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Despite what everyone else thinks, being a barista at Starbucks is actually a pretty exciting job.
It's not always cranky costumers and making coffee and calling out names—well, actually, it kind of is. But sometimes it's worth it, making coffee for ungrateful people who swear on their phones every day, because if you're lucky, you just might meet someone who makes you look forward to it.
And fortunately, Frank was lucky enough to meet that specific Someone.
Frank has been a barista for a little over three months, just something to support him until his band, Pencey Prep, takes off. They weren't famous or anything, just a few gigs here and there, but he swears one day they're going to make it big. At least in the Jersey scene. He could settle for that.
So, yeah. Punk rocker or whatever by night, Starbucks barista by day. He knows it doesn't really fit his lifestyle, but hey, a man has to make a living somehow. He's twenty-one and refuses to continue living in his mother's basement, so the minute the job was offered to him, he took it.
Boy, was he glad he did, because then he never would've met him.
The 'him' in question is a guy who's around Frank's age, he guessed, and is undoubtedly the most gorgeous guy Frank has ever laid his eyes upon. Seriously. He's tall and pale, with shaggy dark hair that looks greasy most of the time, which, for some reason, Frank finds endearing. He's always wearing casual clothes, oversized hoodies and slim jeans and rubber shoes—which looks really tacky on other guys, but somehow this guy makes it look unbelievably cute and sexy at the same time. He always comes in the café every Wednesday, and he always orders the same thing (a Venti Americano), and his voice is cute as fuck, okay, and Frank totally does not notice how adorably small his teeth are, or how he talks from one side of his mouth.
Now Frank doesn't have a crush on the guy or anything, but he always, always makes sure that he's the one who's at the counter when the guy comes in for his weekly coffee.
He's even willing to fight for it, if he must. Which is what he's doing right now.
"Come on, dude, I don't understand, I'm doing you a fucking favor."
Ray snorts. "You're taking my thunder away from me, Frank."
Frank's eyes dart nervously to their glass doors and back to Ray again, who's just shaking his head and fiddling with the register. "Pretty please?"
"The physical appearance of the please isn't going to change my mind, Frank."
Frank checks his watch again. He should be here any minute now, he thinks sadly.
"He? Who's he?" Ray asks, confusion on his face for a second before the lightbulb goes off in his head and a sly smirk spreads on his mouth. "Oh, I get it now." Fuck, Frank really needs to work on not accidentally speaking out loud, because now Ray's looking at him smugly, probably laughing at Frank, the fucker. "I totally forgot its Wednesday today."
"Fuck you," Frank mumbles, looking away to hide the evident blush rising on his cheeks. Ray finds it absolutely hilarious, because obviously he's the spawn of the devil.
"Frankie's got a crush! What a time to be alive." Ray laughs again when Frank flips him off. "Dude, you don't even know this guy's name."
Frank pauses, because even though Ray's an asshole, he's right. The guy had been coming in every Wednesday for the past seven weeks and Frank still does not know his fucking name. Sure, he knows what he orders, and what he smells like (creepy, he knows), and that he has a nice singing voice (also a little creepy), but for some reason his name never comes up. Every time the guy orders his drink, it's always a different name each week, weirder and odder than the last. Frank just smiles and writes it down obediently, because seriously, he likes the guy so much he practically emits moonbeams and glitter every time he sees his familiar flop of black hair.
After the third week, he began to keep a list of the guy's bizarre names, because they were interesting and cool and it made Frank smile whenever he thought about it. So far, he's got (in order of appearance): space elves, **Spicy Forest** (yes, asterisks included), the spooky soup, the holiday spice, HAUNTEDHOUSE5DOLLARS, goth claudia, and ジェラルド(honestly, imagine the fucking ordeal Frank went through when the guy just handed him a napkin with fucking Japanese characters on it, smiled at Frank, and then left. He ended up just walking to the guy and handing him his coffee instead of calling out the name.)
Frank doesn't actually consider himself a shy person, but something about the guy makes him instantly turn into a twelve-year old with a schoolboy crush again, which isn't something you want when you're twenty-one and trying to make it in the world. Also, he can't deny the fact that even though he's curious about the guy's actual name, he kind of enjoys the mystery behind it. So he leaves it alone and doesn't let his little infatuation for the guy escalate to anything more than unrequited staring.
He's not entirely sure if the guy knows, but he's got a feeling maybe he does. Just maybe. One time his co-worker Matt told him that the guy was openly staring at Frank's back while he made coffee. And Frank, being the twelve-year old that he was, giggled and blushed to himself, wondering if the guy liked him back.
"Earth to Frank," Ray says, waving a hand in front of Frank, smiling to himself. 'You're spacing out."
Frank shakes his head and checks the door again. "Sorry. So, you're gonna let me take the shift or what?"
"I'm thinking about it."
"Sadist."
"Yes, Frank," Ray says. "I live to make you suffer."
Just then the little bell hanging above the door rings, letting them know someone's entered the shop, and Frank's eyes widen instantly because it's him. Ray doesn't notice, though, because he's too busy checking his phone or whatever, so Frank takes advantage of his weakness by pushing him away from the counter and greeting the guy with a cheerful "Good morning!"
Ray ends up on the floor, but Frank does not care at all. He deserves it for being mean. Ray swears, tries to knock Frank out from under his feet, but Frank kicks back and glares down at Ray for being an asshole. The older man sticks out his tongue and crawls off, flipping off Frank in the process of it.
When Frank turns to the guy again, he's watching the exchange with a slight smile on his face. God, he's so cute. Frank just wants to wrap him up in ten blankets and sing Soft Kitty to him.
"Hi," Frank says, flashing him another smile, as if nothing happened. "The usual, I presume?"
"Please and thank you," the guy says in return, returning the smile. Frank notes his small, pretty teeth again.
"Americano coming right up," Frank tells him. He pauses for a moment, and then says, "Who should I make it out to this time?"
The guy smiles, which makes Frank blush all over again. He taps a finger to his chin as if he's deep in thought. "Sleep lord," he says finally. "I'm going with sleep lord."
Frank can't help giggling—seriously, fucking giggling, Jesus Christ, the effect this guy has on him—and then writes it down with a black Sharpie on his cup. "Sleep lord it is. Any particular reason for it?"
The guy shrugs lazily. "I am the lord of sleep." And then blinks quite sleepily, which makes him look so cuddly and warm that Frank has to physically restrain himself from spooning him right then and there.
He counts to three to try to even out his breathing when the guy leaves to sit down at his favorite spot, the corner-most booth of the café. Keep it together, he reminds himself as he turns around to prepare the guy's coffee. Seriously, having a crush is the biggest inconvenience ever. He's trying to concentrate on getting the coffee into the actual cup when Ray bumps their shoulders together (or more accurately, bumps his forearm on Frank's shoulders, because he likes to remind Frank that he's short).
"Did you ask for his name yet?"
"No," Frank replies glumly.
"Why not? Dude, you dislocated my shoulder and you still haven't asked for his name?"
"I didn't dislocate your shoulder." Frank rolls his eyes as he screws the lid into place. "And, like. Just be cool about it. I don't want him to think I like him or anything."
Ray gives him a pointed stare. "But you do."
"Yeah, but he doesn't need to know that." Frank walks past Ray and back to the counter, already gazing at the guy's slumped, sleepy-looking figure, and smiling to himself. "Venti Americano for sleep lord!"
The guy immediately lights up. Too fucking cute, Frank thinks, shaking his head and watching the guy bound over to him like an excited puppy. He hands him his drink, and for like three milliseconds their fingers touch, and Frank almost drops the fucking cup because of how excited he suddenly got.
God, he needed help.
"Thank you," the guy mumbles, sincerity pouring out of his voice. He takes a tentative sip and then closes his eyes and fucking moans—moans, like, an actual moan, right in the middle of fucking Starbucks and right in front of Frank who may or may not be thinking of how that was the sexiest sound ever produced by a human being. Frank stares at him, his jaw a little slack, only realizing how creepy he must've looked when the guy peeked up at him through his eyelashes. God, he's so pretty.
"See you next week," he says with a coy smile. He stares at Frank a little bit too long, bites his lip, and just walks away.
The bell on the door rings again.
"What the actual fuck!" Frank yells out after the guy disappears out the door. Luckily there's only like, one other costumer in the shop, who's practically asleep in the corner. Frank turns to Ray, who's just leaning against the wall his arms crossed, laughing at Frank's apparent misfortune. "Stop laughing, Toro, I will fucking end your life."
Ray doesn't stop laughing, so Frank mentally lists off all the places he can hide dead bodies in. "Sorry, dude, but you looked like a complete idiot, and that makes me happy."
"I hate you so much." Frank groans and rubs the heels of his hand in his eyes until he sees red. "Did you see that? He bit his lip. The disrespect!" He shivers at the memory. Now is definitely not the time to be thinking of stuff like that, seriously. He shivers again.
"I know, right? It was almost as if he was trying to maybe flirt with you...?"
"Don't be ridiculous," he says dismissively. Then pauses. "Wait, you think he might be?"
"I don't know," Ray says, shrugging. "I'm a hetero."
Frank groans, ready to rip his hair off in frustration. "Fuck, why don't I know his name?"
"Because you're an idiot," Ray tells him, and Frank doesn't bother replying because he knows it's true.
— ∙ —
The rest of the week was painfully dull for Frank, what with him being a loser and The Guy being the highlight of his whole damn life. The whole Starbucks barista by day, punk rocker by night isn't really an exciting life. He makes coffee and shreds on the guitar. Not very eventful.
On Friday, though, they manage to score a gig at the local bar. It's run-down and shitty and smells like piss sometimes, and that's exactly how Frank likes it. He and his band practice a little before the show (but only a little sound checking, because fuck, literally all they ever do is practice), but everyone's just really anxious and somewhat jittery, so they decide to get drinks before they go on stage.
Checking his watch, he notes that they only have a little over half an hour before their turn. He signals the bartender with five fingers up, which is like, standard bartending language, right? Whatever. The bartender nods at him, so he must've understood. Frank leans against the counter to watch the current band on stage. They're kind of softer, more acoustic, a mix of indie and blues, sort of. A completely different vibe from Pencey. He notes the lead singer, trying to figure out if he's hot hot or just lead-singer-hot. There's a difference.
He snaps out of it when the bartender places five beers in front of him. He pays with the crumpled up dollars in his pocket and carries all the bottles at once, hugging them to his chest like one would hold a baby. It's hard to maneuver through the crowd, because it's dingy and cramped, and also the water droplets from the bottles are seeping into his shirt, but he spots his band only a few feet away, watching the set. With his eyes trained on them, he bustles through the mesh of people and accidentally elbows someone.
"Ow!" the guy says, and Frank already has his mouth open to say sorry but he freezes when the guy turns around. "Oh, hey!" The guy's frown turns to a smile. "Starbucks guy!"
It's him, it's fucking him. Frank stares a little too long, because it's actually him in all his greasy-haired, oversized-sweater-wearing glory, and he actually forgets how to speak for a good ten seconds.
The guy frowns. "It's me? Sleep lord? Well, last Wednesday, anyway."
Fucking sleep fucking lord. Frank shakes his head viciously, horrified that the guy thinks Frank doesn't know who he is. "No, no, I know who you are! I just—um."
The guy grins again, then eyes the bottles Frank is cradling. He raises an eyebrow.
"These aren't all for me," Frank blurts out.
"I wasn't thinking that," the guy says coolly, patting Frank's shoulder. Frank tenses up. Fucking hell, this crush is getting out of hand. The guy must've noticed, because he quickly withdraws his hand, and fuck, Frank wants to bang his head against a wall because he's totally fucking everything up.
There's a silence—well, except for the lead singer wailing about death, and the murmur of the people around them—but Frank's head is whizzing, and he's starting to get dizzy. Fuck, now what? He should speak. He should say something, because the guy is just looking at him with a curious expression and those fucking eyelashes, man. He's thinking about eyelashes. The guy has pretty eyelashes.
It hits him suddenly. Name. Name. He should introduce himself and ask for the guy's name like a normal person would.
"I'm—" he begins to say, but suddenly someone's pulling him by his shirt and he hears someone say "Come the fuck on!" and he loses the guy to the crowd, sporting a confused look.
He only realizes it's their drummer Tim after like, three seconds. "What the fuck, Frank? We've been looking for you everywhere, we're up next!"
"I—huh?" He's craning his head, trying to spot The Guy, but his mop of black hair is lost to the crowd of equally greasy heads.
Someone takes the beer bottles from him and he blinks, feeling slow and dazed. Someone hands him a guitar. He stares at it like it crash-landed into his backyard from the sky.
"Frank, get your shit together!" Tim says, waving his arms around. He squints at Frank and points a drum stick at him. "Are you stoned?"
"No!" Frank says, but that's exactly what people say when they're stoned. He looks helplessly at the crowd again. "He's here," he mumbles.
"Who is?" Tim asks, pushing him onstage.
"Him," he says sadly.
Tim pats his shoulder sympathetically, then slaps Frank across the face. "Find him later."
It's the wake-up call Frank needs, and he turns around, grabs the mic, and pours his fucking heart out.
They have a great show, really. One of the best Frank has ever played. He got really into it after the first song, and suddenly the adrenaline pumped into him and he's thrashing around onstage, screaming and jumping around like he always does, and the crowd just eats it all up happily. At the back of his mind, though, he tries to look for the guy. He doesn't see him the entire set.
He's disappointed but also really fucking happy about the show they just played, because hey, he's gonna see the guy again, right? Afterwards he says good night to New Jersey, even though not even 1% of its population were there, and helps his band pack up their equipment into their keyboardist Shaun's shitty van and then they all smoke cigarettes in the alleyway and talk about their ideas for the album.
"I got the album title, guys," Frank slurs, flicking the ash from his cigarette. "Ready? Here it comes." He pauses for dramatic effect. "Heartbreak In Stereo."
Frank waits for the smattering applause that should follow, but all he gets are indecisive murmurs. "Fuck you all," he follows up.
They all laugh. Even Frank does, because he loves these guys, and they're totally gonna realize how awesome the album title is in the morning and they're gonna call him up and tell him he's a genius for coming up with it.
Shaun checks his watch. "It's almost three, I'm gonna head home. Who wants a ride?"
Everyone but Frank raises their hand. "I'm gonna stay out a little longer," he explains, shrugging. He glances at the door leading into the bar. He hopes the guy's still in there.
His band mates share looks with each other. "Good luck, loverboy," Tim says, wiggling his eyebrows. "Get some ass tonight."
"Fucking pig," Frank says, smiling anyway. He waves goodbye when they pile into Shaun's van and then turns on his heel, creaking the bar door open and poking his head inside.
There's only a few people left, maybe around fifteen or so. He doesn't see the guy, and for some reason his chest sinks. He goes in anyway, scanning the room, but all he sees are nameless strangers. Well, the guy technically is a nameless stranger, too, but he's a nameless stranger Frank is painfully attracted to.
He sits in one of the bar stools glumly, the adrenaline fading away and leaving him tired and sleepy. He figures he should get one more drink before he shuffles his way home, and he's about to signal the bartender when someone else comes up to his side and orders two drinks.
Frank isn't in the mood to fight so he settles on glaring at the guy before he realizes, mother of all fucks, it's The Guy.
"Hey," he says, smiling at Frank. "You kinda disappeared on me. Well, not really. You reappeared on stage. That was cool."
Frank has lost the ability to speak. His brain has fizzed out entirely.
"I didn't know you were in a band. What are you guys called again? Sorry, I wasn't paying attention. You guys were great, though. You were, like, wow. Mind-blowing." The guy makes a gesture that looked like jazz hands, but probably meant something along the lines of exploding brains. "Really fantastic. I like that one song. The first one? Fuck, I'm totally talking too much, aren't I? I talk a lot. Mikey told me. I mean, my brother—"
"Pencey Prep!" Frank blurts out, because his brain had only processed the guy's words ten years later. His cheeks flush immediately when he realizes how fucking idiotic he must've sounded. "Our band's name is. Pencey Prep, I mean. And no, you're not talking too much. I'm just not talking enough. Sorry. I'm a little—sorry."
Usually, Frank is a smooth motherfucker. He can get anyone into bed with like, three words and a wink. But something about the guy makes him unusually dazed, and turns him into a complete babbling idiot who suddenly doesn't know how to form a sentence at a fifth-grade level. It's not like the guy's even supernaturally hot or smooth or whatever, he's just...him. A little dorky, a little odd, a little awkward, but a lot like someone that could make Frank's dick stir alarmingly in his pants with just a smile.
He shuffles uncomfortably in his seat.
"Can I buy you a drink?" Frank says, the same time the bartender places two drinks in front of them. Frank stares at it, confused.
"Um, I kinda actually bought you one," the guy says shyly, then pushes the glass towards Frank. Fuck. He's too fucking pretty. He takes it gratefully and smiles at the guy, feeling dumb and self-conscious all of a sudden. The guy takes a sip of his drink, watching Frank as he does the same, which causes a whole freak-out in Frank's mind and pants.
"Thanks," Frank murmurs, setting his glass down. The guy beams at him and shuffles a little closer, into the Acquaintance Zone, not quite in the Friend Avenue. Frank gulps nervously.
"I didn't know you had a band," the guy repeats, never taking his eyes off Frank.
"Yeah. Sometimes the excitement of serving coffee gets too much."
The guy laughs, and inwardly Frank gloats. Man, he's so funny. "I can see that," he says.
Frank watches his mouth as he smiles. He has pretty lips, just like the rest of him. They look soft and, like, plush. Shaking his head, he looks the guy in the eyes and tries to not think of how much he wants to shove his tongue down his throat. "So, like, what about you?" Frank asks instead, trying to sound casual and not at all eager to get the guy talking again because he likes his voice a little too much.
The guy waves his hand and says, "I work at Cartoon Network," like, in an offhanded way, as if he said something incredibly mundane, like a tax accountant or a cashier at Target.
"That's so fucking cool!" Frank gushes. The guy shrugs a little, but there's a blush rising to his cheeks.
"I guess. All I do is work copy machines and trace stuff," the guy says, allowing a smile. "Not as cool as you, though. Starbucks barista/guitar shredder/fucking awesome."
Frank laughs, inching closer accidentally on purpose, tingling with the compliment. "Thanks?" He giggles again, watching the guy giggle with him, then stands up decisively. The guy's so much taller than him, but he doesn't mind. He finishes his drink with one gulp and waits for the guy to do the same before he takes a breath, gathers up his courage and says, "Do you want to get out of here?"
"Fuck yes," the guy says, almost like a sigh of relief, and Frank's dragging him out of the shitty bar before he even knows it.
They end up in the dingy alleyway where Frank had been hanging out with his band fifteen minutes ago. It's cold and it's dark and Frank has no fucking idea why he brought the guy here, just that he needed to get away from the bar, away from all those people, and have him all to himself. Now that he does, though, he has no clue what to do. It feels like high school all over again; awkward and silent and just painful.
Thankfully, the guy saves him by saying, "Do you want a cigarette?"
Frank nods, and the guy smirks before reaching into his pocket for his pack and lighter. "Oh," he says to his crumpled-up pack, frowning a little. "There's only one left." He looks up at Frank.
"We can share," Frank suggests, trying to keep his fucking shit together.
The guy's face lights up. Fuck. He leans against the brick wall, sticks the cigarette in his mouth, and lights it up expertly. Double fuck. He takes the first drag, and fuck, Frank knows exactly how he feels when he closes his eyes and throws his head back. And then, mother of all fucks, he moans. Not a full-on moan, more like he's biting it back, and Frank relates so hard, he's liking retweeting reblogging that shit.
The guy exhales slowly, watching the smoke drift up into the chilly air, mesmerized. Then he hands it to Frank. It's nice like this. It's quiet, but it doesn't feel awkward or forced, and he doesn't mind the cold biting into his skin as long as he gets to stare at the guy. He inhales smoke a little too quickly and he coughs, cursing himself because he probably looks lame. The burn in his lungs feels good, though, and he's dizzy with the relief only cigarettes could give.
The guy is laughing at him. "Slow down there."
He glares back playfully, and the guy rolls his eyes, taking the cigarette away from Frank.
Frank watches him, mesmerized by the way he smokes. It's like he has a system for it, really. Like there's a thirteen-step plan on how to inhale death into his lungs. Frank can't help but notice how sinfully attractive he looks, so different from the guy he serves coffee to every Wednesday. That guy is all cuddles and sleepy eyes and shy smiles. This one, though, looks like the epitome of sin, with his jaw clenching and his eyelashes fluttering on his cheeks as he blows smoke into the air in front of him. Frank gulps down in longing. He really needs to keep his shit together. Like, yeah, he has a huge crush on the dude, but how is he going to act on that? It's not like he could just start making out with him then, right? He needs a plan.
He tries to distract himself by looking everywhere but the guy, but then—oh. He does this, this little thing. With his mouth. That makes it look like, he's like, tasting the smoke, french-kissing it, oh holy hell. Fuck if Frank knows what it is, but, god fucking damn it, it is the single hottest thing Frank has ever seen in his entire fucking life.
"Oh my fucking God," he says, and the guy barely has time to look up when Frank just pushes him against the wall and smashes their lips together.
The guy makes a pleased noise, like he'd been expecting it all along, and it only drives Frank crazier. Frank opens his mouth when the guy bites gently on his bottom lip, and he welcomes his tongue sliding into his mouth, tasting like cigarettes and alcohol and just, fucking, magic or whatever, and Frank may be crazy, but he thinks he tastes a little coffee there, too.
The guy slides his arms around Frank's waist, pulling him closer, pressing their bodies together, and fuck, Frank realizes, he's already hard. Which should be embarrassing, really, but the guy's skinny fucking jeans does little to hide his own hard-on, which makes Frank marginally happier. Frank's fingers are in his hair, curling into them, tugging a little bit and more when the guy moans into his fucking mouth. He practically comes at the sound.
The guy groans impatiently, and then does this ninja-move or whatever, flipping Frank so he's the one being pinned up against the wall, even though their lips never leave each other for a second. They stumble into each other, and the guy slides his thigh between Frank's and presses into his erection, and fuck, Frank is only a man, and there is only so much he can take. He can't help thinking how cool that ninja-flip thing was, and also, how fucking turned on he is, and if he doesn't get his dick out in the next ten seconds he's going to fucking explode.
Thankfully the guy can read minds. He pulls off a little, panting against Frank's mouth, a string of spit connecting their lips. Frank shudders. "Fuck," the guy whispers, his voice sounding raspy and fucked-out, the most beautiful fucking thing Frank has ever heard in his twenty-one years of existence. The guy takes one step back and Frank's whole world crashes in that second but then he just drops to his knees and—oh, oh.
"Oh," Frank says dumbly, but the guy just kind of smiles at him sweetly, like he isn't struggling with Frank's pants to get a face full of cock.
It's cold and it's three in the fucking morning and they're in a rancid fucking alley and Frank really should voice out his opinions on how they shouldn't be doing this here but his mind just kind of collapses on itself when the guy just takes Frank's cock in his mouth.
"Fuck," Frank hisses, digging his fingers into the guy's shoulders. The guy hums a little, the vibrations making his toes curl. "Fuck fuck fuck fuck."
It's been too fucking long and it's so fucking good that Frank feels like there are actual tears in his eyes. The guy's taking him all in like a pro, one hand on his hips and the other wrapped around the base of his cock, squeezing a little, and Frank's pretty sure he loses half his brain cells at how fucking good that feels, like, Wow and Huh and all things beautiful. The guy's doing this thing with his tongue, just like what he did with his cigarette, and Frank feels the warm swipe of it against the head of his cock, running along the underside, tracing the veins there, and he's a whimpering mess.
He wrenches his eyes open, looks down, and practically comes at the sight. Fuck, the guy is fucking looking up at him through this pretty fucking eyelashes and his cheeks hollowing out, and it's just, it's too much, he just loses his shit and snaps his hips forward, fucking into the guy's mouth and crying out.
The guy just smiles, like, yeah, fuck my mouth, and Frank is actually weeping in joy. He grabs the back of the guy's head and looks at him again, and the guy nods a little, so Frank just goes all out, fuck, shoving himself down the guy's throat and he just takes it, oh God, Frank is going to die right then and there. The guy's teeth scrapes lightly against Frank's skin but he doesn't care, he suddenly doesn't care about anything, can't even fucking think straight because of how warm and tight and fucking heavenly the guy's mouth feels, and when Frank shoves in a little too hard he hits the back of the guy's throat and they make a choked noise together.
Frank pulls back, pushing the hair of the guy's face tenderly to apologize. The guy kind of tilts his head as if to say it's okay, and then continues to suck the soul out of Frank through his cock.
"Please, please, fucking—please," Frank is babbling, his brain fresh out of words. The guy understands him, though, and bobs his head faster, like his fucking life depends on it. More like, Frank's life depends on it. "Please, don't fucking—ah, fucking, God, fuck, please, I'm so—fuck," he whimpers.
He looks down again, trying to memorize the scene, totally lewd and porn-worthy and number fucking one on his spank bank, and he's babbling and begging the guy because he's so fucking close, fuck, he can't take it anymore. Then it hits him, right in the middle of this amazing fucking blowjob from a guy he's been crushing on for weeks.
He still doesn't know his fucking name.
It bothers him, it really does, now that he thinks about it, because he's about to fucking come down the guy's throat and he wants to moan out his name but all he comes up with is fucking sleep lord. He wants to ask, but who the fuck does that, right in the middle of a blowjob? It's not like the guy can answer, anyway; he's got a mouth full of Frank's dick and Frank does not want to change that.
It happens all at once: the guy moans, then slides his other hand from Frank's hip to his fucking balls, just fondling and teasing, and then he takes Frank in so deep, and Frank's orgasm bursts out of fucking nowhere, blinding him, really, and he's coming down the guy's throat before he can even register what the fuck is going on. "Fuck," he slurs, because apparently that's the only word he knows now. And like, the fact that the guy just swallows him all down really doesn't help, and he's pretty sure he's been busting his nut for like, thirty fucking seconds now.
He shudders when the guy pulls off with a little pop, a mixture of cum and saliva leaking from his mouth when he smirks up at Frank. "What the fuck," Frank says. His mind is blank, except for how hot that is. The guy even tucks his dick back in for him, patting it like it's the most precious thing in the world and zipping Frank up properly before getting on his feet. "What the fuck," Frank says again, because seriously, he has no words.
"How was that?" the guy asks, and he looks like he's actually genuinely curious. Frank wants to cry.
"Fucking, fucking—all kinds of amazing, fuck, what?" Frank blinks at him, unable to comprehend anything anymore. "Come here," he murmurs, pulling the guy in for another kiss. It's slow and sweet, and he tastes himself, salty and bitter, and he should be weirded out by that, but he doesn't care.
The guy moans into his mouth again and presses closer, and Frank realizes he's rock fucking hard, too. He pulls back unwillingly, sliding his hands down to the guy's hips. "Do you want me to—? I totally could, just, just give me a sec, I'll—"
"No," the guys says, not unkindly. He wipes his mouth with the sleeve of his hoodie, tilts Frank's chin up and slides their lips together again, rocking back and forth in his heels as they kiss. "It's okay. I wanted to do it for you. You don't have to."
"I want to," Frank is mumbling against his lips. The guy giggles.
"Maybe next time," he whispers back.
Frank tingles with the idea of next time. His dick twitches excitedly.
It hits him again, then. The Realization. This time he could ask, since the guy's mouth isn't as busy, but he's wondering if it would be awkward to ask for the guy's name right after a blowjob, so he just kisses him, sweet and kind of shy. Which is weird, because he literally just fucked the guy's mouth like, thirty seconds ago.
Frank sighs happily even when the guy pulls away. "I have to go," the guy says, the regret evident on his face already. "But, like, do you have a phone? I'll give you my number."
Frank pats his pockets and then mentally slaps his own forehead. "I left it at home, fuck."
The guy frowns a little, then perks up. He digs into the pocket of his hoodie and retrieves a black Sharpie and a little piece of paper, and Frank doesn't even question why he carries writing tools in his pockets. The guy uses his left hand as a table and writes down his digits on the piece of paper, and he does it so smoothly that Frank thinks to himself, this guy might be an artist or something, and then realizes two seconds later that he actually is.
Frank's brain is so fried out right now, he needs a fucking nap or something, Jesus Christ.
He hands it to Frank with a grin. Frank takes it and just stares at it like it's a message from the fucking heavens, and he clenches his fist around it.
The guy kisses Frank again, slow and sensual, before saying good night and hailing a cab as it passes by. Frank vaguely feels like a lost puppy when he sees the guy clambering into the back seat of the cab, and his brain is so fuzzy he doesn't know what the fuck he's doing, why is he letting the guy get away? But the car's already whizzing away, and the guy looks at Frank one more time.
"Wait!" He tries to wave his arms, watching the cab disappear before his eyes. "What's your fucking name?" Frank calls out, three seconds too late, because he's already gone.
— ∙ —
Whoever the fuck is calling right now must hate his guts.
Frank tries to ignore it, shuffling around in his bed and putting a pillow against his ear, but it's way too loud and obnoxious and right next to his face, so he grabs his phone angrily and goes, "I hope your eyes melt out of their fucking sockets and you slowly rot in the sulfuric wastelands of Hell."
"Good morning to you, too, Frank," the voice on the other end says.
Frank rolls his eyes even though they're closed. "Toro. Get the fuck out of my life."
"It's eleven AM," he says, ignoring Frank's early morning sass.
"So what?"
"So you're late," Ray says, and Frank can practically hear him rolling his eyes. Fuck. His head is fucking swimming right now, way too many things to process this early in the morning.
"Fuck my life," Frank mumbles, with feeling.
"Yeah." Fuck Ray Toro and his insensitivity towards Frank's hangover.
"Tell Brian I'm sick, man, I don't think I can stand up without puking on everything I love," Frank whines, rolling around his bed again.
Ray actually laughs at that. "Fine. I'll cover for your hungover ass."
"I love you, Toro," he mumbles sleepily.
"That's cool and all, but I have a girlfriend," Ray says kindly, and then hangs up.
Frank groans, feeling sleepy but awake, his head pounding like two dudes hate-fucking each other. He blinks his eyes open, hissing at the sunlight streaming in from his windows. Wanting nothing more than sleep and probably death, he shuffles in his blankets and rolls onto his front, and he kind of pushes his cock into his mattress and suddenly everything comes flooding back to him.
"Fuck!" he says loudly, fully awake now. He scrambles upward, squeezing his eyes shut at the rush of dizziness that followed. "Fuck," he says again, softly, because the world is a wormhole of chaos and destruction.
Sleep lord. The guy. And his mouth. And Frank's—oh, God, he's hard just thinking about it, and he is not in the fucking mood to breathe, let alone to jack off. He makes a whining noise at the back of his throat, sitting up on his bed. He doesn't even fucking remember how he got home last night. All he can think of is watching the guy speed off into the darkness and how he still doesn't know his name. He sighs, running his hand through his hair. Well, at least he has his number. He could call him, and then just gather the fucking courage to ask for his name already, so it's all good, except—
Where did he put the guy's number?
His stomach drops. Oh, no, hell no. Despite the huge boulder rolling around in his head, he drops down his bed and crawls on his floor, looking for his pants. He doesn't even remember taking them off, what the fuck, how many did he even have to drink last night? He's sure it wasn't that much, and the reason he's so frazzled is that, well, he just had the best blowjob of his life, and he had to pay the price.
He locates them strewn haphazardly by the door, so he crawls over and searches the pockets, praying to every god there is that the guy's number is stowed safely there.
He comes up with nothing. Frank is an atheist again.
He sits up and blinks around his room, trying really hard to think, but it's only making him want to stick his head in a toilet and maybe die.
He checks his pants again, just to make sure, and then his underwear, because who knows? He tries to look around his room, and it's fairly tidy but he's still coming up with nothing, and Frank kind of wants to cry because he doesn't even know the guy's name.
All he knows about him is that he's likes coffee, he works at Cartoon Network, he gives great blowjobs, and he might be the love of Frank's fucking life.
He makes his way back to his bed again, wishing he didn't let the guy get in that cab, wishing he just took him home and never let him go. He crawls under his covers and sighs, soft and sad, before falling back asleep, thinking of the way he kissed him last night.
— ∙ —
When Frank wakes up again, he just bolts upright and yells "COFFEE!" before pulling on a pair of pants and scrambling out the door.
Hangover forgotten, he bursts into Starbucks like a man on a mission, looking around wildly as if the guy's gonna pop out of nowhere and give him another blowjob. He spots Ray's amazing set of hair, though, and he settles for that. "Ray!" He bounds over to the counter and tackles his friend, ignoring the wary looks of the customers. "Ray, was he here, was he here?"
"What the fuck, get off me!" Ray pushes Frank away, but Frank's too hyped to be offended. "Who are you talking about?"
"The guy!" Frank waves his arms around madly. "Venti Americano, Wednesday guy!"
"Oh." Ray rolls his eyes. "No, he wasn't. And what the fuck, I thought you were hungover?"
Frank's whole body droops. "He didn't come here?"
"It's Saturday, why would he?"
"Because he and I..." Frank trails off, looking away, sadness weighing down his shoulders again.
"Oh, dude! You fucking hooked up with him?" Ray is interested now, all raised eyebrows and smirks.
"Kinda," Frank mumbles.
Ray nods. "Nice. But." He squints at Frank. "Wednesday guy? Jesus, Frank, you still don't know his fucking name?"
"Stop shouting at me, I'm just a fragile plant boy!" Frank yells.
"I'm not even—whatever." Ray has apparently reached his bullshit tolerance for the day. "Stop worrying, you'll see him again. Go home and get some sleep, Christ."
Frank sniffs sadly. "Okay."
Ray pats his shoulder sympathetically and then shoos him out. The walk back home is painful and slow and a little bit depressing, because Frank can literally feel his heart sinking at the thought of never seeing the guy again. Why did he have to lose his number? What if the guy thinks that Frank isn't calling him because he doesn't care? He does care. A lot. What if the guy gets mad at him for not calling and stays away from his forever? There are literally so many other coffee shops in Jersey and he's going to cry if Wednesday comes around and he doesn't get an order for a Venti Americano.
When he gets back to his apartment, everything's the same. He drags himself to his bed and just plops down, sinking against the mattress. He kicks his shoes off and then his pants, and he considers jerking off, but he's too sad. He pats his dick comfortingly, trying to relive the memory of the guy on his knees in front of him, and Frank begging for it, for the sweet release, and fuck.
Fuck, why did he ever let that guy get into that fucking cab?
— ∙ —
He sleeps through Sunday morning, because he doesn't have work on Sundays, and when he wakes up it's already noon and he feels groggy and tired even though he's been asleep for more than twenty-four hours. He kind of shuffles around his apartment like a zombie, consuming only coffee and crackers the whole day and grumbling about his life. He spends the rest of the day yelling out the answers for Jeopardy! and being miserable.
"I don't know his fucking name," he says to himself, because he's a masochist, and he apparently enjoys hurting himself.
Two days go by without another word from the guy, but Frank isn't even surprised or anything, just really anxious/upset/sad/nervous. When he wakes up on Wednesday morning, it feels like he's been punched in the gut and hung upside-down, because, fuck, if the guy doesn't show up today, he's going to just, quit everything and resign himself to a life of ice cream and misery.
Even Ray knows what's wrong when he shuffles into work that morning. "He's gonna come, Frankie," he tells Frank, giving an encouraging smile. Frank tries to smile back, but it probably looks more like a grimace.
He glances at the clock every two seconds or so. Somehow it feels like time is fucking with him, going slower than usual just to torture the living fuck out of him. The guy usually comes around 9 AM, and it's 8-fucking-57 AM and he's just losing his shit. He can't do anything, just watching the clock and hearing his heartbeat in his ears, willing the time to go faster. Ray takes care of him, though, taking customers and offering Frank sympathetic looks, and Frank reminds himself to take Ray out for drinks or something because seriously, that guy's fucking awesome.
When the clock strikes at exactly nine AM, Frank looks at the door as if he the guy's just gonna waltz in all his glory. It doesn't happen. Frank continues to stare, though, as the minutes tick by, and his heart breaks with every tick of the clock. Where is he? Is he mad at Frank? Does he think Frank didn't call him on purpose? Why is his life so hard?
"He's coming, Frank," Ray tells him again, and for the first time, Frank just shakes his head and dies inside. He shuffles sadly to the other side of the counter, apologizes mentally to Ray for being a useless co-worker, and then slides into the corner seat, the one where the guy sits in all the time. It's a cozy, warm spot, he realizes. And he jolts when he realizes he has the perfect view of where Frank would be behind the counter.
His stomach drops again, and he rests his forehead on the table, feeling like the epitome of sad emoticons. It's already way past nine, so he just allows himself to be sad instead of hopeful, and he closes his eyes.
He doesn't register anything for the next five minutes, because he's too busy thinking of the guy. How his eyelashes fluttered against his cheek, how his teeth looked so tiny when he smiled at Frank, how good he looked when he was on his knees in front of him, how sweet the kiss they shared was. His head is swimming with so many thoughts, so many images of one guy, the guy whose name Frank doesn't know. It kills him, thinking of it like that, like it's over and everything's just a waste, and maybe he won't ever see him again.
Someone makes a noise near him, and Frank startles, realizing that maybe a customer needed a seat, fuck, he's being stupid. He snaps his head up, ready to apologize, but his mouth goes dry when he sees who it is.
"Oh," the guy says. "Hey."
Frank's heart cracks into a million fucking pieces and he just tackles the guy, pulling him into a kiss and mumbling "Thank fuck" against the guy's lips, because he's pretty sure he's going to start crying now.
The guy's startled but he eases into the kiss, opening his mouth and breathing into Frank's, moaning at the first sweet flick of his tongue. He runs his fingers through Frank's hair and tugs a little bit, and oh, God, Frank's coming undone right in the middle of a fucking coffee shop.
But then the guy is pushing him away, and he looks flushed when he points an accusing finger at Frank. "Why are you kissing me?"
"I—what?" Is he having a fucking stroke?
"You—you didn't call me," the guy whispers, looking down and looking heartbroken, fuck, Frank wants to die on the spot, knowing he caused it. Frank takes a step forward and flinches when the guy takes a step back. "You didn't call me, and I thought we had..." He gestures around madly.
"We, fuck, we did! We do," Frank says, stepping forward again. "I lost your fucking number and I'm sorry, really, fuck, I was losing my goddamn mind," Frank says, only because it's the truth.
The guy's eyes widens. "Really?"
"Yes, God, fuck!" Frank waves his arms wildly, ignoring the chastising looks from the ladies sitting near them. "I would've called you like, a fucking minute after you left!"
"Oh," the guy says softly, and Frank can see him physically melt. "I thought you..."
"Never," Frank whispers, and then tugs him in again for another kiss, feeling a lot like the last one they shared that Friday night, soft and sweet and sensual, making Frank tingle with excitement and longing. He gently bites down the guy's lip and swipes his tongue over it, and the guy groans against Frank's mouth, slipping his tongue inside, and Frank tastes him. He tastes like mint and butter, and, fuck—
"Coffee," Frank mumbles. He pulls away slightly even if every fiber of his fucking being told him not to. "Venti Americano," he says sluggishly.
The guy blinks at him. "What?"
"The coffee you order, and—fuck!" He has to restrain himself from laughing out loud, because he's the biggest fucking idiot in the whole world. "Your name, Jesus Christ, what's your fucking name?"
"I—you don't know my name?" The guy kind of blinks again, and then his jaw drops slightly. "Fuck, I don't even know your name!" He starts laughing, kind of manically. "I gave you a blowjob in a fucking alley and I don't even know your name!"
The ladies seated near them immediately shuffles out of their seats and throws them dirty looks over their shoulders, mumbling to themselves.
"I never even noticed. I kinda refer to you as Starbucks guy," he says, grinning down at Frank.
"You're still sleep lord to me," Frank admits. "It changes every week."
The guy grins, kissing Frank again. "Of course it does."
Frank kisses back happily, wrapping his arms around him. "What is it this week?"
"Gerard," he says, and Frank's whole being bottoms out, seriously, he's melting into a puddle of happy vibes and sunshine.
"Frank," he mumbles into his lips, and they're kissing again, like it's the only thing that matters in the world, and to them it probably is.
"Come on, guys, not in here!" Ray shouts from the counter. "There are children!"
Frank flips him off but takes Gerard's hand anyway, dragging him out of Starbucks and mouthing a quick apology to Ray before pulling the door open, hearing the bell chime overhead.
— ∙ —
The minute Gerard steps in his apartment Frank slams him against the door and gets on his knees, all business and boner.
"Fuck, Frank," Gerard says, throwing his head back as Frank fumbles with his jeans eagerly, trying to get the goddamn zipper down, come on. He slaps Gerard's hands away when he tries to help, and Gerard can't help but laugh.
"You have a lovely apartment," Gerard says, panting slightly while looking around, and Frank just goes "Thanks" before pulling down his pants and shoving Gerard's cock in his mouth.
"Jesus, Frank, your mouth," Gerard hisses, tugging on Frank's long hair. He rocks gently into his mouth, fucking himself on it, while Frank makes happy, dirty slurping sounds. Gerard shudders at the feel of Frank's tongue swiping against the slit, and the tightness when Frank hollows out his cheeks and just sucks lightly. "Oh, fuck," he pants, closing his eyes.
Frank pulls off a little and then licks a broad stripe up the underside of Gerard's cock, and they both kind of whine and moan, Gerard shuddering in place, his knees giving out. Fuck, Frank is exceptionally good with his mouth, and it's too fucking good, Gerard has never, not like this—
Frank yanks his past down harder until it pools at his ankles, and he's running his hands all over Gerard's milky flesh, digging into his hips, all while sucking like an professional, seriously, he could graduate with honors. He circles around Gerard's ass, cupping the shape of it, and then—
"Fuck, Frank!" Gerard nearly comes, fucking hell, Frank just slipped a fucking finger up his fucking ass and the slow burn just made Gerard lose it for a second. He grips Frank's hair again, rocking into him less gently, fucking himself on Frank's mouth. He bites his lip down to keep from shouting out, how good it felt, Frank's tongue and mouth and hands, and he's trying very hard not to come all over him because it would be impolite without consent. He's desperate now, feeling the coil in his belly tighten, and he just wants so badly to come all over Frank's face and watch him blink up with sticky fucking eyelashes and fuck, he wants to come all over his fucking eyebrows, what the fuck. "Frank, please, fucking—I'm so close, Frank—I need you to—oh, fuck," Gerard pants again like a dying whale.
Frank hums and the vibrations make Gerard dizzy with pleasure. It's just—fuck, Frank's mouth deserves a Nobel Peace Prize, Gerard thinks to himself, because seriously. It's fucking Frank and his magical lips and magical tongue that could get Gerard coming in no time.
Gerard's whimpering now, dropping his face, trying to hide into his shoulder. "Fuck, Frankie, so, so good, just like that, baby, I'm so close—"
Frank's whole body is tingling. Gerard called him baby, okay, he's allowed to get excited at the pet name, and his cock twitches in agreement.
"Mmm—gah!" Gerard kind of pulls Frank away, even though he's biting his lip painfully as he does, and he takes a few breaths before saying, "I want to come all over your fucking face."
Frank is happy to oblige. He sucks at the head lightly, jerking Gerard off, his wrist flicking faster than ever before. He's looking up at Gerard's blissfully fucked-out face, sitting back on his heels. He pulls off but continues jacking Gerard off like his life depends on it. "That's it," he says, low and raspy, "come on, Gerard, come for me, come all over my fucking face, I want you to, fuck."
Gerard makes a dying noise and he's already leaking into Frank's hand, and Frank fucking licks it off and Gerard shudders before coming hard, all over Frank's open mouth, splashing on his eyelashes and forehead and trickling down his cheeks, his nose, his fucking chin, fucking hell.
Frank, being the sex maniac that he is, licks it all off his hand, and off Gerard's cock, and Gerard can't fucking take it anymore, he's already getting hard again and that's not even physically possible.
Gerard's knees finally give out, and he kind of collapses on the floor with Frank, his softening cock still hanging out as he shuffles closer to Frank and makes a pleased noise. Frank kisses his temple. "I want to fuck you into oblivion, Gerard," he whispers sweetly. "Like, into the fucking mattress."
Gerard winces and waves a tired hand at him. "Give me a few minutes," he mumbles, his eyes fluttering shut. Frank laughs to himself before pulling Gerard up, leading him to the bed and crawling under the silky duvet with him, and eventually, falling asleep.
— ∙ —
Gerard wakes up to Frank's mouth on his neck, sucking lightly on the skin right below his jaw and making pleasant humming noises as he does. "Frank," Gerard mumbles, his dick fully awake, but not his eyes. "Mmm, Frankie."
Frank runs his tongue over the bruise, as if soothing it. He pulls away and looks pretty fucking smug. "Hey, Gerard," he whispers, nuzzling his nose against Gerard's ear. "I've been wanting this for so long."
Gerard just fucking tingles everywhere, kind of, he can't feel his fingers and his mouth suddenly goes dry because yes, fuck, yes, he's been wanting this for weeks, ever since he first decided to walk into Starbucks on that Wednesday and saw Frank for the first time.
Their clothes are off before Gerard even registers it, because he's so focused on kissing Frank and rubbing up against his thigh that he didn't notice how Frank was a fucking ninja at taking off clothes, and soon it's just skin pressed again skin and Frank's soft, warm tongue sliding against his and making him shudder again, in the best way.
Frank is so fucking ready, man, he can't stress it enough. He's a fucking Boy Scout with a boner, and of course he wants to fuck Gerard right the fuck now, but he's enjoying how sweet it is, their kisses, and the feel of Gerard's fingers pressing against his back, pulling him closer. Gerard sighs into his mouth, and he tastes the lingering coffee and cigarettes and shivers all over. Pulling away, he reaches over to his bedside drawer and pulls out a condom and lube. Gerard exhales in anticipation, and fuck, Frank relates so hard.
"Can I put it on?" Gerard breathes, his eyes bright when Frank nods. The room is painfully silent except for the crackle of foil, and when Gerard's fingers come in contact with Frank's dick he just exhales a shaky sigh, feeling his heart jump. He's watching Gerard intently, and he's got the most focused expression ever, like he's trying to solve a trigonometry problem rather than roll a condom onto Frank's cock. It's cute.
Next he spills the lube all over his fingers, getting them slippery and rubbing the material between his index finger and thumb, and spills some more onto his aching cock, so hard it curled into his stomach. Gerard watches with wide eyes as he strokes himself a little, and he feels a sense of satisfaction when Gerard gulps down a little, looking flushed.
"Fuck, Frank," Gerard whispers, sounding pained, pulling Frank towards him, "I need you—so bad, fuck—I want you so bad—"
"Yeah, anything," he says softly, and he pushes Gerard down on the mattress, kissing him gently, sighing into his mouth, circling his finger against Gerard's hole and pushing it up, slowly, sweetly.
"Ah," Gerard whimpers, but Frank is quick to kiss him, running their tongues together, soothing the burn. He waits until Gerard relaxes again before slowly moving his finger, trying to curl it up, figuring out where his— "Ah, fuck!" Frank smiles to himself. Found it.
Frank is turned on out of his fucking mind, but he takes it slow, pulling his finger out and pushing in again, only this time with two. Gerard makes a noise, but it's only half discomfort. He scissors them, curling upwards until Frank hits his spot again, and Gerard's already fucking shaking. "Please, please, Frank," he's babbling, pushing himself down on Frank's fingers desperately, and fuck, he's so hard he can't think, can't breathe. He's leaking and not going to last very long, but it's worth it, seeing Gerard come undone like this, all because of his fingers. "Please, Frankie, I want your—" Gerard makes a frustrated noise.
"My what," he says, smirking.
Gerard flutters his eyes open to glare at Frank. "I want your fucking cock up my ass, get over yourself and fuck me already."
Frank rolls his eyes, laughing. "I'm getting there, geez."
"Hold on." Gerard scrambles up and rolls over so he's lying on his front, looking up at Frank from over his shoulder. "Is this okay?"
Any position is, Frank thinks, but he just kisses Gerard's shoulder lovingly, his hand falling on the curve of Gerard's ass. He picks up the lube and spills more on his fingers, pushing them into Gerard and laughing when he makes an impatient noise. "Fuck, Frank," he pants, almost like he's mad. Gerard rocks himself on Frank's fingers, whimpering every time it hit his prostate, which is like, every fucking time. "Just fuck me already," Gerard repeats, almost wincing.
"I don't want to hurt you!"
"Fucking hell, Frank, it's not like your dick is the size of the Empire State Building, come the fuck on," Gerard bites out, and Frank's jaw actually drops.
"Fine," Frank snaps, pulls his fingers out, and then slams inside Gerard without warning, digging his fingers into his hips.
"Fuck!" Gerard yelps, pushing his face into the mattress and crying out, making Frank smirk and throw his head back, because Jesus Christ, it's so good.
"Gerard—fuck, you're so tight—" Frank tries to breathe normally, but he can't, he's trying to stay still as Gerard adjusts, because he's so close to losing his shit and just fucking Gerard into the fucking mattress, what the fuck. He's actually getting dizzy from the pleasure, the feel of Gerard snug and tight and hot against him, Christ—
Gerard's face is still pushed into the mattress, but when he says "Move," Frank doesn't fucking think twice.
He snaps his hips forward and just fucking goes for it, hard and fast and fucking filthy, his jaw dropping at how amazing it felt, having Gerard around him, hearing those amazing moans saying his name. He climbs over Gerard, trying to get a better angle as he does, kissing his neck and shoulder and sucking on the skin there. He thrusts hard and rough, giving in to his fantasies, and Gerard just fucking takes it all, making dirty noises underneath him, and fuck, Frank might be in love with him.
Frank shoves a little too hard, going deeper than fucking deep, and Gerard fucking loses his shit right there, he's crying out Frank's name like it's the only word in the dictionary. Frank steps up his game, vowing to go deeper, because he loves Gerard and wants to fuck his brains out. "Frankie, fuck, do that again, please—ah! Jesus, fucking please—ah, ah—"
Frank's just nodding, his eyes screwed shut. "So. Fucking. Good. Gerard," he bites out every word with a harsh thrust. He can feel how close Gerard is in his fucking fingertips, so he leans over and kisses his shoulder, soft and sweet in comparison, and then starts whispering in his ear. "Come on, baby, come for me, I want to see you fucking come," he whispers, low and sultry.
Gerard whines in reply. "Nngh," he says, "I'm coming, Frank, I'm—" He shook as he came, loud and fucking hard, all over Frank's bed, untouched.
Frank snaps his hips harshly, riding out Gerard's orgasm until he reaches his own, and he screams Gerard's name from the top of his lungs as he's spilling all over him, messy and filthy, and he revels in the fact that he just came in Gerard's ass, and he knew Gerard's name.
When Frank pulls out, Gerard winces again, so Frank quickly ties off the condom and throws it in the bin next to his bed so he could roll him over and kiss Gerard. It's sweet, again, and it's slow and hot, and Frank loves everything about it, from the way Gerard's fingers curl into his hair or the way every movement makes Gerard moan softly, like he's still sore, because of Frank, and the kinky part of him loves it so much. After a few minutes of kissing, he stumbles out of bed and into the bathroom to get some warm towels, because he doesn't want to accidentally fall asleep with dried jizz on their bed.
When he comes back, Gerard is already curled into himself, but he's awake. He smiles at Frank when the bed dips with his weight and Frank starts to clean off the filthy remains of what they've done.
"I've had a crush on you for so long, you know," Gerard admits quietly, watching Frank.
"Yeah?" For some reason, Frank is grinning like a fucking schoolboy. "So did I. With you, I mean."
Gerard cracks up. "You didn't even know my name."
"What, you didn't even know mine!"
Gerard shakes his head. "Yeah, but you're always Starbucks Guy. I'm always someone else."
Frank abandons the wash cloths and slides beside Gerard, pulling him closer, snuggling into him. "You've always been Gerard. I just didn't know it yet."
Gerard blushes, then nuzzles his face in the crook of Frank's neck. "Milk friend," he says softly.
"What?" Frank pulls away a little to stare at him properly.
"I think I'm going to be Milk Friend next week," he says, smiling, and then Frank's stomach just drops because he's just too fucking adorable, so he snuggles in closer, kissing Gerard's head.
"Okay," he whispers, closing his eyes. It's okay, because no matter what name he writes on his coffee cup, at least now he knows his real one.