attention deficit (for anoristic)
Frank/Gerard
standalone
R (swearing)
written August 2006.
Fluffy. For anoristic, who requested the pairing, colour (yellow), scent (vanilla), verb (kiss).
"What d'you think of this one?"
"Mmm," Gerard says without looking up. "Nice."
There's a pause. "I'm gonna kick your ass in a sec," Frank mutters under his breath, dropping the pile of t-shirts next to the courier box and pushing his hands into his pockets, squaring his shoulders enough to look menacing.
Or so he hopes.
Gerard doesn't even look up; his attention is fixed on the sketchpad in his lap, the inky black marker clenched in his right fist moving vigorously across the paper. His cropped, bleached hair looks an eerie white in this light, softly framing the smooth curve of his skull. Frank, as pissed off as he is about being ignored, starts to think about reaching out to run his fingers across the top of Gerard's head, just to see if his hair is really as soft as it looks.
"Hey, will ya -- "
"Just a minute," is the reply, and there's a hint of irritation in Gerard's voice that makes Frank grit his teeth. Just a fucking minute, huh? He's tempted to look at his watch and count down the seconds, but he's too impatient. He wants to stamp his foot on the ground and scream "Pay attention to me, fucker!" but he knows Gerard will never let him forget it.
And anyway, Frank's way too mature for that.
So he sighs -- loudly, the sort of exaggerated sigh that usually makes Gerard turn into the resident mother-hen and wander over to ask if you wanna talk? -- and turns his attention to the crumpled pile of shirts on the table. Carefully, he picks up a yellow shirt and starts to fold it, running his calloused fingertips along the smooth fabric. He's seen enough of these shirts to recognise the texture as a polyester blend, and it makes him feel absurdly professional to know he has this kind of inside knowledge.
I kick the ass out of this merch thing, he thinks.
He's barely folded the first shirt and placed it in the bottom of the box when he feels Gerard's arms slide around his waist.
"What's up?"
"Huh?" Frank replies vaguely, hoping to give Gerard a taste of his own medicine.
"You wanted to say something before. What was it?"
Frank takes a deep breath and turns around, shoving Gerard away. "Doesn't matter. Wanted to show you my new stuff, that's all ... but I guess Dr Darwin's more important, huh?"
Damn, he thinks as soon as the words leave his mouth. I didn't mean for it to sound that bitchy.
Gerard steps back, raising his eyebrows -- they're far too dark for his blond hair, Frank muses, and he really needs to pluck them; just clean 'em up around the edges a bit -- and the corner of his mouth twitches as he suppresses a smile.
"What?" Frank says.
"Oh, nothing." Gerard smirks again before taking a step closer. Frank can smell the vanilla on Gerard's breath from his morning latte; he can see the curl of Gerard's lashes against his cheek as his eyelids close briefly. When he opens his eyes again, they shine; they're a million colours all in one, kaleidoscopic almost, and Frank frowns as he feels his resistance weakening.
He hates it when Gerard does this little silent smiling thing. It's the most deceptive kind of mindfuck, Frank thinks as he crosses his arms firmly, because it's tailored to make me realise exactly how gorgeous he is. That's the only point it has. It's the equivalent of a kitten swatting at a ball of yarn or a dog resting its face on its front paws. It's cute, and it's supposed to make me think, "aw ... how could I be mad at you?"
Well, asshole, it's not gonna work this time.
They stare at each other for a few more moments, in some kind of wordless war for dominance of the situation. They're both surprised when Gerard cracks first, placing his hand on the back of Frank's neck before pulling him in for a hard kiss.
Frank really doesn't want to kiss back as eagerly as he does. He doesn't want to make the delighted little squeaking sound that escapes from his throat as Gerard's body presses against his own. He doesn't want to play with the soft blond strands of hair at the nape of Gerard's neck as the kiss opens up, becoming lazier; more comfortable and less frustrated. And he really doesn't want to moan and grind against Gerard when the older man's hands slide down to his ass.
But he does.
And when Gerard finally breaks away from the kiss -- 'cause there's no way in hell that Frank was going to stop -- and smiles at him, lips dark and slightly pouting, Frank can't remember exactly why he was pissed off in the first place.
"You're so cute when you're pissy, Frankie."
standalone
R (swearing)
written August 2006.
Fluffy. For anoristic, who requested the pairing, colour (yellow), scent (vanilla), verb (kiss).
"What d'you think of this one?"
"Mmm," Gerard says without looking up. "Nice."
There's a pause. "I'm gonna kick your ass in a sec," Frank mutters under his breath, dropping the pile of t-shirts next to the courier box and pushing his hands into his pockets, squaring his shoulders enough to look menacing.
Or so he hopes.
Gerard doesn't even look up; his attention is fixed on the sketchpad in his lap, the inky black marker clenched in his right fist moving vigorously across the paper. His cropped, bleached hair looks an eerie white in this light, softly framing the smooth curve of his skull. Frank, as pissed off as he is about being ignored, starts to think about reaching out to run his fingers across the top of Gerard's head, just to see if his hair is really as soft as it looks.
"Hey, will ya -- "
"Just a minute," is the reply, and there's a hint of irritation in Gerard's voice that makes Frank grit his teeth. Just a fucking minute, huh? He's tempted to look at his watch and count down the seconds, but he's too impatient. He wants to stamp his foot on the ground and scream "Pay attention to me, fucker!" but he knows Gerard will never let him forget it.
And anyway, Frank's way too mature for that.
So he sighs -- loudly, the sort of exaggerated sigh that usually makes Gerard turn into the resident mother-hen and wander over to ask if you wanna talk? -- and turns his attention to the crumpled pile of shirts on the table. Carefully, he picks up a yellow shirt and starts to fold it, running his calloused fingertips along the smooth fabric. He's seen enough of these shirts to recognise the texture as a polyester blend, and it makes him feel absurdly professional to know he has this kind of inside knowledge.
I kick the ass out of this merch thing, he thinks.
He's barely folded the first shirt and placed it in the bottom of the box when he feels Gerard's arms slide around his waist.
"What's up?"
"Huh?" Frank replies vaguely, hoping to give Gerard a taste of his own medicine.
"You wanted to say something before. What was it?"
Frank takes a deep breath and turns around, shoving Gerard away. "Doesn't matter. Wanted to show you my new stuff, that's all ... but I guess Dr Darwin's more important, huh?"
Damn, he thinks as soon as the words leave his mouth. I didn't mean for it to sound that bitchy.
Gerard steps back, raising his eyebrows -- they're far too dark for his blond hair, Frank muses, and he really needs to pluck them; just clean 'em up around the edges a bit -- and the corner of his mouth twitches as he suppresses a smile.
"What?" Frank says.
"Oh, nothing." Gerard smirks again before taking a step closer. Frank can smell the vanilla on Gerard's breath from his morning latte; he can see the curl of Gerard's lashes against his cheek as his eyelids close briefly. When he opens his eyes again, they shine; they're a million colours all in one, kaleidoscopic almost, and Frank frowns as he feels his resistance weakening.
He hates it when Gerard does this little silent smiling thing. It's the most deceptive kind of mindfuck, Frank thinks as he crosses his arms firmly, because it's tailored to make me realise exactly how gorgeous he is. That's the only point it has. It's the equivalent of a kitten swatting at a ball of yarn or a dog resting its face on its front paws. It's cute, and it's supposed to make me think, "aw ... how could I be mad at you?"
Well, asshole, it's not gonna work this time.
They stare at each other for a few more moments, in some kind of wordless war for dominance of the situation. They're both surprised when Gerard cracks first, placing his hand on the back of Frank's neck before pulling him in for a hard kiss.
Frank really doesn't want to kiss back as eagerly as he does. He doesn't want to make the delighted little squeaking sound that escapes from his throat as Gerard's body presses against his own. He doesn't want to play with the soft blond strands of hair at the nape of Gerard's neck as the kiss opens up, becoming lazier; more comfortable and less frustrated. And he really doesn't want to moan and grind against Gerard when the older man's hands slide down to his ass.
But he does.
And when Gerard finally breaks away from the kiss -- 'cause there's no way in hell that Frank was going to stop -- and smiles at him, lips dark and slightly pouting, Frank can't remember exactly why he was pissed off in the first place.
"You're so cute when you're pissy, Frankie."