Fic: The Beer Belly Effect - Frank/James, bandom
Title: The Beer Belly Effect
Pairing: Frank/James
Rating: Mature
Notes: Written for the
no_tags prompt: "Frank Iero/James Dewees - Leathermouth/Reggie tour, beer guts and sweat and hair." Thanks to
tuesdaysgone and
ataratah for beta.
Frank's seeking solace in the alley of the Middle East after the show, the van close enough to the side door of the club to make Frank's imagination easily slip to an action movie where Hambone has driven the van into the only safe place to escape the bad guys or the bomb. The sewer grate is steaming slightly near his feet, but it doesn't quite provide the action movie smoke effect.
“You look like you're thinking of making a run for it,” James says, catching the side door with his ankle so it doesn't slam and almost losing his shoe. He's wearing someone else’s shoes, untied Chucks that are too big.
“Whose shoes are those?”
“I don't fucking know, man, it's too hot for me to pay attention to shoes.”
It's actually a nice night out, but James is always hot, especially after shows. His hair is stringy and wet with sweat and the condensation from the beer bottle he keeps wiping over his temples in some vain attempt to cool off.
“No open containers on the van,” Frank says.
“It'll be empty in a minute,” James says. “So are you contemplating a hijacking?”
“Just needed to get out.” Frank's found he's even more likely to need this time outside, away from the crowds and the crew, after Leathermouth shows. He thinks the anger that comes out in his songs doesn't leave all the way and sits in his skin.
James runs the beer bottle over his belly, and condensation catches in the hair around his navel.
“Quite a beer gut you've got this tour,” Frank says.
“Hey, this is my normal beer gut. You're just noticing it because I'm dressing to accentuate my curves.”
He's still wearing the pink Hannah Montana cut-off shirt and the pink shorts with the waistband rolled so it sits right under his gut.
“Put some clothes on, man.”
“Am I turning you on too much? You gonna steal a van for me so we can run away into the sunset together?”
“Sunset was six hours ago. And the van is probably manual.”
“Are you trying to tell me you can't drive a stick? Because I know for a fact that you can.”
Frank has a sudden vivid memory of James' fingers tugging on his pot-smoke-soaked dreads as Frank mouthed his cock through ridiculous black cutoff cargo pants.
“What is your obsession with shorts anyway?” Frank says. James knocks back the rest of his beer. With his throat tipped back, his sweaty hair falls messily away from his face, and the sweat sheen on his jaw is kind of weirdly beautiful in the sodium light.
“My legs gotta be free,” James says. Hambone comes out the door, guitar case balanced across his shoulders.
“Just don't forget to get your legs on the van.”
“You hear that, turkeys? On the van, get on or get gone,” James shouts into the club. “Frank's taking the wheel, god save our souls. I know how this boy drives stick and let me tell you, it's gonna end messy.”
Frank finds himself idly brushing the hotel soap over and over his stomach in the shower the next morning. He doesn't have a beer gut, so much as... more. He likes the way his body feels like this, softer, rounder. He soaps the curve of his belly, soap bubbles catching in his pubic hair.
He doesn’t notice his change in weight as much when he’s naked. Not that it’s bad when he’s dressed, it’s just that he’s still not used to looking in the mirror and not seeing his sickly face staring back at him. It’s been months since he’s had more than a cough, and then only from singing lead rather than from being a germ magnet. He sleeps through the night every night. He was worried, at least a little bit, that going on tour would mean an end to this new thing where his body worked like it was supposed to, but it hasn’t turned out to be anything more than a worry. He even brought it up with Gerard last time they talked. That was a new thing, too, admitting how badly they had all run themselves down.
“Tour doesn’t have to mean that,” Gerard had said. “It’s not about driving yourself into the ground. Make it fun and you can show me how.”
“We had fun.”
“Yeah, we did, Frankie, but we had fun in Hell. Tell Dewees to make sure you eat more than pop tarts.”
“Fuck you, he’s not my keeper.”
“You’re my brothers, and you’re each other’s keepers,” Gerard had said.
He hasn’t talked about it outright with James, but he’d been there too, when Frank had basically collapsed after each show, when all of them had circles under their eyes so dark it seemed like they were wearing monster make-up. James had been there to hear Frank bitch about doctor's visits and having to remember to take pills before he ate. James had been there when Frank had finally felt like he could make music again without having to count on the adrenaline rush to get him through. And now James is here on this tour. Maybe Gerard wasn’t really being over-emotional about them being each other’s keepers.
He soaps his arms, and his thighs, and back over his stomach. He's still sleepy enough that he can convince himself he's not thinking of James when he fists his cock.
James is stripping off his Leathermouth white pants and zero t-shirt after the next night's show before he goes back on for Reggie. Frank is watching him, watching the damp shirt catch at his belly and then at his chin right before he pulls it over his head.
James drops the drumsticks he'd been holding and Frank startles hard.
“You know, I once stole a loaf of bread by tucking it under my shirt and pretending I was pregnant.”
“Fuck you,” Frank says.
“It was very convincing. Come here, you can feel it kick,” James says and presses Frank's hand to his stomach. Frank yanks his hand away, but not before the damp heat from James' skin makes him flush.
“Ten minutes,” the stage hand calls, and Frank bends to pick up the drumsticks for James just so that he can hide his face.
“You ok?” James asks, almost a whisper, like he doesn’t want to let anyone know he’s asking.
“I’m fine.”
“You know I’ve been there. When you finally get your shit together and you feel like maybe everybody liked it better when you were a mess.”
Frank wants to say that he doesn’t give a shit about what other people think, but what comes out is, “I didn’t like being a mess.”
“Good,” James says, and he takes the drumsticks and raises them like knives, stalking back off to stick them with the kit, completely uncaring that he’s not wearing anything but his boxers.
They're staying in one of those round hotels with windows facing the highway in every room. Frank's always disappointed when they check in that the sliding doors aren't actually curved. He steps out for a smoke before he goes to take a shower. His skin is tight with sweat, but his chest is still thrumming from the show and he wants to hang on to it for a while.
The key card lock on the door clicks and the door opens and shuts with a creak. James comes out onto the balcony with Frank and holds out his hand for a cigarette.
“How'd you get a key?”
“Stole your other one in the lobby,” James says.
“You pick-pocketed me and I didn't notice?”
“What, you think I'm an amateur?”
James is an amateur at nothing.
They finish their smokes in relative silence, James humming something Frank can't place. Inside, Frank has trouble getting the lock to catch, and when he looks over at James, he's pulling off his shirt.
“No, really, Frank, you think I'm an amateur?” In one swift movement, James pushes Frank onto the bed and climbs on top of him. “You think I really would miss your longing gazes at my beer gut?”
“I was not - ”
“Ok, I admit. I thought at first you were jealous, since you've got a small one yourself,” James says, and brushes his knuckles over Frank's belly like it's some erogenous zone, which, tonight, it really is. “It's ok to have a small gut, Frankie, I'm not a size queen.”
“Fuck you,” Frank laughs and tries to swat away James' hands, but James grabs his wrists and pushes him down, holds him there.
“I know what you want. Go ahead.”
“I don't - ” Frank half-heartedly struggles against James' grip. In the shift, his cock presses up against James' belly, and Frank groans and loses track of his protest.
“That's right, Frankie, that's it. You wanna rub your cock off on my gut? Come on, it'll feel so good - "
“You dirty fucker,” Frank says, as James pushes his knees into the mattress hard enough to make them bounce.
“This isn't dirty, Frankie, this is like the most vanilla thing you've ever wanted. That's ok,” James leans down and whispers, “plain still turns me on.” He leans up to bite at Frank's palm, and when Frank twists his wrist this time, James loosens his grip. Frank grabs his hair, greasy and still a little damp, with sweat at the roots, and digs his fingers in, pulls James in for a rough, needy kiss.
“Still remember how I like it,” James says, and nudges his head into Frank's hand again; Frank pulls again, tipping James' chin up, and Frank scrapes his teeth over the stubble.
“Even if I didn't remember, you're not subtle. Wearing your hair in your face like that, pushing it out with your arms, your fingers getting stuck - "
James stops Frank’s ramble with another kiss, greedy, and Frank surrenders into it, into the warm, familiar way James breathes when they're kissing.
“I like it when you like your body,” James says.
“I like yours, too.” Frank finally lets go of his uneasiness, of holding back, and pushes his hands up under James' shirt, gets his palms full of James' stomach.
“Cause and effect,” James says, and twists them so Frank is on top of him. “You want to do this with my shirt on or off?”
Frank wants to come back with a smart-ass remark, but the groan comes out of his mouth before he can stop it.
“On then,” James says quietly, and starts unbuttoning Frank's jeans. Frank kisses James again, which brings his hips in line with James'; the smell of sweat and James' ridiculous Old Spice deodorant, the feel of James moving underneath him to get Frank's pants down around his thighs, gets Frank so turned on he's arching against James, his kisses turning more into nips, just breathing against James' mouth, their lips sliding slick with spit.
“Jesus,” James says, and finally pulls Frank's jeans down, pulls his boxers down, cups his hands on Frank's ass and pushes him so they're lined up just right, just how Frank wants it. Frank's cock brushes the coarse hair of James' treasure trail, slides up over the curve of his stomach, catches at his belly button and then at the hem of his shirt. Frank makes a broken noise as the need rushes through him, as the feel of James under him undoes him. “That's right, Frankie, that's right,” James murmurs, his hands on Frank's back, holding him, rocking with him.
James' pants are starting to slip down, and Frank can feel the tip of his cock, wet with precome, brushing his thigh.
Frank's already so close, and he's thought about this for so long, fixated on this, and James gives him everything so easily. Frank rocks frantically, his cock almost too sensitive with the brush of James coarse belly hair, the rough hem of the shirt, but he's leaking and they're both sweaty and it's just enough.
“Gonna come on me, Frankie?” James asks and Frank swears and bucks hard, his cock slipping and catching at James's belly button again. “Gonna show me how much you want my fucking hot body?”
“Yeah,” Frank says, “yeah, want you so fucking much, you stud.”
“Show me, baby, show me how much this gut turns you on.” They're laughing together, and James holds Frank's bottom lip tight between his teeth and then sucks on it and Frank slides forward, cock against James' perfect stupid belly and comes hard, shaking and limbs heavy as fucking cement.
James's stomach is covered in white streaks, smearing as Frank trembles.
“Fuck,” James says, looking down at himself, then tipping his head back and reaching to undo his buckle.
Frank's mouth starts to water at the thought of James' hot, hard cock, and he hefts himself up pushes James' hands out of the way, cups the outline of James' cock through his briefs and sucks the head of it, pressing out just above the elastic, into his mouth. It only takes a few squeezes of his hand, a few laves of his tongue round and round the head before he can feel James' cock twitch and then he's coming.
Frank catches most of it and spits it out onto James' stomach and then smears it with his hand, mixing it with his own come.
“Jesus, you're fucking disgusting. That was so fucking hot, I'm gonna get it up again in record time.”
“And then what?” Frank asks.
“I'm gonna fuck your mouth.”
“Still remember what I like,” Frank says, and presses his forehead to the dirty mess on James' stomach and breathes in deep.
You can also read this entry on Dreamwidth (
comments)
Pairing: Frank/James
Rating: Mature
Notes: Written for the
no_tags prompt: "Frank Iero/James Dewees - Leathermouth/Reggie tour, beer guts and sweat and hair." Thanks to
tuesdaysgone and
ataratah for beta.
Frank's seeking solace in the alley of the Middle East after the show, the van close enough to the side door of the club to make Frank's imagination easily slip to an action movie where Hambone has driven the van into the only safe place to escape the bad guys or the bomb. The sewer grate is steaming slightly near his feet, but it doesn't quite provide the action movie smoke effect.
“You look like you're thinking of making a run for it,” James says, catching the side door with his ankle so it doesn't slam and almost losing his shoe. He's wearing someone else’s shoes, untied Chucks that are too big.
“Whose shoes are those?”
“I don't fucking know, man, it's too hot for me to pay attention to shoes.”
It's actually a nice night out, but James is always hot, especially after shows. His hair is stringy and wet with sweat and the condensation from the beer bottle he keeps wiping over his temples in some vain attempt to cool off.
“No open containers on the van,” Frank says.
“It'll be empty in a minute,” James says. “So are you contemplating a hijacking?”
“Just needed to get out.” Frank's found he's even more likely to need this time outside, away from the crowds and the crew, after Leathermouth shows. He thinks the anger that comes out in his songs doesn't leave all the way and sits in his skin.
James runs the beer bottle over his belly, and condensation catches in the hair around his navel.
“Quite a beer gut you've got this tour,” Frank says.
“Hey, this is my normal beer gut. You're just noticing it because I'm dressing to accentuate my curves.”
He's still wearing the pink Hannah Montana cut-off shirt and the pink shorts with the waistband rolled so it sits right under his gut.
“Put some clothes on, man.”
“Am I turning you on too much? You gonna steal a van for me so we can run away into the sunset together?”
“Sunset was six hours ago. And the van is probably manual.”
“Are you trying to tell me you can't drive a stick? Because I know for a fact that you can.”
Frank has a sudden vivid memory of James' fingers tugging on his pot-smoke-soaked dreads as Frank mouthed his cock through ridiculous black cutoff cargo pants.
“What is your obsession with shorts anyway?” Frank says. James knocks back the rest of his beer. With his throat tipped back, his sweaty hair falls messily away from his face, and the sweat sheen on his jaw is kind of weirdly beautiful in the sodium light.
“My legs gotta be free,” James says. Hambone comes out the door, guitar case balanced across his shoulders.
“Just don't forget to get your legs on the van.”
“You hear that, turkeys? On the van, get on or get gone,” James shouts into the club. “Frank's taking the wheel, god save our souls. I know how this boy drives stick and let me tell you, it's gonna end messy.”
Frank finds himself idly brushing the hotel soap over and over his stomach in the shower the next morning. He doesn't have a beer gut, so much as... more. He likes the way his body feels like this, softer, rounder. He soaps the curve of his belly, soap bubbles catching in his pubic hair.
He doesn’t notice his change in weight as much when he’s naked. Not that it’s bad when he’s dressed, it’s just that he’s still not used to looking in the mirror and not seeing his sickly face staring back at him. It’s been months since he’s had more than a cough, and then only from singing lead rather than from being a germ magnet. He sleeps through the night every night. He was worried, at least a little bit, that going on tour would mean an end to this new thing where his body worked like it was supposed to, but it hasn’t turned out to be anything more than a worry. He even brought it up with Gerard last time they talked. That was a new thing, too, admitting how badly they had all run themselves down.
“Tour doesn’t have to mean that,” Gerard had said. “It’s not about driving yourself into the ground. Make it fun and you can show me how.”
“We had fun.”
“Yeah, we did, Frankie, but we had fun in Hell. Tell Dewees to make sure you eat more than pop tarts.”
“Fuck you, he’s not my keeper.”
“You’re my brothers, and you’re each other’s keepers,” Gerard had said.
He hasn’t talked about it outright with James, but he’d been there too, when Frank had basically collapsed after each show, when all of them had circles under their eyes so dark it seemed like they were wearing monster make-up. James had been there to hear Frank bitch about doctor's visits and having to remember to take pills before he ate. James had been there when Frank had finally felt like he could make music again without having to count on the adrenaline rush to get him through. And now James is here on this tour. Maybe Gerard wasn’t really being over-emotional about them being each other’s keepers.
He soaps his arms, and his thighs, and back over his stomach. He's still sleepy enough that he can convince himself he's not thinking of James when he fists his cock.
James is stripping off his Leathermouth white pants and zero t-shirt after the next night's show before he goes back on for Reggie. Frank is watching him, watching the damp shirt catch at his belly and then at his chin right before he pulls it over his head.
James drops the drumsticks he'd been holding and Frank startles hard.
“You know, I once stole a loaf of bread by tucking it under my shirt and pretending I was pregnant.”
“Fuck you,” Frank says.
“It was very convincing. Come here, you can feel it kick,” James says and presses Frank's hand to his stomach. Frank yanks his hand away, but not before the damp heat from James' skin makes him flush.
“Ten minutes,” the stage hand calls, and Frank bends to pick up the drumsticks for James just so that he can hide his face.
“You ok?” James asks, almost a whisper, like he doesn’t want to let anyone know he’s asking.
“I’m fine.”
“You know I’ve been there. When you finally get your shit together and you feel like maybe everybody liked it better when you were a mess.”
Frank wants to say that he doesn’t give a shit about what other people think, but what comes out is, “I didn’t like being a mess.”
“Good,” James says, and he takes the drumsticks and raises them like knives, stalking back off to stick them with the kit, completely uncaring that he’s not wearing anything but his boxers.
They're staying in one of those round hotels with windows facing the highway in every room. Frank's always disappointed when they check in that the sliding doors aren't actually curved. He steps out for a smoke before he goes to take a shower. His skin is tight with sweat, but his chest is still thrumming from the show and he wants to hang on to it for a while.
The key card lock on the door clicks and the door opens and shuts with a creak. James comes out onto the balcony with Frank and holds out his hand for a cigarette.
“How'd you get a key?”
“Stole your other one in the lobby,” James says.
“You pick-pocketed me and I didn't notice?”
“What, you think I'm an amateur?”
James is an amateur at nothing.
They finish their smokes in relative silence, James humming something Frank can't place. Inside, Frank has trouble getting the lock to catch, and when he looks over at James, he's pulling off his shirt.
“No, really, Frank, you think I'm an amateur?” In one swift movement, James pushes Frank onto the bed and climbs on top of him. “You think I really would miss your longing gazes at my beer gut?”
“I was not - ”
“Ok, I admit. I thought at first you were jealous, since you've got a small one yourself,” James says, and brushes his knuckles over Frank's belly like it's some erogenous zone, which, tonight, it really is. “It's ok to have a small gut, Frankie, I'm not a size queen.”
“Fuck you,” Frank laughs and tries to swat away James' hands, but James grabs his wrists and pushes him down, holds him there.
“I know what you want. Go ahead.”
“I don't - ” Frank half-heartedly struggles against James' grip. In the shift, his cock presses up against James' belly, and Frank groans and loses track of his protest.
“That's right, Frankie, that's it. You wanna rub your cock off on my gut? Come on, it'll feel so good - "
“You dirty fucker,” Frank says, as James pushes his knees into the mattress hard enough to make them bounce.
“This isn't dirty, Frankie, this is like the most vanilla thing you've ever wanted. That's ok,” James leans down and whispers, “plain still turns me on.” He leans up to bite at Frank's palm, and when Frank twists his wrist this time, James loosens his grip. Frank grabs his hair, greasy and still a little damp, with sweat at the roots, and digs his fingers in, pulls James in for a rough, needy kiss.
“Still remember how I like it,” James says, and nudges his head into Frank's hand again; Frank pulls again, tipping James' chin up, and Frank scrapes his teeth over the stubble.
“Even if I didn't remember, you're not subtle. Wearing your hair in your face like that, pushing it out with your arms, your fingers getting stuck - "
James stops Frank’s ramble with another kiss, greedy, and Frank surrenders into it, into the warm, familiar way James breathes when they're kissing.
“I like it when you like your body,” James says.
“I like yours, too.” Frank finally lets go of his uneasiness, of holding back, and pushes his hands up under James' shirt, gets his palms full of James' stomach.
“Cause and effect,” James says, and twists them so Frank is on top of him. “You want to do this with my shirt on or off?”
Frank wants to come back with a smart-ass remark, but the groan comes out of his mouth before he can stop it.
“On then,” James says quietly, and starts unbuttoning Frank's jeans. Frank kisses James again, which brings his hips in line with James'; the smell of sweat and James' ridiculous Old Spice deodorant, the feel of James moving underneath him to get Frank's pants down around his thighs, gets Frank so turned on he's arching against James, his kisses turning more into nips, just breathing against James' mouth, their lips sliding slick with spit.
“Jesus,” James says, and finally pulls Frank's jeans down, pulls his boxers down, cups his hands on Frank's ass and pushes him so they're lined up just right, just how Frank wants it. Frank's cock brushes the coarse hair of James' treasure trail, slides up over the curve of his stomach, catches at his belly button and then at the hem of his shirt. Frank makes a broken noise as the need rushes through him, as the feel of James under him undoes him. “That's right, Frankie, that's right,” James murmurs, his hands on Frank's back, holding him, rocking with him.
James' pants are starting to slip down, and Frank can feel the tip of his cock, wet with precome, brushing his thigh.
Frank's already so close, and he's thought about this for so long, fixated on this, and James gives him everything so easily. Frank rocks frantically, his cock almost too sensitive with the brush of James coarse belly hair, the rough hem of the shirt, but he's leaking and they're both sweaty and it's just enough.
“Gonna come on me, Frankie?” James asks and Frank swears and bucks hard, his cock slipping and catching at James's belly button again. “Gonna show me how much you want my fucking hot body?”
“Yeah,” Frank says, “yeah, want you so fucking much, you stud.”
“Show me, baby, show me how much this gut turns you on.” They're laughing together, and James holds Frank's bottom lip tight between his teeth and then sucks on it and Frank slides forward, cock against James' perfect stupid belly and comes hard, shaking and limbs heavy as fucking cement.
James's stomach is covered in white streaks, smearing as Frank trembles.
“Fuck,” James says, looking down at himself, then tipping his head back and reaching to undo his buckle.
Frank's mouth starts to water at the thought of James' hot, hard cock, and he hefts himself up pushes James' hands out of the way, cups the outline of James' cock through his briefs and sucks the head of it, pressing out just above the elastic, into his mouth. It only takes a few squeezes of his hand, a few laves of his tongue round and round the head before he can feel James' cock twitch and then he's coming.
Frank catches most of it and spits it out onto James' stomach and then smears it with his hand, mixing it with his own come.
“Jesus, you're fucking disgusting. That was so fucking hot, I'm gonna get it up again in record time.”
“And then what?” Frank asks.
“I'm gonna fuck your mouth.”
“Still remember what I like,” Frank says, and presses his forehead to the dirty mess on James' stomach and breathes in deep.
You can also read this entry on Dreamwidth (
comments)