Chapter Text
It wasn't like Frank's love life was a shit show, okay? No, it was the perverted, masochistic demon in his brain screaming more, more, more, and scaring off all the men who showed a lick of interest in him. That's what he'd tell anyone who asked, anyway.
His love life not being a train wreck is how he found himself in the club. A man he doesn't know is pressed against his back with his hand on Frank's naked waist, and the hard outline of the stranger's dick pressed to the curve of his ass. They're moving in a fluid motion, grinding together to a thumping bass that reverberates down to his toes.
He lost Ray a while ago amongst the crowd of sweaty bodies, and he feels bad for a solid five seconds, considering he was the one who begged Ray to come out with him after yet another talking stage failed miserably, before the stranger is moaning deeply in his ear. A large hand comes around his front to spread long fingers across his lower stomach and pushes him back against their body further, grinding their clothed cock against his ass.
If anyone were to question Frank, he'd tell them he didn't even know how the interaction started and that he just went with it. It's a lie. A big lie. He'd been watching the man's back as he danced, hips moving in an uncoordinated and awkward roll to a Siouxsie And The Banshees remix. He was memorising, the way he jerked and stuttered to the music. Tall, dark hair, pale and soft around the waist, Frank's mouth was watering. He'd watched for a while, imagining grabbing onto his thighs as he chokes on the man's cock, having his wrists bound with that fucking bat belt as he fucked him brutally and animalistically right in the middle of the crowd.
Walking up to the stranger and planting his ass against them was the only logical move. You can call him a slut, but you can't say he isn't a committed slut.
Frank rolls his hips back and moans against the music as the tips of the stranger's fingers dip into the waistbands of his (self-admitted) slutty low-cut jeans. He feels electric with the weed, whatever alcohol he flirted his way into getting, and the touch of an unknown man piercing straight through his ribs in a brain-melting current.
“So fucking hot,” Frank groans deep in his throat.
When the chest behind him rumbles with a groan, Frank is a man obsessed. The vibration echoes through him from his back in a delicious ripple. Some may even say he's cock crazy, and in his drunken, high state, he'd wear that label with a proud smile.
The hand on Frank's waist moves up over his tight shirt to rest loosely at the base of his throat. His body jerks against them, a pearl of precum wetting his boxers as he tilts his head back against their shoulder in what he hopes comes across as encouragement.
And because Frank is never wrong, the hand tightens around his neck and gives a testing squeeze to the veins. The moan that tumbles from his throat gets lost under the music, but the stranger hears him. Chuckling darkly in his ear, the man presses down on Frank's jugular, cutting off blood flow, a haze settling over his brain that not even weed can beat.
“So eager to please, hm, baby?”
If Frank put his half-scrambled brain into it, he could cum just from their high voice and hand on his neck alone.
It occurs to him that, besides one shitty hookup that came on him then promptly left, he hasn't been touched like this for the better part of a year. Frank was used to selfish lovers, men who pinned his wrists with light hands, and took only enough for themselves, leaving him high and dry. He gets the feeling that this man was going to pull his soul out with soft, determined hands, and set it alight. The indifference of the crowd and sizzling pleasure pooling in his groin are better than any alcohol Frank can get his hands on.
“Such a pretty boy,” the stranger coos into his ear.
A bolt of lightning hits him right in the gut and travels down to his hard dick straining against the zip of his jeans. Frank moans, high and airily in his throat, nodding vigorously. The stranger laughs darkly into his ear, mocking him, before biting down hard on the cartilage and eliciting a hiss from the smaller man.
How the man knows all of the names that get him soft and pliable, he doesn't know, but fuck if Frank's not drowning in it.
“Yeah,” Frank chokes out against the hand on his throat. The stranger lets go, and the rush is immediate as he takes a breath. “I’m your pretty boy.”
The stranger groans deeply, and they rock into him faster. His fingers stroke down the veins that line Frank's jugular in an almost sweet gesture. There’s a gasp leaving his throat when the hand on his hip suddenly rubs him through his pants, squeezing his cock in tight little grasps, palm grinding into him.
“Oh fuck,” Frank breathes and melts back against their wide chest. “Oh my god, fuck- Please.”
He attempts to slide a hand behind him to grab the stranger's erection, but they’re faster. The hand on his throat shoots down, grabbing both of Frank’s wrists in a tight hold, effectively pinning them against his lower back and continuing to rub him over his pants.
Frank is surprised his moan doesn't immediately have the people around them turning to look, but no one pays attention, lost in the music and atmosphere. His heart is beating out of his chest in painful thumps, and Frank wonders if he's in a dream, a sexy, cum-your-brains-out dream, and he'll wake up with his dick drilling a hole in the mattress. But he feels the undeniable cock against his ass like a burning cross, hands pinned and deft fingers massaging him through his pants. Definitely not a dream.
He feels good, a man on cloud fucking nine. Satisfaction strokes his muscles and slides down his spine like liquid fire; it burns as it rips through his stomach. Mind-numbing pleasure creeps higher and higher as the man moans in his ear. Frank feels pulled taunt, sweat dripping down his back as the stranger rocks forward into him
Maybe the realisation that he's going to cum from the hands of a stranger in the middle of a busy club should be mortifying, but Frank’s perverted mind demon is lying out on its back and spreading itself open in invitation. More, more, more.
“Come on, cum for me, baby.”
“Oh fuck-”
How the man knew, Frank doesn't know, but he heeds his command. He moans behind his teeth, crotched pushed into their hand, and Frank cums. He cums so hard the noise from the club doesn't reach his ears, all he hears is the rush of blood and his own high, throaty whining.
His wrists are released, and Frank stumbles back a step, centre balance having checked out the second he slumped against the man's chest. The stranger is gone when he whirls around, ready to ask him for his phone number and to take him into the disgusting bathroom so he can get on his knees, but all Frank sees is a glimpse of dark hair and a wide back retreating before the man is lost to the crowd.
“What the fuck?” Frank shouts, still out of breath and eyes fixed on the doorway, the other must have exited.
People are staring at him now, casting him curious glances, because of course, no one gives a fuck when you cum your pants in public, only when you're yelling obscenities at seemingly no one. That was the best orgasm he'd had in close to a year, and the fucking pervert disappears on him the second he has Frank shooting into his pants like a teenager. Un-fucking-fair.
He's left standing there, dancing bodies move around him, and the wetness in his pants makes the fabric stick to him. Frank huffs, grumbling to himself as he weaves around people. He needs beer, or another orgasm to calm down, but that option is apparently off the table. He eyes the bathroom and thinks about locking himself in a stall to rub one out to the memory of a hand around his throat and on his crotch.
Frank is a self-proclaimed pervert lover, so to say that he is seething would be the understatement of the century. He thinks about going home, stripping off the soiled underwear and fucking himself to the thought of those hands around his throat and the other things they could be around, before he sees a familiar crop of brown curly hair at the bar.
Ray’s eyebrows are furrowed as his fingers fly over the keyboard of his phone when Frank walks all the way up into his space. He looks up and squints his eyes at Frank suspiciously. He doesn't know what he looks like, but he can almost see the flush on his face and the glaze that settled over his eyes.
“I just came so hard in my pants it's not even funny,” Frank gracefully pants into Ray's face, making the other man grimace as hot breath hits his features.
“What, like you jerked off in the bathroom? That's a new low, even for you, Frank,” Ray shouts over the music.
He shoots out a hand to steady Frank as the smaller man sways drunkenly, and he grabs onto it as he blinks against flashes of light and clouds of smoke.
“No, jackass,” he gasps with only a slight slur, affronted that his friend would even suggest such a thing. “I was dancing with some dude, and he fucking choked me and got me off over my pants. It was so good, Ray.”
Ray gives him a look that could either mean I did not want to hear that or something in the realm of calling him a whore, but nicely, because Ray is nice, unlike Frank, who elbows someone in the ribs to move into the gap between the bar and his friend.
There's slowly drying cum in his pants that's starting to itch, and okay, maybe he is a whore because it makes him smirk. The ghost of a hand squeezing his neck sends a pleasant shiver through him.
“Did you get his number at least?”
And Frank loves Ray for always being in his corner, no matter how much of a freak he is. He also hates Ray for reminding him that said stranger disappeared into thin air like wisps of smoke after making him cum.
“No,” he whines pathetically, only just resisting the urge to bang his head off the wooden bar. “He disappeared like a fucking ghost. Who does that?”
“A pervert, Frankie,” Ray laughs, patting him on the shoulder sympathetically.
“It's not fair,” Frank groans, leaning into the contact. “He was so weird, and hot, and perfect.”
“Have I ever told you that your type of men scares me?” Ray chuckles.
“A few times, yeah,” he sighs.
Frank's type has received him side eyes from the people in his life more than once. Artists and musicians who look a little too much like they've been pulled out of a perverted gothic author's writing have always been a weakness for him. Even if they're terrible at sex and treat him like a toy you can take and take from, Frank keeps them around like a lead weight in his pocket until they get sick of him needing more. He's a creature of habit, and a sucker for doll-like eyes, sue him.
“I have to go home, Frank,” Ray sighs after he goes quiet.
“No,” he whines, grabbing onto Ray in a way that's surely painful. “No, you can't go. I don't feel any better.”
“You'll be fine, Frankie,” Ray says as he shrugs Frank's hands off him. He pats Frank on the shoulder and pushes himself away from the bar. “Go home and drink some water. You'll feel better in the morning.”
Frank blinks, and Ray is gone. He's sure he's not that drunk, but the music is distant in his ear,s and he suddenly feels alone all over again.
That's how he got here, though, isn't it? Feeling sorry for himself and alone in his too quiet apartment. He'd gotten too involved with a man he was talking to for the last few months, and when said man called him too needy, too insatiable, too much for him to handle, he'd blocked Frank's number.
That was Frank's issue, according to everyone he'd ever been interested in. He had always wanted more. To be hit harder, fucked rougher, loved more than what they're capable of. This time, though, it hit him harder. Frank was sick of waiting for someone who could fuck him as he needed.
Frank plants himself on a bar stool, eyes scanning over the crowd for dark hair and pale skin on the off chance the pervert decides to stay. He lets someone buy him a drink and flirt with him, but his heart isn't in it, eyes locked on the door.
He was twenty-six, for fucks sake, it shouldn't be this hard. But it is, of course it is, because Frank can never be normal about anything, even for a second. Falling too fast and loving too intensely was ingrained in him from the moment he began developing basic human functions.
But still, he lets another stranger’s fingers rub up and down over the seam of his jeans. Frank can't even feel it, the touch a million miles away in his brain. The man made an impression, and now Frank's mind demon has clung to him, building fantasies that he should not be having in public, especially not when he's trying to entertain the company of someone else.
But of course, the man didn't stay, and after what Frank thinks is a pathetic amount of time to wait for someone he isn't even sure is still at the club, he leaves, resigned to never seeing the man ever again.
He gets a cab home and hopes the cool night air will sober him up. But Frank now truly does bang his head off his apartment door before unlocking it, the cold wood soothing against his burning skin, but not even touching the despair carving a crater in his chest.
His dog is a welcome presence as he gets in the front door. She bounds over to him and doesn't mind his pathetic state as she licks his hand. At least someone wants you, is supplied by the cruel little demon in his mind. He groans at the thought and hits the creature over the head with a spiked baseball bat, feeling even more pathetic as he stumbles to strip off all his clothes right at the entryway.
He could have flirted his way into getting fucked until he couldn't stand with the last guy who bought him a drink, but no, that would've been too easy. He'd take disappointing and mediocre sex instead of whatever horrible feeling that's nestled its way into his body.
Frank mopes through his apartment stark naked, chugging a glass of water, then stumbles his way into the bedroom, pulling on a fresh pair of boxers before he flops on his bed and yells into his pillow with gritted teeth.
His cock is a traitor when thoughts of pale fingers on his neck start to infiltrate his brain, and it twitches, trying its hardest to fill. And Frank, even in his sad state, rocks his hips into the mattress to chase the rush.
Soft yellow light from his bedside lamp shines into his sensitive eyes, and he can hear the click-clack of Lois’s claws against the wood outside his bedroom. It all fades out as he flips onto his back, the front of his underwear tented and leaking. Frank glares at his hard cock, willing his erection to go away, but to no avail.
Jerking off has never been such a chore, but he still spits into his hand and shoves it into his boxers, stroking his cock quickly. The edges of his brain, dampened with alcohol, are replaced with unsatisfactory distant pleasure. His fingers dip into the slit of his cock head, spreading precum down the shaft, and Frank's hips canter up into the feeling.
Ghosts of a cock against his ass have him pumping himself faster and shuddering as his fingers rub over the sensitive spot on the underside of his dick. Thoughts of himself bent over in the middle of the club, people staring at him hungrily, and that cock in his ass have him gasping, loud and sweet into the air.
The muscles in his thighs flex as his arm blurs with the pace. Frank can feel his release on the tip of his tongue, and he moans, putting on a show for the imaginary man. He can almost feel the fingertips that graze over his throat.
Frank rolls his hips, fucking up into the tight circle of his fist, over and over. He can barely feel the orgasm that floats through him as he cums into his cupped hand.
“That fucking sucked,” he sighs to himself, and wipes the cum off on his boxers, ruining yet another pair.
The realisation that he still felt the stranger hard against his ass when he came has his eyes shooting open before sleep can coax him under. The man didn't cum and focused on Frank, even pulling his hand away when he tried. What the fuck. This pervert might be the man he's been searching for, or just extremely unlucky he picked an easy man. Either way, Frank needs him more than he needs air.
Frank whines and shoves his face into the pillow. The drunken sleep that pulls him under is restless and colder than the spot in the bed next to him.