Yesterday was national kissing day, and I was talking about how it would have been a good excuse for a kiss meme, and how it seemed those kind of themed memes seemed to have died out a little
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The one where Mikey doesn't kiss, and Frank's been watching a long time Part 1greenskribblesJuly 8 2011, 02:31:57 UTC
I kinda wrote you 1500+ words of slighly incoherent Frank/Mikey. There's also a bit of Mikey/Pete and Mikey/lotsofotherpeople. Sorry. I don't know what happened. I feel like I could write a lot more of this, because the ending feels clunky, and there's more. But for now- here we go
There's just something about MikeyWay. Well, if Frank is being completely honest, there's something about both Ways, something that would make Frank crawl across broken glass if either of them crooked a finger. But Mikey was his own breed.
Frank loved to look. The sharp points of Mikey's collarbones where they peeked over his stretched tee-shirts, the dark slant in his eyes when he saw someone he wanted, and his hips, god his hips, the way they swiveled when he walked. Frank never considered himself a voyeur, he never even liked porn, preferred to get himself off quickly and without a fuss with nothing but his own imagination. But watching Mikey work his way through a club, pressing against guys twice his size, pulling girls off into dark corners, the air of pure sex he exudes by just existing is enough to have Frank creaming his pants most nights.
He remembers, even before Mychem and the van days, and wasn't that an experience to teach some self-control, Mikey sprawled out across Frank cuddling close to Gerard, Frank listening to their whispers and giggles. Before that, back in Pencey when Frank was playing in shady half-filled bars drunk on cheap beer, the first time he saw the then enigma Mikey Way pushing a smaller dark-haired man into a wall, hoisting him up and fucking him, but not kissing, never kissing.
Never in Frank's life had he been more turned on.
Frank's watched Mikey hook up countless times over the years, but never kiss. Well, besides Pete, and if Frank's completely honest, the first time he saw that he nearly climbed under the bus, because Frank's been completely in love with Mikey since he was nineteen years old and following the band around like a puppy, offering them gigs and practice spaces, anything to get their attention. But Pete was good for Mikey, so Frank went through all the right motions, the good-nature teasing and innuendo, the tackle hugs, throwing more and more of himself into performing each night, because maybe if he was exhausted he wouldn't have to think anymore, would have to see Mikey kissing, slow and sweet, rough and passionate, and wouldn't have to be held still but such an overwhelming want.
But summer went and so did Pete, and Mikey climbed into Frank's bunk that night with roaming hands and raspy whispers.
"I can feel you watching. All the time always watching. Don't you know Frank? Touching's better. Touching's always better."
They fuck. Because as much as Frank knew that it meant nothing more than Mikey's various club hook-ups, that Mikey wasn't fucking Frank, the Frank he shared the last of the gummy worms with, the Frank he plied off of Bob with promises of cuddles and Rocky Road ice-cream, the Frank that held him together when Gerard was too high to do it himself. He was fucking the nearest warm body that wasn't his brother and wouldn't punch him if he tried, because Frank is weak, and even though this may not be how he wanted it, Frank's been in lust with Mikey even longer than he's been in love. When Mikey's done, passing out over Frank either from the booze, or the sex, or just the sheer emotion he might be feeling because Pete was the one he kissed and he's gone now, Frank pulls him out of the bunk and situates him into Mikey's own, cleaning him up, tucking him in, and setting him on his side so he doesn't choke on his own vomit just in case. Frank's had a lot of practice with this kind of thing from Gerard, but it hurts all the same. Frank can't let go of the hope that maybe tomorrow Mikey won't remember any of it, that they can trade the tired smiles and cuddle while watching Dawn Of The Dead and eating popcorn and M&Ms, just like they did when Jamia left, and maybe this is different but Frank still wants the comfort it brings both for him and Mikey.
There's just something about MikeyWay. Well, if Frank is being completely honest, there's something about both Ways, something that would make Frank crawl across broken glass if either of them crooked a finger. But Mikey was his own breed.
Frank loved to look. The sharp points of Mikey's collarbones where they peeked over his stretched tee-shirts, the dark slant in his eyes when he saw someone he wanted, and his hips, god his hips, the way they swiveled when he walked. Frank never considered himself a voyeur, he never even liked porn, preferred to get himself off quickly and without a fuss with nothing but his own imagination. But watching Mikey work his way through a club, pressing against guys twice his size, pulling girls off into dark corners, the air of pure sex he exudes by just existing is enough to have Frank creaming his pants most nights.
He remembers, even before Mychem and the van days, and wasn't that an experience to teach some self-control, Mikey sprawled out across Frank cuddling close to Gerard, Frank listening to their whispers and giggles. Before that, back in Pencey when Frank was playing in shady half-filled bars drunk on cheap beer, the first time he saw the then enigma Mikey Way pushing a smaller dark-haired man into a wall, hoisting him up and fucking him, but not kissing, never kissing.
Never in Frank's life had he been more turned on.
Frank's watched Mikey hook up countless times over the years, but never kiss. Well, besides Pete, and if Frank's completely honest, the first time he saw that he nearly climbed under the bus, because Frank's been completely in love with Mikey since he was nineteen years old and following the band around like a puppy, offering them gigs and practice spaces, anything to get their attention. But Pete was good for Mikey, so Frank went through all the right motions, the good-nature teasing and innuendo, the tackle hugs, throwing more and more of himself into performing each night, because maybe if he was exhausted he wouldn't have to think anymore, would have to see Mikey kissing, slow and sweet, rough and passionate, and wouldn't have to be held still but such an overwhelming want.
But summer went and so did Pete, and Mikey climbed into Frank's bunk that night with roaming hands and raspy whispers.
"I can feel you watching. All the time always watching. Don't you know Frank? Touching's better. Touching's always better."
They fuck. Because as much as Frank knew that it meant nothing more than Mikey's various club hook-ups, that Mikey wasn't fucking Frank, the Frank he shared the last of the gummy worms with, the Frank he plied off of Bob with promises of cuddles and Rocky Road ice-cream, the Frank that held him together when Gerard was too high to do it himself. He was fucking the nearest warm body that wasn't his brother and wouldn't punch him if he tried, because Frank is weak, and even though this may not be how he wanted it, Frank's been in lust with Mikey even longer than he's been in love. When Mikey's done, passing out over Frank either from the booze, or the sex, or just the sheer emotion he might be feeling because Pete was the one he kissed and he's gone now, Frank pulls him out of the bunk and situates him into Mikey's own, cleaning him up, tucking him in, and setting him on his side so he doesn't choke on his own vomit just in case. Frank's had a lot of practice with this kind of thing from Gerard, but it hurts all the same. Frank can't let go of the hope that maybe tomorrow Mikey won't remember any of it, that they can trade the tired smiles and cuddle while watching Dawn Of The Dead and eating popcorn and M&Ms, just like they did when Jamia left, and maybe this is different but Frank still wants the comfort it brings both for him and Mikey.
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