Fic(let): "Reverberation" (MCR; Frank/Gerard, NC-17)
Title: "Reverberation"
Fandom: MCR
Pairing: Frank/Gerard
Notes: NC-17, 1500 words. This started out as something I a) had stuck in my head for a while, and b) was going to entertain aneli8 and lordessrenegade with while at work, then it didn't happen, but then I finished it today, and brooklinegirl forced me to post it. There's no redeeming quality to this at all. I have, like, THREE incredibly long and plotty fics in the works, and this is what I'm posting. Apparently. *hands* I AM NOT TO BLAME, OKAY.
*
Frank feels like he just fell off the stage, staggered directly from the lights and out into the long hallway backstage, tipping over into the momentary quiet.
His ears are ringing, his fingers are shaking, and he's so ridiculously horny, has just has to make it to the bathroom and give himself two strokes, and he'll be gone. He can feel it building up in his belly, making him stagger with the pressure of it, and then five heat spots blossom on his back, and he leans into Gerard's touch automatically, doesn't have to think about it.
From the corner of his eye, he catches the sway of matted black hair, the quick grin, and then he's propelled along, his feet doing the work that Gerard's grip has started, and they're swoosh-swoosh-swoosh passing the brick walls, their ragged edges slipping in and out of the corner of his eyes, as unfocused as the people bumping up against them, milling all around and spreading out in his blurring vision.
He's always like this after shows, more so after the really great ones, the ones where you can feel the music in your fucking gut, the sweat and the blood of the four guys around you. The kind of shows where he feels like Bob is kicking Frank's stomach like a snare, and Ray is strumming his fucking skin through the amps. The kind of show where he feels attached to Gerard by an invisible string, and can't let go, no matter which way he may wander and kick and scream.
Tonight, he barely even touched Gerard the entire time - he just writhed around on the ground, his fingertips connected to the rest of the band through the guitar strings, his ears filled with the music they were making, their fucking symphony of noise and chorus and heat. Now, he can't even get enough of Gerard's smell next to him, the overpowering sweat and joy and he presses in closer and closer, Frank's sweaty back to Gerard's sweating hand as it propels him along, all through the backstage crowd, and he just waits until they've reached the bathroom, wonders if he’ll even fucking make it.
Once inside, he reverses the natural order of things, and Gerard's back is to the wall before he can even protest, the click of the lock lost in the movement. Usually, Gerard winds up the one on his knees in front of Frank after shows like this, wet and hot and boiling over with pent-up energy. Frank isn't sure how that's become their routine, but he doesn’t question it. It never takes Gerard long to bring Frank off, all Frank has to do is fucking look down and see Gerard's chapped lips around his cock and his ridiculously long eyelashes fluttering over his cheeks, and Frank's done, gone, blacking out.
This time, Frank’s hands are all over Gerard within a second of getting him alone, skimming over his throat, his chest, his sides. He gives Gerard a quick look, can I? let me, I have to, and all Gerard does is watch him with wide black eyes and wait, silent except for his erratic, stuttered breathing. Frank takes that as his cue to sink to his knees and finally, fucking finally, touch him.
His scabbed knees feel each pressure point of the cold tiles, his feet are sore from launching himself around the stage for almost two hours, and he's aware, he's so fucking aware of every place where he's being touched, every place where he's touching. Gerard’s hands on his shoulders are tightening and releasing like he can’t even decide what to do with his fingers.
It's hard enough to get Gerard's pants off when they aren't clinging to his sweat, but this takes a lot more work. Frank's fingers are still shaky, and the calluses are letting themselves be felt along the buttons and the zipper, but then he's in, and Gerard gasps above him, just a quick intake of breath at the release.
Frank wants Gerard's cock in his mouth like it's water, and he takes it in by increments, until his nose is buried in Gerard's smell, so sharp and hot, and it would be overwhelming, if it didn't smell like Frank feels, sex hot hard nownownow. He has to pull off, because it's too quick and not at all smooth and he wants it to be long and slow and never end, so he holds Gerard's cock at the base and licks up and down and all around, wishing for the momentum to recede, wanting it to last.
He lets his tongue flick around the head and looks up at Gerard. He’s looming above him, and Frank feels like Gerard's entire body is heaving, rippling with the strain of holding still, needing to let go. He doesn't want him to stand still, either, so he just sucks the head of Gerard's cock in and plants his hands on either side of his hips, his fingers digging into the grimy paint, palms itchy in their gloves.
Gerard gets it, and then nothing is standing still, not even the walls beneath his hands, and Gerard fucks Frank's mouth in quick hard thrusts, and it almost makes Frank laugh when he recognizes the rhythm of the last song in the set. It's still swirling around both their heads, minutes after they've closed. But he doesn't laugh, he just lets Gerard have him, fuck him, filling his mouth with the weight of his dick, salty and tangy and fucking familiar, his hands gripping Frank's head, keeping him pinned in place, exactly what Frank fucking needs at that exact moment.
Gerard is loud, which is also familiar, and his voice is shot to hell as he moans, ragged and raspy and indistinct, above him. Outside the door, there’s voices, some he recognizes, some not, and any minute now, somebody could break the flimsy lock with a shoulder to the door, but Frank can’t make himself give a flying fuck. He revels, instead, in Gerard’s voice over him, allows his noises to soothe his beating eardrums, displacing the stuffed-with-cotton feeling with a different kind of ringing. He's sweating through every pore of his body, he feels wet behind his knees, in the crooks of his elbows, in the seat of his pants, behind his ears; and everywhere, he feels his blood pounding, like it wants to escape the confinement of his skin.
He knows when Gerard is close, knows it like he knows that his fingers will always fall on the right frets no matter how hard he might be flinging himself on stage. He pulls off before Gerard can warn him, and without losing the rhythm, rips his right gloves off his hand with his teeth. He gets Gerard's dick in his fist, then catches his eye, opens his mouth, and doesn’t break contact, as he strokes his cock once, twice, and wrings the orgasm out of him on three. Frank catches all of it, all that Gerard's got, on his tongue, and doesn't break away until there's nothing left to catch and pump him through.
He is still holding Gerard's gaze as he swallows it all down and licks his lips and allows his hand to fall and clutch at his thigh. Gerard's exhaled "Fuck." almost gets lost in the taste.
Gerard is a strong motherfucker when he wants to be, surprising even himself sometimes, and he lifts Frank up under his arms within seconds like he's nothing. He pins Frank in place with an arm around his back and his tongue against Frank's tongue, and gets his free hand on Frank’s dick through his jeans, pumping through the fabric. It doesn't take a lot for Frank to come, because he's been ready for it for, like, a hundred years. He bites around Gerard’s tongue, then slumps when he's licked it in apology.
They're quiet afterwards, shaky and wrung out. Uncomfortable, too, but neither moves to change it. They need a shower, and coffee, maybe, or maybe just sleep. First, though, they would need to get out of the bathroom and he isn’t ready for the throb of backstage to claim him.
"Frank." Gerard's breath is hot against his damp hair. Frank just hums against his chest, because he can't make his mouth move. Gerard, no matter how tired or sick or wasted, has never had this problem. "Jesus. I - fuck."
Frank forces his mouth to unpeel and he swallows before speaking. "Yeah." He barely hears his own voice, and his tongue is starting to feel vile. Gerard gets it, though, because his tightens his arms around Frank's back and hangs on, letting the wall take the full force of their slump.
They stay like that until there's barely any noise outside the bathroom, until they hear distant calls of Schechter. Schechter! in Bob's annoyed voice, and high-pitched laughter in Ray's. Until the footsteps of the roadies retreat entirely, and then all the sound that's left is their breath, and Frank's pulse, and the rhythmic tap-tap-tapping of the faucet by their side.
*
Fandom: MCR
Pairing: Frank/Gerard
Notes: NC-17, 1500 words. This started out as something I a) had stuck in my head for a while, and b) was going to entertain aneli8 and lordessrenegade with while at work, then it didn't happen, but then I finished it today, and brooklinegirl forced me to post it. There's no redeeming quality to this at all. I have, like, THREE incredibly long and plotty fics in the works, and this is what I'm posting. Apparently. *hands* I AM NOT TO BLAME, OKAY.
*
Frank feels like he just fell off the stage, staggered directly from the lights and out into the long hallway backstage, tipping over into the momentary quiet.
His ears are ringing, his fingers are shaking, and he's so ridiculously horny, has just has to make it to the bathroom and give himself two strokes, and he'll be gone. He can feel it building up in his belly, making him stagger with the pressure of it, and then five heat spots blossom on his back, and he leans into Gerard's touch automatically, doesn't have to think about it.
From the corner of his eye, he catches the sway of matted black hair, the quick grin, and then he's propelled along, his feet doing the work that Gerard's grip has started, and they're swoosh-swoosh-swoosh passing the brick walls, their ragged edges slipping in and out of the corner of his eyes, as unfocused as the people bumping up against them, milling all around and spreading out in his blurring vision.
He's always like this after shows, more so after the really great ones, the ones where you can feel the music in your fucking gut, the sweat and the blood of the four guys around you. The kind of shows where he feels like Bob is kicking Frank's stomach like a snare, and Ray is strumming his fucking skin through the amps. The kind of show where he feels attached to Gerard by an invisible string, and can't let go, no matter which way he may wander and kick and scream.
Tonight, he barely even touched Gerard the entire time - he just writhed around on the ground, his fingertips connected to the rest of the band through the guitar strings, his ears filled with the music they were making, their fucking symphony of noise and chorus and heat. Now, he can't even get enough of Gerard's smell next to him, the overpowering sweat and joy and he presses in closer and closer, Frank's sweaty back to Gerard's sweating hand as it propels him along, all through the backstage crowd, and he just waits until they've reached the bathroom, wonders if he’ll even fucking make it.
Once inside, he reverses the natural order of things, and Gerard's back is to the wall before he can even protest, the click of the lock lost in the movement. Usually, Gerard winds up the one on his knees in front of Frank after shows like this, wet and hot and boiling over with pent-up energy. Frank isn't sure how that's become their routine, but he doesn’t question it. It never takes Gerard long to bring Frank off, all Frank has to do is fucking look down and see Gerard's chapped lips around his cock and his ridiculously long eyelashes fluttering over his cheeks, and Frank's done, gone, blacking out.
This time, Frank’s hands are all over Gerard within a second of getting him alone, skimming over his throat, his chest, his sides. He gives Gerard a quick look, can I? let me, I have to, and all Gerard does is watch him with wide black eyes and wait, silent except for his erratic, stuttered breathing. Frank takes that as his cue to sink to his knees and finally, fucking finally, touch him.
His scabbed knees feel each pressure point of the cold tiles, his feet are sore from launching himself around the stage for almost two hours, and he's aware, he's so fucking aware of every place where he's being touched, every place where he's touching. Gerard’s hands on his shoulders are tightening and releasing like he can’t even decide what to do with his fingers.
It's hard enough to get Gerard's pants off when they aren't clinging to his sweat, but this takes a lot more work. Frank's fingers are still shaky, and the calluses are letting themselves be felt along the buttons and the zipper, but then he's in, and Gerard gasps above him, just a quick intake of breath at the release.
Frank wants Gerard's cock in his mouth like it's water, and he takes it in by increments, until his nose is buried in Gerard's smell, so sharp and hot, and it would be overwhelming, if it didn't smell like Frank feels, sex hot hard nownownow. He has to pull off, because it's too quick and not at all smooth and he wants it to be long and slow and never end, so he holds Gerard's cock at the base and licks up and down and all around, wishing for the momentum to recede, wanting it to last.
He lets his tongue flick around the head and looks up at Gerard. He’s looming above him, and Frank feels like Gerard's entire body is heaving, rippling with the strain of holding still, needing to let go. He doesn't want him to stand still, either, so he just sucks the head of Gerard's cock in and plants his hands on either side of his hips, his fingers digging into the grimy paint, palms itchy in their gloves.
Gerard gets it, and then nothing is standing still, not even the walls beneath his hands, and Gerard fucks Frank's mouth in quick hard thrusts, and it almost makes Frank laugh when he recognizes the rhythm of the last song in the set. It's still swirling around both their heads, minutes after they've closed. But he doesn't laugh, he just lets Gerard have him, fuck him, filling his mouth with the weight of his dick, salty and tangy and fucking familiar, his hands gripping Frank's head, keeping him pinned in place, exactly what Frank fucking needs at that exact moment.
Gerard is loud, which is also familiar, and his voice is shot to hell as he moans, ragged and raspy and indistinct, above him. Outside the door, there’s voices, some he recognizes, some not, and any minute now, somebody could break the flimsy lock with a shoulder to the door, but Frank can’t make himself give a flying fuck. He revels, instead, in Gerard’s voice over him, allows his noises to soothe his beating eardrums, displacing the stuffed-with-cotton feeling with a different kind of ringing. He's sweating through every pore of his body, he feels wet behind his knees, in the crooks of his elbows, in the seat of his pants, behind his ears; and everywhere, he feels his blood pounding, like it wants to escape the confinement of his skin.
He knows when Gerard is close, knows it like he knows that his fingers will always fall on the right frets no matter how hard he might be flinging himself on stage. He pulls off before Gerard can warn him, and without losing the rhythm, rips his right gloves off his hand with his teeth. He gets Gerard's dick in his fist, then catches his eye, opens his mouth, and doesn’t break contact, as he strokes his cock once, twice, and wrings the orgasm out of him on three. Frank catches all of it, all that Gerard's got, on his tongue, and doesn't break away until there's nothing left to catch and pump him through.
He is still holding Gerard's gaze as he swallows it all down and licks his lips and allows his hand to fall and clutch at his thigh. Gerard's exhaled "Fuck." almost gets lost in the taste.
Gerard is a strong motherfucker when he wants to be, surprising even himself sometimes, and he lifts Frank up under his arms within seconds like he's nothing. He pins Frank in place with an arm around his back and his tongue against Frank's tongue, and gets his free hand on Frank’s dick through his jeans, pumping through the fabric. It doesn't take a lot for Frank to come, because he's been ready for it for, like, a hundred years. He bites around Gerard’s tongue, then slumps when he's licked it in apology.
They're quiet afterwards, shaky and wrung out. Uncomfortable, too, but neither moves to change it. They need a shower, and coffee, maybe, or maybe just sleep. First, though, they would need to get out of the bathroom and he isn’t ready for the throb of backstage to claim him.
"Frank." Gerard's breath is hot against his damp hair. Frank just hums against his chest, because he can't make his mouth move. Gerard, no matter how tired or sick or wasted, has never had this problem. "Jesus. I - fuck."
Frank forces his mouth to unpeel and he swallows before speaking. "Yeah." He barely hears his own voice, and his tongue is starting to feel vile. Gerard gets it, though, because his tightens his arms around Frank's back and hangs on, letting the wall take the full force of their slump.
They stay like that until there's barely any noise outside the bathroom, until they hear distant calls of Schechter. Schechter! in Bob's annoyed voice, and high-pitched laughter in Ray's. Until the footsteps of the roadies retreat entirely, and then all the sound that's left is their breath, and Frank's pulse, and the rhythmic tap-tap-tapping of the faucet by their side.
*