Tommy Joe Ratliff/Frank Iero (with Adam/Tommy and Gerard/Frank relationshippyness). NC-17. ~9200 words. High school AU. Missing scene/sequel-type-thing to Basement Rhapsody.
Not caring one bit about how Frank’s heart is trying to break through his ribs, but apparently totally into how his dick is trying to bust out of his jeans, Tommy says, “Frank likes it.”
Frank is going to do this shit. Listening to Tommy lay out the game plan, it sounds easy. Like the falling off a fucking bridge kind of easy. Everything except the part where he finally puts his tongue in Gerard’s mouth.
“Trust me,” Tommy says, slapping a hand down on Frank’s leg to make it quit jiggling. They’re sitting on the edge of Frank’s bed, waiting for Adam to get out of the bathroom. Adam, Tommy’s boyfriend. The boyfriend who actually blew Tommy right here yesterday, on this bed, in front of Frank’s face, the same one who let Tommy make out with Frank, the one who seemed to really fucking like it. So much that Adam came all over the both of them. If that wasn’t his one-hundred percent endorsement of the Frank-and-Tommy makeout session, Frank doesn’t have a fucking clue what is.
“Holy fuck,” Frank says, freezing. “We had sex.”
“If you’re only getting that now, probably it could’ve been better,” Tommy says, mouth twisted wryly.
“Shut the fuck up,” Frank says reflexively. He spends enough time defending Gerard from that sort of self-depreciating shit. “You know it was fucking awesome.”
Tommy shrugs. His hand is warm on Frank’s thigh, making the skin beneath tingle. “I’ve only done stuff with Adam. Maybe he’s got some weird kinky preferences that I don’t know are weird kinky preferences, and the way I fuck would freak anybody else out.”
“Well, maybe I’m freaky too,” Frank says, puffing his chest out. Because he could be, how the fuck is he supposed to know? There’s got to be something freaky in him for wanting to crawl all over Gerard three days post-shower, when Gee smells like hair and booze and sweat. He likes the smell of Gerard’s sweat, warm and musky-thick. But there was that one time Gerard started leaning more towards the sour kind of stinky, when Frank pointedly shoved a towel in his face and he dutifully trudged off to get clean, so maybe Frank’s not all that freaky. Semi-freaky. Freak-lite.
Tommy, though. Tommy is definitely freaky. Tommy’s got a steady guy more than willing to roll around doing dirty shit to him, and he still wanted to get all up in Frank’s deal. Wants to, even, present tense, if the way he’s looking at Frank right now is anything to go by. Frank flicks a glance at the closed door. Tommy shrugs, the crook of his mouth slanting into an invitation.
“Fucking seriously?” Frank asks, nervously wetting his lips. Macking on Tommy while Adam’s fucking shaving or shitting or whatever can’t be kosher. There’s putting on a show for your guy, and then there’s this.
Tommy says, “Practice makes perfect,” and hauls one leg up onto the bed, turned so he’s facing Frank. “Gotta make sure you can keep up.”
“I can fucking keep up.” Probably. Frank’s got a lifetime of getting absolutely zero action behind him. What he’s lacking in finesse and technique, he’s definitely got to make up in pure desperation. “You wanna fucking throw down, right here?”
“Yeah,” Tommy says, tauntingly, maybe kinda hopeful. “Yeah, fuck, bring it, Jersey boy.”
Frank fucking brings it. He brings it so hard and fast Tommy goes tumbling down backwards, teeth banging off Frank’s, scoring his lip, and Tommy’s hands fly up, tangling in Frank’s hair. Which, yeah, okay, Frank really kinda likes. And anyway, Tommy better fucking hold on, because this shit is about to get real. Real like Frank’s tongue in his trash-talking mouth, oh yeah.
“Mmph,” Tommy says, half-giggle, half-moan. Like Frank said, the power of pure fucking desperation. The inside of Tommy’s mouth is hot and wet and tastes a little like Coke and a little like the veggie sandwich he bitched about eating for lunch but totally loved. He’s also trying to, like, take over Frank’s deal here, pushing at Frank’s head and twisting to change the angle. Frank totally paid attention to all the making out that happened yesterday, though, and he knows that shit’s not on. The second time Tommy messes up the really deliberate lick Frank’s trying to give the inside of his bottom lip, Frank slides a hand up, fitting it carefully to Tommy’s throat. Tommy sucks in a startled breath, mouth going nicely wide, and Frank hums and wiggles happily, diving back in. Who knew kissing was so fucking good?
“You couldn’t wait five minutes,” Adam says from the doorway.
Frank’s head flies up. He’s pinning Tommy down, his mouth wet with Tommy’s spit, and boom, all avenging angel like, there is the dude’s fucking boyfriend. Except all the paintings of avenging angels Frank’s seen are total rage-filled apocalyptic deals. Adam just looks wry. And kinda turned on, maybe, a little.
“Sorry,” Frank says, wiping the back of his hand across his face. “I, uh. Shit.”
“Not you,” Adam says. “Him.”
“I so waited five minutes,” Tommy says, still holding onto Frank’s hips, which, wow. When did his hands get all the way down there? “I waited, like, fifteen, princess. Why’d you do your hair when Gerard’s gonna mess it all up again?”
Somehow, Frank’s traitorous brain bypasses the logical conclusion to that statement–the part where Gee’s gonna dye Adam’s hair black for him–and skips right on over to Gerard messing Adam up. Like, hands in Adam’s hair, eating his face off starting with his mouth kind of messing up. And he’s so not talking Zombie Gerard here, even though Zombie Gerard is the coolest fucking shit ever. Maybe Frank’s not so freak-lite after all, since his best friend turning up undead wouldn’t kill the boner Frank’s got for him.
“I haven’t met Gerard yet!” Adam says, fussing with an unruly spike. It kinda all looks like unruly spikes to Frank, but then, Frank is an au natural kinda guy, product-free. Probably helps that his hair looks damn fine doing its own thing.
“You’re totally hot,” Frank says, because once you’ve seen a guy’s dick, and made out with his boyfriend, it kinda seems like the right thing to do. “And you’re into Ziggy, Gee’s gonna love you.”
Adam beams, like the idea of Gerard Way being into him is the best thing that’s happened to him all week. Frank tries to smile back as he clambers off Tommy and the bed. There’s a chance, a chance way bigger than he wants to think about, that this is not going to go as awesomely as planned. Gerard isn’t really great with new people, even new people with awesome taste in music, and here Frank is, about to launch an ambush in his basement sanctuary. Gerard’s never gotten mad at him before, not even that time he was being a stupid shit and stepped on Gerard’s fucking pristine The Roaring Silence vinyl, snapping it clean in two. Gerard was upset, yeah, disappointed, but not mad, and even said it was okay when Frank sat down on the floor cradling the jagged pieces and fucking cried for ten straight minutes.
Maybe Frank should call to give Gee some warning. But then he’ll say no, Frank’s sure of it. Not an outright no, but he’d rather not and maybe some other time and excuses, excuses, excuses. So Frank’s not gonna call him, and if Gerard gets mad, then, like. Frank doesn’t know, but Tommy’ll back him up somehow, and Adam’s totally got Tommy’s back, and yeah. It’ll be fucking fine.
The cramped drugstore on the corner doesn’t carry much, but it’s got black hair dye and smokes, so it’s like Gerard’s favourite place on the entire planet, aside from his basement. Walking in there, the bell tinkling merrily, makes Frank think of him every single time. To be fair, most shit around town reminds Frank of Gerard–the alley behind the Stop & Shop, where Frank totally faceplanted straight off his bike last summer, bashing his head so hard Gerard actually had to pick him up ’cause his legs wouldn’t move; the corner where Mikey waits every morning for Gerard to duck into the cafe and get two extra-extra large coffees to go, so Mikey can keep texting whoever the fuck he’s always texting; the set of lights a block north where Gerard waits for Frank in the afternoon after school, because Gee and Mikey are lucky shits who go to public, but Frank’s life fucking sucks and he’s stuck up on the hill in Catholic hell.
“Wow,” Tommy says, watching Frank clutch a box of L’Oreal Black like a total freakazoid. “You got it bad.”
Frank hangs his head. “I know,” he says to the dirty linoleum. No point lying about it. He probably has it even worse than Tommy thinks. Sometimes Gerard’s right there next to him doing, like, fucking nothing, and he’s so turned on he can’t even fucking talk when Gerard asks him the most random questions. He jerks off thinking about Gerard’s fucking fingernails, okay? Gerard’s got these long fingers, fucking artist’s hands, and the nails are always chewed to the quick and painted in flaky black polish and Frank thinks about licking them, giving them a little nibble of his own, and he comes in three second flat every fucking time. The days when Gerard draws on him, mapping out the sweet tats Frank’s so going to get as soon as he’s got the cash–and a permission slip from his dad–are the best worst days of Frank’s life, because Gerard’s hands are all fucking over him.
Except, like, not all over him. If they were all over him, Frank wouldn’t be here right now, with a crazy bleach-blond Cali boy hanging off him plotting the world’s clumsiest seduction.
“It’s a good thing you’re pretty,” Frank mumbles, handing the box of hair dye off to Adam so they can pay for this shit and get out of here.
Tommy says, “You’re pretty,” like it’s a real zinger.
“I’m not the one wearing pink lipstick,” Frank points out. Which, like, in fucking Jersey, man. Frank’s a known scrapper, despite never winning a fight in his whole fucking life, and Adam’s big enough most guys probably wouldn’t wanna really tangle with him, but Frank’s seriously doubting their chances of making it the five and a half blocks to Gerard’s place without some shit going down.
Tommy’s gaze slides down to fix on Frank’s mouth. “You’re not,” he agrees, and before Frank can blink, or like, breathe, darts in to smear his lips over Frank’s, turning them slick and bubblegum-pink.
“What the fuck,” Frank slurs, the inside of his lip stinging where Tommy mashed it earlier, and his whole body buzzing all of a sudden, like it thinks the middle of aisle three is a totally appropriate place to pop wood. Frank’s licking his lips without making the conscious decision to go for it. “Jesus, even tastes like fucking candy.”
“Me or the lipgloss?” Tommy asks, eyebrow arched, actually for real pouting at him. Sexy pouting, even, and how the fuck does that even work? Like, his lips aren’t all pouched out the way Frank’s seen Beverley Winters try when Mikey’s within scenting distance, and it doesn’t even look like Tommy’s really doing anything with his face, except it’s like, out of nowhere there are twenty-three invisible neon signs pointing at Tommy’s mouth, sort of a fucked up dog whistle thing, only tuned to Frank’s dick.
And yeah, Tommy totally just kissed him in the middle of the fucking drugstore. Where they could get their asses fucking pummelled.
“You are a fucking tease,” Frank says, all hot under the collar, and fucking hot and bothered, too. Gerard’s kinda girly sometimes, sassy, and Tommy’s kinda like that, only kinda really seriously not. Gee wouldn’t stand there with a hip cocked out fucking sexy pouting at him while holding his hand.
Frank blinks. Wow, he really wishes Gerard would.
“C’mon, stud,” Tommy says, shoving a shoulder into Frank’s to get him moving. “You know I’ll put out.”
“Yeah, ’cause you’re fucking easy,” Frank says, and glances around, trying to figure out where the fuck Adam’s disappeared to. Adam totally wasn’t lying when he said Tommy needs wrangling. Sometimes Frank’s pretty sure Gerard says the same thing about him–hopefully all fond and exasperated like Adam said it–but he’s just a menace to general health and safety. Tommy’s the pervert miming jerking off Frank’s fingers, probably giving Mrs. Henderson by the dairy cooler hives.
Not that Frank’s gonna make him stop any time soon. Frank gives her a wink and a wave of his free hand as they stroll out the door.
“Really?” Adam says, his gaze on Frank’s mouth as they step out into the bright sunlight.
“Practice makes perfect,” Tommy says lazily, still holding Frank’s hand hostage.
Introducing Gerard to Adam and Tommy goes slightly better than Frank had dared to hope. The fifth of bourbon Gee clutched to his chest the entire time is probably more to thank for that than the please sex me up please please vibes Frank’s beaming at him, since those vibes haven’t been getting Frank any action for weeks now. Or maybe Tommy’s onto something with the lipgloss/eyeliner combo. Gerard likes eyeliner.
As they trudge up the stairs from Gerard’s room on their way to the bathroom, Gerard leading the way with the rest of them a bizarre trail of punk ducklings tagging along behind, Tommy’s smug satisfaction radiates against Frank’s back. Frank ignores it, and ignores it, and finally, when Gerard and Adam take the corner down the long hall leading to the bathroom, he turns around and whispers, “Shut up.”
“Didn’t say anything,” Tommy says easily. He totally doesn’t have to. The giant grin plastered across his face says it all, and a little extra.
“I’m just saying,” Frank says voice tight and low, because the bathroom seriously isn’t that far away, “don’t fucking say it.”
Tommy’s eyebrows go up. “This would be a whole lot easier if you fucking would already.”
Grabbing onto Tommy’s shoulder, Frank gives him a little shake and yanks him in close to hiss, “Gee spooks.”
“Yeah,” Tommy says slowly, “the idea of making out with you is terrifying. I totally get why he’d rabbit.”
Frank mutters, “Asshole,” and gnaws furiously on his lip, the cut’s sharp sting not clearing his head at all. He’s so nervous, he’s actually jittering. He can feel it, all the way down to his toes, every last nerve he’s got doing a fancy little samba and screwing up his stomach. Gerard’s used to a lot of gross shit, but no way is puking on the guy sexy. Though Frank’s pretty sure he’s tossed his drunk-ass cookies around Gerard before, especially with the type of vile cheap booze Gerard gets his hands on, but not in his like, his fucking lap. Which Frank is seriously this fucking close to doing.
Getting a good look at Frank’s face, Tommy says, “Fuck.” And then he invents the greatest fucking cure for an anxiety-induced nausea ever by sticking his tongue in Frank’s mouth.
Frank tries to say, “Motherfucker,” to get his feelings about this rapid change of events across, and to totally one-up Tommy’s piddly little cuss, but it comes out as a garbled moan. No wonder Adam’s so fucking happy all the time, dating a dude prone to sexing him up every five seconds. Tommy’s been in Frank’s life for all of two days and he’s got the urge to run down the road clicking his heels together bestowing nickels upon poor starving street urchins. Except for how then he’d have to get Tommy to stop sucking on his tongue, and that’s a travesty he’s not gonna commit.
And like, Tommy is sucking on his tongue. How the fuck was Frank supposed to know that’s something people actually do? Fingers and dicks and tits and clits–yeah, Frank’s seen lots of porn–but tongue. It’s fucking amazing. He’s got to get better quality skinflicks, holy shit.
Frank makes a noise that’s way, way too loud for a hall less than fifteen feet away from where Mrs. Way is watching soaps and painting her nails and smoking her way through a pack of Marlboros. Three seconds later, Tommy makes one that’s even louder. Jesus Christ, Gerard is gonna poke his head around the corner any second now to figure out what the fuck they’re doing out here and then Gerard’s gonna, like, fuck.
“He’s gonna want in on it,” Tommy says, damp lips brushing Frank’s. “Get all up in your business so fast you’ll nut your shorts again.”
Frank grates, “Rather nut on him,” as Tommy shifts against him, sharp hip pressed snugly against his dick. He gets hit with this bright, unreal image of Gerard trapped between him and the wall like this, how Gee’s taller so it’d be his thigh Frank ended up riding. Letting out a ragged groan, Frank lets his forehead rest on Tommy’s collarbone, his hands gripping Tommy’s waist so tight his shirt is all twisted up sideways. There’s a sliver of bare skin right there Frank wants to lick. “Shit. Shit.”
“Quit worrying,” Tommy says, and gives the back of his neck a quick, comforting squeeze.
“M’not fucking worried,” Frank lies. “I’m horny.”
“Gonna do something about that soon, too.” Nudging Frank back a step, Tommy tugs his shirt down and fluffs up his hair, combing it out of his eyes so it can tumble right back over them again. Frank stuffs his hands in his pockets to keep from grabbing two fistfuls of it like he wants to so fucking bad, but that makes him think about grabbing Gerard’s hair, and if Gerard would maybe be into it like Tommy is, and then he ends up groaning and slumping dejectedly against Tommy because he’s got two dudes totally willing to sex him up but his life is still a fucking wasteland of unrequited horniness.
“Seriously,” Tommy says, shoving him off again. He stumbles dramatically, but Tommy’s a douche who only grins at him when he thumps into the opposite wall. Gerard totally would’ve caught him. “Quit fucking worrying. But keep doing that tongue thing, that was awesome.”
Frank’s head snaps up. He did a tongue thing? “What?”
“Awesome,” Tommy repeats, and gives Frank a pat on the shoulder as he walks away, like Frank’s looking for moral support here when he needs fucking logistics.
Frank pushes off the wall, tripping over his laces as he whisper-shouts, “What tongue thing? Tommy? Shit.”
While Gerard fusses with getting the hair dye ready for Adam, who’s sitting on the edge of the tub beaming his head off, Frank hops up on the counter beside Tommy. Adam’s smile gets wider, kinda slanted, sending heat crawling up the back of Frank’s neck. He twists around quickly to check that he got rid of all of Tommy’s smeared lipgloss.
Tommy scrunches his eyebrows together and says, “Aw,” under his breath, watching Frank scrub at his mouth with the back of one wrist.
Levelling a finger at him, Frank says, “Shut up.”
“So, uh,” Gerard says, flinging Frank a weird look before he turns back to Adam, “you know you could’ve just said.” He fusses some more with towels and gloves and shit that Frank never pays attention to, because Frank’s never dyed his own hair since he’s got Gerard around to do it for him, and Gerard won’t let Frank near him with anything more permanent than a child-safe Crayola marker. “That you needed a make-out spot, I mean.”
Behind Gerard’s back, Tommy widens his eyes at Adam and nods furiously. Frank’s still bitter about the whole tongue thing out in the hallway, where Tommy didn’t give him some fucking direction and cuts in, saying, “They don’t need a make-out spot,” totally, like, shooting himself in the foot here, because he needs a make-out spot.
Tommy elbows him viciously in the side, and dude’s got seriously pointy elbows, shit. With a grunt, Frank collapses over his ribs so Tommy can’t damage a fucking organ, and grins the biggest, most obnoxious shit-eating grin he’s got in his arsenal. It’s pretty impressive.
Gerard flings another one of those weird looks Frank’s way, shoulders hunched and creeping up to his ears. Frank realises he’s being a total shit friend here, siccing new dudes on him and then, like, giving him no fucking backup at all. Switching his grin over to something less psycho, Frank gives him a thumbs-up.
Gerard smiles, this tiny, shyly grateful thing, and Frank’s insides flutter. It’s just, Gerard’s got these eyes, okay? Kinda big and round and total windows to the soul type deal, and fuck, Frank is in total love with Gerard’s soul. And his tiny crooked smiles and his even tinier crooked teeth and his stupid lanky hair.
And Gerard, stupid, stupid Gerard, is totally oblivious. He turns that awesome shy smile on Adam, who probably totally appreciates it, ’cause it’s a great smile, but no way does anybody appreciate it as much as Frank does, okay, and asks, “Ready?”
“Ready!” Adam says, spine snapping straight, his hand on Gerard’s thigh like he thinks he’s got to keep the guy from bolting. Which, actually, is a really smart move on Adam’s part. Gee’s totally a rabbiter. The first time Frank followed him and Mikey home from school–casually, just like, Hey, I’m walking in the same direction, cool, not, Hey, I’m totally stalking you (Frank was totally stalking him)–Frank thought he was gonna have a freaking heart attack right there in the middle of the street. “So ready, you have no idea.”
“You’re bouncing,” Tommy says, slumping sideways against the mirror so he’s got to conspicuously prop an arm on Frank’s thigh to keep from sliding into the sink. “I think he’s got an idea.”
Gerard lets out a huff, which to anybody else would sound like a sigh but Frank knows that huff, that’s totally a grudging I’m-having-fun sound, and says, “Stay still, please,” before he buckles down all seriously, concentrating on rubbing dye through Adam’s hair like it’s the Mona Lisa he’s trying to recreate. Frank’s totally caught up in watching Gee gnaw on the inside of his lip, so he doesn’t notice Tommy nudging him until it gets really insistent. And by like, insistent, Frank means Tommy is poking his junk.
“The fuck,” Frank breeathes dumbly, staring down at Tommy’s elbow in his lap. Tommy cocks an eyebrow and gives him a little rub, then jerks his chin in Gerard’s direction. Frank’s forehead scrunches, all, What?
Tommy jerks his chin harder and roll his eyes when Frank still doesn’t get it. He sits up a bit, moving his forearm away from Frank’s dick, and totally mimes grabbing Gerard’s ass. But not a totally sleazy grab–though okay, Gerard’s back being turned makes it sleazy automatically–but like Tommy’s suggesting it would be really, really nice to put your hands right there while you’re making out with the guy. Frank isn’t sure at all how he got all that out of a few hand gestures and a waggled eyebrow, but there it is.
Gaze stuck on Gerard’s ass, Frank nods slowly. Dude’s got a point. That would be really nice.
Grinning, Tommy slumps back down, his arm hooked not at all innocently over Frank’s leg. If this shit keeps up, Frank’s gonna develop an elbow fetish, and then, if he fucking ever gets his hands on Gerard for real, he’s gonna have to figure out a way to explain to Gee that a handjob would be so much better if it involved, literally, more elbow grease. Christ.
“I’m so blowing you after this,” Tommy says, out of fucking nowhere. Frank stares down at his fluffy hair, wide-eyed. Because fuck yeah, blowjobs. But that wasn’t in the plan. Frank’s willing to work on the fly here, but he also sorta thought the whole point was to get Gerard on his dick, or him on Gerard’s dick, or best case scenario, both, and everything else is gravy.
Gerard makes a weird noise, high-pitched and choked off, but keeps combing dye through Adam’s hair like he’s completely unaware he just fucking squeaked. Frank’s stare hops from the sliver of Tommy’s face he can see through bits of blond to Adam, then to Adam’s hand on Gerard’s thigh. His thigh.
“He played Dracula at school once, it was so fucking hot,” Tommy says casually, like he’s not watching his boyfriend ninja grope somebody, and like he’s not doing the same fucking thing, Jesus Christ, his fingers are skimming up Frank’s inseam to brush his balls while he’s talking about blowing his boyfriend but that was totally suggesting he’d like to blow Frank too, and oh my fucking god. “They sprayed his hair black and gave him fangs.”
Sounding like somebody took a grater to his throat, Frank asks, “Did you get to keep them?”
Adam says, “Yeah,” his eyes closed, and swaying a bit as Gerard goes for a full-on scalp massage, like if Gerard puts all his focus into making sure every single strand of hair on Adam’s head is dyed, then nobody’ll notice that he’s staring down at Adam gripping his leg.
Still completely casual, Tommy says, “He likes to bite me with them,” and flips his hand over, palm curved tight and hot over Frank’s junk.
Frank’s whole body seizes up. Tommy gives him a grin and a squeeze, sending blood rushing south. He goes from half-hard to full-on boner so fast his zipper pinches. “Dude,” he wheezes. Tommy’s hand is on his dick. On his motherfucking dick. Maybe yesterday he was totally grinding it against Tommy’s ass, which was the most awesome thing to happen to him since Tommy fucking kissed him right there on his own bed, but this is, like, halfway to a handjob, squeezing and stroking and the fucker is totally going to make him nut his shorts again.
“Stop trying to traumatise them with our sex life, Tommy,” Adam says firmly, his gaze on Frank’s lap. Oh, shit, he’s totally watching his boyfriend semi jerk Frank off. Frank is going to die.
Not caring one bit about how Frank’s heart is trying to break through his ribs, but apparently totally into how his dick is trying to bust out of his jeans, Tommy says, “Frank likes it.”
Frank chokes on his tongue a little. “Frank is, like, Zero Action Man,” he says, sneakily trying to spread his legs a bit more without anybody noticing, especially Tommy, because if there ever was a dude who needed no encouragement, it’s him. “He’ll take what he can get.”
“That’s a terrible superpower,” Gerard grumbles.
Adam says, “Unless you’re a Republican,” his thumb tracing tiny circles above Gee’s kneecap.
“Man.” Frank slumps back heavily against the mirror, making all the shit strewn across the countertop clatter. How the fuck is Gerard not noticing what’s going on here? No wonder they haven’t progressed to sexing it up yet, Gerard is so oblivious it hurts. “The Republican. There’s a fucking terrifying supervillian.”
“He’d boycott tights,” Tommy says, scraping his nail over Frank’s fly, making Frank’s legs jerk. His heel bangs off the cupboard. Gerard potters on, still fucking oblivious.
“Badly-tailored, decade-out-of-style power suits all the way,” Adam agrees.
Scooting up, Tommy moves his hand back down Frank’s thigh. Frank blinks, stunned. That shit was getting good, what the fuck. Then there’s this thing that happens next, with Adam’s hair twisted up into a cupcake swirl (Frank totally didn’t think Gerard would go for it, even with both him and Tommy egging him on, but either Gerard really likes Adam or he figures there are too many witnesses for Adam to bother trying to murder him–like Adam could murder anything aside from Frank’s mom’s tub of French Silk ice cream). And then there’s a bit where Gerard gropes around looking for a toothbrush to dye Adam’s eyebrows with, which Frank helpfully scoops up off the counter to offer up, but he’s gonna be honest here. He’s so not paying attention. His mouth is moving, and words are coming out of it, but all he’s really thinking about is Tommy’s hand resting heavy and hot on his thigh, whole inches away from his dick, and how he wants it back where it was, and how there must be a way to get it there short of picking it up and putting it where he wants it.
Tipping his head back, Tommy gives Frank the fucking sauciest grin Franks’ ever seen. Totally unrepentant, and lewd, holy shit, and then Tommy’s miming a blowjob, complete with his tongue poking the inside of his cheek. Which is corny, and stupid, and so nails Frank right in the dick.
“I’d get it all over my face,” Frank says viciously, watching Gerard carefully comb dye into Adam’s brows and hoping that look on Tommy’s face means he just got a visceral punch to the nuts too, the fucker. “Gee’s an artist, though.”
“Yeah, lotsa practice, right?” Tommy says, eager and fucking evil. “You showed us the tattoos he designed for you. Dude, that is gonna be so cool.”
“Fuck,” Frank spits. Fucking tattoos. Gerard’s fucking hands, drawing. On Frank. Even if tats are the absolute shit, that is so not what he wants to be talking about right now. Or doing. Or like, anything that isn’t mauling the fuck out of the cockteasing shithead slumped against him. There is no way he’s gonna be able to keep from launching himself at Gerard and clinging like a horny burr if he doesn’t get the hell out of here. He jumps off the counter, almost almost knocking the toothbrush out of Gerard’s hand. Gerard’s used to him flailing around like a total moron, though, and compensates pretty smoothly. “I was gonna show you that comic! Gee, can I show Tommy your shit?”
“Sure,” Gerard says, obliviously.
Frank scrambles out of the bathroom and bangs his shoulder off the doorframe. In the hall, at the distinct lack of footsteps behind him, he stops abruptly. What the fucking fuck. That was totally code. Like, Tommy’s sorta in the middle of teaching him this whole kissing thing, in the interests of bagging Gerard–and getting off, that too–and of course he needs to practice blowing Gerard as well as sticking his tongue down his throat. No way is Gerard gonna be able to turn him down if he’s good with his mouth everywhere.
“You’re a fucking menace,” Tommy says happily, finally making an appearance.
“Me?” Frank grunts. He gestures emphatically at his really fucking hard dick, thank you very fucking much. “You!”
Tommy’s eyes go dark, heavy. Wow. That right there is sex face. Sex is about to happen. “Yeah,” he says, and fucking grabs onto Frank’s crotch to tug him towards the stairs, “me.”
“Okay,” Frank says, turning around at the base of the stairs to face Tommy as he trots down the last few. Gerard’s room is nicely familiar, which sorta makes what’s about to happen in it even more exciting, because, okay, Gerard. Even when the guy’s upstairs getting seduced by somebody else’s boyfriend, Frank is so into him. But Tommy and him, right here, right now, they’re gonna do this. Frank’s got a lot of shit to learn. Fancy shit. Gerard’ll totally appreciate his room being hijacked for such lofty goals.
Grinning like a fiend, an actual demonic fiend, Tommy moves in close, his hands tugging at Frank’s belt. “Step one,” he says, and gives a rough yank. “Take off your fucking clothes.”
Stomach swooping like he’s in free-fall, Frank grabs onto Tommy’s shoulders for balance and pushes back a bit so he can see where Tommy’s hand is shoving into his open fly. “Shit,” he gasps, breath sucked in as knuckles brush his belly. “Shit, shit, fuck.”
Biting at the corner of his lip through that wicked grin and looking up through his lashes, Tommy wraps his hand firmly around Frank’s dick. Frank’s dick is no stranger to a hand or two. In fact, Frank would have to say his dick is downright intimate with both Mr Right and Mr Left, but holy fuck, when it’s somebody else’s hand he’s getting cosy with, it is really fucking different. Tommy gently thumbs at the ridge, still watching him, and Frank’s fucking knees buckle. “Maybe you oughta sit down for this,” he suggests.
Frank croaks, “Yeah, okay,” and lets his legs go out from under him like they want to. One of the unfortunate side-effects is that now Tommy’s no longer touching his dick, but bonus, Frank can breathe. Even better, Tommy’s following him down, kicking his legs apart to kneel between them.
“Crap everywhere,” Tommy mutters, shoving an old hoodie with a pizza stain on the front out of his way. He braces one hand on Frank’s thigh, the other on a crinkling pile of sketchbook paper. “I hope your dick’s as pretty as your face.”
Frank’s eyes slide shut as Tommy’s hands dip inside his jeans, shoving and wriggling, trying to get some space to work. Then they pop right back open again, because Tommy is about to go to work on him and he’s got to fucking pay attention.
“S’right,” Tommy says, scooting down, his tee shirt riding up in the back to bare the sharp curve of his spine, his jeans barely clinging to his ass. A slap to Frank’s thigh gets his hips hiking up so Tommy can haul his jeans and his shorts all the way down to his freaking knees, and then Tommy goes and kneels on them, pinning his legs down.
“Uh,” Frank says, blood pounding hot in his head, in his dick, as Tommy stares and stares at him. The look on Tommy’s face says Frank’s dick ain’t half bad at all. Frank’s lungs go tight as his cock swells thicker, like it’s fucking showing off.
“You’re a kicker,” Tommy says, all conversationally like he’s some big shot sex guru. “Adam’s got a bruise on his leg from you.”
More heat billows up the back of Frank’s neck and across his face. “Shit,” he says, and it comes out raspy, a little broken. “Sorry, I guess? How the hell was I ‘sposed to know?”
“Not sorry,” Tommy says, skimming his hands up the insides of Frank’s thighs, his hips, fucking teasing him because okay, Frank’s dick is right there waving hello and Tommy’s a shit welcome committee. “Gave me something else to play with while I sucked him off.”
Frank slaps a hand over his face. He can’t handle this. He’s seen Adam’s dick and he’s way beyond acquainted with Tommy’s mouth by now, so he doesn’t even have to work for the double-page spread that pops into his head, Tommy going down on Adam while he’s fucking poking at bruises Frank put on his boyfriend, giving Adam that same look that Tommy’s giving him now, all lowered lashes and slanted, bedroom smile. Except for how if Tommy had his mouth full, he wouldn’t be able to smile with it. Frank’s sure he’d manage somehow, put it in his eyes or the tilt of his head, because that’s the kind of shit Tommy knows how to do.
Warm breath and soft strands of hair brush the back of Frank’s hand. Choking back a whimper, he parts his fingers and finds Tommy hovering right above his face, smirking. “You should totally watch this,” Tommy says, once he’s sure he’s got Frank’s attention.
“Yeah, if you’re actually gonna fucking do something this time,” is the best comeback Frank’s got, which is totally lame and not his fault. Tommy’s, like, he doesn’t even fucking know. He wants to punch the guy and jerk off on him and maybe suck his dick a couple times in between. Going with his gut, he grabs up a rough handful of Tommy’s hair and starts dragging him down, aiming for the prize. “Like, right now. Okay? Please?”
Tommy’s eyelashes flutter a couple times, and he says, “Do it harder,” so quietly Frank’s not sure at all that’s actually what he said. He might be projecting here, because that is so fucking hot. A small tug gets a hot huff of breath on the head of Frank’s dick. Fuck, that’s so good enough for him. Tightening his grip, he gives a rough yank to the side, making Tommy slump against his thighs and grab his dick and they both moan way too loudly with the fucking basement door still open.
Not above begging for this kind of mind-blowing shit, Frank opens his mouth, but all that comes out is another stuttering moan. Tommy’s nuzzling at him. Fucking nuzzling his dick, and his balls, open mouth hot and wet, whole face shoved right in his crotch. Spit slicks Tommy’s lips, more glistening wetness high on his cheeks and the bridge of his nose from where Frank’s leaking all over him. “Jesus, fuck, Christ,” Frank grates.
Tommy’s either so into it he doesn’t hear, or he hears but there’s no way he’s stopping, ’cause it’s not like Frank choking on curses needs any kind of input from him. At least nothing beyond the eager, sloppy lick he gives straight up the seam of Frank’s balls to the tip of his dick, chasing after it with his tongue out. It takes a couple tries for Tommy to get his mouth on the head since he’s not even fucking using his hands here, both palms pressed down firmly onto Frank’s hips to keep him from squirming his way into the pile of laundry he’s slumped on.
Pulling off, Tommy replaces his mouth with his hand, jacking slowly while he waits for Frank to get with the program and really look at him, meet his gaze head on. Once Frank manages, his eyes snap shut and his hips snap up. There’s a seriously hot dude bent over his lap, holding onto his fucking dick, and the dude’s mouth is really red and wet and open in this really obvious way. Desperate not to blow it too soon, Frank reaches down and tugs on his balls, his wrist brushing Tommy’s sticky fingers.
“Hot,” Tommy says, flicking his tongue out, catching one of Frank’s knuckles, then licking along the curve between Frank’s thumb and finger. His heavy breaths are shivery hot on Frank’s damp skin. “Fuck, yeah, I so get what Adam’s talkin’ about now.”
“What?” Frank asks, rough and dazed. They fucking talked about him? Christ, maybe they talked about him while they fooled around. Like he’s a fucking porn star or something. His cock jerks in Tommy’s hand.
Tommy grins kinda evilly, says, “Said you’d be squirmy, like me,” and gives Frank’s dick another slow, feathery lick, the tip of his tongue finding at least seven different places that make Frank’s toes curl and legs cramp. “I totally get why that’s so fucking sexy.”
“I am totally sexy,” Frank says, kinda half-truth. He never really gave sexy much thought in relation to himself. More like, the way Gerard chews on his lip sometimes, or how he stretches out totally uncaring around Frank, tee shirt riding up and jeans slipping off his narrow hips, the shape of his body pretty clear when he’s not slouching around in a lumpy hoodie. Gerard’s so different from him and Mikey, and even Tommy, the three of them all skin and bone and sinewy bits. Gerard’s got shape, an ass that fills out his jeans, thighs that Frank wants to crawl between and grab onto, slight curves and dips and hollows on his chest and belly that Frank wants to bite. Kinda like Frank wants to bite Gerard’s stupid, sexy crooked mouth. And Tommy’s mouth, too, with its pink lipgloss smears over lips rubbed red. He gets both hands in Tommy’s hair, strands sticking to the spit and the precome on his fingers, and yanks. “Fuck, fuck, c’mere.”
Tommy lurches up, off-centre. “C’mere where?” he says, like an asshole, because he totally knows where this is heading.
“Jerk off on your face,” Frank grunts, and tries latching onto Tommy’s mouth.
“S’not your dick,” Tommy slurs, nose squishing Frank’s, his bottom lip barely caught in Frank’s teeth. Frank twists and tugs on Tommy’s hair, trying to get some tongue involved, and Tommy fucking laughs at him, this muffled snorty giggle, right against his mouth.
Frank whines. He fucking whines, this shit is not fair, “Tommy, fuck, come on.” He’s so hard it hurts. Even the tickle of cool air on his spit-slick dick feels good, fucking amazing. If Tommy gets his mouth or hand or anything back on him, he’s done, and he wants to be done. Fuck, does he want to be done.
Grinning through a sloppy kiss, Tommy shoves up. He plants one hand firmly on Frank’s chest, long fingers spread out so Frank can see the wet glisten on his skin where he was going to town on Frank’s cock, and tugs his fly open. Frank doesn’t make the decision to grab onto Tommy’s hips and try to fuck up against him, but he’s doing it anyway, choked whimper caught in his throat as Tommy pulls his dick out and shoves his jeans down, then goes for Frank’s shirt. “Off,” Tommy says, completely unnecessarily. Unlike some fucking people, Frank can take a hint. He twists and grunts and paws at his shirt, flinging it carelessly aside as Tommy scoots forward, his cock and balls dragging over Frank’s bare chest.
“Oh motherfucker,” Frank breathes, gaping like a douche, seriously fucking floored. Why hadn’t he thought of that shit before? Forget getting his hands and his mouth on Tommy’s junk–though, yes, fine, that too, eventually–he wants Tommy to rub it all fucking over him. Apparently dicks feel good pressed up against him anywhere.
“Yeah?” Tommy asks, biting at his lip again, eyes shadowed and glittering, like he doesn’t fucking know how hot this shit is. He palms his dick lazily, circling his fingers around it nice and slow for a couple strokes. Holding off, maybe, like he’s actually waiting for an answer.
Frank croaks, “Fuck yeah,” and thinks about stretching his arms out, giving Tommy a nice, big blank canvas to work with, but he can’t get his deathgrip on Tommy’s thighs to loosen. It’d probably be a good idea to look at Tommy’s face at some point, too, make some genuine eye contact again so he knows Frank’s serious about this shit (Gerard’s all about the eye-contact; nobody’s more fucking sincere than Gerard when he’s staring you, unblinking, straight in the eye) but Frank can’t stop staring at Tommy’s hand on his cock. It’s just, Tommy’s dick is right there, right in front of Frank’s face, flushed dark and so hard the skin’s barely shifting when he jacks it, the head bare and wet and Tommy keeps twisting his wrist, thumbing the tiny scar beneath the ridge the exact same way Frank does. Frank’s stomach clenches and his dick twitches, throbbing with his pulse. Sliding his hands down and around, he tries to pull Tommy closer by the backs of his thighs, moaning his fucking head off as Tommy shuffles up, bracing his hand beside Frank’s head and hunching over, bumping his dick against Frank’s neck, his jaw, his mouth when Frank chases after it.
Tommy shudders, his steady rhythm faltering then picking up again way too fast, like a needle jumping a groove, whole minutes skipped. He’s gonna come. Right in Frank’s face, he’s gonna come, and Frank barely even knows what his dick tastes like.
“Fuck, fuck, hang on.” Grabbing for Tommy’s hips, Frank tries scooting up to get his mouth on Tommy’s cock, then craning his neck ridiculously with his tongue stuck out trying for a lick when that doesn’t work. He doesn’t even fucking care what he looks like. He’s got to at least fucking kiss Tommy’s junk before the guy blows. “Seriously, I gotta– I really fucking gotta–”
Tommy rasps, “Jesus,” like it’s torn out of him, sandpaper-dry, and after one last, hard tug, curls his hand securely around the base to hold his dick steady. He’s practically vibrating in Frank’s hold, so ready, right on the edge, and Frank gives a grateful moan, not even thinking about what he’s going to do once he gets Tommy’s dick in his mouth, just wanting it there, needing it in this gut-punch visceral way.
The sharp taste of salt explodes on Frank’s tongue, then something weirdly mellow, thick, nothing really like the musky smell of sex hanging heavy in Gerard’s room, but that’s what it is. That’s what sex tastes like. Squeezing his eyes shut, he drags a harsh breath in through his nose. Everything smells like Tommy. There’s a hand tangled in his hair, not tugging but holding, and Frank thinks about how he’d do the same to Gerard, needing something to keep them both grounded, because yeah, maybe it’s just somebody’s dick in somebody’s mouth, but it’s close, intimate beyond the obvious, and it’s a big fucking deal. It’s Frank pressing his tongue hard against Tommy’s slit, searching for more of that taste; it’s Tommy above him, trembling, teeth clenched trying to hold on because Frank asked him to; it’s Frank sucking hard, harder, fighting to keep his eyes open so he can see when Tommy loses it, feel the hot surge of blood against his lips and the warm spill of come in his mouth, bitter-sharp and unreal.
Tommy pulls away too soon, cussing worse than Gerard when Gerard’s actually honestly pissed, like that time Frank was fucking around with the box cutter Gerard uses for collages and shadow boxes or what the fuck ever and almost lost a finger. Not really thinking it through, Frank keeps his mouth open, maybe hoping Tommy’s getting ready to fuck it. Not, like, stuff it in, but just a little, just so Frank knows what it’s like. So Frank’s prepared, ’cause that’s mostly but sorta not really what this is all about.
“Fuck you,” Tommy grates, “fuck you, that is so fucking hot,” hand flying over his dick, wet and slick-sounding. More come spills over Frank’s chin, drips warm down over his throat, tickling. Frank shivers, digging his fingers into Tommy’s sides. If he wasn’t so laser-focused on what Tommy’s doing, fucking coming on his face, he’s pretty sure he’d be losing it right along with him.
Then Tommy’s voice cuts out entirely. He slumps down on one elbow, his mouth slack and open, hot, panting breaths stirring Frank’s sweaty hair. His hand, still curled loosely around his dick and trapped between them, twitches weakly, and he mumbles something that doesn’t really sound like any language Frank’s ever heard.
“Dude,” Frank says, voice totally shot. His heart’s pounding and his dick’s throbbing, but it’s like he’s in shock, everything muffled in a cottony haze. “What?”
“Jerk off on me,” Tommy repeats, scooting clumsily back, shoving harder at his jeans stuck halfway down his thighs. His ass bumps into Frank’s dick and Frank’s bucks up, the brief brush of skin on skin more than enough to send his mind reeling. Tommy’s spine arches, this deep, unbelievable curve as he tries settling down, his tight jeans still getting in the way. “S’fuckin’ good enough, c’mon, do it.”
Frank’s about to say don’t have to tell me twice except for how Tommy obviously does. It’s not his fault this shit is too hot for his brain to handle. Before Adam moved in next door, the most action Frank ever got beyond some pretty memorable jerk-off sessions was literally in his dreams. But even his fevered, porn-fuelled imagination, and days and days and weeks of curling up next to Gerard, watching his hands and his mouth and crawling over him, learning the shape of his body in sneaky bits and pieces, couldn’t come up with something like this. Not Tommy, with his too-pretty face and messy rockstar hair and soft, spunk-covered dick against Frank’s belly. Definitely not Tommy reaching back to press Frank’s dick against his ass, shifting so it rides along the cleft, and Frank can feel what that looks like, soft, delicate skin slicked with Tommy’s sweat, his precome, Tommy’s fingers slim and pale next to his blood-thick cock.
“Yeah,” Tommy says, bent double, his mouth smearing kisses and come over Frank’s, “yeah, like that, like– like you’re gonna fuck me, put it in me and make me ride it,” and Frank doesn’t know if Tommy’s running his mouth, ’cause he’s so that kinda guy, or if it’s something him and Adam actually fucking do, like, fuck, for real, Adam’s dick up Tommy’s ass. Frank imagines it, Tommy pinned beneath Adam, shaking and moaning; pictures Gerard underneath him like that, clawing at his back, him under Gerard, Gerard’s tangled hair hanging in his face and Gerard’s thighs under his, body wedged between his legs, holding him open for it. Gerard staring down at him the same as Tommy, dazed and gorgeous and turned on because of him.
Stupidly, Frank tries grunting a warning, like Tommy isn’t up there waiting for Frank to jizz all over him. It comes out as this wheezy groan seconds late; he’s arched up off the cluttered, messy floor, Tommy’s shirt all twisted up in his fists, Frank’s balls drawn up so tight he can feel the pulse start right in the pit of his stomach and push up through them and out through his dick. His eyes are open but he’s not really seeing anything, same as his mouth is hanging wide but he’s not breathing. Everything’s stuck on the loose curl of Tommy’s hand holding his dick in place, on the slippery-wet slide of come over bare skin, on Tommy breathlessly telling him to keep going, keep fucking, make sure it’s all over them.
“You are so fuckin’ dirty,” Frank gasps, pawing at Tommy’s face, “fucking crazy.” He tastes salt on Tommy’s lips, the bitter tang of come. Then pure, wet heat as Tommy shoves into his mouth, weirdly blank until Frank figures out it’s because there’s nothing but spit left, that Tommy’s sucked the taste of himself off Frank’s tongue, swallowed every last bit of it down. He moans, open-mouthed and ragged and really fucking loud, and Tommy gives him one right back, both hands fisted in his hair holding him down like there’s actually a sliver of a chance he wants to be anywhere than right where he is.
Which makes Tommy the first to pull back, and means Frank tries to follow him up, wincing when his hair gets yanked. “Just, hang on,” Tommy says, breathing hard. His eyes are dark. Like, really fucking dark, midnight black. “That was good, right? Like, when you said you wanted to, yesterday, on his face? Like that.”
Frank’s known Tommy for two days. Two days, and it feels like yesterday was last fucking year. It’s not that he’s used to a half-naked dude sitting on him. So fucking far from it. But where Gerard makes Frank nervous and excited and fumbly and fucking stupid, Tommy makes him think maybe he could do this shit. Like, maybe he’s hot like Gerard’s hot–or not exactly, because Gerard’s kinda borderline goth hot and Frank’s more like a punk kid on speed–but like, hot. Sexy. Somebody you wanna get naked with and roll around on top of and like, get all up in his business.
Tommy’s totally looking at him like he’s worth sexing up more than a time or two. And that’s right around when it clicks in his brain that he’s seen Gerard fucking looking at him that way. Not so blatant as Tommy, ’cause Tommy’s subtle like a brick to the head, but it’s totally the same thing.
“Holy motherfucking Christ,” Frank says.
Tommy grins. Tommy gets it. No words, but Tommy’s there. Leaving one hand touching Frank’s arm, doing that grounding thing again, he stretches all the way out to fumble at Gee’s blankets, dislodging the bottle of booze jammed between the mattress and the wall. It clunks to the floor. Tommy grunts, annoyed. “Fucking disaster area,” he says, and wriggles away to fish it out, bare ass stuck up in the air like he seriously doesn’t give a shit. Frank can’t help but touch. Those streaks of wet on Tommy’s skin, glistening in the light, that’s his come.
Tommy glances back, still grinning, knowing what Frank’s up to and fucking liking it, then says, “Ha, fucker,” and emerges triumphantly with Gerard’s half-empty forty of bourbon. He twits off the cap with a smart flick and helps himself to a healthy swig. Maybe he should look dumb like that, sitting back on his heels with his jeans down around his ankles, his soft cock a little plump and bunched up slightly on his thigh, but mostly, he’s gorgeous.
Reaching for his side, Frank says. “C’mere, okay?”
“Yeah?” Tommy asks, not really a question when he’s already shuffling awkwardly over. He puts the bottle in Frank’s other hand and scoots down, hooking his knee over Frank’s thigh, curling close to Frank’s side, cheek pillowed on Frank’s shoulder. He doesn’t seem to care that he’s getting tacky spunk in his hair. “You wanna cuddle?”
“Shut up,” Frank says, and squeezes him in even tighter. It’s an adventure trying to drink lying down. Good thing Frank’s an adventurous guy. If he wasn’t, there’s no way he’d know what it’s like to have another guy’s junk pressed against him, hard and hot and thrilling and now really fucking intimate gone soft and sticky, crowded up with Tommy’s balls loose and heavy. He shifts a bit, really getting a feel for it, and Tommy laughs, snuggling closer, letting Frank do it.
“Gonna have to check on him eventually,” Tommy says, but not like he plans on letting Frank up any time soon. “Adam’s probably trying to convince him to curl his hair or something.”
“Gee put it up in pigtails once,” Frank says.
There’s a beat before Tommy shifts to peer at him with actually getting up. “No way.”
“Yeah.” Frank goes for an aborted hit off the bottle and wrinkles his nose, giggling. “I did it for him. He kept getting paint in his hair.”
“Awesome,” Tommy says, in that way where he means it really is. Like playing with a dude’s hair is totally normal. Like none of this, Tommy’s boyfriend upstairs with the guy Frank desperately wants to get with in all fucking ways, while they’re down here cuddling half fucking naked, isn’t something you wouldn’t just do.
Tommy takes the bottle back for a few swallows, idly shifting his leg against Frank’s, rough and soft all at once. Frank can’t do anything for a long minute except stare at his mouth. Tommy lets him do that, too. Tommy likes it.
“We should get him to draw a tattoo on you,” Frank says when Tommy passes the bottle back. “In like, Sharpie. Test drive.”
“Think he would?” Tommy asks, mellow like he doesn’t care either way, but Frank can so see through that shit now.
Frank thinks about Gerard’s face when they told him Tommy and Adam were together, for real together, the surprise and longing and weird pride in his eyes. “Yeah,” Frank says. “Yeah, he’d be fucking happy to.”