Fic: Indian Giver, F/G
Title: Indian Giver
Pairing: F/G
Rating: R
Prompted by disarm_d's recent porn battle. Obvs very late. Written for violentfires. Set in a future where Gerard lives in Portland.
They get up, finally, to answer the door, Gerard paying because he's the one wearing the bathrobe. Frank shoves the newspapers and dirty dishes onto the closest counter, sitting down with his elbows on the table, watching Gerard pull foil containers out of a paper bag.
"I can't believe I haven't blown you yet this weekend."
Frank peels the lid off a container, reaching for a plastic fork. "Yeah, dude, because fuck knows I've been suffering from a lack of orgasms. What?"
He doesn't need to look up to know that Gerard is rolling his eyes. But, honestly. He reaches for the napkins, wiping at a bright orange stain from sweet and sour yesterday afternoon.
"Still."
The chair across from Frank scrapes against tile, and Gerard appears under the umbrella of light--the only light in the house. Frank peels back another lid, reaching for another fork.
"Well, if you want, Gee, it's not like I'm going to stop you."
He glances up then, catching Gerard's eyes, dark and serious, and Frank doesn't really understand. They haven't been out of skin contact for longer than two minutes at any point in the last forty eight hours. Frank's actually lost track of the number of orgasms. "What?"
Gerard looks down at that, jabbing his fork into a container of daal, bringing a forkful up to his mouth. Frank reaches across the table and steals a forkful too, chewing before Gerard's even tried his. He grins, still chewing, deliberately ignoring the serious face Gerard's got going on. It's too soon to get all sad about the fact their time is always limited.
They still have another 24 hours before Frank has to go back to New Jersey.
Frank's just dug his fork into a container of rice, and he's looking more at that than anything Gerard's doing, so it comes as a surprise when the chair scrapes again and Gerard disappears. Frank drops his fork. "Gee?" And then he feels a hand on his knee and he looks under the table.
"What are you doing?"
"What's it look like, asshole?"
"What, now?"
"Indian's better than a blowjob?"
Frank starts to sigh, to answer, to argue that he's hungry, that they haven't eaten in a good 12 hours, and there's been a lot of acrobatic sex in between, but he doesn't get further into his diatribe than half a sigh before Gerard's licking the inside of Frank's thigh, broad strokes that go from thigh to sliding over the head of Frank's cock.
Even hungry and tired and really well-fucked, Frank responds. It's a tongue, on his cock. It's Gerard's tongue on his cock, Gerard on his knees, looking up at Frank.
"Oh Jesus."
He grins. "Nah, just Gerard'll do."
Frank rolls his eyes. "I can't believe you just--ohhhh---"
Frank learned, years ago, that Gerard's blowjobs kill all hope of complete sentences, so he doesn't bother anymore. He just pushes his fingers into Gerard's hair, and looks down, waits and watches--because Frank can't not watch when it looks this good--for Gerard to suck him down.
And, yeah, now that he has Gerard's mouth, he remembers how much he loves it, how good Gerard is at this after all this time, knowing just what makes Frank have to bite at his lip, what'll make him thrust up without meaning to. How to get him off in the quickest way--or slowest way--possible.
Tonight is definitely about Gerard, so Frank doesn't ask for anything, doesn't say anything, just keeps his hands in Gerard's hair, keeps watching him, letting his breath catch where it wants to, tiny sounds to tell Gerard he appreciates it.
"I love you," he says, when Gerard presses his tongue flat, licking only the head of his cock, and Frank has to close his eyes because he's overwhelmed.
Gerard doesn't reply but he does hum. He knows what humming does to Frank.
"Shit-" Fuck gentle. Frank's fingers twist up in Gerard's hair, his ass sliding forward on the chair, trying to get closer, trying to force Gerard to take more.
He does.
Frank's orgasm surprises him; it almost shouldn't be possible for him to come again, but somehow he does, away from the table and Indian takeaway and one more day. Away from everything but Gerard's hair between his fingers, Gerard's mouth on his cock.
He comes back slowly, over-sated, looking down as he lets his hand unclench from Gerard's hair. He lets it slide down, cup Gerard's cheek, pet across his cheekbone, around the curve of his ear. Gerard leans against Frank's knee, still folded ungainly-elegant under the table.
"Thanks." His voice is hoarse; he doesn't remember making noise, but maybe he did.
Gerard shrugs, but doesn't move any more than it takes for him to kiss the inside of Frank's knee. Frank's hand goes back to his hair, petting it flat a bit, as if a few strokes will undo 48 hours of bedhead.
He looks at the table, and the food there.
"Uh. Have we had enough of a moment?"
Gerard snorts. "I suck your brain out through your cock, and you're still thinking about food."
"I don't need rational thought to be hungry."
Gerard snorts again, starting to shuffle back to his side of the table, but Frank catches the edge of the frown that's about to bloom. Well, shit. Even though it's awkward and his stomach complains with a growl, Frank slides off his chair and under the table too. Gerard looks at him, half sprawled across his knees. Frank leans in and kisses him, tasting himself.
"Hi."
"What--"
"We can totally eat under the table. Don't worry about getting up." He smiles at Gerard, deliberately over the top. He moves his thigh further up Gerard's; his bare foot squeaks against the linoleum.
"Fine, okay." Gerard relents first with words, then with body language, smearing a sigh-kiss along Frank's temple. Frank leans in, lips on the bite he left sometime when the sun shone, waiting until Gerard relaxes against him before speaking.
"I love you. Can you pass the naan?"
Pairing: F/G
Rating: R
Prompted by disarm_d's recent porn battle. Obvs very late. Written for violentfires. Set in a future where Gerard lives in Portland.
They get up, finally, to answer the door, Gerard paying because he's the one wearing the bathrobe. Frank shoves the newspapers and dirty dishes onto the closest counter, sitting down with his elbows on the table, watching Gerard pull foil containers out of a paper bag.
"I can't believe I haven't blown you yet this weekend."
Frank peels the lid off a container, reaching for a plastic fork. "Yeah, dude, because fuck knows I've been suffering from a lack of orgasms. What?"
He doesn't need to look up to know that Gerard is rolling his eyes. But, honestly. He reaches for the napkins, wiping at a bright orange stain from sweet and sour yesterday afternoon.
"Still."
The chair across from Frank scrapes against tile, and Gerard appears under the umbrella of light--the only light in the house. Frank peels back another lid, reaching for another fork.
"Well, if you want, Gee, it's not like I'm going to stop you."
He glances up then, catching Gerard's eyes, dark and serious, and Frank doesn't really understand. They haven't been out of skin contact for longer than two minutes at any point in the last forty eight hours. Frank's actually lost track of the number of orgasms. "What?"
Gerard looks down at that, jabbing his fork into a container of daal, bringing a forkful up to his mouth. Frank reaches across the table and steals a forkful too, chewing before Gerard's even tried his. He grins, still chewing, deliberately ignoring the serious face Gerard's got going on. It's too soon to get all sad about the fact their time is always limited.
They still have another 24 hours before Frank has to go back to New Jersey.
Frank's just dug his fork into a container of rice, and he's looking more at that than anything Gerard's doing, so it comes as a surprise when the chair scrapes again and Gerard disappears. Frank drops his fork. "Gee?" And then he feels a hand on his knee and he looks under the table.
"What are you doing?"
"What's it look like, asshole?"
"What, now?"
"Indian's better than a blowjob?"
Frank starts to sigh, to answer, to argue that he's hungry, that they haven't eaten in a good 12 hours, and there's been a lot of acrobatic sex in between, but he doesn't get further into his diatribe than half a sigh before Gerard's licking the inside of Frank's thigh, broad strokes that go from thigh to sliding over the head of Frank's cock.
Even hungry and tired and really well-fucked, Frank responds. It's a tongue, on his cock. It's Gerard's tongue on his cock, Gerard on his knees, looking up at Frank.
"Oh Jesus."
He grins. "Nah, just Gerard'll do."
Frank rolls his eyes. "I can't believe you just--ohhhh---"
Frank learned, years ago, that Gerard's blowjobs kill all hope of complete sentences, so he doesn't bother anymore. He just pushes his fingers into Gerard's hair, and looks down, waits and watches--because Frank can't not watch when it looks this good--for Gerard to suck him down.
And, yeah, now that he has Gerard's mouth, he remembers how much he loves it, how good Gerard is at this after all this time, knowing just what makes Frank have to bite at his lip, what'll make him thrust up without meaning to. How to get him off in the quickest way--or slowest way--possible.
Tonight is definitely about Gerard, so Frank doesn't ask for anything, doesn't say anything, just keeps his hands in Gerard's hair, keeps watching him, letting his breath catch where it wants to, tiny sounds to tell Gerard he appreciates it.
"I love you," he says, when Gerard presses his tongue flat, licking only the head of his cock, and Frank has to close his eyes because he's overwhelmed.
Gerard doesn't reply but he does hum. He knows what humming does to Frank.
"Shit-" Fuck gentle. Frank's fingers twist up in Gerard's hair, his ass sliding forward on the chair, trying to get closer, trying to force Gerard to take more.
He does.
Frank's orgasm surprises him; it almost shouldn't be possible for him to come again, but somehow he does, away from the table and Indian takeaway and one more day. Away from everything but Gerard's hair between his fingers, Gerard's mouth on his cock.
He comes back slowly, over-sated, looking down as he lets his hand unclench from Gerard's hair. He lets it slide down, cup Gerard's cheek, pet across his cheekbone, around the curve of his ear. Gerard leans against Frank's knee, still folded ungainly-elegant under the table.
"Thanks." His voice is hoarse; he doesn't remember making noise, but maybe he did.
Gerard shrugs, but doesn't move any more than it takes for him to kiss the inside of Frank's knee. Frank's hand goes back to his hair, petting it flat a bit, as if a few strokes will undo 48 hours of bedhead.
He looks at the table, and the food there.
"Uh. Have we had enough of a moment?"
Gerard snorts. "I suck your brain out through your cock, and you're still thinking about food."
"I don't need rational thought to be hungry."
Gerard snorts again, starting to shuffle back to his side of the table, but Frank catches the edge of the frown that's about to bloom. Well, shit. Even though it's awkward and his stomach complains with a growl, Frank slides off his chair and under the table too. Gerard looks at him, half sprawled across his knees. Frank leans in and kisses him, tasting himself.
"Hi."
"What--"
"We can totally eat under the table. Don't worry about getting up." He smiles at Gerard, deliberately over the top. He moves his thigh further up Gerard's; his bare foot squeaks against the linoleum.
"Fine, okay." Gerard relents first with words, then with body language, smearing a sigh-kiss along Frank's temple. Frank leans in, lips on the bite he left sometime when the sun shone, waiting until Gerard relaxes against him before speaking.
"I love you. Can you pass the naan?"