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It’s when the X-box marathon is getting Very Serious that they disappear. They barely make it to the next room over—the other dodgy hotel ‘suite’ Brian rented, where Frank lifted the sheets to check for hairs before going to sleep the night before, muttering ‘I can just about sleep in my own filth, not in strangers.’—before Gerard has his hand up the back of Frank’s t-shirt, and the other is reaching for the door-key in his own back pocket.
Twenty three seconds of fumbling and bumping and hair-pulling later and they’re behind the door, an inch, maybe two, of plasterboard between them and the thum thump whurr whiz crash of the video game.
“Wanted to do this forever.” Gerard says, and Frank rolls his eyes. Any other time and he’d have some comment to make about Gerards' laughable hyperbole, but not now, not when instead of fucking stupid, it’s just fucking hot. And Gerard knows Frank’s easy when he’s anyway turned on.
Gerard takes his hand, palm facing him, and licks a strip from where his tattoos begin at the wrist, over the bones, the slightly raised veins and calluses and down to the end of his ring finger. Frank’s about to say, “You don’t know where that’s been,” when Gerard looks up at him from beneath smudged eye make-up and proceeds to do nothing less than felate two of Frank’s fingers.
Although he’d rather watch, even in the state Gerard has him he’s still able to weigh priorities. So Frank closes his eyes, it’s all he can do but come in his pants then and there. “Fuck, Gee.”
When Gerard’s done, he unbuckles that fucking sharp metal bat belt and unzips his fly, hair falling into his eyes. He walks to the bed, running a hand through his hair as his jeans sink that bit lower on his hips. Frank follows close, restraining the urge to grab Gerards’ pants at the hips and pull them off then and there, instead he busies himself with his own clothing, his fingers slipping slightly as his saliva slick fingers slide over the metal zip.
He watches as Gerard scoots back on the bedcovers, ignoring as they bunch at his back, until he’s entirely on the small bed. And Franks knows, god does he, what he wants to do next. Gerard’s head rolls back and makes a low thunk against the wooden headboard when he misjudges the distance. He laughs, rubbing the back of his skull and spreads his thighs further apart. Then looks Frank in the eye and says, ‘What the fuck are you waiting for?’
If Frank didn’t know Gerard better, he’d think it was almost in challenge.
He likes to see Gerard come apart; loose control beneath his hands, his tongue and his teeth. They kiss, messy and aggressive, almost to the point where they’re battling to see who can press harder, push deeper, pull closer. Somewhere between crawling on top of Gerard, and finding his jeans around his own ankles, Gerard’s end up a crumpled heap beside the mattress.
“Tell me what you want.” Frank says. He listens to Gerard’s moan as he spreads his fingers out like stars against Gerard’s splayed thighs. The sound of that never gets old, and hell, Frank thinks, if it ever does fail to get a rise out of him, he's the one that’s too fucking old. He makes a low sound in his chest as response, and repeats the question, this time rolling himself as slowly as he can bear against Gerard, so that they end up face to face, mouth to ear. He continues, “Want to fuck you. Want to fill you up, feel you come.” Gerard gasps when he goes to reply, and what sounded like it might be “you fucker” comes out a long breathy exhalation. Frank moves, grinds against Gerard’s cock with his own, his hips, feels Gerards’ thumbs squeezing into his lower back, down towards his ass.
And then he stops.
Gerard moans, takes a breath, uses a hand to brush his mess of hair, now sticking to his forehead with sweat and dirt, behind his ear. “Not until you ask for it.” Frank says.
“What the fuck Frank, you need it spelled out to you or something?” Gerard’s grinning, that shit-eating grin he reserves for special occasions. He slides his hands up Frank’s back, dragging his nails across the areas he knows are tattooed, the areas that are extra sensitive, and gooseflesh rises on Frank’s arms. He takes Frank’s fringe in one fist, that ridiculously long fringe that Frank has refused to cut for months now, and which Gerard is finally putting to good use. He pulls Frank’s face close to his. “I want you to use your fingers,” he says slowly, “and just your fingers..” Frank feels his cock twitch, clears his throat and parts his lips. “I want you to fuck me with them. And then I want to finish you off with my mouth.” Then he pulls Frank’s lips to his, kissing deep and borderline sleazy. Their teeth almost collide painfully before Gerard drops his head back, catching Frank’s lip ring as best he can between his front teeth. He hooks one leg around Frank and growls against Frank’s lips, “How’s that for fucking asking for it?”
Frank growls, smirks, and uses his hands to push himself to his knees.
Gerard tosses him some lube from under the stack of magazines on the bedside table and Frank slicks up his fingers, pours a little more over Gerard’s ass for good measure. He doesn’t wait for an invitation this time, pressing into Gerard in one slow constant push, watching Gerard’s face and body for any signs of displeasure, feeling for any kind of resistance. Gerard’s hot, and so fucking tight even though Frank knows he’s relaxed, and clearly turned on. He thinks about what it would feel like to be fucking Gerard with his cock at that moment, instead of his fingers, and whimpers at almost the same time Gerard does; the moment where Frank looses his concentration and rotates his wrist slightly, pushes deeper. Gerard’s own hands are balling the sheets until he relents and grabs his dick.
The view from where he is has to be one of the hottest things Frank’s ever fucking seen. Gerard with his hair in his eyes again, touching himself with one hand, the other splayed on his chest, legs wide open. He takes his free hand from his own cock and presses it to Gerard’s belly, smearing his precome across the soft flushed skin there.
It isn’t long before Gerard’s panting heavily, saying Frank’s name and pressing back against Frank’s hand, wanting, needing more. And Frank obliges with the press of two fingers, a different kind of pressure, watching the pleasure on Gerard’s face as they slip in past the bumps of his knuckles, past the tattooed letters. He holds them there, rubbing, searching, until Gerard suddenly moves hard against him, almost reflexively closing his legs and groaning so loud Frank swears he hears the game being consciously turned up next door. Frank puts his hand on Gerard’s knee, gently guiding his thighs open again and pulls nearly all the way out before pushing deep, aiming for that same sweet spot.
Frank repeats the motion in and out, again and again, as hard as he dares until Gerard arches off the bed, eyes rolling to whites for a second, coming messily over himself and enough of the sheets that there’ll be an argument over who sleeps on the wet spot. Gerard lets out a strangled squeak, then a louder laugh when he realises how ridiculous he just sounded. And that’s it for Frank; he comes too, feeling Gerard clenching, hot and slick around his fingers with aftershocks, his own fist pumping his cock.
It takes a while, but Frank finally drags himself up to wash his hands before returning to collapse on the sheets by Gerard.
“So,” Gerard asks. “What’s left for next time?”
“There’s always something.” Frank smirks, closing his eyes.