fic
Climbing Up The Walls
Frank/Gerard | 3,980 words
NC-17 - Frank doesn't even register the transition between Gerard's raspy breath in his ear and having him pinned up against the wall. For the dirty bandom challenge at moldypitsandall.
The thing is, Frank will be the first to admit he isn't the most sensitive of guys. As much as what you see is what you get with him, which it is - and as much as he doesn't suffer from that typical dude affliction of being afraid of his emotions, which he definitely isn't - he also isn't the kind of person who walks around announcing their emotions to the world. But even so, that doesn't mean he isn't still honest about them. He's never deliberately tried to hide them. Not from himself, and certainly not from Gerard.
And that's what pisses Frank off. Because Gerard doesn't-- won't ever show him the same courtesy. Which, on its own, Frank could probably just about deal with (hey, it's Gerard) but the problem is, Gerard either doesn't know or doesn't care when to stop. He doesn't know or doesn't care that Frank has limits. And most of all, he doesn't know or doesn't care about the liable consequences of sauntering up to Frank after a show and licking his ear.
They're alone in a room off the back of the venue. Nothing fancy, just a rickety wooden dressing table and a couple of chairs, stacks of boxes and various assorted junk in the corner, but more than adequate for the purposes of their pre-show preparations. It could almost be considered backstage, if the place they'd just played in weren't such a run-down shithole and actually had a stage, as opposed to a platform scarcely raised a foot off the ground at the head of a room barely big enough to contain the entire fifty kids that had turned up.
But the show had been good. Despite the fact Gerard had spent more time slumped against Frank than standing on his own two feet, and more time wheezing, screaming and almost puking his guts up than actually singing, Frank had enjoyed it. He'd walked off stage/platform feeling satisfied, pleased with his performance, and still high enough on adrenaline that the whole Gerard thing wasn't even bothering him too much.
And then Gerard goes and does this. Surprises Frank when he's gathering up his shit, slinging an arm around his shoulder and thrusting his tongue sloppy-wet into Frank's left ear.
Frank doesn't even register the transition between Gerard's raspy breath in his ear and having him pinned up against the wall. All he knows is that he sees red and then suddenly there's Gerard's eyes, huge in the sickly pale mask of his face, eyeliner smeared everywhere and hair matted with grease and sweat.
"Fuck you," Frank spits, clenching his fists harder in the front of Gerard's damp t-shirt. He's still wearing his jacket, sharpie almost completely sweated off his neck. "What the fuck do you want from me, Gerard?"
Gerard says nothing. His head tips back almost leisurely against the wall, staring down the arch of his nose at Frank with half-lidded eyes, lips parted and jaw slack. His pupils are blown from all the shit poisoning his system; to an outsider it would probably seem as though Gerard were merely too fucked up to comprehend the situation, too off his face to know what's going on. Frank is by no means completely sober himself, but still, he knows better. Gerard may be hammered, but he knows exactly what he's doing. And it's all the worse for that, because at least the booze and the drugs would be an easy explanation, something that would hurt so much less than this - not having any reason or insight into Gerard's thoughts or motivation at all.
Frank can gain nothing, absolutely nothing from Gerard's impassive-yet-loaded expression, or his blank-yet-bottomless eyes.
"Stop it," Frank says quietly. Being this close to Gerard - close enough that Frank can catch a hint of that inexplicably distinctive Gerard-smell even under the pungent, stale smoke-laced haze of sweaty leather and shitty beer - takes too much effort. "Stop it!" Frank says again, almost pleading.
When Gerard still says-- does nothing, Frank pulls back and slaps him hard across the face.
It's more satisfying than a punch could ever have been. Just something about the sensation of hot, stinging palm instead of aching, bloody knuckles - the way it jerks Gerard's head sideways and makes his whole body flinch like whiplash at the sharp, hard smack of skin hitting skin. For a long moment everything seems heavily still, the world shrinking down around Gerard slowly re-centering his face to finally look (really look) at Frank. But Frank doesn't have time to read it, because Gerard's suddenly lunging forwards and shoving him, hard.
Caught off-guard, Frank stumbles backwards, his lower back slamming into the edge of the dressing table. Pain shoots up his spine like an electric shock, knocking all the breath out of him. He jerks and doubles over, wheezing, but then Gerard's shoving him roughly up against the creaking furniture, fisting a handful of Frank's shirt and yanking their faces close together.
"Fuck off, Frankie," Gerard hisses, his breath hot and thick on Frank's face, eyes wild. He shoves Frank away angrily, turning and stalking towards the door, fumbling with the hook and eye lock he must have closed when he came in.
Frank's leaning heavily against the table, breathing hard against the sharp sparks of pain still twinging their way through his back - but as he watches Gerard running away (again) they suddenly seem muted, numbed, drowned out by the adrenaline surging up through him like a current.
The last thing he thinks in a vague, incoherent rush before he barrels into Gerard's back is he's glad Gerard doesn't make this any different, doesn't temper that raw, primal urge to hurt, any way he can.
Gerard hits the closed door with a brutal thump, gasp-grunting with surprise and pain as Frank's weight thuds hard into him. Gerard's arm flails out, but Frank pulls back and grabs him by the hair, the neck of his jacket, wrenching him away from the door. Gerard spits a mixture of curse and insult as he lurches backwards; his hands automatically fly to Frank's wrists, pulling and twisting around to get him off. They totter unsteadily for a moment before Gerard gets a hard elbow into Frank's gut, and he uses the brief lapse in Frank's grip to back him up, rapidly gaining momentum until they slam fast and painful into a stack of boxes.
From there it's a blur of thrashing limbs and fists and teeth and violent obscenities as they have it out - throwing each other against the walls, knocking things over, scratching and clawing at each other like enraged fucking pre-schoolers. Gerard gets him pinned to the wall, and Frank takes advantage of his long hair again, feeling it snag and rip through his fingers as he yanks Gerard's head back and sinks his teeth into his neck.
Gerard hisses and jerks away, and Frank throws his weight into Gerard's side, shoving him around onto the wall and reversing their positions. And then there's Gerard's eyes again, huge and dark and unreadable and before Frank can think about it he's spitting - thick and filthy as he can make it - right into Gerard's stupid, pretty face.
And just like that, Gerard stops, stilling in Frank's grip. He's breathing hard, a high flush on his cheeks, clothes rucked up and hair sticking to his sweaty face. The music still playing elsewhere in the club suddenly seems impossibly loud. Frank's spit is dribbling slowly over Gerard's cheekbone in a thick, frothy ooze, leaving a shiny trail in its wake. Frank finds himself stuck on it, panting as he watches it descend over Gerard's jaw, trickling past the corner of his mouth--
--and Gerard's pink tongue darts out to catch it, licking upwards against the drip in a slow, obscene drag.
Frank snaps his eyes to Gerard's and Gerard's staring at him, all hooded eyes and unmistakable heat, mouth open and wet smeared across his face. And it's like someone's flipped the light switch, instantly illuminating the scene before him. Now, Frank can't not notice the arch of Gerard's back, his shoulders pressing his hips away from the wall. The obvious straining of the denim covering his crotch.
Frank's stomach lurches and he jerks backwards. Gerard sags against the wall when Frank lets him go, feet spread out and apart on the floor. "You sick fuck," Frank breathes incredulously. "You fucking-- sick, Gerard, this is how you do this?"
Gerard's lips quirk, flashing a hint of tiny teeth. He looks almost manic, clothes and hair and limbs hanging off him like he's falling apart. The anger flares up again, propelling Frank back forwards. He's not sure what he means to do, fists clenched and arms tense, but Gerard grabs the front of his shirt and yanks him in and then his tongue is in Frank's mouth. It's not even kissing, just an uncoordinated mess of lips and spit and teeth clicking together painfully, Gerard's mouth sloppy and hot and tasting like a fucking liquor-filled ashtray. He grabs at Frank's shoulders, his back, his hair, nails raking jaggedly through short orange bristles. Frank grunts into Gerard's mouth, pushes against him, flushing their bodies together and shoving his thigh up hard between Gerard's legs.
Gerard's chest hitches as he groans, throaty and raw, hips bucking and the denim of their jeans chafing together. Frank pulls back and grabs handfuls of Gerard's jacket. "Asshole," he says vehemently, shoving Gerard repeatedly into the wall, "So this is what you want, huh?"
"Fuck, no, get the fuck off me," Gerard spits, panting as he pushes and twists against Frank's hold, like he's trying to get away - except his hips are moving against Frank's thigh, hitching in sharp, sporadic jerks.
"Bullshit." Frank scrabbles at Gerard's clothes until he can get his hands up under his shirt, kneading the hot skin roughly, digging his fingers into Gerard's soft flesh. "Then what the fuck is this?" Gerard shakes his head, eyes squeezed shut, and Frank pinches his nipples hard, twisting them viciously between his thumbs and fingers, not letting up even when Gerard snarls and slaps at his face.
"Get-- fuck off," Gerard gasps, hands falling to close bruisingly tight around Frank's arms, tugging uselessly. He's arching up on his toes, neck stretched taut, shamelessly rubbing himself off on Frank's thigh. His shirt and jacket are rucked up almost to his armpits, revealing pale skin that's littered with angry red scratches and grazes, the dark shadows of bruises not far away from blooming into fully-formed puce smudges.
Frank abruptly pulls his thigh back, releasing Gerard's right nipple to grab his cock through his jeans instead. "What about this then, Gee? What the fuck is that?"
Gerard pants hard, rocking forward into Frank's hand even as his upper body is still twisting as much as Frank's grip on his nipple will allow, rearing back away from Frank. "What, d'you want me to draw you a fucking diagram?" he rasps. "Did you fucking fail health class or something?"
"Shut the fuck up," Frank snaps, clamping his fingers down harder until Gerard lets out a thin, high-pitched noise, blunt fingernails digging into Frank's biceps. Gerard's cock is hard and hot under Frank's other hand; Frank palms at it roughly, spreading his fingers out, rubbing the denim against it firmly. "You want this," he says lowly, and Gerard's eyes are dark, hard and defiant on Frank's. "You want me. That's why you've been such a dick recently, isn't it? Because you're too chickenshit to actually do anything except pull my fucking pigtails, right?"
Gerard lashes out, surging forwards and shoving at Frank's chest, but by now Frank has more than had enough of this. He catches Gerard by the arm and yanks him forwards, turning and throwing him front-first into the dressing table, shoving him over it. Gerard wheezes and scrabbles at the table top, trying to push up, but Frank fists a hand in his hair and pushes him back down, slinging his other forearm across his shoulders to pin him.
"Give it up, Gerard," Frank growls behind Gerard's ear, easily avoiding the wild backward cuffs Gerard starts flailing at him. "You're not fooling anyone."
"Fuck you," Gerard hisses into the lacquered wood, struggling hard, kicking with his legs when his fists don't work. The table groans loudly in protest, tottering unsteadily on its legs, and Frank presses forward hard with his hips, shoving Gerard's legs apart with his thighs, wedging his feet up against Gerard's to keep them spread.
Instantly, Gerard falls still, breathing noisily in the sudden stillness. Frank's plastered flush against him from chest to knees, muscles straining and stiff; he's breathing hard himself with the effort of restraining Gerard, but when he speaks his voice is measured and low, carefully threatening. "Fuck me, Gee? Nah, I don't think that's the way you want it."
He waits for Gerard to protest, to mouth off or start fighting again, but Gerard stays silent, tense and still but for the full, deep rises and falls of his torso. The satisfaction Frank feels is almost aphrodisiacal, fuelling the heat flaring in his stomach and chest, in his dick that's pressing hard against the zipper of his jeans - against Gerard's ass. And maybe this whole thing is ridiculous, and maybe Frank should let Gerard go, wait for him to sober up and apologize and Talk like the adults they supposedly are-- but the skin of Frank's stomach is hot and sticky against Gerard's lower back where their clothes have ridden up between them, and Gerard's fingers are clenched so tightly around the edge of the dressing table they're slowly turning white, and somehow, Frank knows talking won't be enough.
So Frank leans forward and takes the shell of Gerard's ear between his teeth, biting down none too gently. Gerard exhales in a harsh rush of air as Frank's weight presses into his back; it breaks on a quiet noise when Frank slowly rolls his hips forwards, dragging his cock up against the underside of Gerard's ass, and Frank's so turned on he's almost dizzy from it.
"Yeah?" he mutters tauntingly in Gerard's ear, and the asshole in him is glad when Gerard still stubbornly doesn't answer, because it means he gets to yank on Gerard's hair that he's still holding, pull his head back and face up and force him to meet Frank's eyes. "Admit it."
Gerard looks back at him, face flushed, teeth gritted, brow creased in anger. He says, "Fuck off."
Frank grins snidely and shoves his face back down, and Gerard doesn't resist. When Frank takes his forearm off Gerard's shoulders Gerard doesn't try to buck him off, and when Frank reaches under him to fumble one-handed at his belt buckle Gerard's breaths speed up sharply, catching hoarsely in his throat.
"Admit it," Frank demands, because if Gerard's going to act like a fucking passive-aggressive child then Frank's going to fucking treat him like one. "Admit it," he says as he gets the belt undone, gets his zipper down and his jeans open, yanking them down over the curve of Gerard's bare ass. "Admit it," before he shoves his thumb in his mouth, drenching it in saliva so it drips when he pulls back, smearing messily over his chin - over Gerard's ass when Frank brings his hand down and rubs the pad wetly over Gerard's hole.
Gerard jerks at the touch, shivering from his shoulders all the way to his knees, and still he pants out, "Fuck off."
Frank sinks his thumb in to the second knuckle and Gerard shudders, thighs snapping together, but Frank quickly forces them back apart, knee pressing up hard against the inside of Gerard's right thigh. One last time, "Gerard. Admit it." Frank's stifling hot in his shirt, arm sticking to the damp leather of Gerard's jacket, jeans too-tight; he's rubbing himself against Gerard's bare thigh, and he wants, he wants. Suddenly feels like he's wanted it forever, not just for this - the still-burning anger, that fucked-up desire for some sort of reprisal.
Gerard's answer is the same even as he thrusts his hips back onto Frank's thumb, pushing the back of Frank's hand into his own crotch, and Frank doesn't hesitate to jam his thumb in roughly, as deep as it will go, palm pressed against Gerard's skin and the tips of his fingers curled under behind his balls. Gerard grunts, and Frank crooks his thumb inside, twisting his wrist and hooking down; the grunt turns strangled, high as he clenches hard around Frank's thumb, and that - that is Frank's limit.
"Gonna fuck you," Frank grits out, pulling his hand back too-quick and making Gerard gasp. He lets go of Gerard's hair to wrench his own jeans open, fumbling in the back pocket for the condom he keeps there just in case. And still, still Gerard is pressing Frank's buttons, making a huffing, scoffing kind of noise like he wants Frank to twist the sensitive flesh of his hips until he cries out - like he wants Frank to fuck him like this, on one finger and barely-lubed latex - to spread him open and pull him roughly onto Frank's cock.
And fuck, Gerard's body is so hot around him, and so tight Frank almost wants to go slow, but then Gerard's shoving back against him and spitting in a violent, breathy rush, "If you're gonna do it then fucking do it, cocksucker," and all thoughts of concern vanish.
Frank pulls back and slams forward so hard the table bangs into the wall, hips smacking loud and painful against Gerard's ass. "Like that?"
"Fuck," Gerard chokes out, and Frank does it again, and again, nailing him with short, brutal thrusts until Gerard's almost moaning-- almost, slurring curses between pants, thighs shaking and fingers scratching frantically at the table top. "Fuck, fuck -"
"Yeah?" Frank encourages breathlessly, tightening his fingers around Gerard's hips, digging hard into the bones. He thinks about the bruises he'll leave, wonders if he'll be able to tell the difference between them and the ones from the fight, and his stomach lurches. "This what you wanted?"
"No," Gerard spits, head lowered and hair splayed over the table, reddened neck exposed.
"Liar." Frank pushes Gerard's jacket and shirt up until the entire plain of his back is bared, digging his fingers hard into a particularly large bruise under Gerard's right shoulder blade, making Gerard flinch and suck in a sharp breath. "You fucking lying sack of shit, Gerard."
"Fuck off," Gerard gasps, "fuck off fuck off fuck--" Frank pulls him back hard on his cock, tilting Gerard's hips and arching over his back, "--oh, oh fuck, fuck me, god, fuck me."
"Shit, yeah, that's it," Frank moans, head dropping and catching an eyeful of Gerard's spread-wide thighs, the soft flesh of his waist and hips jumping with every thrust, "was that, fuck - so hard?" but it doesn't sound anywhere near as cocky as Frank intended, not with Gerard under him and around him fucking begging - finally letting go, giving in - giving Frank something he didn't even know he wanted. Or maybe did know and just never addressed, but either way, Frank feels the last of his control ebb away.
"Can't, I can't." Gerard's shoulders are hitching up around his ears, hands clenched hard around the opposite edge of the table; it's making some worrying groaning noises but Frank doesn't even care, he's so close.
"You can," Frank gets out, sliding a hand down and jerking Gerard roughly with a sweaty, quickly-slick hand, "fuck, you can have it, could've always had it, Gee, come on -"
"Frank," Gerard moans desperately, openly, and that would have been enough on its own even without him tightening around Frank's cock and coming all over Frank's fingers, but together it's more than too much. Frank shoves in a final time and comes with his forehead pressed stickily between Gerard's shoulders, groaning into the damp, bunched-up leather.
"Jesus fuck," he rasps, slouching against Gerard's back, both of them panting and covered in sweat. And then Frank realizes Gerard's shaking, a little, knees wobbling like the table's the only thing holding him up. "Hey," Frank says breathlessly, "Hey, it's okay, let me just--" He pushes himself up enough to grasp the base of his cock, pulling out slowly, carefully.
Gerard hisses under his breath, immediately crumbling to the floor when Frank steps back, legs folding up under him and jeans still around his thighs. Dumbly, Frank ties the condom with slightly unsteady fingers, throwing it vaguely towards the pile of garbage on the floor where the trashcan got knocked over, before pulling up his briefs and jeans.
And then, nothing. Gerard's got his eyes closed, leaning heavily against the table leg, mouth open and eyebrows creased, as dismantled as the room around him. Frank stares at him, stomach twisting and mind swirling until finally, the silence and anger get the better of him.
"You are such an asshole."
Gerard's eyes, washed-out from inebriation but otherwise clear now, blink open slowly to look up at Frank.
"Asshole," Frank reiterates, voice hardening as the thoughts rapidly arrange themselves in his head, "fucking stupid asshole, did you think I wouldn't want you or something?"
Gerard's gaze flickers to the door. Brief, but Frank catches it. "Oh, hell no," Frank says, stepping forward and falling to his knees next to Gerard, grabbing him by the wrists. "Don't you fucking dare." Gerard startles and tries to pull his hands back, but it's weak; he quickly gives up when Frank holds firm, letting his arms go limp in his lap with a sigh. "Gerard."
"What," Gerard finally says impatiently, rolling his eyes to the ceiling. "Fuck."
"What?" Frank repeats incredulously. "Fucking you! Being a dick! Instead of actually talking to me like-- like a friend, Gerard. Like someone who actually matters, you know?"
"You do," Gerard says quietly. "I just--" He trails off, gaze falling to the floor, hair in his face. "--fuck. M'so fucking trashed."
"I know," Frank says, gentler, releasing a wrist to brush greasy strands of Gerard's hair out of his eyes. "But you don't have to get wasted and go on the fucking offensive with me, y'know? I mean, it's me."
"'tis," Gerard murmurs, meeting Frank's eyes almost warily - and fuck, this is so bizarre, Gerard's dick is still hanging out and Frank still feels fucking post-coital, what the fuck. "M'sorry."
"You fucking should be," Frank says bluntly, but when he brings his hand back down he twines his fingers with Gerard's instead. He falls silent for a long moment, and then smirks a little. "I mean, you could've just asked. Didn't have to lick my fucking ear, freak."
"It wasn't just--" Gerard starts, and then cuts himself off abruptly. He's wearing an expression like he's searching for the right words, like he doesn't know how to say it.
Surprisingly, Frank finds he understands exactly. "Yeah, I know." He squeezes Gerard's fingers lightly. "Not for me, either."
Gerard's mouth twitches into a lopsided half-smile, before he suddenly groans and drops his head. "Ugh. Feel sick."
"How romantic," Frank deadpans, and then pokes at Gerard's bare thigh. "Come on, go sleep it off. We can talk in the morning."
Frank knows he's probably being a little optimistic, but Gerard makes an agreeable noise anyway, letting Frank help him pull his jeans up and haul him to his feet; both of them wince, bruised and sore and battered in more ways than one.
They don't bother to clean up the room before they leave. They find the guys hanging out at the bar, each in various stages of drunk.
Ray whistles when he sees Frank. "Jesus, what happened to you?"
Frank glances over at Gerard - half-sat, half-leaning on a bar stool, squirming as Mikey touches concerned, careful fingers to the bruises on his neck.
"I have no idea."
Frank/Gerard | 3,980 words
NC-17 - Frank doesn't even register the transition between Gerard's raspy breath in his ear and having him pinned up against the wall. For the dirty bandom challenge at moldypitsandall.
The thing is, Frank will be the first to admit he isn't the most sensitive of guys. As much as what you see is what you get with him, which it is - and as much as he doesn't suffer from that typical dude affliction of being afraid of his emotions, which he definitely isn't - he also isn't the kind of person who walks around announcing their emotions to the world. But even so, that doesn't mean he isn't still honest about them. He's never deliberately tried to hide them. Not from himself, and certainly not from Gerard.
And that's what pisses Frank off. Because Gerard doesn't-- won't ever show him the same courtesy. Which, on its own, Frank could probably just about deal with (hey, it's Gerard) but the problem is, Gerard either doesn't know or doesn't care when to stop. He doesn't know or doesn't care that Frank has limits. And most of all, he doesn't know or doesn't care about the liable consequences of sauntering up to Frank after a show and licking his ear.
They're alone in a room off the back of the venue. Nothing fancy, just a rickety wooden dressing table and a couple of chairs, stacks of boxes and various assorted junk in the corner, but more than adequate for the purposes of their pre-show preparations. It could almost be considered backstage, if the place they'd just played in weren't such a run-down shithole and actually had a stage, as opposed to a platform scarcely raised a foot off the ground at the head of a room barely big enough to contain the entire fifty kids that had turned up.
But the show had been good. Despite the fact Gerard had spent more time slumped against Frank than standing on his own two feet, and more time wheezing, screaming and almost puking his guts up than actually singing, Frank had enjoyed it. He'd walked off stage/platform feeling satisfied, pleased with his performance, and still high enough on adrenaline that the whole Gerard thing wasn't even bothering him too much.
And then Gerard goes and does this. Surprises Frank when he's gathering up his shit, slinging an arm around his shoulder and thrusting his tongue sloppy-wet into Frank's left ear.
Frank doesn't even register the transition between Gerard's raspy breath in his ear and having him pinned up against the wall. All he knows is that he sees red and then suddenly there's Gerard's eyes, huge in the sickly pale mask of his face, eyeliner smeared everywhere and hair matted with grease and sweat.
"Fuck you," Frank spits, clenching his fists harder in the front of Gerard's damp t-shirt. He's still wearing his jacket, sharpie almost completely sweated off his neck. "What the fuck do you want from me, Gerard?"
Gerard says nothing. His head tips back almost leisurely against the wall, staring down the arch of his nose at Frank with half-lidded eyes, lips parted and jaw slack. His pupils are blown from all the shit poisoning his system; to an outsider it would probably seem as though Gerard were merely too fucked up to comprehend the situation, too off his face to know what's going on. Frank is by no means completely sober himself, but still, he knows better. Gerard may be hammered, but he knows exactly what he's doing. And it's all the worse for that, because at least the booze and the drugs would be an easy explanation, something that would hurt so much less than this - not having any reason or insight into Gerard's thoughts or motivation at all.
Frank can gain nothing, absolutely nothing from Gerard's impassive-yet-loaded expression, or his blank-yet-bottomless eyes.
"Stop it," Frank says quietly. Being this close to Gerard - close enough that Frank can catch a hint of that inexplicably distinctive Gerard-smell even under the pungent, stale smoke-laced haze of sweaty leather and shitty beer - takes too much effort. "Stop it!" Frank says again, almost pleading.
When Gerard still says-- does nothing, Frank pulls back and slaps him hard across the face.
It's more satisfying than a punch could ever have been. Just something about the sensation of hot, stinging palm instead of aching, bloody knuckles - the way it jerks Gerard's head sideways and makes his whole body flinch like whiplash at the sharp, hard smack of skin hitting skin. For a long moment everything seems heavily still, the world shrinking down around Gerard slowly re-centering his face to finally look (really look) at Frank. But Frank doesn't have time to read it, because Gerard's suddenly lunging forwards and shoving him, hard.
Caught off-guard, Frank stumbles backwards, his lower back slamming into the edge of the dressing table. Pain shoots up his spine like an electric shock, knocking all the breath out of him. He jerks and doubles over, wheezing, but then Gerard's shoving him roughly up against the creaking furniture, fisting a handful of Frank's shirt and yanking their faces close together.
"Fuck off, Frankie," Gerard hisses, his breath hot and thick on Frank's face, eyes wild. He shoves Frank away angrily, turning and stalking towards the door, fumbling with the hook and eye lock he must have closed when he came in.
Frank's leaning heavily against the table, breathing hard against the sharp sparks of pain still twinging their way through his back - but as he watches Gerard running away (again) they suddenly seem muted, numbed, drowned out by the adrenaline surging up through him like a current.
The last thing he thinks in a vague, incoherent rush before he barrels into Gerard's back is he's glad Gerard doesn't make this any different, doesn't temper that raw, primal urge to hurt, any way he can.
Gerard hits the closed door with a brutal thump, gasp-grunting with surprise and pain as Frank's weight thuds hard into him. Gerard's arm flails out, but Frank pulls back and grabs him by the hair, the neck of his jacket, wrenching him away from the door. Gerard spits a mixture of curse and insult as he lurches backwards; his hands automatically fly to Frank's wrists, pulling and twisting around to get him off. They totter unsteadily for a moment before Gerard gets a hard elbow into Frank's gut, and he uses the brief lapse in Frank's grip to back him up, rapidly gaining momentum until they slam fast and painful into a stack of boxes.
From there it's a blur of thrashing limbs and fists and teeth and violent obscenities as they have it out - throwing each other against the walls, knocking things over, scratching and clawing at each other like enraged fucking pre-schoolers. Gerard gets him pinned to the wall, and Frank takes advantage of his long hair again, feeling it snag and rip through his fingers as he yanks Gerard's head back and sinks his teeth into his neck.
Gerard hisses and jerks away, and Frank throws his weight into Gerard's side, shoving him around onto the wall and reversing their positions. And then there's Gerard's eyes again, huge and dark and unreadable and before Frank can think about it he's spitting - thick and filthy as he can make it - right into Gerard's stupid, pretty face.
And just like that, Gerard stops, stilling in Frank's grip. He's breathing hard, a high flush on his cheeks, clothes rucked up and hair sticking to his sweaty face. The music still playing elsewhere in the club suddenly seems impossibly loud. Frank's spit is dribbling slowly over Gerard's cheekbone in a thick, frothy ooze, leaving a shiny trail in its wake. Frank finds himself stuck on it, panting as he watches it descend over Gerard's jaw, trickling past the corner of his mouth--
--and Gerard's pink tongue darts out to catch it, licking upwards against the drip in a slow, obscene drag.
Frank snaps his eyes to Gerard's and Gerard's staring at him, all hooded eyes and unmistakable heat, mouth open and wet smeared across his face. And it's like someone's flipped the light switch, instantly illuminating the scene before him. Now, Frank can't not notice the arch of Gerard's back, his shoulders pressing his hips away from the wall. The obvious straining of the denim covering his crotch.
Frank's stomach lurches and he jerks backwards. Gerard sags against the wall when Frank lets him go, feet spread out and apart on the floor. "You sick fuck," Frank breathes incredulously. "You fucking-- sick, Gerard, this is how you do this?"
Gerard's lips quirk, flashing a hint of tiny teeth. He looks almost manic, clothes and hair and limbs hanging off him like he's falling apart. The anger flares up again, propelling Frank back forwards. He's not sure what he means to do, fists clenched and arms tense, but Gerard grabs the front of his shirt and yanks him in and then his tongue is in Frank's mouth. It's not even kissing, just an uncoordinated mess of lips and spit and teeth clicking together painfully, Gerard's mouth sloppy and hot and tasting like a fucking liquor-filled ashtray. He grabs at Frank's shoulders, his back, his hair, nails raking jaggedly through short orange bristles. Frank grunts into Gerard's mouth, pushes against him, flushing their bodies together and shoving his thigh up hard between Gerard's legs.
Gerard's chest hitches as he groans, throaty and raw, hips bucking and the denim of their jeans chafing together. Frank pulls back and grabs handfuls of Gerard's jacket. "Asshole," he says vehemently, shoving Gerard repeatedly into the wall, "So this is what you want, huh?"
"Fuck, no, get the fuck off me," Gerard spits, panting as he pushes and twists against Frank's hold, like he's trying to get away - except his hips are moving against Frank's thigh, hitching in sharp, sporadic jerks.
"Bullshit." Frank scrabbles at Gerard's clothes until he can get his hands up under his shirt, kneading the hot skin roughly, digging his fingers into Gerard's soft flesh. "Then what the fuck is this?" Gerard shakes his head, eyes squeezed shut, and Frank pinches his nipples hard, twisting them viciously between his thumbs and fingers, not letting up even when Gerard snarls and slaps at his face.
"Get-- fuck off," Gerard gasps, hands falling to close bruisingly tight around Frank's arms, tugging uselessly. He's arching up on his toes, neck stretched taut, shamelessly rubbing himself off on Frank's thigh. His shirt and jacket are rucked up almost to his armpits, revealing pale skin that's littered with angry red scratches and grazes, the dark shadows of bruises not far away from blooming into fully-formed puce smudges.
Frank abruptly pulls his thigh back, releasing Gerard's right nipple to grab his cock through his jeans instead. "What about this then, Gee? What the fuck is that?"
Gerard pants hard, rocking forward into Frank's hand even as his upper body is still twisting as much as Frank's grip on his nipple will allow, rearing back away from Frank. "What, d'you want me to draw you a fucking diagram?" he rasps. "Did you fucking fail health class or something?"
"Shut the fuck up," Frank snaps, clamping his fingers down harder until Gerard lets out a thin, high-pitched noise, blunt fingernails digging into Frank's biceps. Gerard's cock is hard and hot under Frank's other hand; Frank palms at it roughly, spreading his fingers out, rubbing the denim against it firmly. "You want this," he says lowly, and Gerard's eyes are dark, hard and defiant on Frank's. "You want me. That's why you've been such a dick recently, isn't it? Because you're too chickenshit to actually do anything except pull my fucking pigtails, right?"
Gerard lashes out, surging forwards and shoving at Frank's chest, but by now Frank has more than had enough of this. He catches Gerard by the arm and yanks him forwards, turning and throwing him front-first into the dressing table, shoving him over it. Gerard wheezes and scrabbles at the table top, trying to push up, but Frank fists a hand in his hair and pushes him back down, slinging his other forearm across his shoulders to pin him.
"Give it up, Gerard," Frank growls behind Gerard's ear, easily avoiding the wild backward cuffs Gerard starts flailing at him. "You're not fooling anyone."
"Fuck you," Gerard hisses into the lacquered wood, struggling hard, kicking with his legs when his fists don't work. The table groans loudly in protest, tottering unsteadily on its legs, and Frank presses forward hard with his hips, shoving Gerard's legs apart with his thighs, wedging his feet up against Gerard's to keep them spread.
Instantly, Gerard falls still, breathing noisily in the sudden stillness. Frank's plastered flush against him from chest to knees, muscles straining and stiff; he's breathing hard himself with the effort of restraining Gerard, but when he speaks his voice is measured and low, carefully threatening. "Fuck me, Gee? Nah, I don't think that's the way you want it."
He waits for Gerard to protest, to mouth off or start fighting again, but Gerard stays silent, tense and still but for the full, deep rises and falls of his torso. The satisfaction Frank feels is almost aphrodisiacal, fuelling the heat flaring in his stomach and chest, in his dick that's pressing hard against the zipper of his jeans - against Gerard's ass. And maybe this whole thing is ridiculous, and maybe Frank should let Gerard go, wait for him to sober up and apologize and Talk like the adults they supposedly are-- but the skin of Frank's stomach is hot and sticky against Gerard's lower back where their clothes have ridden up between them, and Gerard's fingers are clenched so tightly around the edge of the dressing table they're slowly turning white, and somehow, Frank knows talking won't be enough.
So Frank leans forward and takes the shell of Gerard's ear between his teeth, biting down none too gently. Gerard exhales in a harsh rush of air as Frank's weight presses into his back; it breaks on a quiet noise when Frank slowly rolls his hips forwards, dragging his cock up against the underside of Gerard's ass, and Frank's so turned on he's almost dizzy from it.
"Yeah?" he mutters tauntingly in Gerard's ear, and the asshole in him is glad when Gerard still stubbornly doesn't answer, because it means he gets to yank on Gerard's hair that he's still holding, pull his head back and face up and force him to meet Frank's eyes. "Admit it."
Gerard looks back at him, face flushed, teeth gritted, brow creased in anger. He says, "Fuck off."
Frank grins snidely and shoves his face back down, and Gerard doesn't resist. When Frank takes his forearm off Gerard's shoulders Gerard doesn't try to buck him off, and when Frank reaches under him to fumble one-handed at his belt buckle Gerard's breaths speed up sharply, catching hoarsely in his throat.
"Admit it," Frank demands, because if Gerard's going to act like a fucking passive-aggressive child then Frank's going to fucking treat him like one. "Admit it," he says as he gets the belt undone, gets his zipper down and his jeans open, yanking them down over the curve of Gerard's bare ass. "Admit it," before he shoves his thumb in his mouth, drenching it in saliva so it drips when he pulls back, smearing messily over his chin - over Gerard's ass when Frank brings his hand down and rubs the pad wetly over Gerard's hole.
Gerard jerks at the touch, shivering from his shoulders all the way to his knees, and still he pants out, "Fuck off."
Frank sinks his thumb in to the second knuckle and Gerard shudders, thighs snapping together, but Frank quickly forces them back apart, knee pressing up hard against the inside of Gerard's right thigh. One last time, "Gerard. Admit it." Frank's stifling hot in his shirt, arm sticking to the damp leather of Gerard's jacket, jeans too-tight; he's rubbing himself against Gerard's bare thigh, and he wants, he wants. Suddenly feels like he's wanted it forever, not just for this - the still-burning anger, that fucked-up desire for some sort of reprisal.
Gerard's answer is the same even as he thrusts his hips back onto Frank's thumb, pushing the back of Frank's hand into his own crotch, and Frank doesn't hesitate to jam his thumb in roughly, as deep as it will go, palm pressed against Gerard's skin and the tips of his fingers curled under behind his balls. Gerard grunts, and Frank crooks his thumb inside, twisting his wrist and hooking down; the grunt turns strangled, high as he clenches hard around Frank's thumb, and that - that is Frank's limit.
"Gonna fuck you," Frank grits out, pulling his hand back too-quick and making Gerard gasp. He lets go of Gerard's hair to wrench his own jeans open, fumbling in the back pocket for the condom he keeps there just in case. And still, still Gerard is pressing Frank's buttons, making a huffing, scoffing kind of noise like he wants Frank to twist the sensitive flesh of his hips until he cries out - like he wants Frank to fuck him like this, on one finger and barely-lubed latex - to spread him open and pull him roughly onto Frank's cock.
And fuck, Gerard's body is so hot around him, and so tight Frank almost wants to go slow, but then Gerard's shoving back against him and spitting in a violent, breathy rush, "If you're gonna do it then fucking do it, cocksucker," and all thoughts of concern vanish.
Frank pulls back and slams forward so hard the table bangs into the wall, hips smacking loud and painful against Gerard's ass. "Like that?"
"Fuck," Gerard chokes out, and Frank does it again, and again, nailing him with short, brutal thrusts until Gerard's almost moaning-- almost, slurring curses between pants, thighs shaking and fingers scratching frantically at the table top. "Fuck, fuck -"
"Yeah?" Frank encourages breathlessly, tightening his fingers around Gerard's hips, digging hard into the bones. He thinks about the bruises he'll leave, wonders if he'll be able to tell the difference between them and the ones from the fight, and his stomach lurches. "This what you wanted?"
"No," Gerard spits, head lowered and hair splayed over the table, reddened neck exposed.
"Liar." Frank pushes Gerard's jacket and shirt up until the entire plain of his back is bared, digging his fingers hard into a particularly large bruise under Gerard's right shoulder blade, making Gerard flinch and suck in a sharp breath. "You fucking lying sack of shit, Gerard."
"Fuck off," Gerard gasps, "fuck off fuck off fuck--" Frank pulls him back hard on his cock, tilting Gerard's hips and arching over his back, "--oh, oh fuck, fuck me, god, fuck me."
"Shit, yeah, that's it," Frank moans, head dropping and catching an eyeful of Gerard's spread-wide thighs, the soft flesh of his waist and hips jumping with every thrust, "was that, fuck - so hard?" but it doesn't sound anywhere near as cocky as Frank intended, not with Gerard under him and around him fucking begging - finally letting go, giving in - giving Frank something he didn't even know he wanted. Or maybe did know and just never addressed, but either way, Frank feels the last of his control ebb away.
"Can't, I can't." Gerard's shoulders are hitching up around his ears, hands clenched hard around the opposite edge of the table; it's making some worrying groaning noises but Frank doesn't even care, he's so close.
"You can," Frank gets out, sliding a hand down and jerking Gerard roughly with a sweaty, quickly-slick hand, "fuck, you can have it, could've always had it, Gee, come on -"
"Frank," Gerard moans desperately, openly, and that would have been enough on its own even without him tightening around Frank's cock and coming all over Frank's fingers, but together it's more than too much. Frank shoves in a final time and comes with his forehead pressed stickily between Gerard's shoulders, groaning into the damp, bunched-up leather.
"Jesus fuck," he rasps, slouching against Gerard's back, both of them panting and covered in sweat. And then Frank realizes Gerard's shaking, a little, knees wobbling like the table's the only thing holding him up. "Hey," Frank says breathlessly, "Hey, it's okay, let me just--" He pushes himself up enough to grasp the base of his cock, pulling out slowly, carefully.
Gerard hisses under his breath, immediately crumbling to the floor when Frank steps back, legs folding up under him and jeans still around his thighs. Dumbly, Frank ties the condom with slightly unsteady fingers, throwing it vaguely towards the pile of garbage on the floor where the trashcan got knocked over, before pulling up his briefs and jeans.
And then, nothing. Gerard's got his eyes closed, leaning heavily against the table leg, mouth open and eyebrows creased, as dismantled as the room around him. Frank stares at him, stomach twisting and mind swirling until finally, the silence and anger get the better of him.
"You are such an asshole."
Gerard's eyes, washed-out from inebriation but otherwise clear now, blink open slowly to look up at Frank.
"Asshole," Frank reiterates, voice hardening as the thoughts rapidly arrange themselves in his head, "fucking stupid asshole, did you think I wouldn't want you or something?"
Gerard's gaze flickers to the door. Brief, but Frank catches it. "Oh, hell no," Frank says, stepping forward and falling to his knees next to Gerard, grabbing him by the wrists. "Don't you fucking dare." Gerard startles and tries to pull his hands back, but it's weak; he quickly gives up when Frank holds firm, letting his arms go limp in his lap with a sigh. "Gerard."
"What," Gerard finally says impatiently, rolling his eyes to the ceiling. "Fuck."
"What?" Frank repeats incredulously. "Fucking you! Being a dick! Instead of actually talking to me like-- like a friend, Gerard. Like someone who actually matters, you know?"
"You do," Gerard says quietly. "I just--" He trails off, gaze falling to the floor, hair in his face. "--fuck. M'so fucking trashed."
"I know," Frank says, gentler, releasing a wrist to brush greasy strands of Gerard's hair out of his eyes. "But you don't have to get wasted and go on the fucking offensive with me, y'know? I mean, it's me."
"'tis," Gerard murmurs, meeting Frank's eyes almost warily - and fuck, this is so bizarre, Gerard's dick is still hanging out and Frank still feels fucking post-coital, what the fuck. "M'sorry."
"You fucking should be," Frank says bluntly, but when he brings his hand back down he twines his fingers with Gerard's instead. He falls silent for a long moment, and then smirks a little. "I mean, you could've just asked. Didn't have to lick my fucking ear, freak."
"It wasn't just--" Gerard starts, and then cuts himself off abruptly. He's wearing an expression like he's searching for the right words, like he doesn't know how to say it.
Surprisingly, Frank finds he understands exactly. "Yeah, I know." He squeezes Gerard's fingers lightly. "Not for me, either."
Gerard's mouth twitches into a lopsided half-smile, before he suddenly groans and drops his head. "Ugh. Feel sick."
"How romantic," Frank deadpans, and then pokes at Gerard's bare thigh. "Come on, go sleep it off. We can talk in the morning."
Frank knows he's probably being a little optimistic, but Gerard makes an agreeable noise anyway, letting Frank help him pull his jeans up and haul him to his feet; both of them wince, bruised and sore and battered in more ways than one.
They don't bother to clean up the room before they leave. They find the guys hanging out at the bar, each in various stages of drunk.
Ray whistles when he sees Frank. "Jesus, what happened to you?"
Frank glances over at Gerard - half-sat, half-leaning on a bar stool, squirming as Mikey touches concerned, careful fingers to the bruises on his neck.
"I have no idea."