes, and what he can take. One finger goes in easy as anything and he bucks back against it without meaning to - more, he needs more. She presses one hand lightly against the small of his back when she pushes in with two. He's biting back sounds, swallowing them down, but she's the one who's groaning as he pushes back against her, she's the one who's going, "Now? Now?" waiting a handful of seconds until he nods against the bed, and she comes back in with three fingers and that feels like almost enough.

"Jesus, Frank," she mutters, when he pushes himself onto his knees. Fuck if he's going to just take this - he wants it, he's fucking done with waiting. He's not shaky or fucked up, he's fucking hard, so hard he's leaking, and his whole body wants it so fucking bad. Jamia wants it too - she's panting against him as she pulls her fingers out, and her fingers are so slippery with sweat and lube, she can barely get a grip on his hips when she moves around behind him.

She doesn't make him wait, and she doesn't make him ask for it - she just fucking moans and grips his hips and starts sliding into him. He's thought he was ready for it, so fucking slick and hot and hard, he can hardly breathe, but - it feels like a lot, almost too much. It doesn't hurt, that's not exactly it. It's weird and feels like a whole lot fucking more than her fingers and he's not sure what to do and his fingers ache with how hard he's gripping the sheets.

Jamia's hands are on his hips, her voice breaking the smallest bit as she grits out, "Okay? Frank? Is this -"

He's no fucking pussy. He rolls his forehead against the bed a little, unclenches his fingers, takes a breath. "Yeah, fucking yeah, I'm - go, go."

She presses her fingers into his hips for a second, then she slides into him, slow and steady and all the way.

He can feel her belly and thighs up against him, can feel her fingers digging into his hips, can feel how fast and hot her breath is coming, how tense she's holding herself. "Frank," she breathes out, "you fucking - just - Jesus Christ." She breaks off, panting, and he feels her bend down to press her forehead against his back for a second, feels her hair falling soft against him, tickling his back a little.

"J," he says, pressing his head down against his crossed hands. "If you don't fucking just do it -"

"Yeah," she says, pulling herself up before he gets all the words out. "Yeah, well, you better hang the fuck on."

She fucks him, and he doesn't know, he doesn't know why it feels so good, but it fucking does. Inside, it just feels good and full and something he can't quite define. Part of how good it is is how it feels inside, but a huge, huge part of it is how she's just losing her shit behind him, dragging in panting breaths of air and cursing steadily under her breath, her hands damp and hot as she hangs on to his hips.

And then she shifts, somehow, changes the angle and he's gasping, "Holy Jesus fuck," because oh fuck, oh fuck, nothing has ever - oh fuck. "Don't stop," he pants. "Don't stop, don't stop." He's going to lose his fucking mind, it feels so fucking good. His cock is so hard and heavy and he doesn't have the balance he needs to get a hand free so he can jerk himself off already. But Jamia is there for him, she's on it, and when she wraps her hand around him he almost fucking bucks her off as he cries out really fucking loud and comes all over the fucking place.

"Jesus," she says, easing up immediately - not thrusting, just stroking him through it as his whole body shakes apart. "Fucking - Frank, that was fucking - oh man -"

She sounds as shaky as he feels. He's still got his ass in the air - it feels like his knees are locked as he just pushes his face against the bed, taking deep, shaky breaths. She presses up against him, gently, easing him down with her hands on his hips, then slowly pulling out.

He is fucking wrung-out. He can't feel his hands or his face or most of his body. He aches in this way that feels good, somehow, and it's like his body isn't working right - he has to make a huge effort to get his eyes to open.

It's worth it, though, because when he can focus, what he sees is Jamia sprawled beside him on the bed, struggling with the the buckles of the harness. She finally gets it undone and shoves it aside, and then she grabs his hand, hard and rough, shoving it immediately between her thighs, frantic.

He rolls so he's half on top of her. She's got her eyes closed, her head thrown back, one hand hanging on tight to the one of the bars of the headboard, one hand on his wrist. She fucks herself on his fingers like that - fuck, he's got four of them inside her, all at once, and she's making these noises that are fierce and dirty and he pushes his fingers into her again, and again, feeling her so hot and wet and tight.

Frank feels logy and gets lost in the details - her hairline is damp with sweat, tendrils stuck to her forehead and cheeks. Her face is really flushed, and her mouth is open, panting shallowly. Jesus, she's so hot. Her thighs tense up, her feet pushing up and down against the messy sheets as she turns her head, digs her teeth into her own biceps, moaning, "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

She freezes, then trembles all over, coming hard against his hand. It takes her a while to catch her breath, and Frank slides his fingers out of her and just lies there on his stomach, watching her. She finally rolls over, right up against him, her skin damp with sweat, her pussy hot and wet against his thigh. "I can't feel my toes," she mumbles against his shoulder. "That's how hard I came."

He laughs, running his hand over her hip, where the straps dug in and left marks. He wants to lick them, run his tongue along the grooves. "You're so fucking hot," he says, letting his fingers trace along the marks instead. "You're so fucking -" He stops, because there are no fucking words that in any way come close to what Jamia is.

"'S'okay," she says, patting clumsily at his hair, and shifting her hips, grabbing the harness where it's half-tucked under her and shoving it to one side. "You just think about it for a while. You can tell me how awesome I am in the morning."

His heart turns over in his chest, and he's really happy she passes the fuck out after coming. He doesn't know how to finish that sentence. Jamia is just - so much. He's fucked out and when he shifts, easing her over a little bit, he feels it - everywhere. He freezes, wincing, then settles into place, tugging the covers up over them both.

He falls asleep with his hand on her hip, where it's softest.


They don't talk about it, after, which Frank fucking appreciates. It's not life-altering or anything. It can just be - something they do. Frank's good with that, Jamia's good with that, nothing else fucking matters.

Frank's still riding the high of not being sick anymore, feeling one hundred percent and wanting to do shit, just because he can stay awake for more than an hour at a stretch. He's got to make the most of this.

Jamia comes over after she gets out of work that night and she's cranky as hell from the second she walks in the door. She goes right past him into his bedroom, and comes out in a ratty old t-shirt of his and a pair of shorts he usually sleeps in and no bra.

And she still looks fucking hot.

Okay, so he guesses they're not going out tonight. Jamia can be like a bear with a thorn in its paw when she's in a mood like this, so he doesn't even bring it up. He can be chill. She's probably PMSing or whatever-the-fuck.

Only the night starts off bad, with her mood, and gets worse. Jamia's distracted and pissy, not really listening to anything Frank says. It gets pretty fucking old after about five minutes.

"I said," he says, loudly, "do you want to watch some TV?"

Jamia shrugs.

Okay, then. Frank sits on the couch grimly as she plays around with her phone and ignores him.

"Do you want to get some food?" he offers, tightly.

"Huh?" She's not even reading anything, just scrolling.

"Do you want some food?" he says again. "Or do you wanna go out? Or do you want to just go on being an annoying fucking bitch?"

"Don't say bitch, it's misogynist," she replies absently, not even looking up at him.

She's been hanging out with Gerard too much.

He blows out his breath and glares at her from his end of the couch, but she just frowns at her phone and starts typing something. Sometimes he really fucking hates her.

Fuck it. Fuck. It. He's a free human being and it's his fucking house. He calls Tony's down the street and orders a pizza. She likes green peppers and extra cheese. He gets it with spinach and tomato, and she still eats three slices and doesn't say anything. Still.

He turns on Wheel of Fortune - loud - because he knows that Jamia fucking hates Vanna White. He calls out the letters he thinks the contestants should guess, too, and critiques them on their choices. She puts down her phone and crosses her arms over her chest and stares at the TV without focusing her eyes.

He goes to the kitchen and gets himself another beer and doesn't bring one back for her. He does that thing where he spins the bottle cap off his fingers and across the room so it hits the wall and goes skittering under the TV stand. She just takes a breath in through her nose and pushes herself up off the couch. She goes to the kitchen and comes back with a shot glass and the bottle of the good vodka from his freezer.

He drinks his beer, watching as she puts the glass down, fills it up carefully, downs it. She fills it up again, puts the vodka bottle down, and downs the second shot. No chaser. She lines the empty shot glass up carefully next to the bottle on the coffee table. The bottle is sweating against the wood and Jamia's face is flushed already - it happens quick, with her pale skin. She's got her hair shoved back all messy with her headband with the bat on it and he hates how fucking adorable she is.

She'd probably hate it, too.

He finishes his beer, humming along to the show credits as obnoxiously as he knows how. He turns off the TV as the opening credits to Jeopardy! start - he hates Alex Trebek the same way she hates Vanna White - and gets up to get another beer.

She's pouring herself another shot when he comes back, and after she downs it, he silently offers her the bottle of beer. She takes it, with a nod, and drinks half of it in one go. She hands it back and, like an afterthought, pushes the shot glass towards him on the table. Frank pours himself a shot, downs it, and takes his beer back from her, taking a few gulps and finishing it.

Jamia's watching him from her end of the couch, pressed back into the corner, still looking pissy and dangerous.

He goes to get another beer.

The room is really fucking quiet, the ticking of the clock on the wall loud and jarring. He sits down on the couch and opens his mouth, and Jamia says, "Shut up, just shut the fuck up, don't."

"Fuck you." Seriously, fuck her. "Jesus Christ, what the fuck is wrong with you?"

"Nothing," she shoots back before he's even finished the sentence. "Everything," she says a second later, then, "You," between gritted teeth.

"I didn't even do anything!" He can't believe he's even having this argument. She's a fucking psycho.

"Whatever," she mutters, and pours herself another shot. She overfills the glass, slopping it onto her hand and the table. She does the shot, then licks the vodka off of her hand, then looks up at him, sucking slowly on her fingers for a second before reaching for his beer. Again.

He lets her have it. Maybe drunk, she'll be less of a pissy bitch.

She takes a gulp, runs the back of her hand over her mouth, and glares at him.

Maybe not. Jesus Christ. If she were a dude, he'd have fucking punched her by now. What the fuck is her problem? "Fuck this," he says. "There's the fucking door." He gestures at it with his chin, his arms crossed tightly across his chest. "Use it."

She frowns and uses her bare foot to nudge the shot glass towards him. When he doesn't reach for it right away, she pushes the bottle of vodka towards him, too, with her toes.

He's still fucking pissed at her, but - it's pretty cute. Especially because of how stormy her face looks, and how her hair is falling forward messy over the bat headband.

He pours himself a careful shot, holding it for a second before drinking it, fast and smooth. It's good vodka. He swallows around the burn and - looking at her - runs the back of his hand over his mouth.

Her mouth twitches in the smallest approximation of a smile.

He keeps looking at her as he slides off the couch onto his knees in front of her.

He half-expects her to shove him away - she's pissed off and that can go either way - but when he takes hold of her thighs, she lets them fall open and slides herself down on the couch.

Frank's not fucking around here. He tugs down the shorts that she's wearing - his shorts - and her panties along with them. She lifts her hips a little to help him along, and the second they're free, he buries his face between her legs.

She digs her fingers into his hair as he eats her out, curses at him and shoves up with her hips. He doesn't let any of it break his focus, just rides it like a wave, ignoring everything - the burn when she yanks hard enough on his hair to make his eyes water, the pain in his knees from kneeling, the ache in his dick from pressing up so hard against his jeans - and just works his tongue inside her. She's panting a little bit, but still tense - he licks up slowly, working his way to her clit, and goes at it steady, just how she likes it.

She's easing up a little - his face is getting damp with her and she's not holding onto his hair as tight, just sort of hanging on as she rocks up against him a little.

"Fuck. Fuck," she grits out, bucking up against him, moaning loud, when he pushes two fingers inside her. He follows the rhythm of her hips thrusting up against him, rides it with his fingers in her pussy and his tongue steady against her clit, until she's shaking hard, her thighs tight and tense around his ears, moaning and moving up against him so all he has to do is keep his tongue steady until she - yeah, yeah - clenches up around his fingers, grinds out, "Fuck, Frank, fuck," and comes all over his fucking face.

He sits back on his heels, looking at her, sprawled out in front of him. Her face is flushed and her eyes are closed as she takes deep, shuddery breaths in and out.

Finally, she opens her eyes and looks at him.

"Yeah?" he says. He can feel how his hair must look goofy, from her tugging on it, and his face is still slippery with her. He's rock fucking hard, too, but he just rests his hands on his thighs and waits.

"Damn good start," she says. Her voice is pretty fucking shot, though, and she's shaky as she pushes herself forward on the couch. "Now you need to fuck me." She gets up, and he watches her bare ass under the hem of his stretched-out t-shirt as she heads to the bedroom.

He really, really does.

He fucks her up against the headboard, her back to him while she hangs on tight, her soft ass pressed right up against him. He's the kind of hard where he feels like he could fuck her for days. He fucks her until her curses get lost in gasps and groans, and he makes her come again, hanging onto her hip with one hand and getting his fingers on her clit with the other, so hard she trembles with it. He fucks her until the only thing holding her up is her white-knuckled grip on the headboard.

She's so fucking hot and wet and he's losing it, God, he wants to come inside her, wants her to come around his dick, and oh God, oh fuck, he can't stop, he's gotta - "Fuck," he says, pushing inside her deep, deep. "Fuck, J, I'm -"

"Just -" she pants out, her head hanging between her arms. "Just a little more, fuck, just - come on, come on -"

He holds on, holds back, somehow, just shoving inside her again, and again, and every fucking slide of his dick is so hot, so good, but he's not coming, he's not coming, he's holding on with everything he's got. He's moaning wordlessly, animal noises, as she goes, "Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah," and all he can do is hang onto her hips with both hands as she comes one more time, around his dick. She's gasping for breath and shaking, and all he can do is haul her close, arms around her waist, as he completely fucking loses it, thrusts into her once, twice, and then he's groaning and coming, his face buried in her hair, his cock buried inside her.

They're both shaky for a while afterwards, but neither one of them says anything about it. And what they're doing curled up together on the bed with Jamia's head on his shoulder and his legs wrapped around her might be called cuddling if they were anybody else.

"Today really sucked." Jamia's voice is muffled against his shoulder, and she sounds exhausted.

"What happened?" He doesn't say it nice or soothing or any shit like that - he just asks, the same way he does with Gerard gets that pinched, anxious look when he's blocked on a painting.

"Band dropped out last minute." She sighs and bites his shoulder a little. "All this extra work, all this extra bullshit. It all got piled on - blamed on - me." She's quiet for a second.

"That sucks." He feels her nod against his chest. "What else?"

"My license expired," she says bitterly. "Which I didn't know until I was trying to buy a fucking six pack to make up for my shitty-ass day. I got carded, and then they wouldn't sell to me. Even though my license still said my age."

"That's bullshit."

"Right?" she says, blowing out an angry breath. "And my mom called me."

"Yeah?" Frank is cautious. They haven't really gotten much into parental info. Yet.

"Six times." Jamia's voice is flat. "For no reason."

"My mom does that to me, too, sometimes." They're both silent for a second. "Fucking worst."

"It really is." She curls up closer to him - he can feel the tension in her shoulders again, but it eases a little when he reaches out to tug the comforter over them both. It's not late - it's pretty early, actually, and they should get up, get something to eat, but for right now, she's holding onto him, and her head is heavy and warm on his shoulder.

"Don't drool on me," he says softly.

"Fuck off and die," she mumbles, and wraps her hand more firmly around his waist.


Fiasco Junior is playing at Bar 46, just the next town over, and it's fucking awesome. Mikey, it turns out, knows the bouncer, the bartender, and the chick drummer in the second opener. He gets them in with a tilt of his head and a handful of words to the bouncer. They don't get comped on drinks - well, Mikey does, but not the rest of them - but they get served without waiting, every time. Knowing the chick drummer helps no one but Mikey - she hops off stage after her slot and she and Mikey are wrapped around each other in a corner that's not dim enough to hide the fact that she's got her hand in his pants and, Frank is pretty sure, is giving Mikey a hand job right there in front of God and everyone.

"Mikeyway is one lucky bastard," he says out loud. Gerard looks over, grins, and nods.

Jamia leans close to Frank as Gerard turns back to the bar. "The Way brothers have an odd relationship," she murmurs.

"Understatement of the year," he responds.

Jamia goes in the pit with him when the third opener goes on. They get separated almost immediately, and he just focuses on the show and keeping on his feet. It's a pretty awesome set - the band is relatively new, but the guitarist really knows what he's doing, and the bass player will, Frank thinks, get better with time. The pit is great - Frank gets sucked into it, shoved around, taking a few elbows to the ribs, his whole body pummeled around with the rush and flow of the giant crowd of sweaty, screaming bodies around him, moving to the music. He keeps his elbows out, his arms up, not fighting the sway, shoving bodies back with his arms against faces and chests, and screams along.

He's fucking drenched with sweat when he wedges his way out afterwards, his ears ringing, his heart pounding in his chest. He scans the rolling mass of bodies, trying to spot Jamia. He's bruised up and sweaty, but nothing's broken or even bleeding, and he feels fucking amazing.

She finally emerges, elbowing her way out, and something eases up a little in his chest. Her shirt is soaked with sweat, clinging to her and wet all the way down the front and back, and her hair is a wild mess, the pigtails she put in earlier tugged halfway out, the black ribbon on one undone and dangling down. Her nose is trickling blood, which she doesn't seem to notice.

"You okay?" Frank says, gesturing at his own nose.

"Huh?" She presses her hand against hers, looks down and checks out the blood before wiping it on her skirt. "Caught an elbow." She shrugs.

He grins at her. She's just so fucking hardcore. She grins back, flushed and happy, and she leans in, kissing him wet and messy, still bleeding a little - he can taste it on her lips.

"Drink?" he says, when she pulls back.

"Fuck?" she responds, still pressed right up close against him. Her eyes are hot and the color is high in her cheeks.

He's been half-hard since he came out of the pit, and he bets she's wet with more than just sweat. "Yeah," he says. "Your idea's better."

They don't make it home. They barely make it to the car. She pushes him up against the wall around the corner from the club, grinding against him while she kisses him. All he can do is pant into her mouth all the things he wants to do to her, how he wants to fuck her right there up against the brick wall, just stick it in her and make her come all over his dick.

"Yeah," she says, rough and loud. "Yes, come on, do it."

He has to suck in a breath of air and drag her after him to the car before he snaps and actually does it. He doesn't need another arrest for indecent exposure.

He slams her up against the car when they make it there, fumbling to get his keys out of his pocket, his dick so hard it's getting in the way. She's dragging him close and he's pretty much humping her right up against his car, with her riding his thigh and making these noises that he cannot even take.

She's working his jeans open and then her hand's around his dick. She's jerking him off in the back of the parking lot. It takes every bit of focus left in his brain - which isn't very much at all - to finally get his keys out, get it in the fucking lock, and wrench the passenger door open. "In," he says. "In, in, get in, fuck me, fucking fuck me."

She crawls into the backseat immediately and he follows her in, letting the door slam shut behind them and hoping that the dim parking lot is good enough to give them cover, because he is not fucking waiting. He can't. Jamia is right there with him, struggling to haul her skirt up and out of the way. He can't stop touching her, palming her tits, pushing her sweat-soaked shirt up so he can bite at her nipples through her bra.

"Fuck," she pants, arching up under him. "Fuck, wait, move, move." She's got her skirt up around her waist, and she's getting her panties down and off, and she's pushing him back onto the seat. He's shoving his jeans down his thighs pretty much at the same time as she climbs on top of him, sinking down on his dick as soon as it clears his jeans.

"Ah, fuck, fuck," he says, because fuck, fuck, fuck - no condom, and she's so fucking hot and wet and he pretty much wants to kill his own brain when he hears himself panting out, "Fuck, J, no - fuck, no condom, no condom -"

"It's okay, fucking just - it's okay," she pants in his face. "I'm on the pill, I'm safe, you're safe, I need you to fuck me."

She's fucking herself on him, all the way down, rocking back and forth with him all the way inside her in a way that's making him fucking nuts. Her tits are right up in his face, damp with sweat, swaying against him as she rocks. He grabs her hips and pants, "Hang on, hang on." When she stops grinding against him in that way that's making his toes curl in his boots, he takes a deep breath, and thrusts up into her.

She groans, letting her head fall back. "Harder, motherfucker. Jesus, fuck, wanna feel you."

"Shut up," he says, thrusting in again. "Oh fuck. Oh Jesus fuck." She's so fucking hot and wet and tight and there's nothing in between them, and he's never - he's fucking never done this, never fucking felt this, oh god, it's so much, too much, Jesus, he's going to come way too fast, way too fast.

He's so hard and it's so good and she's rocking down against him and they have a rhythm now and oh fuck, he's so not going to motherfucking last at all. He pushes his face forward, biting her tit, and she groans and curses. He doesn't have the control or the fucking mental capacity to go for her clit, but oh man, oh fuck, she's tilting forward and doing that grinding thing again, and gasping out, "Oh fuck, oh fucking fuck, hang on, okay, can you just - hang on, I'm - I'm -"

She's sliding against him, and she's got one hand in his hair, hanging on hard, and he's not going to make it, fuck, fuck, everything in his whole body is tightening up and he can't - he's gonna - "J - fuck - J - I -"

She groans, loud and sudden, freezing against him, and then shuddering all over as she comes around him. And that's - that's - he loses it, thrusting up into her once, twice, and then coming, deep inside her, hanging on to her hips and just pulsing inside of her.

He can't fucking move. He can't fucking breathe. His head is pressed up against her shoulder and his dick is going soft inside her and he can't even fucking think.

It takes a while for either of them to move. They're both a mess when she slides off of him - come everywhere, Jesus, he never thought about how it comes back out when you bareback. The car reeks and the windows are completely fogged up and the air is so close in there they can barely breathe. They need to get their clothes back on, need to get the fuck out of this parking lot before they lose what luck they've had so far. But right now, Jamia's sprawled back in the seat, skirt up, boots on, completely unapologetic about how absolutely pornographic she looks right now. All Frank can do is stare at her wet cunt, as she sprawls there, panting at the ceiling of the car.

Frank looks at her, thinking, spank bank, and says, "Move in with me."

"What?" Jamia's watching at him from under heavy eyelids, but she still looks a little shocked.

He's a little shocked, himself. He didn't - he hadn't meant to - he opens his mouth to take it back but instead, blurts out again, "Move in with me. I'm tired of this bullshit back and forth. Just move in with me."

He can't breathe, what the fuck. She's staring at him like he's got two heads. He glares at her. "You're the one who just let me come inside you."

"Made you come inside me," she says absently, still staring at him. "I - no. No."

He has just enough time for the fury to hit his system like a fucking shot, so pissed he can't feel his hands, when she says, "Not into your place. We get our own place. Together."

He stares at her. He still can't feel his hands.

"Okay?" She's looking at him, chin up, challenging. A look which perhaps would be more effective if her skirt wasn't still up around her waist.

"I - yeah." He doesn't have pants on either. He has no moral high ground. "Okay."

"Okay, then." She breathes in through her nose, out through her mouth. "Okay." She reaches for her skirt, starts to struggle to tug it back down in the closeness of the back seat. Her head is down, and her lip is caught between her teeth as she curses under her breath, and she looks really fucking young, all of a sudden.

She gets her skirt down over her hips, then catches him looking. "What?"

"Nothing." He lifts his hips up off the seat, tugs his jeans up. He's a mess, sticky and damp and he smells like her all over. The adrenaline from the unused anger is still rolling around inside him and he doesn't know what he's feeling here.

The air outside, when they stumble from the backseat, is cool enough to feel freezing against his damp skin. The parking lot is empty, and the dull backbeat of the music from the club feels like it's coming from the cement under their feet. He runs his fingers through his sweaty hair and blows out a breath, then digs out his cigarettes - pretty much crushed in his pocket, but he gets one that's not too bad and straightens it out and lights it.

Jamia, leaning against the side of the car, glances at him, and he holds it out to her without thinking. She looks at the smoke in his hand, then back at him, and in the next second they're on each other, kissing. It's hot and desperate, like something out of the movies - not filthy or anything, just both of them grabbing at each other and kissing like it's all they can do in the whole wide world. He's got his hands in her hair and she's up against him like she wants to sink into him.

When they finally break apart, they're both panting and Jamia's mouth is wet and red and Frank doesn't want to stop touching her. He makes himself take a step back, breathing hard, and fumbles for his pack again, because he doesn't know what else to do with his hands. He'd dropped the smoke while they were kissing, and after he gets another one lit, his hands shaking so hard it takes him three tries, he fumbles with the smokes and the lighter, handing them to her.

She nods quickly, grabbing them from him and ducking her head to light her own crumpled cigarette, her hair falling in her face, framing her skin in orange tones as the cigarette flares up. He watches her, helplessly, and when she looks up at him, taking a drag, he says, "Let's get the fuck out of here, yeah?"

She nods, again, and goes around, gets in the car.

Frank stands there for a second, hanging on to the car door handle, breathing in the cool night air until his head clears, before getting in.


Frank knows that Jamia's from the next town over. They went to different high schools, but they know some of the same people, and a lot of the same local bands. He's aware of this, but somehow, when they're driving around on a Sunday afternoon, after getting ice cream at what Jamia insists is the best place to do so (Frank knows it's Holsten's in Bloomfield, but he grudgingly admits that this is a close second), he forgets that this is where Jamia grew up. Or, at least, he forgets what that means.

Jamia's doing something on her phone, and when she looks up from it, she says, "Hungry?"

"Yeah." Frank's always hungry - ice cream will only take you so far. Besides, it's getting late - they've just been driving around a little - it's nice out, and the sun is just starting to go down, the spread of oranges and reds along the horizon making Jersey look almost pretty. Maybe they can catch a bite at that diner on the way home.

"Cool," Jamia says. "Turn left up at the next light."

Frank does, almost without thinking, then glances over at her. "Where are we going?"

Jamia shrugs. "My dad's grilling tonight. My mom said it's cool to drop by."

The bottom drops out of Frank's stomach. His hands tighten on the steering wheel and he's driving without really seeing anything. Fucking hell.

Jamia's watching him, but he refuses to turn his eyes towards her. "Relax, douchebag," she says, sounding way too fucking amused. "It's just dinner."

"Your parents," he says tightly.

"A free meal," she says back.

"Jesus Christ," he mutters under his breath.

She snorts at him, and directs him to take a right at the next corner. He really fucking hates her sometimes.

Jamia's house - her parents' house - looks kind of like where Frank grew up. It's pretty small, and a little run-down, but not, like, falling-apart. Just a little rough, like a lot of places in this neighborhood. It's a real house, though, and the tiny lawn out front is well-kept, and when J leads him around the narrow path along the side of the house, it opens up into a decent-sized back-yard, with a small patio area alongside the house.

Frank very much wants to stop and regroup before stepping out there, but he's not going to be a pussy. Her dad's already there at the grill, adjusting the flame by the looks of it, and Jamia's going on ahead of Frank. Frank has to make an effort to stand up straight before following her. He resists the urge to try to flatten his hair down.

"Dad," Jamia calls out, and her dad turns around, grins at her and gives her a big hug.

"This is Frank," she says, when her feet are on the ground again.

"Nice to meet you," Frank says, holding his hand out, and then wondering frantically if he should have tacked on a "sir." He doesn't know. This is weird. He's hasn't met any girl's parents since he was a teenager.

Her dad shakes his hand right away, but looks at him for about a half-second too long before he says, "Nice to finally meet you, too, Frank."

Jamia rolls her eyes, and Frank just concentrates on making eye contact with her dad and hopes his palm isn't clammy.

Jamia's dad seems cool, though. "Glad you could swing by. We have enough food to feed an army."

He's taller than Frank. A lot taller. Frank resists the urge to slouch in retaliation.

"Mom inside?" Jamia asks, snagging a slice of tomato from the plate next to the grill.

"Yep." Her dad eyes the grill again. "I'm about to put the burgers on."

Frank looks at the pile of raw hamburgers next to the grill, and his stomach turns, but he doesn't say anything.

Jamia nods, heading towards the house, and grabbing Frank's arm to get him started after her. "Boca burgers for me and Frank, right?"

"You got it," her dad says without missing a beat. "Beer's inside," he calls after them. "Bring me one?"

"You got it," Jamia replies and she sounds just like her dad when she does it, and Frank's grinning when he walks into the kitchen behind her.

Jamia's mom is kind of short, just like Jamia, and kind of soft and round, just like Jamia. She's wearing a leopard-print tank top and jeans, and she's got a can of PBR in her hand. 

She reminds him of his own mom and Frank likes her right away. "I'm Frank," he says, before Jamia can get there, and holds out his hand.

Jamia's mom grins, looking at Jamia and back at him, and shakes his hand, real firm. "Hi Frank," she says. "My daughter giving you much trouble?"

"Enough," he says, and Jamia's mom laughs real loud, raising an eyebrow at Jamia, who just shakes her head at the both of them and heads for the fridge.

Dinner is pretty okay - Frank's tense, but there are beers to go around, and they eat on the patio, paper plates balanced on knees and laps, and her family reminds him so much of his own that it's hard to stay on his best behavior. He's still kind of fucking terrified of her dad - he seems like a nice guy, sure, but fathers and daughters are a whole ballgame Frank has no idea how to play. Frank's pretty sure his hair is too long, and he's got on jeans with the knees torn out, and the tattoos on his hands are so fucking obvious, and he's pretty sure that if he had a daughter, he wouldn't want someone like him dating her.

But moms, well. Frank's pretty good with moms, and Jamia's mom is nice. She grabs his wrist, turning it to read his tattoos.

"I wish I were a ghost," she reads, and looks up at him. "Where'd you get this done?"

He grins, and tells her, and she tells a story about the first tattoo she got, a this tiny shop under a bridge somewhere, and how she'd show it to him, but - 

"Don't hike up your shirt, Mom," Jamia says, taking a long swig of beer. "Not 'til after dinner, maybe."

Jamia's mom rolls her eyes and Frank just likes her.

The sun's dropped way down by the time dinner's over, and they sit in the dim light, drinking beer, while Jamia tells her dad about the band they saw a few nights ago and Frank does his level fucking best to not think about what they did in Frank's car after that show.

Frank and Jamia clean up after dinner, taking all the plates and empties inside. Frank rinses the dishes and loads the dishwasher - seriously, this feels like home - while Jamia brings her parents a couple of more beers. She comes back in, leaning against the counter and sipping her own beer as she watches Frank hand-wash the last few things.

"How you doing?" she asks, eyebrow up.

"It's cool," he says. Totally chill. "Where's the bathroom?"

She leads him upstairs, past a wall full of family pictures in frames, and he's looking at her high-school face, round and seeming sort of unfinished, like, not really her yet, and then up at the sway of her hips as she gets to the top of the stairs.

"Sexy scrunchie in those pictures," he comments.

"Shut the fuck up," she shoots back, and points him down the hall towards the bathroom.

There's a fluffy covering on the toilet seat matching the rug in front of it and the towels hanging from the rack. He takes a piss and then washes his hands, looking at himself in the mirror. His hair is, yeah, maybe too long, getting a little raggedy.

When he heads out, the upstairs is quiet, and he makes his way down the hall. "J?" he calls softly.

"In here."

He peeks in a doorway and yeah, that's her bedroom. Like his at home - unchanged from whenever it was that she moved out. Twin bed with an old dark blue comforter one it, outlines of roses etched into the fabric the only nod towards girlhood. The walls are covered with band posters - not, like, Backstreet Boys or anything lame like that. Old school stuff: the Misfits, Black Flag, of course; a cool old Clapton one, a surprising Leonard Cohen one that, when he looks closer, is signed. He looks over at her, where she's sitting in her desk chair, watching him.


"My parents took me, when I was like fifteen," she says. "He's a really cool guy."

Frank nods, moving over to lean against her dresser, the top of it scattered with CDs, old make-up, and - huh - a few action figures. He picks up Wolverine, sets him carefully back on his feet, angles him towards Rogue, so it's like they're having a conversation.

Maybe he's been spending too much time with Gerard.

"They're pretty cool," Frank says finally. "Your parents."

Jamia nods, watching him.

Frank shifts uneasily. It's so weird. All the stuff he's done with her, all the filthy stuff she's said to him, and now, standing awkwardly in this bedroom, her tiny twin bed seems like a looming presence in the corner. It makes him think of awkward high-school make-out sessions, over the clothes humping, wanting so bad to get a hand inside the girl's shirt, all those maneuvers just to get a girl to touch you.

He's pretty sure he's blushing. He feels ridiculous. He checks out Jamia's face, and yeah, she's grinning at him like she knows exactly what he's thinking about. He's definitely blushing.

"Come on," she says, getting up from the chair. "Let's go home." She leans up against him, kissing him dirty, all tongue and attitude.

He waits until she pulls away, and then tugs her back, kissing her soft, maybe sort of chasing that awkward high school kiss he would have liked to have given her, if he had known her back then, had been the one to try to get her to go out with him. She's up against him, and she's tense for a few seconds, before she leans into it, kissing him back all soft like a movie make-out scene.

Finally, he lets her go, and she stares at him for a second, head tilted, before she takes a breath. "Okay. We gotta get downstairs. My dad's gonna want to kick your ass if we stay up here much longer, and I haven't even told him we're gonna be living in sin yet."

Frank doesn't gulp or anything, but it's a close thing.


Frank tells the guys when they're out on Thursday night. Because Gerard asks where Jamia is, and Frank says, "How the fuck should I know?"

Gerard gets this crestfallen look on his face and he shoots a glance over at Pedicone, who makes a calm down now gesture at him. "But - Jamia," Gerard hisses at him, like Frank's deaf or invisible or something.

"Another round?" Pedicone slings his arm around Gerard's shoulder and tugs him back against him easily.

"Yes," Gerard says immediately. They're not quite snuggling, but it's close.

"Hell, yeah," Frank says darkly, glaring across the table at Ray, who's watching him with this look on his face. "What?"

Ray shrugs, finishes his beer. "Nothing. I'm up for another round."

That's good. That's great. Everything is fucking great.

The waitress brings them another round of beer. Frank picks his up, but Pedicone is raising his glass in a toast. He's not leaning forward or anything - Gerard is still tucked under his arm, his head on Pedicone's shoulder, whispering something into his ear. Okay, maybe now that counts as snuggling.

"What are we toasting?" Frank asks.

"You tell me," Pedicone says, tilting his head a little.

"Did you and Jamia break up?" Gerard says anxiously.

"Fuck you," Frank says, raising his glass to Gerard. "Fuck you, and fuck you."

Pedicone grins and toasts him back and Ray just shakes his head.

Frank glares at him. "Stop looking at me like that, for fuck's sake."

Ray's got that measuring look on his face, the same one he gets when the drummer in his band is working a beat behind. Frank fucking hates that look, more even than the sad eyes Gerard is giving him over the rim of his beer glass. Frank shrugs and drinks before he says, "I asked her to move in with me."

Ray comes close to giving an actual spit-take, which makes this whole fucking conversation almost worth it. Almost. Then Ray leans forward, his eyebrows up, all sympathetic. "Did she say no?"

Frank blinks at him. "Fucking - fuck you." Asshole. "She said yes, okay? Jesus Christ. Thanks for the fucking support, douchebag."

Ray blinks, then grins at him. "Sorry," he says, sounding a little apologetic, but mostly amused. "But hey, congrats."

"Motherfucker," Frank mutters, but grudgingly shakes his hand when Ray holds it out.

Frank almost doesn't even want to look at Gerard, but when he glances up, Gerard is still just sitting there in the curve of Pedicone's arm, his beer clutched to his chest, beaming at Frank, his eyes all soft and a little bit damp.

"Oh, for the fucking love of God." Frank shakes his head, looking at Pedicone, who just grins at him again, and shrugs, and drinks his beer. "It's not that big a deal."

Ray's eyebrows go even higher and he opens his mouth.

"Shut it." Frank points at him. "All of you, just shut up about it."

"Right." Pedicone squeezes Gerard's shoulder, and lets him go, leaning in to flag down the waitress again. "I think we need shots."

Frank and Gerard say, "Yes," vehemently, at the same time.

They get shots. Then Mikey shows up, and drifts over to sit with them, and the waitress brings another set of shots without asking, saying, "On the house," as she sets them down.

Frank had been going to have a few beers and call it a night, but free shots are free shots, and it seems only right to get another round after that.

"The thing of it is," he finds himself saying, leaning forward over the table so he can really explain things clearly to Pedicone. "Is that it isn't that big a deal, because she said yes, so, whatever."

"Of course she said yes," Gerard says. "Because Jamia is awesome."

Which. She is, yeah. "Yeah," Frank says. "So we're moving in together. We're getting our own place. Me and Jamia." Every sentence sounds weirder and weirder coming out of his mouth and seems to roll around in his head afterwards. How the hell are they even his words? "Jesus Christ, can we talk about something else?"

"Sure." Pedicone is looking deeply fucking amused. "Sure, we can."

"I had a threeway last night with the girl from that new band and Ray's rhythm guitarist," Mikey offers.

Everyone turns towards him, and Frank gets to drink his beer in peace.

It's a busy night at the bar, and people keep coming up to Mikey and bumping fists with him, and Frank can't figure out how this scrawny, four-eyed kid with really terrible hair has so much cred. People keep buying him drinks, too, and Gerard and Frank take turns stealing them when he's not looking. Mikey drinks fruity girl drinks filled with sugar and alcohol and everyone knows it, and after a while, Frank finds himself sitting on the ground with Gerard in the wide alley next to the bar, a sickly sweet aftertaste in his mouth.

"She's so fucking great." Gerard is sitting cross-legged - he'd been trying to get the cigarette he'd bummed from Frank lit, and that plus standing up was way beyond his levels of coordination, so he'd sunk to the ground. It had been easier to follow him down than to try to haul him back up. "She listens to me talk about art, and death, and the X-Men, and she really gets it, you know?" He waves his hand around, limp-wristed the way he gets when he's drunk. "And Mikey thinks she's cool." He looks at Frank with wide, impressed eyes. "Seriously, Frank, I love that girl."

Frank shakes his head, hauling his own cigarettes out clumsily. Gerard's still struggling with his lighter. "No, I love that girl."

Gerard drops his cigarette as he looks up at Frank. "You love her." He's beaming and reaching out to clumsily pat at Frank's arm, making Frank drop his cigarette.

"Shut up, okay?" Frank fumbles his cigarette off the ground, and lights it on the first try, for which he's particularly fucking pleased with himself.

"Tell me about her." Gerard leans forward, holding out his hand, and Frank takes a drag, and hands him the cigarette.

They end up going through two smokes like that, with Frank talking a lot - a lot - about Jamia and what she's like, and how hot she is, and how dirty, like, really fucking dirty and how he loves that.

Gerard's leaning forward now. "How dirty?"

Frank can't help the grin spreading across his face, and leans in and oh God, he can't believe he's doing this.

"She does this thing, with her fingers, when she's blowing me?" he says. "You know, she puts a couple in, and it just -"

Gerard flaps his hands around, almost losing the cigarette. "I do that! Mike loves that!"

Frank's too drunk for embarrassment. "I know, he told me," he says, and Gerard beams at him. "So that's where it started, but oh man, Gee, she's so fucking filthy, she just - " He takes a drag, while Gerard waits, wide-eyed, to see where it's going. "She straps it on, okay? You know what I mean? And just - she's so fucking good at it."

Gerard's mouth drops completely open, and then he's sort of rolling back in glee, just grinning like a lunatic. "Frankie," he says, finally, leaning forward and grabbing onto Frank's knees with both hands. "That is so fucking hot."

"Fuck, yeah," Frank says, taking the cigarette out of Gerard's hand before he sets Frank's jeans on fire.

"Fuck, yeah," Gerard echoes. "Fuck gender stereotypes and societal norms, not to even mention the limited binary connotations of -" He waves his hand around, his hair in wild disarray around his head. "I don't know, man, of fucking."

He looks at Frank like he's made his point and Frank just points the cigarette at him and says, "That," and the two of them bump fists.

"You know what we need?' Gerard says. "We need more beer." He pats himself, looking around distractedly, like he's going to find a hidden six-pack in the pocket of the leather jacket he's wearing. It's way too big on him, and it's Gerard, so it's not outside the realm.

Except for how it's Ray's jacket, Frank realizes suddenly, and with a burst of inspiration, says, "Your cigarettes are in the bar."

"Huh?" Gerard's blinking at him slowly.

"That's Ray's jacket." Frank gets unsteadily to his feet.

Gerard's peering down at himself, uncertainly.

"We can get beer," Frank points out. "In there."

"Oh!" Gerard starts to get up. He only tips over once, and Frank catches him, anyhow, before he hit the pavement, when Pedicone comes around the corner carrying Gerard's jacket.

"All right," he says, "Maybe it's time to call it a night."

Gerard breaks into a huge smile - like, megawatt - when he sees Pedicone. It's kind of sweet, actually. "Baby!" he says. "Where'd you go?"

"I came out here, to find you. You guys went out for a smoke forty-five minutes ago." Pedicone gets close enough that Frank can tip Gerard into his arms. Gerard slumps up against him, still beaming.

"That's why we need more beer," Gerard explains, resting his head against Pedicone's chest.

"Or we could just go home."

"Noooo." Gerard tilts his head up, pouting at Pedicone.

Frank's got a cigarette between his teeth, trying to get it lit, grinning around it at the two of them.


Frank looks up, startled. It's a young guy, clean-cut - like a college kid, he thinks - standing at the head of the alley with a friend behind him. They're laughing, real nasty, and Gerard's blinking over at them, confused.

Frank's not confused. He finishes lighting his cigarette, looks at the guys, then looks over at Pedicone while he blows the smoke out, slow and smooth. Pedicone's not confused, either. His face looks stony and resigned.

Frank feels much, much more sober than he did about two minutes ago. He gives Pedicone a short nod, and Pedicone sighs, turns, and asks, "What did you say?"

"I said, fa-" That's as far as the guy gets before Frank punches him in the face. He doesn't get the rest of the word out because, as Frank knows from a certain amount of experience, it's pretty hard to talk with a mouthful of blood.

There's only two of them, so it's barely a fair fight. It's over before Gerard even manages to get up from where Pedicone shoved him quickly against the wall. It's a stupid fucking scuffle, barely even worth the energy, and they would have run them off without incident, only one guy gets a lucky elbow into Frank's nose that sends this blast of pain and heat through his entire face, and he's pouring out blood everywhere. It doesn't stop him from hitting the guy in the stomach so hard that he's on the ground puking.

"Get the fuck out of here." Frank doesn't even bother to wipe the blood away, just stands over the guys - Pedicone got his guy on the ground, too, spitting blood and cursing - and grins through the blood flowing down his face, his nose throbbing.

The whole thing from faggot to the guys scrambling out of the alley took no time at all. No one had even come out to watch, no one even noticed as far as Frank could tell. Gerard has just managed to push himself off the wall and over to Pedicone, who's cursing a blue streak over the fact that he'd scraped his knuckles raw when he slammed the dude he was fighting into the wall.

Gerard takes Pedicone's hand, examining it. "Cool," he says finally. "That's gonna scab up real good once it stops bleeding." He looks at Pedicone. "Are you okay? Those guys were assholes."

"Hell, I'm fine." Pedicone looks over at Frank. "You okay?"

"I'm great." Frank strips off his hoodie, and uses it to wipe the blood off his face, grinning. "I think those guys might be hurting, but me? I'm great."

"So, okay, then." Pedicone grins back, and wraps his arms around Gerard, kissing him soundly. Gerard's laughing when the kiss starts, but it gets serious towards the end, Pedicone easing Gerard back against the wall, putting one hand up to protect his head from the brick as Gerard kisses him back, sloppy and intense. Gerard's clutching at Pedicone, his knuckles white as he clings to him.

Frank watches them for a second, mopping at his face. When they finally break apart, Pedicone's breathing hard, and Gerard's slumped against the wall, fingers wrapped in Pedicone's shirt, a little glassy-eyed.

Frank keeps his eyes looking up. He does not want to know anything about their possible mutual boners.

"Okay." Pedicone stands back and tugs Gerard off the wall. "One more drink."

"Fuck, yeah." Frank slings his arm around Pedicone's shoulder.

"Yeah," Gerard says softly, sliding his arm around Pedicone's waist.

They go inside, because shots are called for, after a fight victorious. It's a motherfucking rule.


Frank wakes up face-down on Pedicone's couch. His shoes are on, his face is kind of crusty with blood, and he's pretty sure he's still drunk. Weak early-morning sunlight is filtering in through the shades, piercing his fucking eyelids. He pushes himself up, taking an inventory of his body. He feels - not great. Definitely shaky, his stomach isn't too thrilled with him, and his head is pounding. And he thinks he might actually be willing to kill someone for a glass of water. Other than that, he feels pretty okay.

He's definitely still a little bit drunk.

He gets himself off the couch, does another little physical inventory. Wallet is on the coffee table, his cell phone next to it, and his house keys are - he checks - still in his pocket. So that's what was digging into his thigh. Okay, then. He calls the night a win.

He peeks down the hall to Pedicone's bedroom - the door is open and he sees Pedicone and Gerard together on the bed, under the covers, Gerard curled into himself, Pedicone sprawled out on his front, his arm draped over Gerard.

Frank vaguely remembers leaving the bar. He knows both of their cars are still there, which fucking sucks, and he knows that he'd tried to hail his own cab, but Pedicone - somewhat more sober than both Frank and Gerard at that point - had shaken his head and dragged Frank into their cab with them. The cab ride is a blur, but he remembers stumbling into the apartment, he remembers Gerard with his hand curled over Frank's shoulder, telling him that he loves Jamia, very much. And also that he loves Frank. And also that he was going to go sex up Pedicone.

And that's pretty much it.

Frank goes to take a piss before leaves, spends a little while blinking at his reflection in the mirror - his face is smeared with dried blood, his nose is pretty swollen, and his eyes are bloodshot, but not bruising up too bad, so that's okay.

He still looks like shit, though. He needs a shower. He needs a shave. He needs to go home.

The sunlight is really fucking bright when he makes it outside and he has to squint as he scrolls through his cell looking for the number of the cab company to take him back to his car. He leans against the wall of the apartment building as he waits, tucked in where there's a tiny bit of shade to get some fucking relief from the piercing brightness.

His car's still there when the cab drops him off - thank fucking God - and it's a massive relief when he finally gets home, fumbles with the keys to the front door, and stumbles in. He tosses his keys down, takes his wallet out. He looks around the silent, still apartment, shades drawn, everything dim, trying to decide if he wants to shower first or just crawl back into bed and pass out.

He takes a breath, his body aching, his face sore and swollen. "Fuck," he mutters, and turns around, scooping up his keys and wallet and heading back out the door.


"That looks like it hurt," Jamia says when she cracks her door open.

Frank shrugs, hands in his pockets, ducking his head. "Nah."

Jamia looks at him for another handful of seconds before nudging the door open. She's got her hair in a messy ponytail and she's wearing an oversized Def Leppard t-shirt. No bra and, he's pretty sure, no panties, but he'll have to investigate that later. "You want to come in?" she asks.

He nods, sighs. "Sure."

She doesn't ask him what happened, and she doesn't patch him up. She throws a clean towel at him, though, and pushes him towards the bathroom.

Her bathroom is always super-clean, and her shampoo smells like strawberries, which goes so completely against how she looks and acts that he's pretty sure it smells like ironic strawberries. He stays in the hot shower as long as he can stand it, washes his hair twice, and gingerly scrubs at his face to get the last of the blood off. He stands for a while with his head ducked under the spray, letting it pound at his back, his neck. He's so sore. And the hangover is kicking in - his stomach rolls a little, and his headache is getting started hardcore.

When he gets out, his hands are shaking a little, from the heat and from the hangover, and he dries himself off, looks at his grimy clothes on the floor, and shoves them into J's hamper, going outside wrapped in the towel instead.

"In here," she calls from the bedroom.

She's curled up under the covers, her eyes half-closed. He looks at the clock - it's not even eight AM, Jesus Christ.

"Aspirin," Jamia yawns, nodding over at her dresser.

"Thank fuck," Frank says, and she grins at him sleepily.

He swallows the aspirin with half the glass of water she'd left out for him, too, while he's examining his face in the mirror above her dresser. He catches her reflection, as she pushes herself up to look at him, and turns around, coming back to bed and sitting down, tilting his face in her direction. "How's it look?" he asks.

She takes his chin in her hand, turns his cheek a little bit, examining him. "Cool," she says finally. "I think you might end up with a black eye. Badass."

"Badass," he agrees, looking at her. She's got sleep-lines on her face from the pillowcase.

"C'mere." She lies back down, back to him, and she makes a sleepy noise when he drops the towel on the floor, and spoons up behind her. He drags the covers up over them both, and slides one hand over her hip, under the t-shirt. Yep. No panties. Definitely something he's gong to have to explore later.

His head hurts, his face aches, and his stomach is really unhappy with him, but the bed is warm, and soft, and Jamia's breathing is evening out as she falls asleep curled up against him.


"Sweet baby Jesus, this sucks." Frank has his side of the mattress held up, but the other end is very quickly sliding out of Gerard's grip, and he has to hang onto it with both hands and brace his feet against the stairs to keep it from sliding completely back down and taking Gerard with it.

Gerard's alarmed, sweaty face peers at him from around the edge of the mattress. "Do you have it?"

"Yeah," Frank grits out, hanging on to the mattress. "I have it. Is Pedicone behind you?"

Gerard's face disappears, and then comes back. "Yes."

"Switch places with him." The last Frank had seen, Pedicone was on the porch having a smoke.

Gerard disappears again immediately.

Frank braces himself and waits. Finally, the mattress shifts from the other end, and he has to stumble back three steps in a row to keep from falling. "Do you need help with everything, princess?" Pedicone calls, still pushing forward.

Frank keeps moving, hauling the mattress up behind him. "Fuck you," he calls. "Fuck you and your pussy boyfriend."

"He's not a pussy," Pedicone says, with one last heave. The mattress and Frank both make it through the door to the new apartment. "He's fucking lazy."

"And a pussy," Frank says. Pedicone lets him drag the mattress by himself to the bedroom, but that's cool, that's fine, he's got it. He wrestles it through the doorway and lets it fall to the floor with a huge thump. Frank, himself, lands on it with a huge thump not long after, face down and trying to catch his breath.

"He's just artistic," Pedicone says, and they both break into hysterical, exhausted laughter.

Jamia comes in with pieces of the bed frame under both arms. "Pussies, the both of you," she says, dumping the pieces in the corner.

Frank and Pedicone both crack the fuck up even more, Frank snorting against the mattress as Pedicone sags against the wall.

Toro walks by the bedroom door carrying two boxes, his face red and sweaty. He pauses for a second, pressing the boxes up against the wall to get a better grip. "Taking a break, assholes?" he pants.

Jamia surveys them all. "What did you guys do with Gerard?" She looks back over her shoulder. "Is he in a pile at the bottom of the stairs?"

"Maybe," Frank says, wiping his eyes. He feels loopy.

"Probably," Pedicone says. "I should maybe go check."

He heads out and Toro rolls his eyes and heads off with the boxes. Frank pushes himself up off the mattress. He's sweaty and gross and he wraps his arms around Jamia, lifts her off the floor in a bear hug. She grins down at him and he just hangs on to her, feeling her hot and sweaty right up against him, feeling his heart beating hard, feeling himself smiling even though he doesn't mean to be - he can't wipe it off.

She seems to feel it, too, and when he lets her slide down to the floor again, she doesn't pull away, just presses up against him and kisses him. It starts off soft, until he pushes his fingers into the waist of her cut-offs, the curve of her hips damp with sweat, and then she makes a sound in her throat, and shoves him back against the wall, kissing him messy and rough.

There's a sound behind them, and they break off the kiss to see Gerard peeking around the doorway, watching them. "It's okay - I don't want to interrupt," he says.

Frank rolls his eyes and presses his hips forward against Jamia for a second before pushing her back with a sigh. "I think," he says, looking at her, "That it might be time for pizza and beer."

"Hell, yes," she agrees. "Call it in. C'mere, princess," she says to Gerard. "There's still the car to unload."

Gerard frowns.

"It's bedding," Jamia says, grabbing his arm and pulling him after her. "I'll let you carry the pillows."

Frank calls in for many pizzas - the beer is already in the fridge (that's all that's in the fridge, along with some necessary condiments). He and Toro wrestle the bed frame together while Pedicone and Gerard and Jamia get the last of the stuff out of the car. They finish up, getting the mattress settled on it with much satisfaction and fist-bumping, just as everyone troops back in, loaded down with trash bags full of clothes and towels and bedding, open boxes and badly-packed milk crates.

Trailing along behind everyone is Mikey, carrying one of Jamia's plants and looking bored.

Frank looks at Mikey, then looks at his phone, then looks at Mikey again.

Mikey shrugs, the plant tilting to one side a little in his hand. "I got held up."

Frank rolls his eyes. "You're on time for pizza."

Mikey nods. "Yep."

Jesus Christ, the Way brothers are the worst to ask for help unless you want zombie art or your cover comped. Respectively.


The pizza is decimated and surrounded by empty beer cans and Gerard has been going through the box of CDs he'd discovered for twenty minutes at least, oohing and ahhing over his favorites. "You have this? I have this!" he says excitedly, waving a Morrissey CD around.

"It's Jamia's," Frank says, and Gerard's eyes pretty much have hearts in them when he turns to her and draws her into a discussion about "Morrissey’s elusive and incomprehensible sexuality."

Everyone finally takes off - Pedicone having to tug Gerard out as he's talking over his shoulder at Jamia when Pedicone closes the door firmly behind them.

The apartment is quiet and still, and Frank just stands there in the foyer for a few minutes, looking at Jamia. She looks back at him, there in her stretched-out Joy Division t-shirt and cut-off shorts, a can of PBR in her hand. They're surrounded by boxes and chaos, he's sore and tired, and all he can think about is how fucking lucky he is.

"J." He doesn't even really have the words.

She lets him dangle there, looking a little amused, waiting.

He opens his mouth, the closes it again, looking around the room. He takes a breath, focuses on the shoulder of her t-shirt, where some threads are coming loose. "I love you," he says finally, to her shoulder.

She's quiet for a second and he makes herself look at her face. She nods, and lifts up her can, swigging the last of her beer and tossing the can behind her onto a pile of boxes. "I want to suck you off," she says.

"Fuck, yeah," he replies, and she laughs and pushes him back against the front door - their front door - and gets on her knees, undoing his belt one-handed, getting his jeans open, and grabbing his dick. He gets hard inside her mouth, God, so fucking hot. He has to sink his fingers into her hair just to hang on to something, and his head bangs back against the door as she moans around him.

She keeps up a rhythm with her hand and mouth working him perfectly, and he wants to do this forever. She does something with her tongue that makes him curse and buck forward without even meaning to or being able to hold back, and she just moans again and takes it and he loves her, he fucking loves her.

She makes it last, pulling off just enough to keep him on the edge, making him wait for it, teasing him, making him crazy for it. He can't take it. He can't take it. He's hanging on, but he's close, he's so fucking hard, Jesus, everything has narrowed down to his dick and her mouth, and he's making so much noise, his throat is raw with it. She bumps up the rhythm, fuck, and he's gasping, "Faster, harder," and she does it and just as he's about to lose it, she elbows his legs further apart and presses her finger - wet and slippery with spit - into his ass, and he shouts out something that might be her name and comes in her mouth.

She pulls off right away, a little early, and his last pulse hits her lips.

She groans and runs her tongue over her lips, licking it up.

"If I could get hard again right now," he manages, staring down at her, his hands still in her hair, "I'd -" He can't even come up with the words, but she's laughing at him, not wiping her face off, and he hauls her to her feet, kissing her, tasting come and sweat on her lips. He thumbs open the button on her shorts, shoving his hand into her panties, where she's wet and ready for it. She pants against his face, as he presses two fingers inside her, fucking them into her as she shoves herself against him.

"Harder," she pants. "Fucking just - "

He drags his fingers up and over her clit, and she groans really fucking loud, and grabs his wrist, holding his hand in place. He keeps moving his fingers as she says, her voice all tense and throaty, "Like that, fuck, fuck," and comes, shaking, just like that.

"Fuck," she pants in his ear, sagging against him. "Jesus Christ, that was quick."

"You're so fucking hot like that," he says, his fingers still in her panties.

He feels her grin against his neck. "You fucking know it." She pushes off of him, and he pulls his fingers out of her panties reluctantly.

"I'm going to get us more beers," she says, doing up her cut-offs. "And then you and I are going to get the bed made up." They both look through the doorway at the bare mattress, the bed standing out at a weird angle from the wall, from where Frank and Toro had finally gotten the headboard attached and just left it where it was. "So that you can fuck me in it." She heads towards the kitchen. "Or," she calls back over her shoulder. "I can fuck you."

Frank bites his lip, feeling like maybe he could get hard again with just a little help. He can still feel it, a little bit of soreness, from where she'd shoved her finger in his ass. "That," he calls after her.

"Done," she calls back, and he grins, and goes to find the sheets.

the end