fic: so much more content (frank/mikey)
so much more content
frank/mikey
R
~3000 words.
set during that time when they were living together; handjobs with a total lack of plot. thanks to awfulstate, who read through this for me and assured me it made sense even though it was mostly written under the influence of a LOT of cough syrup.
Frank's not wasted, but he's had just enough beer that the resident tiredness that tends to linger around after a long day in the studio has kicked up another notch, and so he's feeling the few beers he's had a bit more than he usually would. It makes the shitty couch he and Mikey have been making do with in their almost as shitty apartment seem more comfortable than it usually does, though, which Frank is grateful for. It's making him feel comfortable even though he has Mikey Way half sprawled out across on top of him, just like they're back in a van again and don't have any space to themselves, even though Mikey is a bony motherfucker with sharp, sharp elbows.
“Hey, Mikey,” he mutters. Mikey lifts his head from where it's been resting against the back of the couch, near Frank's shoulder, and blinks at him. His knees are slotted weirdly around Frank's; Frank can't quite work out how they're both fitting like this, halfway to horizontal. He runs a hand absently through Mikey's hair and offers Mikey a wide grin when he frowns. “You fucking passing out on me, man?”
“I'm. Dude, I'm not that drunk,” Mikey huffs out indignantly. “I think you had more than me. I dunno, I'm just kinda tired.”
“Go to bed then,” Frank says. “And get my cigarettes on the way.” He's pretty sure there might be some left by the kitchen window.
Mikey hums as though he's agreeing, but doesn't move an inch. He's still looking at Frank: his glasses have slid down to the tip of his nose and his hair is sticking up at odd angles by this point in the night, ruffled by the wind outside and even more so by Frank's hand, and he looks fucking ridiculous. Frank laughs to himself, the sound coming out lower than normal, rougher than his usual giggle.
“What?” Mikey demands, and Frank shrugs as best as he can with half of Mikey's weight on top of him. He tugs on Mikey's hair without really thinking about it, just because there are still strands of it poking through between his fingers, and Frank thinks that the way Mikey ducks his head like that and follows the motion is probably more out of instinct than any conscious choice. Mikey's probably too drunk or tired or maybe just the weird mixture of both that Frank currently feels to tell Frank to fuck off and stop being annoying and messing with his hair. It's one of the things Frank has learnt after months and months in a van with the guy: that Mikey is still weirdly fucking sensitive about his hair, even when it looks kind of like a bird's nest or some crazy shit.
“Whoa,” Mikey says, sounding like he's almost surprised at himself, and just stops short before his face collides with Frank's. That could be pretty fucking messy, Frank thinks. Mikey could probably take his eye out with one of the arms of his stupid glasses. Or he could kiss him - which was, Frank slowly registers, what his immediate assumption was when Mikey moved toward him like that. “Oops,” Mikey adds, without sounding like he's bothered about it at all, and his mouth twitches up into something of an amused smile.
“Don't pretend like you weren't making the moves on me,” Frank says, even though he's still the one lying there with his hand still tangled up in the back of Mikey's hair. It just seems like it would be a lot of effort to move it; he can't really be bothered, still surprisingly comfortable just staying right where he is. “Hey, I know I'm an irresistible motherfucker.”
“Oh, yeah.” Mikey pitches his voice is totally flat and deadpan, but the smile is still playing around at the corners of his mouth, and Frank doesn't really think before he opens his mouth again and says, “But hey, hey, Mikey Way,” and goes on instinct, guiding Mikey back down toward him with his fingers resting at the back of Mikey's neck.
“So how drunk are you?” Mikey asks after the first few moments of their lips touching, but he doesn't sound too offended or weirded out. He doesn't even sound like he's that bothered about the answer. And Frank's still fairly sure he's not drunk, but he's maybe loosened his inhibitions a lot more than he first thought, at least, through the lack of sleep and lack of personal boundaries that's already there between them, because he's sometimes into dudes but he's never into bandmates. Never into Mikey, who leaves dirty fucking socks all around the apartment and almost kills himself on a day to day basis with regular household appliances.
It's probably just been too long. He's had a couple of sloppy, drunken make outs with people recently, but it feels like fucking forever since he's even had someone's weight on top of him like this. It feels like forever since he's been in a position that hints at a possibility of things it moving on.
“Dunno,” Frank admits, giving another half shrug in a habit he thinks he's picked up from Mikey recently. Mikey looks at him for a few, long seconds before shrugging back.
“Okay,” Mikey says, and Frank thinks for a few seconds that they're probably just gonna leave it at that. It's probably the wisest choice. He's usually fucking terrible at going for the smart options, but at least he can recognise it in this situation. It's a start.
Mikey leans down again then, though, resting more of his weight on Frank and pressing him back into the couch as he kisses him. Frank makes a surprised noise into it; a pleased noise, tightening the hold he has on Mikey's hair automatically, just enough so he can pull him closer and kiss him harder. All of a sudden, he doesn't feel quite as tired as he did earlier, opening his mouth straight away at the touch of Mikey's tongue.
They keep it kind of slow and lazy for a while, the kind of making out Frank fucking loves when he's in this mood, the kind of making out he hardly ever keeps it at because he's usually looking to move things on to more. Mikey keeps pulling back to kiss him softly, almost chastely, before going back in more deeply, as though he's trying to see what kind of variety they can get. Frank fully supports this sort of exploration.
He slides one hand up under Mikey's shirt and laughs as Mikey almost jumps at the contact. The sound twists off into a moan when Mikey shifts on top of him, resting more weight on Frank's lower half and kissing him again, breathing more heavily when they break apart. He has one hand resting over Frank's shoulder, just next to his head, and the other next to Frank's arm, only half holding himself up. Frank breathes in when he exhales, hot and damp, and it should be kind of gross, but he just practically fucking shivers and then tugs Mikey back down again.
Mikey kisses lazily, like he isn't bothered one way or another where this goes tonight, but he lets out a soft sound when Frank tilts his head so he can mouth over Mikey's neck, sucking just enough to probably leave a faint mark that Mikey will probably bitch about tomorrow. Mikey apparently doesn't mind too much right now, though; he rolls his hips down and draws a low moan from Frank as the steady thrum of arousal he's been aware of for a little while now kicks it up a notch or two at the friction.
Frank presses his heels into the couch so he can get some leverage, rocking slowly up against Mikey and feeling even more fucking turned on by the shaky, small gasp Mikey lets out at the friction, and then says, “Hey, Mikey, you should jerk me off.”
“Wow,” Mikey replies. “So that's why you're getting laid so much, right, 'cause you're so smooth,” and he even manages an eye roll, but he's still moving over Frank, tiny shifts of his hips that feel more like a tease than anything else.
“Yeah,” Frank says and there's almost definitely a clever reply on the tip of his tongue that gets lost as Mikey grinds his hips down again, slow and deliberate. Frank rocks into the movement, says, “Motherfucker,” around a groan, and gets lost for a few seconds just staring at the small, self-satisfied smirk on Mikey's face.
Mikey holds still for a couple of seconds. They drag out too long for Frank's liking. Then he gives Frank a little half-shrug and says, “Okay,” as though he's agreeing about what bar they're going to go to, or what they should play next at practice, and slides his hand down between them.
Frank doesn't know how exactly Mikey manages to get his jeans undone when Mikey is a clumsy motherfucker at the best of times and they're still kind of buzzed, just a little bit, right now; Mikey is sitting basically right on top of Frank, too, and is probably getting in his own way. He only seems to realise he needs to move when he finally goes to stick his hand down Frank's boxers and finds he can't because of how they're both positioned.
“Shit,” Mikey mutters, and slides back down Frank's legs a little just until he's given himself enough room to manoeuvre. It means more of his weight is around the region of Frank's knees, and Franks' feet are probably gonna lose some feeling soon, but Frank doesn't give two shits because Mikey wraps his fingers around his dick with no more fucking around.
Frank's not fully hard yet, but he's getting there, and he grunts in encouragement as Mikey strokes him, starting off slowly. His palm is too dry but the circle of his fist is tight and hot, and when he speeds up just enough to get a steady rhythm going it's just far enough this side of rough to make Frank let out a harsh breath, head tilted back against the sagging cushion of the couch.
“Yeah,” he says, and then, “Yeah,” when Mikey stops touching him just long enough to lick a long, wet stripe up his palm and then get his hand back on Frank's cock, the movement slick and easy now. Mikey knows what he's doing; he twists his wrist just right, doesn't fuck around trying to tease him, like he knows Frank just wants to get off. Mikey rubs his thumb over the head on an upstroke and Frank pants out, “Fuck, fuck, Mikey,” between heavy, open-mouthed gasps that don't quite let him catch his breath right.
“Like that?” Mikey asks, and there's something about the way he says it that makes Frank think he's genuinely just asking, genuinely just wants to make sure that he's making it good for Frank. It sounds fucking dirty anyway, maybe just because of the way Mikey's looking at him when he speaks. Maybe just because Mikey's got his hand on his cock when he says it.
“Yeah, fuck, s'fucking good,” Frank says, and then adds, “Little faster.” Mikey makes a quiet noise of assent and speeds the movement of his hand up, and Frank doesn't even try to hold back his moan, shoving his hips up into it. “Jesus, you're so fucking hot like this, Mikey.”
Mikey raises an eyebrow and smirks at Frank a little bit, playing it totally fucking cool even though Frank can feel him moving against his thigh occasionally in small, grinding motions and can hear the odd hitch and catch in his breathing every now and then. “What, 'cause my hand's on your dick?”
That's got something to do with it, but Frank shakes his head because it's not the main reason, not really. “'Cause you look fucking hot,” he says, “when you're fucking - when you're on top of me like this. I'd fuck you like this if you'd let me,” he adds without really thinking about it, because he's getting close and his brain to mouth filter is even more shot to hell than usual, and Mikey, who's been keeping up a quick and steady rhythm all the time they've been talking, squeezes more tightly at Frank's words. “Fuck,” Frank pants, “fuck. Would you?”
“What?” Mikey asks. He's breathing more heavily too, quick, sharp inhales and exhales that Frank can only just catch over the sound of his own breathing. His hand slows down a little bit, and Frank closes his eyes for a few seconds, trying to get himself under control so he doesn't resort to just rocking up desperately, trying to fuck Mikey's fist for more friction.
“Would you let me fuck you like this?”
“On the couch?” Mikey sounds almost scandalized, totally out of place in the current situation. Frank laughs breathlessly.
“I mean like this,” Frank repeats, and he rocks his hips up for emphasis and watches as Mikey's mouth falls open a little bit, a small o of realisation. “Hey,” he adds before Mikey can reply, and he leaves one hand fisted in the material of the couch but reaches up with the other, trailing his fingers up the side of Mikey's neck until he can slide them into his hair and tug Mikey down for a kiss. It's sloppy; Frank moans into it when Mikey begins moving his hand again, and Mikey bites down on his bottom lip. It's fucking awesome.
Mikey pulls back so he can move with less difficulty, tighten his grip again and really go for it. He strokes Frank faster than he was doing before and Frank's struggling for breath now, all the heat in the pit of his stomach dipping down even lower. He wishes, in a sudden flash, he was naked right now, or that he'd at least had the foresight to take off his jeans, because his legs feel like they're fucking burning up inside the thick material.
“Mikey,” he rasps out, his throat too dry, “getting close,” even though that should be fucking obvious. Mikey's hand is moving even more smoothly now because Frank's cock is fucking leaking, aching; slick wet noises that Frank can hear even over his quick breathing, that turn him on even more.
“Come on then,” Mikey says. Then he says, voice as calm as ever, “I'd probably let you, like if it wouldn't get weird. It'd be hot,” and Frank thinks about it, pictures it: Mikey above him like this, rocking down onto his cock, controlling the rhythm, head thrown back, the long line of his throat, and he bucks up into Mikey's fist and comes hard enough that his toes curl up and he's not even aware of the noises he's making until he comes back to himself just in time to hear them winding down to panting as he tries to get his breath back.
“Jesus motherfucking Christ, Mikey,” Frank manages, and Mikey flashes him that smirk again, the sort of smug one that Frank thinks he should get to see more often. Frank feels boneless, melting back against the couch, and he could probably fall asleep in all of about two seconds right now if he just closed his eyes and waited. Mikey's still hard, though; he's still shifting restlessly, rubbing off on Frank's thigh. “Dude,” Frank says. “C'mere, I said I'd do you too.” He realises, belatedly, that Mikey has wiped Frank's come all over Frank's jeans, but he doesn't retract the offer. He's too blissed out to care.
Mikey lets Frank shove him over a little bit until the angle's easier for Frank to undo his stupid fucking girly jeans and tug them down just far enough to get to his dick more easily.
It doesn't actually take Mikey too long to come, which Frank would take the piss out of him for if he currently had his regular mental capacity and if Mikey hadn't been half getting himself off the whole time he'd been getting Frank off. He spits into his hand and jerks him off quickly, the same sort of rhythm Mikey'd had going for him, and it's way fucking hotter than it should be when he rubs his thumb over the head of Mikey's dick and it comes away wet and sticky. Mikey shudders and moans, and Frank feels something warm surge through him even though it's too soon for him to get hard again.
When Mikey digs his fingertips hard enough into Frank's other arm to leave marks and his breath gets short, Frank says, “Yeah, Mikey, come on, come on, come,” and Mikey lets go with one hand to wrap it around Frank's on his cock and squeeze tightly when he comes, dropping his head to bury his face in Frank's neck, hips twitching as Frank keeps their hands moving, stroking him through it. His breath pools hot and damp around Frank's collarbone.
After a few moments, Mikey mutters, “I'm never moving again.” The words are muffled against Frank's skin and when Frank laughs, the sound is still a shade rougher than usual, still slightly breathless. He idly wipes his hand on Mikey's underwear, ignoring Mikey when he looks up to send a scowl in Frank's direction. He runs his clean hand through Mikey's hair again; it's already sticking up in all sorts of weird angles now.
“But you've gotta go and find my cigarettes,” Frank comes back with eventually. He has to concentrate harder than usual to get the words out, sleep closing in from the sides as he remembers how fucking tired he was earlier. “Told you. Think they're in the kitchen.”
Mikey makes an amused noise against Frank's neck and says, “Keep dreaming,” and Frank lets his eyes close, lets it go.
frank/mikey
R
~3000 words.
set during that time when they were living together; handjobs with a total lack of plot. thanks to awfulstate, who read through this for me and assured me it made sense even though it was mostly written under the influence of a LOT of cough syrup.
Frank's not wasted, but he's had just enough beer that the resident tiredness that tends to linger around after a long day in the studio has kicked up another notch, and so he's feeling the few beers he's had a bit more than he usually would. It makes the shitty couch he and Mikey have been making do with in their almost as shitty apartment seem more comfortable than it usually does, though, which Frank is grateful for. It's making him feel comfortable even though he has Mikey Way half sprawled out across on top of him, just like they're back in a van again and don't have any space to themselves, even though Mikey is a bony motherfucker with sharp, sharp elbows.
“Hey, Mikey,” he mutters. Mikey lifts his head from where it's been resting against the back of the couch, near Frank's shoulder, and blinks at him. His knees are slotted weirdly around Frank's; Frank can't quite work out how they're both fitting like this, halfway to horizontal. He runs a hand absently through Mikey's hair and offers Mikey a wide grin when he frowns. “You fucking passing out on me, man?”
“I'm. Dude, I'm not that drunk,” Mikey huffs out indignantly. “I think you had more than me. I dunno, I'm just kinda tired.”
“Go to bed then,” Frank says. “And get my cigarettes on the way.” He's pretty sure there might be some left by the kitchen window.
Mikey hums as though he's agreeing, but doesn't move an inch. He's still looking at Frank: his glasses have slid down to the tip of his nose and his hair is sticking up at odd angles by this point in the night, ruffled by the wind outside and even more so by Frank's hand, and he looks fucking ridiculous. Frank laughs to himself, the sound coming out lower than normal, rougher than his usual giggle.
“What?” Mikey demands, and Frank shrugs as best as he can with half of Mikey's weight on top of him. He tugs on Mikey's hair without really thinking about it, just because there are still strands of it poking through between his fingers, and Frank thinks that the way Mikey ducks his head like that and follows the motion is probably more out of instinct than any conscious choice. Mikey's probably too drunk or tired or maybe just the weird mixture of both that Frank currently feels to tell Frank to fuck off and stop being annoying and messing with his hair. It's one of the things Frank has learnt after months and months in a van with the guy: that Mikey is still weirdly fucking sensitive about his hair, even when it looks kind of like a bird's nest or some crazy shit.
“Whoa,” Mikey says, sounding like he's almost surprised at himself, and just stops short before his face collides with Frank's. That could be pretty fucking messy, Frank thinks. Mikey could probably take his eye out with one of the arms of his stupid glasses. Or he could kiss him - which was, Frank slowly registers, what his immediate assumption was when Mikey moved toward him like that. “Oops,” Mikey adds, without sounding like he's bothered about it at all, and his mouth twitches up into something of an amused smile.
“Don't pretend like you weren't making the moves on me,” Frank says, even though he's still the one lying there with his hand still tangled up in the back of Mikey's hair. It just seems like it would be a lot of effort to move it; he can't really be bothered, still surprisingly comfortable just staying right where he is. “Hey, I know I'm an irresistible motherfucker.”
“Oh, yeah.” Mikey pitches his voice is totally flat and deadpan, but the smile is still playing around at the corners of his mouth, and Frank doesn't really think before he opens his mouth again and says, “But hey, hey, Mikey Way,” and goes on instinct, guiding Mikey back down toward him with his fingers resting at the back of Mikey's neck.
“So how drunk are you?” Mikey asks after the first few moments of their lips touching, but he doesn't sound too offended or weirded out. He doesn't even sound like he's that bothered about the answer. And Frank's still fairly sure he's not drunk, but he's maybe loosened his inhibitions a lot more than he first thought, at least, through the lack of sleep and lack of personal boundaries that's already there between them, because he's sometimes into dudes but he's never into bandmates. Never into Mikey, who leaves dirty fucking socks all around the apartment and almost kills himself on a day to day basis with regular household appliances.
It's probably just been too long. He's had a couple of sloppy, drunken make outs with people recently, but it feels like fucking forever since he's even had someone's weight on top of him like this. It feels like forever since he's been in a position that hints at a possibility of things it moving on.
“Dunno,” Frank admits, giving another half shrug in a habit he thinks he's picked up from Mikey recently. Mikey looks at him for a few, long seconds before shrugging back.
“Okay,” Mikey says, and Frank thinks for a few seconds that they're probably just gonna leave it at that. It's probably the wisest choice. He's usually fucking terrible at going for the smart options, but at least he can recognise it in this situation. It's a start.
Mikey leans down again then, though, resting more of his weight on Frank and pressing him back into the couch as he kisses him. Frank makes a surprised noise into it; a pleased noise, tightening the hold he has on Mikey's hair automatically, just enough so he can pull him closer and kiss him harder. All of a sudden, he doesn't feel quite as tired as he did earlier, opening his mouth straight away at the touch of Mikey's tongue.
They keep it kind of slow and lazy for a while, the kind of making out Frank fucking loves when he's in this mood, the kind of making out he hardly ever keeps it at because he's usually looking to move things on to more. Mikey keeps pulling back to kiss him softly, almost chastely, before going back in more deeply, as though he's trying to see what kind of variety they can get. Frank fully supports this sort of exploration.
He slides one hand up under Mikey's shirt and laughs as Mikey almost jumps at the contact. The sound twists off into a moan when Mikey shifts on top of him, resting more weight on Frank's lower half and kissing him again, breathing more heavily when they break apart. He has one hand resting over Frank's shoulder, just next to his head, and the other next to Frank's arm, only half holding himself up. Frank breathes in when he exhales, hot and damp, and it should be kind of gross, but he just practically fucking shivers and then tugs Mikey back down again.
Mikey kisses lazily, like he isn't bothered one way or another where this goes tonight, but he lets out a soft sound when Frank tilts his head so he can mouth over Mikey's neck, sucking just enough to probably leave a faint mark that Mikey will probably bitch about tomorrow. Mikey apparently doesn't mind too much right now, though; he rolls his hips down and draws a low moan from Frank as the steady thrum of arousal he's been aware of for a little while now kicks it up a notch or two at the friction.
Frank presses his heels into the couch so he can get some leverage, rocking slowly up against Mikey and feeling even more fucking turned on by the shaky, small gasp Mikey lets out at the friction, and then says, “Hey, Mikey, you should jerk me off.”
“Wow,” Mikey replies. “So that's why you're getting laid so much, right, 'cause you're so smooth,” and he even manages an eye roll, but he's still moving over Frank, tiny shifts of his hips that feel more like a tease than anything else.
“Yeah,” Frank says and there's almost definitely a clever reply on the tip of his tongue that gets lost as Mikey grinds his hips down again, slow and deliberate. Frank rocks into the movement, says, “Motherfucker,” around a groan, and gets lost for a few seconds just staring at the small, self-satisfied smirk on Mikey's face.
Mikey holds still for a couple of seconds. They drag out too long for Frank's liking. Then he gives Frank a little half-shrug and says, “Okay,” as though he's agreeing about what bar they're going to go to, or what they should play next at practice, and slides his hand down between them.
Frank doesn't know how exactly Mikey manages to get his jeans undone when Mikey is a clumsy motherfucker at the best of times and they're still kind of buzzed, just a little bit, right now; Mikey is sitting basically right on top of Frank, too, and is probably getting in his own way. He only seems to realise he needs to move when he finally goes to stick his hand down Frank's boxers and finds he can't because of how they're both positioned.
“Shit,” Mikey mutters, and slides back down Frank's legs a little just until he's given himself enough room to manoeuvre. It means more of his weight is around the region of Frank's knees, and Franks' feet are probably gonna lose some feeling soon, but Frank doesn't give two shits because Mikey wraps his fingers around his dick with no more fucking around.
Frank's not fully hard yet, but he's getting there, and he grunts in encouragement as Mikey strokes him, starting off slowly. His palm is too dry but the circle of his fist is tight and hot, and when he speeds up just enough to get a steady rhythm going it's just far enough this side of rough to make Frank let out a harsh breath, head tilted back against the sagging cushion of the couch.
“Yeah,” he says, and then, “Yeah,” when Mikey stops touching him just long enough to lick a long, wet stripe up his palm and then get his hand back on Frank's cock, the movement slick and easy now. Mikey knows what he's doing; he twists his wrist just right, doesn't fuck around trying to tease him, like he knows Frank just wants to get off. Mikey rubs his thumb over the head on an upstroke and Frank pants out, “Fuck, fuck, Mikey,” between heavy, open-mouthed gasps that don't quite let him catch his breath right.
“Like that?” Mikey asks, and there's something about the way he says it that makes Frank think he's genuinely just asking, genuinely just wants to make sure that he's making it good for Frank. It sounds fucking dirty anyway, maybe just because of the way Mikey's looking at him when he speaks. Maybe just because Mikey's got his hand on his cock when he says it.
“Yeah, fuck, s'fucking good,” Frank says, and then adds, “Little faster.” Mikey makes a quiet noise of assent and speeds the movement of his hand up, and Frank doesn't even try to hold back his moan, shoving his hips up into it. “Jesus, you're so fucking hot like this, Mikey.”
Mikey raises an eyebrow and smirks at Frank a little bit, playing it totally fucking cool even though Frank can feel him moving against his thigh occasionally in small, grinding motions and can hear the odd hitch and catch in his breathing every now and then. “What, 'cause my hand's on your dick?”
That's got something to do with it, but Frank shakes his head because it's not the main reason, not really. “'Cause you look fucking hot,” he says, “when you're fucking - when you're on top of me like this. I'd fuck you like this if you'd let me,” he adds without really thinking about it, because he's getting close and his brain to mouth filter is even more shot to hell than usual, and Mikey, who's been keeping up a quick and steady rhythm all the time they've been talking, squeezes more tightly at Frank's words. “Fuck,” Frank pants, “fuck. Would you?”
“What?” Mikey asks. He's breathing more heavily too, quick, sharp inhales and exhales that Frank can only just catch over the sound of his own breathing. His hand slows down a little bit, and Frank closes his eyes for a few seconds, trying to get himself under control so he doesn't resort to just rocking up desperately, trying to fuck Mikey's fist for more friction.
“Would you let me fuck you like this?”
“On the couch?” Mikey sounds almost scandalized, totally out of place in the current situation. Frank laughs breathlessly.
“I mean like this,” Frank repeats, and he rocks his hips up for emphasis and watches as Mikey's mouth falls open a little bit, a small o of realisation. “Hey,” he adds before Mikey can reply, and he leaves one hand fisted in the material of the couch but reaches up with the other, trailing his fingers up the side of Mikey's neck until he can slide them into his hair and tug Mikey down for a kiss. It's sloppy; Frank moans into it when Mikey begins moving his hand again, and Mikey bites down on his bottom lip. It's fucking awesome.
Mikey pulls back so he can move with less difficulty, tighten his grip again and really go for it. He strokes Frank faster than he was doing before and Frank's struggling for breath now, all the heat in the pit of his stomach dipping down even lower. He wishes, in a sudden flash, he was naked right now, or that he'd at least had the foresight to take off his jeans, because his legs feel like they're fucking burning up inside the thick material.
“Mikey,” he rasps out, his throat too dry, “getting close,” even though that should be fucking obvious. Mikey's hand is moving even more smoothly now because Frank's cock is fucking leaking, aching; slick wet noises that Frank can hear even over his quick breathing, that turn him on even more.
“Come on then,” Mikey says. Then he says, voice as calm as ever, “I'd probably let you, like if it wouldn't get weird. It'd be hot,” and Frank thinks about it, pictures it: Mikey above him like this, rocking down onto his cock, controlling the rhythm, head thrown back, the long line of his throat, and he bucks up into Mikey's fist and comes hard enough that his toes curl up and he's not even aware of the noises he's making until he comes back to himself just in time to hear them winding down to panting as he tries to get his breath back.
“Jesus motherfucking Christ, Mikey,” Frank manages, and Mikey flashes him that smirk again, the sort of smug one that Frank thinks he should get to see more often. Frank feels boneless, melting back against the couch, and he could probably fall asleep in all of about two seconds right now if he just closed his eyes and waited. Mikey's still hard, though; he's still shifting restlessly, rubbing off on Frank's thigh. “Dude,” Frank says. “C'mere, I said I'd do you too.” He realises, belatedly, that Mikey has wiped Frank's come all over Frank's jeans, but he doesn't retract the offer. He's too blissed out to care.
Mikey lets Frank shove him over a little bit until the angle's easier for Frank to undo his stupid fucking girly jeans and tug them down just far enough to get to his dick more easily.
It doesn't actually take Mikey too long to come, which Frank would take the piss out of him for if he currently had his regular mental capacity and if Mikey hadn't been half getting himself off the whole time he'd been getting Frank off. He spits into his hand and jerks him off quickly, the same sort of rhythm Mikey'd had going for him, and it's way fucking hotter than it should be when he rubs his thumb over the head of Mikey's dick and it comes away wet and sticky. Mikey shudders and moans, and Frank feels something warm surge through him even though it's too soon for him to get hard again.
When Mikey digs his fingertips hard enough into Frank's other arm to leave marks and his breath gets short, Frank says, “Yeah, Mikey, come on, come on, come,” and Mikey lets go with one hand to wrap it around Frank's on his cock and squeeze tightly when he comes, dropping his head to bury his face in Frank's neck, hips twitching as Frank keeps their hands moving, stroking him through it. His breath pools hot and damp around Frank's collarbone.
After a few moments, Mikey mutters, “I'm never moving again.” The words are muffled against Frank's skin and when Frank laughs, the sound is still a shade rougher than usual, still slightly breathless. He idly wipes his hand on Mikey's underwear, ignoring Mikey when he looks up to send a scowl in Frank's direction. He runs his clean hand through Mikey's hair again; it's already sticking up in all sorts of weird angles now.
“But you've gotta go and find my cigarettes,” Frank comes back with eventually. He has to concentrate harder than usual to get the words out, sleep closing in from the sides as he remembers how fucking tired he was earlier. “Told you. Think they're in the kitchen.”
Mikey makes an amused noise against Frank's neck and says, “Keep dreaming,” and Frank lets his eyes close, lets it go.