Nights like these are absolutely the fucking best, Frank thinks, because he’s got a can of piss-beer in either hand, the stars are out, the fire’s big, and he’s slumped against Gerard’s shin – for once bared to the world instead of hidden behind a size-too-big amount of denim even though it’s only like fifty degrees and he probably should be wearing jeans. Every so often, between sips, Frank turns to mouth at the warm skin. There’s a faraway baked-giggle bubbling up his throat, but he rocks back and forth with the wave of it like a piece of driftwood in a current until it passes.
Fuck, he hasn’t seen the ocean in a long time, and that’s almost enough to make him wistful for the Jersey Shore. But it still feels like he’s rocking in the waves, so he figures he can settle for this. For now. Because they’re in fucking Ohio or something, and really, Frank’s got no other choice.
“Frankieeee,” Gerard’s saying, “Gimme back my beer,” and oh, hah, that’s his hand pushing at Frank’s shoulder.
He had been vaguely wondering when he’d become one of those double-fisting hoarder motherfuckers, but he’d been more appreciative of the fact that he could drink from whichever can felt more convenient. Frank takes a sip from the one in his right and then holds it up over his shoulder.
Gerard slurs, “Thanks, baby,” and Frank turns to lick a stripe up to his knee as a “don’t mention it, sugartits” kind of thing. After a giggle, Gerard taps Frank on the shoulder with his wrist, offering the lumpy spliff and Frank just turns his head to take a generous hit.
Something about holding it with Gerard right there, all pressed close and warm, makes Frank think about putting his mouth on Gerard again. It’s been at least four hours since they left the venue, after all. (Because quick blows before sound check don’t really count.) He lets the thought settle in his lungs, and then burst out in a haze of smoke and giggles that have Gerard pressing against his shoulder again, asking, “What?” like he’s desperate to know so he can share the laugh.
“Oxygen,” Frank manages, because it’s kind of scary to think that he wants to have to hold his breath in a completely different way. His mouth waters and his head feels weirdly light, so Frank tilts his head back to rest against Gerard’s thigh and the flimsy plastic chair.
A bit later, while Frank’s staring up at the sky and basking in the heat from the fire, Gerard starts giggling and Frank asks, “What?” He cranes his head all the way back to look at Gerard – who is all chin and chub and nostrils from this angle – but Gerard just shakes his head and keeps laughing. And then Frank is all entranced by the way the fire’s light dances off of the planes and deepens the angles, so he keeps watching Gerard’s face until Gerard takes another hit. He slowly lets it out, blowing it up toward the stars and looking fucking baked when he’s finished. Fucking happy – like his eyes are all squinched up and everything. Frank wants that too.
“Quit joint hogging and share, motherfucker.”
It takes a few minutes, but eventually Gerard brings it to Frank’s lips, and when he pulls it away, his fingers are glossy with Frank’s spit. After Frank blows the smoke, a long, billowing stream, Gerard asks, “Better?” He stubs it out against the plastic chair after a few tries and then tosses it in the fire. Attempts to, anyway. It doesn’t quite make it, instead bouncing off the nearest log and rolling into the dirt.
Frank laughs out a, “Yeah.” His head sort of itches like a motherfucker, though, and he’s sort of scared that there are beetles or ants or, ugh, fucking spiders crawling around and more than likely making their way up his back and into his hair to lay eggs.
Like there’s some freaky mind-reading going on, a hand comes heavy down on top of Frank’s head, and then there are fingers sliding through the fried orange-blond brittle and the brown that’s growing in underneath and Frank’s groaning. It feels better than fucking sex. Gerard, for all of his delicate artist tendencies, is sort of heavy-handed when it comes to scritches and putting Frank where he wants him, but right now, Frank has absolutely no complaints. He hears a loud noise from up near the house – sliding glass doors, a few boisterous laughs – and then it fades again, and Frank feels like he’s all alone in the world. Apart from Gerard, of course.
Otter’s passed out on the opposite side of the fire and Ray had stumbled up toward the house sometime between Frank’s fifth or sixth beer, after he’d added another bundle of sticks and twigs and a few leaves to the fire pit so that, “You motherfuckers don’t freeze to death and die,” which Frank pointed out as redundant, but before Frank had taken Gerard’s beer for safekeeping. They hadn’t broken out the weed until he’d gone because Ray takes monster tokes, so he’s no fun to smoke up with and –
“What, Frankie? Tell me,” Gerard says, slumping forward to rest his elbows on Frank’s shoulders. His hands never stop scratching though and it’s really nice.
“You were rolling the joint!” he crows, slapping a palm against his thigh.
Gerard indulges in a laugh. “Yeah, I was! It was fuckin’ lumpy, man. Dunno why you wanted me to roll it. Mikey’s way better – haaaah, Mikey’s way. Mikey Way.” Gerard’s blunt little fingernails stop running over Frank’s head and his half-laughing stops short. “Where is Mikey?”
Frank ponders this for a moment, and then remembers back to the way the girl whose house their crashing at had been making eyes at him – all dark and come-hither and yet still all aloof, which Frank knows is Mikey’s favorite. “Probably getting laid,” Frank eventually answers. When he turns to look at Gerard, he’s making this sort of “Good for him!” smile, like he’s proud or something, which should be fucking weird, but Gerard’s fucking weird and Mikey’s fucking weird so it’s totally okay. Frank likes people that are fucking weird anyway. Weird equals entertaining equals a multitude of stories to tell later. And whatever, it is good for Mikey, because that means the rest of them get to sleep in actual beds for the night and there are fucking showers.
He mentally high-fives Mikey for getting laid.
Except then Frank’s thinking about getting laid, and like, why isn’t he getting laid right now? He could so be getting laid. Right now. He cranes his head back, looking at Gerard’s face. He has a fucking great face. It’s like…delicate. Or something, Frank doesn’t know, but it’s familiar and nice and really fucking distracting at almost all hours of the day. Like right now. It just makes Frank happy and sort of turned on when he envisions that slack-mouth stare directed at him instead of the stars up above.
“D’you ever think about how fragile the world is?” Gerard asks. He sighs and then his hands start moving through Frank’s hair again.
It takes a few minutes for Frank to be able to manage, “Sometimes…like the human body. How precarious all of the shit is inside of us. Like how I’m sick all the fuckin’ time.” And that makes him think about holding his breath again, weirdly enough. When he’s sick, the whole being unable to breathe thing is completely involuntary because it’s not like he’d choose to be clogged with mucous and fluid in his lungs, but, well, that light-headed, fuzzy dizziness wasn’t always completely unenjoyable.
“No, no, I mean, yeah…Yeah, fuck. I didn’t even think about that. But also like. Like how Earth is like…” Gerard trails off for a few moments and then waves a hand into the air, flapping it around to elaborate, “The only planet in our galaxy that can support life, you know?”
Frank thinks about it, and then decides he’s either too high or not high enough to have thoughts so deep, so instead he just says, “Yeah, man,” and thinks about getting laid again while Gerard prattles on because it doesn’t take as much brain power. And then he thinks about turning those thoughts into action, because Frank is a man with a motherfucking plan. He twists around, jamming an elbow into Gerard’s thigh and practically pokes his own goddamn eye out before he can get settled between both of Gerard’s legs. “Much better,” he says, and goes for Gerard’s fly.
“What’re you doin’, Frank?” Gerard half-slurs, pausing his rambling. He doesn’t move or look overly concerned, just keeps looking up at the stars and then takes a sip of his beer.
Honesty is the best policy, right? “Gonna blow you.” It takes more concentration than is probably necessary to get the whole contraption undone and the jeans pushed down Gerard’s thighs, but Frank ignores his epic failure and instead palms at Gerard through his briefs.
They’re an old pair, Frank can totally tell; they have stress holes up near the waistband, a couple of dubious (or not so dubious, and instead completely obvious) stains, and they’re a gray-black that can only be attained through the fade of a tremendous amount of washes. These are the kind of comfort undies that a guy just can’t throw away. Frank can totally appreciate that.
And then Frank wonders why he’s so concerned about Gerard’s underwear when he said he was going to blow him. Frank means to keep his word.
Frank sort of pets over Gerard’s dick through his underwear again through the V of his undone pants. Another loud noise comes from the house and Frank is reminded of their surroundings again. Like, they’re outside, under the fucking stars and the tiny sliver of crescent moon with a flickering flame alternating between lighting them up and casting strange, elongated shadows. Otter is right fucking there on the other side, intermittently snoring. A big one nearly shakes him awake, leaving him mumbling to himself and curling closer around the log and shoving a hand down his pants. Frank giggles.
“Otter’s fucking weird, dude.”
Gerard snorts out a laugh and then his hips hitch and Frank is reminded of the task at hand. So to speak.
He’s still mostly soft beneath the cotton, and Frank takes his time with some more petting before actually getting his hand all up in there. Gerard’s all velvet soft and a little sweat-sticky. Frank’s mouth waters and he says, “So, I’m gonna suck it now, alright?” but doesn’t actually wait for Gerard to give some semblance of an okay. Mostly because this wouldn’t be the first time Frank’s insisted on getting up close and personal with Gerard’s dick.
“Cool,” Gerard says, and his gaze slowly drifts down to Frank’s face between his thighs. Frank crosses his eyes and Gerard laughs again, but then it’s cut short because Frank takes Gerard’s cock into his mouth, sort of slurps it in between his lips all obnoxious and not quite carefully. Gerard just groans out, “Yeah.”
It’s sort of cool, Frank thinks, how just a little bit of friction, wetness, and a lot of intent can get Gerard hardening in his mouth in only a handful of seconds. Frank pulls off and relocates a sweaty hand to close around the base of Gerard’s cock, the other resting against the holey cotton, thumbing against Gerard’s balls. He lifts Gerard’s cock up to lick a nice, wide stripe up the underside and groans when he gets his mouth around it again.
“Ohh,” Gerard whimpers quietly, and then there’s his hand, tightening into a fist in Frank’s hair.
“I like this,” Frank informs Gerard. Because he does, and then he figures he should elaborate so he says, “Getting you hard with my mouth. And, like, the hair thing.” Usually, Frank’s more of a wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am (or sir) and prefers for all systems to already be functioning at full capacity, hard dicks, slick cunts, it’s whatever just as long as there’s been enough teasing beforehand. But there’s something about Gerard that makes Frank want to switch shit up and slow it all down. He opens his mouth to say as much, but Gerard gives the hair in his grip a not-so-subtle yank and Frank figures he should definitely be less-talk-more-action right about now. For both of their sakes.
“That’s real nice, Frank.” Gerard’s voice is sort of gravelly, all rough and tumble like smoke and sex, but Frank can really only half-hear him because of the crackling from the logs and the throat noises of swallowing around the dick in his mouth. Gerard’s dick. Gerard’s thoroughly filled out and nearing monster-cock level of hugeness and really leaky dick. Frank swallows the puddle and Gerard chokes out, “Fuck.”
There’s another loud noise from up near the patio, and Frank pulls off to look, jacking Gerard slowly all the while. Gerard’s back is totally to the house so it’s not like anyone would be any the wiser if they just took a glance, but Frank’s down on the damp ground with his face in Gerard’s crotch. If anyone were to come close enough to see over weird-ass fake rock and log embankment thing, it’d be pretty fucking clear what was going on. Not to mention the way Gerard has no sense of decency about muffling his sex noises. Luckily, things seem to be contained to the backyardish area where some kind of drunken keep-away game has broken out.
“Coast’s clear,” he says, not that Gerard had been concerned or anything. Frank’s pretty sure he wouldn’t be concerned either if he had a fucking third leg.
Gerard gasps and says, “Oh,” like he’s surprised when Frank sinks down again. He threads his fingers deeper into Frank’s hair, snarling in dried clumps of gel and slip-stuttering along his scalp. Frank groans to show his appreciation and laves his tongue against the underside vein until Gerard gasps, “Jesus, Frank,” and an incoherent noise that’s much too loud.
After a few minutes more, Gerard’s hips jolt – hard, like he’s beyond self-control and he slurs, “Sorry, sorry, sorry,” in a sex-pot-alcohol combination not to be matched. Frank can’t help but groan, obviously, because Gerard’s dick is, well, sort of choking him and it’s awesome – the swimmy, dizzy, light-headedness that takes him way fucking higher than weed ever could. And, fucking hell, he’s so into it.
He pulls off with a slick noise to demand, “Do it again,” before sucking Gerard down as far as he can go, almost to the root, heavy over his tongue.
With that, Gerard groans, loud and unabashed, and thrusts up into Frank’s mouth so hard that Frank has to steady himself by clutching at Gerard’s thighs. But then Gerard’s clutching at the back of Frank’s head, fingers rough as he tugs Frank harder over his cock and doesn’t fucking let him up.
Frank can barely catch the desperate little, “Ah, fuck!” and groans that Gerard makes with the way his head’s going fuzzy. His vision would be fucking crackling at the edges if he hadn’t screwed his eyes shut. Instead it’s going gray-red-pink from the pressure. Gerard gives a series of quick, jabbing thrusts, dick knocking the back into Frank’s throat, and then finally pulls Frank off.
He finally gets in a huge gasp of air, burning harshly into his lungs like a good first hit and rushing so hard to his head that he’d be floating if Gerard’s hands weren’t sinking him back down over his cock. Frank groans around his mouthful, suddenly all too aware of the sparking twinge in his jaw and how they fucking sound like porn.
Jaws. The porno. The Great White Dick.
And then he’s giggling so hard he can’t even breathe – and that shoots a wave of oh, hey! yes, this! down Frank’s spine so sharply that he actually shivers. And then he has to get his hands on himself – he’s fucking dying, already so close he’s seeing spots behind his closed lids and with each harsh thrust down his throat it’s only wrenching him closer. He scrabbles at his button-fly, trying hard to get just one undone, but then he just thinks fuck it and starts jacking himself through his jeans, thankfully loose enough to get some really good (if almost too rough) friction.
Groaning loud, only to be cut off again by Gerard’s dick, Frank squeezes himself through the denim and presses farther down until he really is choking, until his eyes water and he has to stave off his gag-reflex to get more, to go deeper and fucking hold it – his heart and head skip-flickering in and out of focus.
Gerard pulls him off, says, “Fucking breathe, Frankie.”
“Can’t. Don’t wanna,” Frank tries for, but his voice is so fucking wrecked that it just sounds like a gravelly dissent. He shuffles closer, one hand still gripping and squeezing his dick over his pants, and then buries Gerard’s dick down his throat, swallowing hard. But it works – has Gerard groaning up at the stars and thrusting up into Frank’s mouth again.
“Oh, my god, Frank. Oh, my – fuck.” Gerard’s fucking loud, falling apart and edging closer and closer until he says, “Frank, Frank,” like a warning and tries to shove him off with his hand a hot grip around Frank’s throat, his thumb pressing right below Frank’s adam’s apple – he’s not actually cutting off Frank’s air, but just the thought that he has that sort of control right now… Frank’s eyes snap open and he cries out around his mouthful as Gerard begins to lose it.
Seeing fucking stars, Frank bucks against his own hand, shaking hard and coming hot and tacky into his jeans, barely noting the fact that Gerard’s coming too – still coming, so much that Frank has to let some dribble out and swallow quick before he starts heaving in great gulps of air, coughing and hacking. His head’s going to explode. Gerard’s a static weight above him, petting over his head, his face. It takes Frank a few minutes to realize he’s resting his face against Gerard’s thigh with one of Gerard’s hand’s cupping his jaw to keep his mouth open and – oh.
Stuttering a sigh, Frank squeezes his eyes shut again, and shakily lifts his hand to Gerard’s forearm, fingers tangling in the fabric of his hoodie. When he finally gets the energy, Frank opens his eyes and blinks up at Gerard through the pounding haze of his head. He smiles dazedly and then closes his eyes again, feeling so entirely fucked out and safer than he’s felt since he left home.
Frank wakes to that rocking motion again, and this time, even though he’s still clinging to the edges of his half-dream blankness, Frank’s already smiling to himself and thinking Gerard and fuck yeah because he’s on a mattress.
“Hey…hey, Frankie,” Gerard’s graveling, “Man, you gotta get up if you want to shower. Otter’ll leave our asses here; you know he will, c’mon.”
Not even bothering to open his eyes, Frank says, “How’d you even manage to get me in here?” and ignores the echoing pound of his head. His voice is still shot, and that sends a little zing of a reminder of last night – just enough to make his breath hitch, hazy and fucking hot right down his spine.
Gerard mumbles something half-assed in response that makes Frank think he probably dropped him a few times, and then says, “Hey, so, um.”
Frank opens his eyes, rolling over to blink at Gerard, pale face outlined by the dark shock of hair. He’s just as pretty as always, even though he’s wearing his stupid Death Star pajama pants and he still has pillow lines on his face and Frank feels sort of like he’s in hangover purgatory. Another beer would be nice right about now. Beer and a good morning blow job. “’Um’ what?”
“’Um’ last night you were trying to choke yourself on my dick ‘um,’” Gerard bitches. His eyes widen and his mouth screws a bit to the side and then he sits down on the mattress beside Frank. “I didn’t. I mean, like, I just. Wanted to talk about that a bit.” He runs a hand through his hair, tucking bits behind his ears and blinking hard like he’s concentrating on what’s going to come out of his mouth next for once. “Like, you sounded like you were dying, Frank.”
“So?” Frank says, blanching. Realizing he sounds defensive, he gruffly clears his throat and says a little slower, “Whatever, I mean. I just…” he trails off into a shrug. “So, what?”
“I – what do you know about, um.” Gerard stops short, licking his lips and then making direct eye contact with Frank. “Have you done that before? Like, on purpose?”
“What do you mean?”
“Like breathplay type of shit?” At Frank’s furrowed brow, Gerard huffs a breath and then says, “Either having someone choke you or control your air or like…choking yourself while you’re jackin’ off or something.”
“Oh,” Frank says. He bites his lip, feeling the blush rise to his cheeks, because he didn’t even know that was, like, a legitimate thing. He had no fucking clue.
“Not that you should ever do that alone, because it’s really fucking dangerous, like. I’m pretty sure that’d be like the most embarrassing way to die ever, plus you can’t fucking die, alright? Because I’d –”
“I – No, no, I’ve never done that. I hadn’t even really thought about it before,” Frank interrupts before Gerard works himself into a panic attack. “I’ve never had someone do that to me before, but I guess. I guess I thought about it sometimes.” He tries, and fails, to stop blushing.
Taking a few deep breaths, Gerard seems to calm himself enough to think about what Frank’s said instead of all of the various scenarios he’s made up in the past ten seconds. By then he’s blushing too, and then he says, “Well, I mean. If I’d known that beforehand, I would’ve like. We could’ve established a safe-action or whatever.” And then his blush deepens, and he coughs a little before he says, “But at least we’ll know for next time.”
A smile splits Frank’s face, and he says, “Fuck yeah,” not even trying to stifle his enthusiasm.
Not even half a second later, Toro’s pounding on the door, shouting, “We leave in ten!” and Gerard’s looking pleased, albeit still a bit bashful. Frank tugs him closer, planting a smacking kiss right on his mouth. Toro knocks again, and Frank pulls back, yells, “Got it, man.”
“Okay,” Gerard says quietly, smiling that fucking stunning tiny-teeth grin that makes Frank want to die a little. He gaze flickers down to Frank’s mouth and then back up to his eyes. “Okay,” he repeats, “So, shower?”
Frank looks at him a little dubiously, clutches dramatically at his chest and says, “You? You, Gerard Way, are volunteering to shower?”
“Oh, no,” Gerard says, giving Frank a grin. “You can, but I’m going to just –” and he pretends to make for the door, but allows Frank to yank him back down on the bed until they really do have to shower or Toro will actually give Otter permission to leave them.
Post-show, Gerard usually grabs a couple of beers and holes up in the van to work off the adrenaline fidgets in the same way that Frank has to either get to a bathroom stall or find a warm body. Lately though, they’ve been killing their birds with the same stone, or something, and getting off together in the van and then cracking beers to share in post-coital arguments over, as of late, whether Order of the Phoenix would be as good as Goblet of Fire and whether the film adaptations are as good as the books. (Gerard says nay, Frank says yea.)
Their entire ride home to Jersey, though, Frank rides in the third row squished between Gerard and a box of leftover merch. Gerard had politely declined any hand or mouth action, and instead huddled up in his hoodie and leaned against the window. Frank gives him the stank-eye for most of the trip, but he doesn’t think Gerard notices, so Frank pouts and instead rips up a receipt he finds in the merch box and launches that shit into Toro’s hair.
Otter gets dropped off first with a half-assed salute, then Toro because he’s next closest, and by then Gerard’s driving, droopy-eyed and scowling and still safer than Mikeyway on a good day.
“Um, you missed my turn, Gee,” Frank pipes up after he notices they’re heading east instead of west. “I live that-a-way.”
Gerard doesn’t meet Frank’s eyes in the rearview mirror or anything, just shrugs and says, “You can spend the night with us,” like he hadn’t realized he was driving home on auto-pilot. Frank does that too sometimes. And whatever, he likes the Way house almost as much as his own house. It’s not like he’ll be a functioning human for a good 36 hours anyway – his family can wait.
They pull into the garage with a mild bit of scrapeage and Frank just laughs because Mikey still hasn’t woken up. He licks his finger and then shoves it in Mikey’s ear while Gerard cuts the engine. It takes a while to get coordinated, but they all shuffle in the house with minimal damage, saying more to themselves than each other that they’ll sort through their bags in the morning. Frank stumbles behind Mikey like he usually does, because Gerard’s weirdly territorial about who’s allowed in his room at night – which Frank doesn’t get at all – but then Gerard yanks the back of his shirt.
“Whoawhoawhoa,” Frank manages. He practically brains himself on Mikey, stutter-stepping to a stop as Gerard tugs him backward.
“Um,” Gerard says.
Mikey turns around just enough to roll his eyes and say, “Whatever. Goodnight.” Gerard blushes, Frank notes, and then he’s dragging Frank toward the hall outside the kitchen so they can get to the basement. Frank’s down with whatever as long as he gets to be horizontal and soon because he’s never been so tired in his motherfucking life.
When they finally traipse all the way down the stairs – and Frank does run into Gerard’s back when he stops short in front of the bed – Gerard fixes Frank with a look. It says a plethora of things. Mostly that he can barely keep his eyes open, just like Frank, but it’s also something like a promise. “Sleep first, kinky sex later.”
And well...yeah, fine. Frank can work with that.
Somewhere around fifteen hours later, Frank wakes to Gerard’s elbow smushed against his nose, his knee in Frank’s groin, and the niggling urge to unleash the fury held in his bladder. Frank snorts to himself, because he’s fucking funny, and then wriggles around until he’s free from Gerard’s pointy bits.
It’s the best piss of his life, and just as he’s thinking about how it should be written somewhere in the history books, Gerard shuffles in, urges Frank to scoot over, and wow, yep, they’re crossing streams like it’s neither super weird nor super gay. Frank shakes himself off, washes his hands, and then dives back into the warm spot Gerard left, groaning loudly as he personifies a starfish and then curls up in a ball and burrows into the comforter. “Your bed is magic, Gee,” he calls.
Gerard appears in the doorway, a tangled, frumpy mess. He basically flops down onto the bed with little to no regard for Frank’s person, and falls asleep almost immediately. Frank hates him for it a little bit, but then commits Gerard’s stupid cherubic fucking face to memory because he can’t not.
There’s still the ache of sleepiness in Frank’s spine, warring with a consuming kind of hunger that comes from too much sleep, not enough to eat over the past month, and remnants of weed. Mr. and Mrs. Way aren’t upstairs when Frank raids the kitchen and there’s no sign of Mikey either. Frank prefers to take this as a blessing -- at least this way he can plead ignorance later about his (or, more likely, Gerard’s) too loud sex noises.
And, just for that, he cranks the heat up since no one’s there to watch either. He’s sick of this cold bullshit.
He grabs an armful of colorful packaging – Doritos, Cheetos, Oreos, along with cans of 7Up – that all crinkle in distress, and sleepily stumbles back toward the basement, ready for another round of sleep sometime between sex and snacking. He uses his foot to shut the door behind him, carefully balancing all of the snackage while popping the tab on his own can of pop. Touring really fucking does take it out of them – Gerard’ll probably be a slump of snores for another day or so, and Frank probably won’t be any better. He’s normally laid up with bronchitis or something vaguely flu-like right after tour, so Frank’s counting his blessings. He’ll take a little exhaustion and dehydration over hacking up his lungs any day.
And, yep, that thought still gives way to the fucking choke me, please path, in case that was an issue.
But it’s like all of the exhaustion is sucked up into a vacuum as soon as he reaches the bottom of the steps, because Gerard is up, for one thing, and he’s fixing Frank with that same look that promised so many things the night before. Frank doesn’t even know how to explain it, but it’s like he just knows. Something big’s about to go down, and yeah, Frank’s found his second wind. He makes a breathy, “Heh,” noise as his knees jellify.
Frank drops the snacks down on Gerard’s desk and fumbles to chug his 7Up. The can crunches in Frank’s grip before he sets it down, empty.
The corner of Gerard’s mouth tilts into a smirk.
“So,” Gerard says casually, “I figure we’re both pretty fucking sober by now, yeah?” He saunters, actually saunters, closer, running his fingertips down Frank’s jaw to his neck, leaving his thumb nudged against Frank’s adam’s apple. “Think you’re down for a little play before we’re dead to the world again?”
Frank nods, dumb with the massive wave of heat that radiates from the bottom of his gut, hottest where Gerard’s fingers meet his skin in those five teasingly light points.
“Gotta hear you say it, Frankie,” Gerard croons. He removes his hand, to which Frank whines, but sidles closer, drawn like a magnet, hovering just out of reach. “From now on, we’ve gotta be clear about what – about what we want. If this is what you want.” He leans closer, eyes hazy before they flit down to Frank’s lips. “Is this what you want?”
“Yes,” Frank whispers. “Yeah, Gee, fuckin’ – I want it so bad, want you. Fucking duh.”
Swaying forward, Frank leans up to get at Gerard’s mouth, getting maybe two seconds of lip-to-lip contact before Gerard steps out of reach, tugging Frank’s hands down from his face when Frank didn’t even know he did that. His lips are still sticky-sweet with lemon lime, and now vaguely minty, as if Gerard brushed his teeth without prompting. Gerard’s fingers are secure around his wrists, digging slightly into the gap between his bones.
Gerard says, “Good,” and then walks toward his bed, stripping off his jacket, hoodie, and two shirts en route. Frank almost wants to laugh, because they had literally just fallen into bed last night. It had been chilly and the van’s heat didn’t work, so Frank’s just about as bundled up. Plus, Frank’s so fucking aroused that he can hardly see straight. Now is so not the time for laughing. “So,” Gerard continues, “what’s your safeword then?”
“Uh…cephalopod,” Frank eventually says, still frozen where he stands, dumbly watching Gerard undress.
It seems to throw Gerard for a loop, because he’s furrowing his brows, looking down at the carpet while he bites his lip and seemingly scans probable sex-conversation topics or random exclamations for the word before he nods and says, “Alright. Cephalopod, then.” He starts the awkward shimmy out of his jeans, hooking his thumbs in his briefs to tug them down in concert.
Frank doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do. This is his first…scene, he guesses, and it doesn’t look like Gerard’s out of his element or anything, so –
“Take off your clothes, Frankie, c’mon.”
And, yes, instructions, okay. Frank’s got this.
He tugs at the bottom hems of his hoodie and shirts, wrenching them over his head with finesse that may be slightly lacking. Questions fly through Frank’s head a mile a minute – Pants too? Should I come closer? Does he want me on the bed? Is my hair sticking up? Should I just get to my knees? – and then Frank laughs, snorts, really, because Gerard is totally rubbing off on him, because what the fuck. Since when does he think so much? Frank takes a deep breath, exhales through his nose, and stands there looking expectantly at Gerard.
Gerard looks pleased.
“Pants and shorts, too.”
As soon as Frank is naked as the day he was born, Gerard steps closer, tugging Frank to sit on his bed. It actually smells clean, too, only a little bit rank from their tour clothes and hours of sleep, so Frank thinks that maybe Gerard bribed Mikey before they left for tour. Gerard shuffles over to his nightstand, flicking on the lamp and mumbling to himself as he sifts through action figures and Copics for supplies. Because apparently they need supplies.
“Are you going to fuck me?” Frank asks. He bites his lip as soon as the words escape, because, wow, he really has no idea how this is going to go.
Gerard turns slightly. “Is that what you want?” he asks.
Frank gulps. And then he really thinks about it, because yeah, he’s sort of been wanting this for a while – van hook ups do not equal adequate time to thoroughly explore, even if Gerard has figured out that Frank’s a hair-trigger when receiving a prostate massage – but he doesn’t want it to suck. They’re both still pretty much physically exhausted. But, then again…Frank wants it.
“Please,” he finally says, a short burst after a lengthy inhale.
Nothing particularly special happens right after Frank makes his confession. Gerard keeps rummaging in the drawer and humming to himself – it sounds sort of like the new melody he and Ray have been working on, but taken in a completely different direction, almost saucy. Definitely saucy, if the way Gerard’s moving his hips is any indication. After a few more moments, where Frank feels eight kinds of awkward, Gerard dumps a strip of condoms and a tube of lube onto the pillow. He keeps rummaging, though, and then finally grumbles and wheels around, says, “Pants.”
In the shallow depths of Gerard’s pockets are the van keys, which he promptly holds out for Frank. “Um?”
Gerard furrows his brows, confused as to why Frank is confused, and then he goes, “Oh, right. So, since I’m going to have my hand around your throat, ya know, while I fuck you, you might not be able to say your safeword.” Frank sort of gulps at that, because fuck, but Gerard trudges on, “I want you to hold these in your fist. Not too tightly, because I don’t want you to give yourself a flesh wound or anything, but tight enough. If you want me to stop, for any reason, just drop them.” Gerard fixes Frank with a look of extreme concentration, even more serious than when he’d asked Frank to join the band. And, wow. That’s. Wow. “Got it?”
Nodding, and countering Gerard’s seriousness with a gulp, Frank says, “Yes,” as clearly as he can manage.
“You’re quiet,” Gerard points out, but then his eyes drop to Frank’s groin, and he continues with, “and hard.” He smiles, that crooked grin that makes Frank’s heart flutter all un-fuckin’-syncopated. “You ready?”
“Definitely,” Frank answers.
Just like that, Gerard smirks and it’s like the air thickens with electric tension, already leaving Frank breathless. Gerard steps forward, nudging Frank’s knees apart so that he can sidle up between them.
Maybe it should be weird that they’re totally going to do it in Gerard’s childhood bed. With Mikey and Mr. and Mrs. Way probably just right up the stairs, oh god.
With little more than a kiss and an “Mmm,” Gerard shuts Frank’s thoughts down to the immediate – to Gerard’s body settled over his own, to Gerard’s mouth being all insistent and searching, to Gerard’s hands on his face, soothing the starchy strands away. Gerard twists Frank’s face away to whisper, “I’ll take care of you,” in Frank’s ear. It makes Frank want to grow out his hair just so that Gerard can wrench him away with a sharp little sting, because, apparently, Frank’s masochism isn’t going to be a problem between them.
Gerard nips at Frank’s ear lobe and then trails down to his throat, little stinging nips and then the wet balm of Gerard’s tongue. Without any warning, Gerard’s hand goes to Frank’s throat at the same time he settles down to grind their crotches together.
Chuckling, Gerard muses, “I think I know what you want.” He tightens his grip, until the inner part of his knuckle bumps against Frank’s adam’s apple. “You want this, right? Think you want my hand around your throat, just like this –” He gives another squeeze, tight enough to make Frank’s vision go a little fuzzy. “—But you don’t. You want this.” Gerard shifts his hand, and in the brief moment of no pressure Frank gasps in a breath, but then the line of Gerard’s thumb and forefinger is pressing up into the softness under Frank’s chin and Frank’s next breath is a struggle. Frank swallows, and his eyes unfocus with the way it’s so much more intense.
His throat feels thick, the column sticking together and clicking apart just like when he’s laid up with a fever and decongestants. Gerard keeps his hand there, and Frank hears the smile in his voice when he says, “Oh, yeah, you’re gonna fuckin’ lose it in no time.” And yeah, that’s a fuckin’ guarantee. Frank could have told him that fifteen minutes ago.
Gerard removes his hand, and Frank whines as soon as he gets the breath, but instead of leaving Frank wanting, Gerard smooths a palm down his shoulder, his arm, his wrist, murmuring soft sounds in Frank’s ear.
The keys are warm in Frank’s grip.
“Think you can handle this while I get you ready?” Gerard asks. He takes Frank’s hand, the one empty and clutching at the sheets, between his own, shaping it just the way he wants. “Like this,” he says, pressing it to where Gerard’s had been. It’s not the same, not at all, but then Gerard says, “You control how much air you get. I’ll let you know if it’s too much or not enough until I think you’re ready. Got it?”
Frank nods, wriggling a little restlessly across the bed. “Sure do, oh Captain, my Captain.” He half expects Gerard to pinch or smack him, but all he does is give Frank’s cock a little squeeze and say, “If you’re givin’ me sass, you’re obviously not pressing hard enough.”
It’s a bit touch-and-go for a little while, mostly because Gerard sticks two fingers up Frank’s ass straight away and doesn’t let up until Frank’s squeaking out, “Uncle!” Frank is mostly floating at that point, waiting for the good part as patiently as he knows how – which isn’t all that patiently – and following Gerard’s intermittent instructions to “press down” or “lighten up” or “relax” or whatever.
Gerard seems to get bored, or judge Frank to be stretched enough, because not too long after he’s folding Frank’s legs back, which is really not all that comfortable, and smacking Frank’s hand aside so that he holds the reins. “You good?” he asks breathlessly.
With an enthusiastic nod, Frank grabs hold of Gerard’s wrist and says, “Hurry the fuck up, man,” because he may or may not be just a little pushy when he’s getting laid. He grabs hold of Gerard’s wrist, fingers digging into the delicate skin over the knobby bones. “I’m fuckin’ great. I’d be better if you were –” He breaks off into a wheeze, because all at once Gerard’s nudging his cock against Frank’s ass and shifting to press his thumb back up into that softness under Frank’s chin. “Yeah.” It’s slow going, though, because Gerard isn’t pressing his dick inside just yet, and Frank’s panting, wanting to ask what the fuck is the fucking hold up.
“Patient, baby,” Gerard murmurs. He shifts to his elbows on either side of Frank’s head, his body soft and perfectly heavy over Frank. It makes Frank a bit panicky – because, claustrophobia, hello – but Gerard’s in his ear, muttering things like, “Just wait, you’ll thank me in a bit.” And Frank supposes he’s right, because right after that he gets his other thumb pressed alongside the first, and Frank’s wheezing, and fucking grateful for the pressure on his ribs.
This is gonna fucking kill him.
Not literally, hopefully, because that’s kind of the whole point of Gerard being in this with him. Frank’s not dumb enough to take something like this on his own and run with it. He’s in his favorite band – a band that’s actually gonna fuckin’ make it, he can feel it, and he’s not going to throw it all away for an orgasm, no matter how fucking intense it might be.
Gerard lets up for a couple of beats, still not fucking inside yet, and says, “Shh, shh. You’re spacing already, man, shit,” and then smirks because he’s a fucking asshole.
“You ever gonna fuck me,” Frank starts, but wow, only the words come out in glass shard fragments, sharp and shattered. He ends up cutting off into a noise that he honestly can’t classify, all soft and broken and needy.
It makes Gerard’s hips jump, and then he’s leaning closer, all pressure on Frank’s throat forgotten as he slats their mouths together, fists a hand in Frank’s hair even though the strands are too short, just grinding against his hole and smearing lube everywhere. He’s mumbling something against Frank’s lips, but the words get lost, so Frank just nods and kisses Gerard back. Somewhere in the middle of that, one of Gerard’s hands comes back up and jesus fucking christ if that doesn’t sweeten the deal, the heat of his palm on Frank’s face and the pressure of his thumb against Frank’s throat making Frank dizzy as fuck.
With very little warning – literally only the hand leaving Frank’s hair – Gerard guides his dick through the mess of lube and presses inside, hard, until he’s stretching Frank open around him. For a few moments, Frank can’t do anything but gape sightlessly at the headboard and struggle for breath. His vision sparks at the corners, and finally Gerard lets off, leaving Frank gasping and mouthing, “Oh, my god, oh, my god,” to himself a million times over, numb to everything apart from the burn in his lungs and the ache of Gerard’s cock in his ass.
There are noises that Frank vaguely registers – “God, Frank, so fuckin’...gah, you’re fuckin’ great, doin’ so good, baby.” -- but he’s lost. He’s fucking gone, because Gerard’s cranking his hips and his dick is thick and hard and hot as fuck and Frank is trembling. He can’t breathe, and it’s so good he can’t stand it.
Eventually, he gathers the wits to stare at Gerard, the “seeing the face of god” expression cracking Frank the fuck up as Gerard thrusts faster and lets up on the choking so Frank can heave in a breath. As soon as he does, though, he’s giggling hysterically, his head so light he feels fucking high.
“You good?” Gerard asks, panting. Every thrust puffs another hot breath over Frank’s face and he’s so busy laughing and not-breathing that he barely remembers he has a dick until Gerard reaches down and palms it. His thumb nudges back against Frank’s throat, cutting his laughter off right when he’s about to take in another breath.
Heat crawls up Frank’s spine, settling between each notch to burn degrees brighter and echoing even hotter in his belly, consuming him whole as he comes.
And comes and comes and comes, like he can’t stop. Because Gerard’s still fucking him, hard and fast and desperate, and every couple of thrusts nail Frank’s prostate, sending pleasure-pain sparking over Frank’s skin until he’s practically dying and still gasping like a fish out of water.
“You can still drop the keys, fuck, if you need to,” Gerard grits out. Frank’s trembling, shaking with the way his cock won’t go down and the wetness between their bellies
His throat’s on fire, but Frank manages, “Keep going,” around hiccuping gulps of air. And he just kind of holds on while Gerard rides his ass hard, listening to the litany of Frank’s name among curses and praises and his own gasps for breath. Gerard’s close, just about to lose it, when he closes his fist around Frank’s cock again.
The “ah,” from Frank’s throat almost sounds panicked, definitely pained, and probably too loud. Frank’s legs kick out on their own accord, his heels coming back down to dig into the backs of Gerard’s thighs, skidding off of the sweaty skin and snagging into the comforter. He whines and comes again, thinking what the fuck is this shit, feeling like it’s punched out of him before Gerard tenses and grinds in hard and deep – so fucking deep Frank feels like he should be able to taste it, jesus – a few more times before he follows suit. He gasps and twitches and buries his face in Frank’s sweaty neck.
There’s a quiet, musical thunk as the keys drop to the floor.
Frank cracks the fuck up.
“Did you just –” He stops because he still can’t really catch his breath, and Gerard’s basically dead weight on top of him with no immediate intention to move. Instead, he finally curls both hands around Gerard’s back, drifting along the overheated skin until Gerard finally pulls up.
Gerard’s face is flushed and sweaty, his hair’s damp and half smeared over his forehead, curled along his cheeks, and his eyes are blown. He smiles down at Frank, who giggles, because this whole thing is fucking ridiculous. Frank came twice – this is quite obviously the best sex Frank has ever had. Ever.
“Thanks,” Gerard replies, and okay, Frank’s saying this shit out loud. No problem.
“But seriously. Where the fuck -- how the fuck did you --”
“Art school, remember?”
Shoving at the cheeky bastard’s chest, Frank wriggles around until Gerard gets the hint and pulls out with a wince. Gerard bends to grab something off the floor – and yeah, props to him because Frank can’t feel his extremities and his head’s still a pile of mush. He barely registers the scrape of fabric across his belly and then his asshole, but, yep, those are Gerard’s comfort undies and he’s cleaning the jizz from Frank’s stomach.
“Gross,” Frank comments and then snorts because those briefs are rank. He’s probably doing more harm than good, just smearing the mess around. “You really need to throw those away, Gerard. They’re two more uses away from sentience.”
Gerard rolls onto his back beside Frank and retorts, “Your face is two more uses away from sentience,” even though it doesn’t make any sense.
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Your face doesn’t make any –” Frank pinches Gerard’s hip and flips over on top of him, tickling Gerard’s ribs because Frank fights dirty. “Hah, stop, stop!” His cock grazes Gerard’s belly and he practically convulses, though, because he is so far past oversensitive that there isn’t even a word. “Karma!” Gerard crows.
“Not karma, you ass, you fucking broke my dick making me come twice in a row, who fucking does that?”
“Sex wizards.” Gerard doesn’t even get it all out before he’s laughing at himself and Frank’s expression, probably, because then he goes, “I know, I know, shut the fuck up. I was already embarrassed as I was saying it, jesus.” He covers his face with his hands, and something about the movement pooches up his stomach and Frank’s chest – still burning from the effects of the whole choking thing, wow – feels all weird and tight and fluttery.
He smacks at Gerard’s belly because he knows Gerard will uncover his face to smack right back – and he does, laughing and shoving at Frank until he flops over beside him again. Frank goes easily, as he’s still weak as shit from the whole oxygen deprivation thing, and Gerard looks at him with his stupid sparkly eyes. “You’re an idiot,” Frank finally comments, stretching out with an arm cradling the back of his head since Gerard is an asshole pillow-snatcher. Frank scratches at a patch of dried jizz that Gerard missed and flicks it onto the sheets.
“No way, man,” Frank retorts, flopping his hand out to rest on Gerard’s belly. “You’re the one that tried to clean me up with – and hey, when was the last time you even showered?”
With a dramatic sigh, Gerard rolls onto his side so that he’s facing away from Frank.
“Oh, my god, you big baby.” Frank wriggles up against Gerard’s back, pressing his face right into the crook of his neck. He sniffs, obnoxiously, because he’s Frank, and then says, “You smell like sex. Scratch that, you smell like great sex.” Gerard doesn’t say anything but Frank feels the muscles in his neck tense, like he’s trying not to smile. Frank unburies his face, scooting even closer so that he can rest his chin on Gerard’s shoulder and wrap an arm around him. “Whatever. When we wake up, you’re doing that again.”
They do, actually, fuck again – quietly, this time, since the rest of the Ways are home for sure – after they’ve slept and eaten basically all of the junk food that Frank had brought down earlier. Frank accidentally scratches Gerard’s back all to shit with the keys and Gerard bruises fingerprints all along Frank’s jawline, leaving them both twinging and hissing as they finally pull apart.
Basically, it’s fucking awesome and Frank would like to do this every few hours each day for the rest of his life, thank you very much. He tells Gerard as much, and Gerard pulls him in and kisses him breathless, until he’s seeing fucking stars. Then Frank manages to convince Gerard to shower, and Gerard leans against his back and obligingly wraps a hand around Frank’s throat, not squeezing, just resting as a gentle weight, while Frank washes all the crusted come from his front.
When they finally resurface, limping with soreness, the next morning right before noon (just so it can still be considered morning), Mikey’s sitting at the kitchen table, half-asleep in his bowl of cereal. He blinks up at them as they file out of Gerard’s room.
Gerard says, “Morning, Mikes,” and Frank giggles hoarsely because, yeah, he’s sort of an obnoxious motherfucker. Mikey should be used to that by now. Gerard is.
Sighing, Mikey looks back down at his cereal and says, “I don’t wanna know.”
With a shrug, Gerard turns to get his mug from the cabinet by the fridge, his shirt riding up to reveal the pink bruising and red scratches along his hip. Frank comes up behind him, yanking Gerard’s shirt back down and quietly rasps, “Don’t wanna scandalize your brother’s delicate sensibilities.”
“Oh, my god,” Mikey groans, and then heaves another long-suffering sigh. He gets up and says, “I’m gonna throw up,” but he takes his cereal with him, so Frank calls bullshit, laughing the whole time.