fic: Victim of Circumstance (John Terry/Frank Lampard, NC-17)
Title: Victim of Circumstance
Author: txorakeriak
Fandom: Football RPS, Chelsea FC
Pairing: John Terry/Frank Lampard
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: I'm a lying bastard and made this all up. I don't claim to know any of the players I write about, they're most definitely not mine, and this very probably didn't happen. No payment involved, no offence intended. This is for my own entertainment.
Summary: Frank meets a stranger in a dark alley.
Dedication: For inesdelsol, who had a birthday at the beginning of January. Sorry for the lateness, for the weirdness, and for using all your prompts in one single story, but I hope you like it nevertheless. If you don't, I'll write you something else, I promise.
Word Count: 3,971
A/N: The title is from Richie Sambora's amazing song "Stranger in this Town". The Jace Everett song I'm currently listening to is a better soundtrack for this fic, though.
Allergy warning: Basically PWP. Rough mansex and blood involved, and a touch of silliness. Read at your own risk.
Thanks to jennis_footie for the beta and the encouragement. It was very much needed, and I can't say how grateful I am for your kind words. *glomps*
Feedback: Everything is most welcome, from squee to constructive criticism. I even accept rotten tomatoes, so don't be shy. ;)
*****
It's not often that he walks home alone in the small hours of the night. Actually, he never does it. Why should he? There are always mates who can play the designated driver. And if everything fails, there are taxis.
Tonight, however, is different.
Frank isn't so sure why he's all alone when he leaves one of London's most famous clubs because he vaguely remembers one of his mates picking him up at home and driving him into town. He's also quite certain that there were others with them in the club earlier. But be that as it might, it doesn't change the fact that he's indeed very much alone right now. He doesn't quite understand why there are no taxis either. And somehow, his phone has disappeared, even though he could have sworn it was in his pocket fifteen minutes ago, when he last looked for it to check the time.
Frank briefly considers his options, which turn out to be rather limited, then shrugs and begins his long walk home. He doesn't like it, but at least he doesn't have any plans for the next day. And there's always the small chance of finding a taxi a couple more streets away. The city centre of England's capital cannot be completely deserted, after all.
He pops up the collar of his coat, adjusts his scarf, digs his hands into his pockets and starts walking, only to stop right in his tracks about five minutes later, in what must be the darkest alley in the whole of London.
It takes a while for Frank's eyes to get accustomed to the utter darkness, and as his view becomes clearer and the man standing opposite him still hasn't taken out a knife, held it against his throat, and ordered him to hand over all his money and credit cards if he valued his life, Frank slowly figures he's not a robber.
Unfortunately, he isn't a taxi driver either.
Not that Frank asked him or anything, but he doesn't see a taxi anywhere, and actually, guys like this don't drive taxis. He can't exactly say why, but they just don't. Not in England, anyway.
The man is a mere silhouette against the darkness, but somehow he gives the impression of class - though that might just be the well-cut trench coat he's wearing. Broad shoulders. Tall. Athletic. Frank can't make out his face, it's well hidden in the shadow of a broken street lamp, but he notices his hair, dark and short hair that that stands in all directions as if to prove it defies gravity.
There isn't really anything menacing about the way he looks, but Frank can't help feeling uneasy. He can't see the other man's eyes, but the silence leads him to believe he's currently being checked out from head to toe.
"Now what would you be doing here at this hour?" the stranger finally says.
Frank can't help noticing the cockney accent and is slightly taken aback for an instant. Somehow he expected the man to be a bit more, well, Oxonian, though that might be because he's always linked trench coats to pipe-smoking detectives (primarily Sherlock Holmes) in his head. Which is probably why he was so certain about the man not driving a taxi earlier. Elementary, my dear Watson.
"Are you lost?" the stranger prods, and his voice sounds like bone-chilling ice and blazing fire all at once.
Frank feels a chill run down his spine, and it's not the cold of the night that caused it. He gulps despite himself and says as firmly as he can manage, "No. I'm on my way home."
"So early?" The stranger sounds scandalised.
Frank instinctively glances at his watch. "It's past three in the morning."
"Exactly."
"It's the middle of the night!" Frank explains unnecessarily. He doesn't even know why he's arguing a point with a complete stranger in a dark alley, but his feet feel as if they're made of lead. He can't walk on. "People are supposed to be sleeping."
"The extraordinary ones only just get going." There is a teasing undertone in the man's voice.
Frank chuckles at the implication. "You think you're extraordinary?"
A smile is the reply, so dazzling white that it can actually be seen in the darkness. "Why don't you come and find out?"
Frank freezes, staring at the dark man opposite him as if he just transformed into pink jelly or something. He's met quite a lot of guys who were rather full of themselves, but not even the worst of them has ever been that shameless.
"What?" he says after a while, just for the sake of having said something, because he doesn't want the guy to think the silence spoke for itself. (Or maybe he does want him to think that, but considering the stranger's high opinion of himself, Frank doesn't want him to draw the wrong conclusions.)
"No need to be shy, mate." The man flashes him another bright smile. "I can assure you I'm worth it."
Frank can't believe what he's hearing. "Are you coming on to me?" He wants to let out a sarcastic laugh and tell his opposite where he can stick it, but all that comes out is a pathetic gulp. The fact that he secretly fucks guys (well, one guy, to be exact) isn't supposed to have leaked to the public.
Then again, the stranger hasn't really given the impression that he's recognised him.
"Of course I am," the man says, still smiling. "So, how about it? My place or yours?"
He takes a step towards Frank, who, at this moment, wants nothing more than to run away.
In the end he doesn’t because he can't. As soon as the smell of cologne and aftershave hits Frank's nostrils, he finds himself suddenly glued to the spot.
He knows this smell. He has smelled it so often, he'd recognise it anywhere. But it doesn't make sense. The voice is all wrong, and what the hell would John be doing in a dark alley in the middle of the night?
The stranger continues approaching him, gradually emerging from the shadows, and finally, Frank can see his face. It's pale, and his eyes are so dark, they look almost hollow, but otherwise the similarity is more than striking.
In fact, the only thing that keeps him from laughing out loud and pulling his friend (and lover) into a big hug before kicking his ass for playing such a stupid prank from him is the fact that it doesn't fit. Nothing does. His voice doesn't, his posture doesn't, and neither does the strangely cold breath prickling on Frank's skin, nor the cold touch of his hand cupping the back of Frank's neck, raising his hackles.
This can't be John, simply because John has always been warmth and heat, blissful tingles and blazing passion. And since John is everything Frank wants and needs, he would never go with the stranger, not in a million years.
Then again, he has never fancied men before John came along, and he knows he won't fancy any after. So why is he staring at the stranger's lips as they come closer and closer (without actually closing the distance), wondering what it is like to kiss them? Whether they are as cold as his hand? Whether the rest of his body is as pale as his face, like a marble statue? What his body would feel like, writhing against him?
And why does the stranger look like John? Talk like John? A voice, after all, can be faked. And it is quite a chilly night, so one can't blame anyone for having cold hands.
His heart seems to have moved house and taken up residence in his head, and is currently trying to hammer a nail into the wall. Thump, thump, thump, thump.
Unsuccessfully, as it turns out.
Then, Frank suddenly feels an icy hand clasp his own, long, bony fingers wrapping around it, and as if on cue, he looks up and meets the stranger's deep, dark eyes.
"Come on," the stranger breathes at him. "Let's go."
And Frank goes, despite himself, following the stranger through more dark alleys until they stop in front of a staircase leading downwards to a big iron door that belongs to a red brick townhouse.
Frank has never been in this kind of area. Actually, he doesn't even quite know where he is. Somewhere near the city centre, but definitely a quarter he doesn't usually frequent.
Not that he gets much time to think about it anyway. Before he can look for a street sign, the stranger's cold fingers grab his collar and push him inside the house.
The fingers momentarily leave his person to shut the door and turn on the lights (only an iron chandelier with energy-saving bulbs, as it seems, bathing the room in some sort of gloomy penumbra), and Frank takes advantage of the few seconds of freedom to glance around the room. A sofa. A TV set. A couple of bookshelves. A bureau cluttered with what looks like dust-covered Halloween decorations. A-
Apparently he wasn't invited for a showing but for something else, for suddenly the stranger's hands are back on him, slamming him against the nearest wall with full force (and Frank gasps as his mind tries to work itself around the fact that there could be such power in such bony fingers), and kissing him with equal vehemence, as if he just set his mind on devouring a Chelsea midfielder tonight.
Their groins clash roughly, leaving nothing to the imagination, and Frank realises with no little surprise out that he's just as hard as his counterpart. Not that he can say exactly what he's so surprised about, the stranger's erection or his own.
His hands instinctively move to dig into the other man's backside to keep him in place as he starts grinding against him, desperate for some friction, and gradually he figures that since both of them seem to be wanting the same thing, he could just as well shut off his brain, give in, and enjoy it.
(The fact that the stranger is wearing leather trousers might or might not have something to do with the quickness of his decision.)
Frank's mouth almost feels numb after the rough assault, and the feeling of his hot tongue against the other man's icy one nearly kills him with its intensity, but he maintains their lip-lock as if his life depended on it, even when the stranger moves away slightly to take matters further. His fingers frantically tear at Frank's coat until the buttons surrender and jump onto the floor to avoid further manhandling, and by then Frank is so horny that he takes matters into his own hand, rips his coat off, tosses it onto the floor, and deprives the other man of the trench coat.
Shoes, socks, shirts and trousers follow, and soon they're standing opposite each other in nothing but their underwear, the stranger's body milk-white in the dim light of the room, and even though Frank doesn't understand how someone can be so pale, he can't bring himself to deny it's fucking hot. Horny beyond measure, he rips off the other man's black briefs, pulls down his own, and gives his counterpart a challenging look.
This is what you asked for. Now you will take it like a man.
The stranger doesn't need to be asked twice (or once, for that matter). In fact, there are several things he doesn't need, including (but not limited to) a mattress. Before Frank knows what's going on, he is being pushed roughly against the wall again, this time face first, and a cold knee nudges his legs apart.
He wants to protest, wants to say that this isn't what he had in mind, but his words die in his throat as suddenly two cold, slick fingers push into him all at once, going as deep as they can without mercy, again and again, and he pushes back on them despite himself, gasping with every time they brush against his prostate. His heart is racing, his groin feels like it's on fire, and soon Frank finds himself begging for more, arching his back and spreading his legs apart as far as he can to signal his partner that he can't take any more teasing but wants a cock inside him before he bursts.
As if on cue, the stranger removes his fingers and walks over to the bureau with teasing slowness, rummaging in it for a while until he produces a condom, and Frank wonders if this is what going insane feels like.
"Please," he moans, hating himself for sounding so desperate. "Please… please…"
The stranger cocks an eyebrow. "Please what?"
Frank grits his teeth. Fuck this man for doing this to him. "Please fuck me," he chokes out. "Please. I want it now. Please."
Another blinding white smirk is flashed in his direction. "If you ask so nicely…"
Only an instant later, Frank feels the other man's cold, hard cock against his hole and is about to push himself down on it as suddenly a thought enters his head.
"Wait!" he breathes out, turning his face to look at the other man.
"What?" The stranger actually takes a step back, allowing Frank to turn around.
"I… I need to know," Frank says, sounding just a little out of breath. "What's your name?"
The other man grins almost pitifully at him. "Why, Lampsy, you don't recognise your captain anymore?" He walks over to a drawer, opens it, takes out his blue captain's armband and presents it to Frank, who is suddenly so baffled he nearly drops to the floor. "I think I should be wearing it so you don't forget who's fucking you."
And without a further warning, John slams Frank around again, pushes his knee back in between Frank's legs and then enters him in one slow, nearly mind-blowing thrust before pulling out almost entirely.
Frank almost weeps in desperation. "Harder, oh God, please, harder!" he chokes out, pressing backwards against John to keep his cock from slipping out of him. "Please…"
John remains persistent at first, thrusting into Frank slowly, but suddenly he seems to change his mind and almost slams into him, and Frank cries out, his eyes almost rolling back in his head.
"Fuck!" he groans, feeling as if John just pushed him through the entire wall. "Oh, fuck. Again!"
John feels so big inside him, so huge, filling him out completely, but he wants more. "Come on," he teases him, "fuck me harder! I'm no delicate Eng- Oh God!"
They're Frank's last coherent words, for John obviously decided he's had enough of being gentle. He moves his arm around Frank's upper body, bending him backwards to get a better angle, and then fucks him for real, gradually speeding up until he's practically slamming Frank into the wall with every thrust, and Frank is reduced to whimpering, to moaning, to panting, and to groaning so gutturally the entire neighbourhood must hear him.
His throat feels like sandpaper, his eyes almost water with the intensity of John's thrusts, and his entire body seems to be shaking. It takes all his willpower to prevent himself from blowing his load right then and there, and he bites his lip hard to fend off the orgasm that threatens to hit him with every time John's cock hits his prostate.
As John's hand finally wraps around his cock, stroking him in sync with his thrusts, Frank feels like he's seeing stars.
He's so close it hurts, so close to exploding like a cluster bomb, again and again, and he knows he won't be able to fight it any longer, when suddenly John pulls out of him, grabs his arm, drags him to the sofa and pushes him onto it.
Frank doesn't even know what's happening to him at first. He is too busy catching his breath, greedily filling his lungs with air, and at the same time lamenting the regrettable lack of cock in his arse. He doesn't have to lament it for long, though. In only a blink of an eye later, John has hauled his legs up, knelt in front of him, and put his cock back where it belongs, and the look of bliss on his face as he thrusts into him again is enough to make Frank come, shaking and jerking against John as if 10,000 volts of electric current were doing laps in his body, and then everything goes black.
The first thing he sees when he regains consciousness is a blurry silhouette that gradually turns into John as his eyes get accustomed to the light. Frank doesn't know how long he's been out, but as they're both still naked, he figures it can't have been that long. He moves to get up in order to leave some space on the sofa for John, but the man obviously has other ideas.
Before Frank can even lift his upper body, John has straddled him and is now gazing down at him with an almost hungry look on his face. Then, cold fingers (why are they still cold?) move almost casually up Frank's stomach until they reach his neck, and stroke along his throat a couple of times, so gently that the midfielder feels himself shudder.
"You've got a beautiful throat," John says, his gaze intense, and Frank shudders again as the other man licks his lips. "A really beautiful throat."
Frank wonders where the sudden throat fetish has come from, but he doesn't get much time to contemplate it as John bends down and presses his lips against Frank's pulse, making him shudder a third time. He's always been particularly sensitive there, and if he hadn't just had the most mind-blowing sex ever, he'd definitely be hard now.
"Such a beautiful throat," John mutters into Frank's neck, and it's all the warning he gets.
Suddenly, there are sharp teeth against his skin, and Frank goes rigid, feeling sick to his stomach, but it's too late. John's body is vicelike around his own, and even though he tries to struggle, he can't break free.
He screams, first in fear, then in pain as John's teeth finally penetrate his skin and the smell of blood fills the room, and-
With a jolt, Frank wakes up, sweating like a pig, his heart beating like a freight train, and he stumbles out of bed and switches on the lights just to make sure he's not just being bitten by a vampire who strangely resembles John Terry.
"Frank, you bloody idiot," comes a mumbled curse from the bed, and Frank freezes mid-motion before slowly turning around, ready to face whichever evil haunted his house.
He finds himself faced with a sleepy-looking John Terry, hair tousled, a slightly annoyed expression on his face as he stretches himself lazily and rubs his eyes. "What the fuck is going on?"
He's just about to scream, but then his mind finally registers that there's no blood anywhere, that he probably just woke up John from deep sleep, and that there's no danger looming ahead for him in this house.
His heart still thudding in his chest, he returns to his bed and crawls back under the duvet, knowing he can't escape John's inquiring gaze forever.
He's not four, for fuck's sake. He's a grown man. Grown men should not be dreaming about vampires, no matter how much they resembled John Terry. (Especially when they resembled John Terry.)
"Frank?"
Hesitantly, he turns his head to face John. "I'm sorry," he mumbles, then sighs. "I had a bad dream."
John groans and sits up. "Honestly, mate, you need to do something about those. This is the fifth time this week."
Frank tries to look innocent.
"For your information, it's Thursday night," John adds sarcastically.
"I know, I'm sorry. I can't help it." Frank does feel a little bad about waking John up all the time, but at the same time he believes he can't be blamed for something that he doesn't have any control over.
"Is it always the same dream, then?" John asks, always the concerned captain.
"Yes."
"What's it about?"
Frank keeps silent, but the blush he can feel crawling over his face is reason enough for John to keep prodding. It always is.
"Look, your stupid nightmare has woken me up five times this week, so I think I have a right to know what it's about!"
As much as it pains Frank, he can't argue with that, so he eventually relates his dream, feeling more like an idiot with every sentence that leaves his mouth. He doesn't omit anything. And thankfully, John is a good listener; he doesn't interrupt, doesn't laugh, doesn't even grin. He actually looks sympathetic when Frank reaches the end of his tale…
Only to break into laughter an instant later, guffawing so hard that he almost falls out of the bed.
"Are you quite finished?" Frank snaps as the laughter finally fades, but as soon as John looks at him again, he is overtaken by another fit, and Frank feels like burying his face in his hands. Or burying himself in the garden.
"I'm sorry," John manages in between laughter, "it's just… a vampire?" And he starts laughing again, that high-pitched laughter that Frank usually loves but that now gives him a headache. (Or maybe it's just his own shame doing that.)
"Honestly, Frank," John says after a while, rubbing the tears out of his eyes. "How often have you had your tongue in my mouth? Have you ever noticed any fangs there?" Fortunately, this time he only lets out a short laugh.
"I know it's ridiculous," Frank admits, blushing even more deeply.
"And have you or have you not seen me outside in the sunshine?"
Frank sighs. "I know…"
"You do have a beautiful throat, though."
Frank freezes instinctively, making John snort with laughter yet again. "Oh God, you should see your face!"
"Ha ha, very funny," Frank grumbles, moving to lie on his side so he doesn't have to see John's amused face anymore. Enough is enough.
"Aw," John says, sounding very much like he's taking the piss, but then he moves closer to Frank and puts his arm around his waist, spooning against him. "I'm sorry."
Frank isn't convinced.
"Honestly, I am. I just… Well, you must admit that this sounds pretty funny!"
Frank keeps silent.
"Oh, come on! Let me make it up to you?"
"How?"
"Well, remember what you dreamed before that vampire bit?"
Frank feels his mouth curve into a grin. "Yes?"
"Well, I don't know about you," John says, pointedly grinding against Frank's ass, "but I thought that was pretty inspiring…"
"Really?"
"Definitely!"
Frank bites his lip as he feels John grow hard against him. He knows he should resist for a bit longer, just to pay John back for laughing like a madman just earlier, but somehow he wasn't made to resist a certain Chelsea captain.
And when John pulls him closer and presses his lips against Frank's neck, spreading soft kisses over it before gently sucking at his pulse point, Frank doesn't even flinch, for it's John, and warmth and heat, and blissful tingles and blazing passion.
And when Frank wakes up the sixth time this week, in the small hours of Friday, it's not because he's just had another nightmare.
In fact, it's quite the opposite.
And considering the hard cock pressing against his backside, John must be having a similar dream.
With a grin, Frank turns around to face John, feeling quite certain that this time his lover won't be mad at him for waking him up in the middle of the night.
As it turns out, unsurprisingly, he's absolutely right.
Author: txorakeriak
Fandom: Football RPS, Chelsea FC
Pairing: John Terry/Frank Lampard
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: I'm a lying bastard and made this all up. I don't claim to know any of the players I write about, they're most definitely not mine, and this very probably didn't happen. No payment involved, no offence intended. This is for my own entertainment.
Summary: Frank meets a stranger in a dark alley.
Dedication: For inesdelsol, who had a birthday at the beginning of January. Sorry for the lateness, for the weirdness, and for using all your prompts in one single story, but I hope you like it nevertheless. If you don't, I'll write you something else, I promise.
Word Count: 3,971
A/N: The title is from Richie Sambora's amazing song "Stranger in this Town". The Jace Everett song I'm currently listening to is a better soundtrack for this fic, though.
Allergy warning: Basically PWP. Rough mansex and blood involved, and a touch of silliness. Read at your own risk.
Thanks to jennis_footie for the beta and the encouragement. It was very much needed, and I can't say how grateful I am for your kind words. *glomps*
Feedback: Everything is most welcome, from squee to constructive criticism. I even accept rotten tomatoes, so don't be shy. ;)
*****
It's not often that he walks home alone in the small hours of the night. Actually, he never does it. Why should he? There are always mates who can play the designated driver. And if everything fails, there are taxis.
Tonight, however, is different.
Frank isn't so sure why he's all alone when he leaves one of London's most famous clubs because he vaguely remembers one of his mates picking him up at home and driving him into town. He's also quite certain that there were others with them in the club earlier. But be that as it might, it doesn't change the fact that he's indeed very much alone right now. He doesn't quite understand why there are no taxis either. And somehow, his phone has disappeared, even though he could have sworn it was in his pocket fifteen minutes ago, when he last looked for it to check the time.
Frank briefly considers his options, which turn out to be rather limited, then shrugs and begins his long walk home. He doesn't like it, but at least he doesn't have any plans for the next day. And there's always the small chance of finding a taxi a couple more streets away. The city centre of England's capital cannot be completely deserted, after all.
He pops up the collar of his coat, adjusts his scarf, digs his hands into his pockets and starts walking, only to stop right in his tracks about five minutes later, in what must be the darkest alley in the whole of London.
It takes a while for Frank's eyes to get accustomed to the utter darkness, and as his view becomes clearer and the man standing opposite him still hasn't taken out a knife, held it against his throat, and ordered him to hand over all his money and credit cards if he valued his life, Frank slowly figures he's not a robber.
Unfortunately, he isn't a taxi driver either.
Not that Frank asked him or anything, but he doesn't see a taxi anywhere, and actually, guys like this don't drive taxis. He can't exactly say why, but they just don't. Not in England, anyway.
The man is a mere silhouette against the darkness, but somehow he gives the impression of class - though that might just be the well-cut trench coat he's wearing. Broad shoulders. Tall. Athletic. Frank can't make out his face, it's well hidden in the shadow of a broken street lamp, but he notices his hair, dark and short hair that that stands in all directions as if to prove it defies gravity.
There isn't really anything menacing about the way he looks, but Frank can't help feeling uneasy. He can't see the other man's eyes, but the silence leads him to believe he's currently being checked out from head to toe.
"Now what would you be doing here at this hour?" the stranger finally says.
Frank can't help noticing the cockney accent and is slightly taken aback for an instant. Somehow he expected the man to be a bit more, well, Oxonian, though that might be because he's always linked trench coats to pipe-smoking detectives (primarily Sherlock Holmes) in his head. Which is probably why he was so certain about the man not driving a taxi earlier. Elementary, my dear Watson.
"Are you lost?" the stranger prods, and his voice sounds like bone-chilling ice and blazing fire all at once.
Frank feels a chill run down his spine, and it's not the cold of the night that caused it. He gulps despite himself and says as firmly as he can manage, "No. I'm on my way home."
"So early?" The stranger sounds scandalised.
Frank instinctively glances at his watch. "It's past three in the morning."
"Exactly."
"It's the middle of the night!" Frank explains unnecessarily. He doesn't even know why he's arguing a point with a complete stranger in a dark alley, but his feet feel as if they're made of lead. He can't walk on. "People are supposed to be sleeping."
"The extraordinary ones only just get going." There is a teasing undertone in the man's voice.
Frank chuckles at the implication. "You think you're extraordinary?"
A smile is the reply, so dazzling white that it can actually be seen in the darkness. "Why don't you come and find out?"
Frank freezes, staring at the dark man opposite him as if he just transformed into pink jelly or something. He's met quite a lot of guys who were rather full of themselves, but not even the worst of them has ever been that shameless.
"What?" he says after a while, just for the sake of having said something, because he doesn't want the guy to think the silence spoke for itself. (Or maybe he does want him to think that, but considering the stranger's high opinion of himself, Frank doesn't want him to draw the wrong conclusions.)
"No need to be shy, mate." The man flashes him another bright smile. "I can assure you I'm worth it."
Frank can't believe what he's hearing. "Are you coming on to me?" He wants to let out a sarcastic laugh and tell his opposite where he can stick it, but all that comes out is a pathetic gulp. The fact that he secretly fucks guys (well, one guy, to be exact) isn't supposed to have leaked to the public.
Then again, the stranger hasn't really given the impression that he's recognised him.
"Of course I am," the man says, still smiling. "So, how about it? My place or yours?"
He takes a step towards Frank, who, at this moment, wants nothing more than to run away.
In the end he doesn’t because he can't. As soon as the smell of cologne and aftershave hits Frank's nostrils, he finds himself suddenly glued to the spot.
He knows this smell. He has smelled it so often, he'd recognise it anywhere. But it doesn't make sense. The voice is all wrong, and what the hell would John be doing in a dark alley in the middle of the night?
The stranger continues approaching him, gradually emerging from the shadows, and finally, Frank can see his face. It's pale, and his eyes are so dark, they look almost hollow, but otherwise the similarity is more than striking.
In fact, the only thing that keeps him from laughing out loud and pulling his friend (and lover) into a big hug before kicking his ass for playing such a stupid prank from him is the fact that it doesn't fit. Nothing does. His voice doesn't, his posture doesn't, and neither does the strangely cold breath prickling on Frank's skin, nor the cold touch of his hand cupping the back of Frank's neck, raising his hackles.
This can't be John, simply because John has always been warmth and heat, blissful tingles and blazing passion. And since John is everything Frank wants and needs, he would never go with the stranger, not in a million years.
Then again, he has never fancied men before John came along, and he knows he won't fancy any after. So why is he staring at the stranger's lips as they come closer and closer (without actually closing the distance), wondering what it is like to kiss them? Whether they are as cold as his hand? Whether the rest of his body is as pale as his face, like a marble statue? What his body would feel like, writhing against him?
And why does the stranger look like John? Talk like John? A voice, after all, can be faked. And it is quite a chilly night, so one can't blame anyone for having cold hands.
His heart seems to have moved house and taken up residence in his head, and is currently trying to hammer a nail into the wall. Thump, thump, thump, thump.
Unsuccessfully, as it turns out.
Then, Frank suddenly feels an icy hand clasp his own, long, bony fingers wrapping around it, and as if on cue, he looks up and meets the stranger's deep, dark eyes.
"Come on," the stranger breathes at him. "Let's go."
And Frank goes, despite himself, following the stranger through more dark alleys until they stop in front of a staircase leading downwards to a big iron door that belongs to a red brick townhouse.
Frank has never been in this kind of area. Actually, he doesn't even quite know where he is. Somewhere near the city centre, but definitely a quarter he doesn't usually frequent.
Not that he gets much time to think about it anyway. Before he can look for a street sign, the stranger's cold fingers grab his collar and push him inside the house.
The fingers momentarily leave his person to shut the door and turn on the lights (only an iron chandelier with energy-saving bulbs, as it seems, bathing the room in some sort of gloomy penumbra), and Frank takes advantage of the few seconds of freedom to glance around the room. A sofa. A TV set. A couple of bookshelves. A bureau cluttered with what looks like dust-covered Halloween decorations. A-
Apparently he wasn't invited for a showing but for something else, for suddenly the stranger's hands are back on him, slamming him against the nearest wall with full force (and Frank gasps as his mind tries to work itself around the fact that there could be such power in such bony fingers), and kissing him with equal vehemence, as if he just set his mind on devouring a Chelsea midfielder tonight.
Their groins clash roughly, leaving nothing to the imagination, and Frank realises with no little surprise out that he's just as hard as his counterpart. Not that he can say exactly what he's so surprised about, the stranger's erection or his own.
His hands instinctively move to dig into the other man's backside to keep him in place as he starts grinding against him, desperate for some friction, and gradually he figures that since both of them seem to be wanting the same thing, he could just as well shut off his brain, give in, and enjoy it.
(The fact that the stranger is wearing leather trousers might or might not have something to do with the quickness of his decision.)
Frank's mouth almost feels numb after the rough assault, and the feeling of his hot tongue against the other man's icy one nearly kills him with its intensity, but he maintains their lip-lock as if his life depended on it, even when the stranger moves away slightly to take matters further. His fingers frantically tear at Frank's coat until the buttons surrender and jump onto the floor to avoid further manhandling, and by then Frank is so horny that he takes matters into his own hand, rips his coat off, tosses it onto the floor, and deprives the other man of the trench coat.
Shoes, socks, shirts and trousers follow, and soon they're standing opposite each other in nothing but their underwear, the stranger's body milk-white in the dim light of the room, and even though Frank doesn't understand how someone can be so pale, he can't bring himself to deny it's fucking hot. Horny beyond measure, he rips off the other man's black briefs, pulls down his own, and gives his counterpart a challenging look.
This is what you asked for. Now you will take it like a man.
The stranger doesn't need to be asked twice (or once, for that matter). In fact, there are several things he doesn't need, including (but not limited to) a mattress. Before Frank knows what's going on, he is being pushed roughly against the wall again, this time face first, and a cold knee nudges his legs apart.
He wants to protest, wants to say that this isn't what he had in mind, but his words die in his throat as suddenly two cold, slick fingers push into him all at once, going as deep as they can without mercy, again and again, and he pushes back on them despite himself, gasping with every time they brush against his prostate. His heart is racing, his groin feels like it's on fire, and soon Frank finds himself begging for more, arching his back and spreading his legs apart as far as he can to signal his partner that he can't take any more teasing but wants a cock inside him before he bursts.
As if on cue, the stranger removes his fingers and walks over to the bureau with teasing slowness, rummaging in it for a while until he produces a condom, and Frank wonders if this is what going insane feels like.
"Please," he moans, hating himself for sounding so desperate. "Please… please…"
The stranger cocks an eyebrow. "Please what?"
Frank grits his teeth. Fuck this man for doing this to him. "Please fuck me," he chokes out. "Please. I want it now. Please."
Another blinding white smirk is flashed in his direction. "If you ask so nicely…"
Only an instant later, Frank feels the other man's cold, hard cock against his hole and is about to push himself down on it as suddenly a thought enters his head.
"Wait!" he breathes out, turning his face to look at the other man.
"What?" The stranger actually takes a step back, allowing Frank to turn around.
"I… I need to know," Frank says, sounding just a little out of breath. "What's your name?"
The other man grins almost pitifully at him. "Why, Lampsy, you don't recognise your captain anymore?" He walks over to a drawer, opens it, takes out his blue captain's armband and presents it to Frank, who is suddenly so baffled he nearly drops to the floor. "I think I should be wearing it so you don't forget who's fucking you."
And without a further warning, John slams Frank around again, pushes his knee back in between Frank's legs and then enters him in one slow, nearly mind-blowing thrust before pulling out almost entirely.
Frank almost weeps in desperation. "Harder, oh God, please, harder!" he chokes out, pressing backwards against John to keep his cock from slipping out of him. "Please…"
John remains persistent at first, thrusting into Frank slowly, but suddenly he seems to change his mind and almost slams into him, and Frank cries out, his eyes almost rolling back in his head.
"Fuck!" he groans, feeling as if John just pushed him through the entire wall. "Oh, fuck. Again!"
John feels so big inside him, so huge, filling him out completely, but he wants more. "Come on," he teases him, "fuck me harder! I'm no delicate Eng- Oh God!"
They're Frank's last coherent words, for John obviously decided he's had enough of being gentle. He moves his arm around Frank's upper body, bending him backwards to get a better angle, and then fucks him for real, gradually speeding up until he's practically slamming Frank into the wall with every thrust, and Frank is reduced to whimpering, to moaning, to panting, and to groaning so gutturally the entire neighbourhood must hear him.
His throat feels like sandpaper, his eyes almost water with the intensity of John's thrusts, and his entire body seems to be shaking. It takes all his willpower to prevent himself from blowing his load right then and there, and he bites his lip hard to fend off the orgasm that threatens to hit him with every time John's cock hits his prostate.
As John's hand finally wraps around his cock, stroking him in sync with his thrusts, Frank feels like he's seeing stars.
He's so close it hurts, so close to exploding like a cluster bomb, again and again, and he knows he won't be able to fight it any longer, when suddenly John pulls out of him, grabs his arm, drags him to the sofa and pushes him onto it.
Frank doesn't even know what's happening to him at first. He is too busy catching his breath, greedily filling his lungs with air, and at the same time lamenting the regrettable lack of cock in his arse. He doesn't have to lament it for long, though. In only a blink of an eye later, John has hauled his legs up, knelt in front of him, and put his cock back where it belongs, and the look of bliss on his face as he thrusts into him again is enough to make Frank come, shaking and jerking against John as if 10,000 volts of electric current were doing laps in his body, and then everything goes black.
The first thing he sees when he regains consciousness is a blurry silhouette that gradually turns into John as his eyes get accustomed to the light. Frank doesn't know how long he's been out, but as they're both still naked, he figures it can't have been that long. He moves to get up in order to leave some space on the sofa for John, but the man obviously has other ideas.
Before Frank can even lift his upper body, John has straddled him and is now gazing down at him with an almost hungry look on his face. Then, cold fingers (why are they still cold?) move almost casually up Frank's stomach until they reach his neck, and stroke along his throat a couple of times, so gently that the midfielder feels himself shudder.
"You've got a beautiful throat," John says, his gaze intense, and Frank shudders again as the other man licks his lips. "A really beautiful throat."
Frank wonders where the sudden throat fetish has come from, but he doesn't get much time to contemplate it as John bends down and presses his lips against Frank's pulse, making him shudder a third time. He's always been particularly sensitive there, and if he hadn't just had the most mind-blowing sex ever, he'd definitely be hard now.
"Such a beautiful throat," John mutters into Frank's neck, and it's all the warning he gets.
Suddenly, there are sharp teeth against his skin, and Frank goes rigid, feeling sick to his stomach, but it's too late. John's body is vicelike around his own, and even though he tries to struggle, he can't break free.
He screams, first in fear, then in pain as John's teeth finally penetrate his skin and the smell of blood fills the room, and-
With a jolt, Frank wakes up, sweating like a pig, his heart beating like a freight train, and he stumbles out of bed and switches on the lights just to make sure he's not just being bitten by a vampire who strangely resembles John Terry.
"Frank, you bloody idiot," comes a mumbled curse from the bed, and Frank freezes mid-motion before slowly turning around, ready to face whichever evil haunted his house.
He finds himself faced with a sleepy-looking John Terry, hair tousled, a slightly annoyed expression on his face as he stretches himself lazily and rubs his eyes. "What the fuck is going on?"
He's just about to scream, but then his mind finally registers that there's no blood anywhere, that he probably just woke up John from deep sleep, and that there's no danger looming ahead for him in this house.
His heart still thudding in his chest, he returns to his bed and crawls back under the duvet, knowing he can't escape John's inquiring gaze forever.
He's not four, for fuck's sake. He's a grown man. Grown men should not be dreaming about vampires, no matter how much they resembled John Terry. (Especially when they resembled John Terry.)
"Frank?"
Hesitantly, he turns his head to face John. "I'm sorry," he mumbles, then sighs. "I had a bad dream."
John groans and sits up. "Honestly, mate, you need to do something about those. This is the fifth time this week."
Frank tries to look innocent.
"For your information, it's Thursday night," John adds sarcastically.
"I know, I'm sorry. I can't help it." Frank does feel a little bad about waking John up all the time, but at the same time he believes he can't be blamed for something that he doesn't have any control over.
"Is it always the same dream, then?" John asks, always the concerned captain.
"Yes."
"What's it about?"
Frank keeps silent, but the blush he can feel crawling over his face is reason enough for John to keep prodding. It always is.
"Look, your stupid nightmare has woken me up five times this week, so I think I have a right to know what it's about!"
As much as it pains Frank, he can't argue with that, so he eventually relates his dream, feeling more like an idiot with every sentence that leaves his mouth. He doesn't omit anything. And thankfully, John is a good listener; he doesn't interrupt, doesn't laugh, doesn't even grin. He actually looks sympathetic when Frank reaches the end of his tale…
Only to break into laughter an instant later, guffawing so hard that he almost falls out of the bed.
"Are you quite finished?" Frank snaps as the laughter finally fades, but as soon as John looks at him again, he is overtaken by another fit, and Frank feels like burying his face in his hands. Or burying himself in the garden.
"I'm sorry," John manages in between laughter, "it's just… a vampire?" And he starts laughing again, that high-pitched laughter that Frank usually loves but that now gives him a headache. (Or maybe it's just his own shame doing that.)
"Honestly, Frank," John says after a while, rubbing the tears out of his eyes. "How often have you had your tongue in my mouth? Have you ever noticed any fangs there?" Fortunately, this time he only lets out a short laugh.
"I know it's ridiculous," Frank admits, blushing even more deeply.
"And have you or have you not seen me outside in the sunshine?"
Frank sighs. "I know…"
"You do have a beautiful throat, though."
Frank freezes instinctively, making John snort with laughter yet again. "Oh God, you should see your face!"
"Ha ha, very funny," Frank grumbles, moving to lie on his side so he doesn't have to see John's amused face anymore. Enough is enough.
"Aw," John says, sounding very much like he's taking the piss, but then he moves closer to Frank and puts his arm around his waist, spooning against him. "I'm sorry."
Frank isn't convinced.
"Honestly, I am. I just… Well, you must admit that this sounds pretty funny!"
Frank keeps silent.
"Oh, come on! Let me make it up to you?"
"How?"
"Well, remember what you dreamed before that vampire bit?"
Frank feels his mouth curve into a grin. "Yes?"
"Well, I don't know about you," John says, pointedly grinding against Frank's ass, "but I thought that was pretty inspiring…"
"Really?"
"Definitely!"
Frank bites his lip as he feels John grow hard against him. He knows he should resist for a bit longer, just to pay John back for laughing like a madman just earlier, but somehow he wasn't made to resist a certain Chelsea captain.
And when John pulls him closer and presses his lips against Frank's neck, spreading soft kisses over it before gently sucking at his pulse point, Frank doesn't even flinch, for it's John, and warmth and heat, and blissful tingles and blazing passion.
And when Frank wakes up the sixth time this week, in the small hours of Friday, it's not because he's just had another nightmare.
In fact, it's quite the opposite.
And considering the hard cock pressing against his backside, John must be having a similar dream.
With a grin, Frank turns around to face John, feeling quite certain that this time his lover won't be mad at him for waking him up in the middle of the night.
As it turns out, unsurprisingly, he's absolutely right.