FicWad

Long time, no see! How the hell are you all? I'm... alright for the minute, thank you :) (Jesus, I sound utterly insane. Who the fuck converses with themselves in an author's note? Moving on...)


Has anyone been looking at the Ficwad Award's thing that AdnarimSmada and co have been running? WELL, I have, because, you know, if they've been voted on there, they must be good and I love new shit to read.

In the oneshot polls, though, I got a surprise; I've been nominated for Best Smut with Nyan Nails, and for Best Oneshot for Greaser Gang! And then, about two days later, the nominations for best author come in, and I've been nominated for that as well! For the love of motherfucking Christ, does anyone know how awesome this is, I'm not even shitting you here, I was nearly crying. My shit has is being compared to, like CosmicZombie and unitedsuck007. I don't even care if I win, being nominated was enough :3

Anyways, sorry I've vanished for about a month now... (give or take...) and Hero, is, kind of getting there.

This is a two shot, so rate and review for me? :D


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The lights are stunning; glittering artificial lights that douse the wide streets in fake glamour and false mystery, twisting their subtle winding tendrils of magic into the minds and souls of the unsuspecting visitors.

Music spills into the heavy air and wraps the trapped further into the web of greed and gluttony, sending thrills through addled brains and shivers up conned spines. The million different melodies spin with the tiny breeze, as if the mingling tunes are moving in their gleeful dance, and those entranced are hopelessly caught.

But the web is made of the finest silk and none truly want to break free, though all know the spider will soon return. The lie, and that’s what it is; an elaborate cleverly constructed lie, is both magical and enslaving. And those who work here know that, and are taught to remember it.

The casinos are infamous, and the clubs considering seedy, but when delicately mixed like the most precious of perfumes, they become the biggest trap for the unsuspecting flies.

And the ones who run these establishments are the most luxurious spiders. And they’ve spun their perfect web, and simply lie back as the translucent threads that are the dancers, the dealers and the debauchery of their patrons reel in the flies and their dirty, dirty money.

The dancers are the real pull, the dealers a subtle aside and the owner knows this, knows that the dance must be alluring and draw a crowd, and that the deal should be quiet and efficient to add a shadow. Dancers are the irresistible pull; dealers add a dangerous glint for those willing to dare their stake.

Behind the scintillating façade, lies the grimy core the proprietors mask so well when the night slithers in. The underbellies of these rich playhouses are the striking contrast to what the owner wishes punters to view, and it sickens those who work there at the flimsy border between the two worlds, with one world being – for the most part – unaware the other exists.

The dancer often thinks he detests it the most – with every damn fiber of his over effeminate body that he flaunts for that same hideous reason that the gullible walk in to his hell, and their dreamland. But, they don’t see what he sees; they don’t have to pander to the whims to those greasing their palms.

That’s what it comes down to in Vegas – dirty money, cold money, illegal money.

What seemed to be a whole world dedicated to the sale of sex, drugs and shows, stripping, drinks and sin.

And he’s for sale.

The lights glint shamelessly off the petite man’s barely concealed, highly glittered chest as he swirls and twists seductively to the crooning music that swells and hangs in the heavy atmosphere of the bar. A black top hat is perched precariously on his dark hair, until it pulled off with an alluring flourish and a bewitching bat of the thick eyelashes that frame his russet eyes.

Tight black trousers encase his legs and a revealing red ringleaders coat covers his back, but leaves his chest bare. Glitter is streaked over him liberally, but as rivulets of sweat dance down over his skin, they swipe the olive porcelain clean. What’s been made bare is a tease within itself, as the beautiful boy is slowly stripped of his final mask.

His sparkling cane seemingly commands eight stunning girls, but even as they flash and flaunt and plump and pout, the boy captivates those watching, as his eyes lazily flutter and his mouth slowly smirks, drawing his audience close with promising eyes and the wonders of lust.

The pink muscle in his mouth teasingly traces lips gleaming with saliva and sweat, the exposed muscles of his abdomen pull taunt and shift as he does, thinly disguised by the tattooed skin that houses the delicate frame. He swings his hips in a divinely erotic manner and shows his teeth teasingly, as if he knows that the show he’s providing is irresistible.

It’s almost as if he’s just waiting for the audience to be wholly tangled in his gossamer threads of seduction, and to then give accordingly. Every pair of eyes of is glued to him – consciously or otherwise – and he seems to let the music and adoration seep into his dainty bones, and let the two opposing forces rule him completely, controlling each filthy roll of his hips and every sly grin.

Soon, too soon, the music fades away and the dancers peel away from the stage, the glitter adorned boy becoming just a ghost to be remembered.

The illusion shatters into a million pierces, and those spectating leave behind their dirty fantasies in the plush chairs they had watched the stunning boy, and his sensual dance, in.

The patrons begin to bubble and flow around the rest of the club, picking up another drink, settling down at one of the many gambling tables, or going to watch some of the more… explicit performances through the black curtain on the right.

The man with green eyes stays sitting in the velvet seats by the stage for a few moments more, smirking to himself. He gets up out of the chair and glides over to a heavy steel door, disguised with red silk. Security is supposed to be here, so the green-eyed man scans over the crowd, to see where exactly the supposed bouncer is. Nowhere. Another damn bodyguard fired. That was the third that month.

He slips through the door, and once again marvels at how silent in becomes in the cold concrete tunnels that house the places he doesn’t want his precious commodity to see. The concrete passageways slide past as he strides through, and eventually comes to the door he was looking for.

“Dance stage – backstage/dressing room” has been carved into it, and he knocks twice, before pushing it open and meeting the sight of eight women and the alluring boy in various stages of undress, with the mirrors lit up, and the stage costumes hung on the rail.

“Hello Mr. Way,” the boy purrs, glancing over his shoulder, and the girls all giggle along with him, fluttering their heavy eyelashes at him and simpering, whilst leaning down to show off their chests or turning just so, so their waists look their best. The green-eyed man – Mr. Way – winks back at them, but his eyes don’t linger over their feminine figures.

The boy doesn’t bother with flirting – instead he steps over the mirror lithely, making every step seem like the salacious dance he performed with breath taking ease; before settling down in the chair and wiping his face clean of glitter, russet eyes raking over his reflection diligently and ascertaining the cleanliness of his olive skin.

“Any particular reason the greatly charismatic, fabulously wealthy and breathtakingly handsome Mr. Gerard Way has granted us his presence in these concrete slums?” The boy’s tone is light, radiating happiness, but the thorny undertone of the message is obvious to everyone in the room. He doesn’t look at the man he’s addressing, but continues to examine his face.

Gerard raises a dark eyebrow, and studies the boy for a moment.

“I could have you arrested for that, as a homosexual statement, y’know, Frank.”

Gerard smirks ever so slightly and rests his shoulder against the metal doorframe, watching the boy continue to wipe glitter off his effeminate body, taking time on his chest and abdomen. As the glitter continues to be removed from the pretty skin, the intricate tattoos are revealed properly. Black inked lines, flowing script and bold images are all over his chest and arms, adding a hint of the exotic to his skin.

“But you won’t, because I make you a ridiculous amount of money, don’t I?”

Frank flashes that signature unconsciously seductive smile at the dark haired boss in the doorway, and gracefully stands up from the chair, idly stretching and seemingly oblivious to the nine pairs of eyes that rake over his lightly toned body. He pads over to his locker, hips rocking slightly; before he reaches up to punch the rusty metal, and all of the women and Gerard watch as the muscles shift under his skin.

“Now, if you really don’t have anything of importance to say to us, I’d really like to go.”

Gerard smirks again, and stands up straight again, eyes lazily sweeping over the half naked man in front of him and his female counterparts. Frank’s intense russet eyes bore into his, clearly demonstrating the message that he’d rather be anywhere but here.

“Well. Sam’s gone and called in sick tonight.”

Frank doesn’t need hear anymore than that – Sam’s the resident male stripper. And Gerard is asking him to fucking strip, which is not part of his job description. And knowing his damn boss, if he turned out to be any good at shedding his clothes, he’d be coerced into carrying on to make a bit more fucking money for the greedy bastard in front of him.

At the same time, he doesn’t want to say no – he may be one of Gerard’s biggest attractions, but dancers are not particularly uncommon in Vegas, and he could be replaced if he pissed Gerard off enough. But the idea of taking off nearly all his damn clothes in front of a darkened, albeit tiny, room – him being unable to see who had their hands down their pants – made him want to be sick.

“I need someone to replace him Frank...”

Gerard’s voice is still friendly, but all of them can hear the soft threat underneath the cheerful tone. Now apprehension creeps into Frank’s mind, a tiny voice whispering to him to remember that Gerard is ruthless and will do anything he needs to in order to make Frank get into that booth.

Green eyes look intently at Frank, secretly enjoying the beautiful sight in front of him. Frank’s sucked his pouty bottom lip into his mouth, biting on it lightly, and his russet eyes look wary and conflicted.

Then they become empty and his lips upturn in that irresistible smile.

“Do you want me to get ready now, Mr. Way?”

It was nearing midnight, that was when all those looking for a good time would roll into the club, get hot from the dancers and either pick someone up or choose a willing girl from the dozen “escorts” that were permanent fixtures. Stripper’s prime time was between eleven thirty and two. Gerard had balanced his club perfectly to ensure maximum profit throughout the night.

“Yes. Use excessive glitter; it seems to attract the crowds quite well, if the size of your audience earlier was anything to go by. Actually – go in your ringleader costume. Then… do what you do and just lose the clothes as you carry on. No nudity though. This isn’t a porno.”

Frank nods idly, taking in all the information, before walking over to the rail with his usual hip swaying and jaunty saunter. He slides the costume off the rail and unabashedly begins to change right there and then. Once changed – again, seemingly unaware of how Gerard’s eyes are glued to him – he steps over to the dressing table and sets aside a stick of eyeliner, a tube of mascara and a pot of glitter.

He outlines his eyes, strokes gentle and artistic, and the result makes the russet orbs seem huge and lusty. Eyelashes become darker and heavier with mascara, giving his eyes a sleep ruffled and easy look; as if he’d spread his legs if you so much as winked at him. Glitter gathers in the hollows of his collarbone, and swirls down over his chest and stomach.

It’s virtually impossible to keep your eyes from the scantily clad boy, and Gerard knows he’s made the right choice. Sam’s not coming back after tonight, Frank will be able to make much more for him; with his eyes that scream sex and his raunchy demeanor that would make even the most straight-laced homophobic man want to ravish him completely. But that’s what he’s counting on.

“You know how to get to the booths, right?”

Frank nods again, and quickly scoops up his hat and cane, before walking towards the door. The girls have all long gone by now, and he’s feeling uncomfortable being alone in the same room as his boss. He skirts around Gerard, and begins to head down the concrete tunnels towards the booths; completely unaware that Gerard’s green eyes are hungrily following every unintentional swing of his delectable hips as he walks away.

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Frank already hates the booth, and he’s only been sat in it for ten minutes. At least on stage, he’s constantly moving, and free to move as he sees fit. Here, he has to wait for some filthy pervert to fucking pay to see him get nearly naked. The booths are dimly lit, with a pole and chair in each.

Gerard never said he couldn’t smoke in here though, so he’s halfway through his second cigarette when someone knocks on the door at the back of the booth and informs him someone’s paid for thirty minutes. He murmurs back an affirmative and leans back in this chair, waiting for the tell tale noises of someone settling down in the chair. He can’t their face – that half of the room is pitch black and a glass pane separates him from them anyway.

The music starts, and so Frank slowly takes a slow drag from his cigarette, before blowing out a smoke ring, knowing it made his lips look pouty. He may act like he was unaware of everyone’s eyes always following him, but his mother had been a whore, and she’d taught her effeminate son how to look seductive as if by accident. It had served him well, especially since he’d come out to Vegas.

He ran his hand down his legs slowly, peering up through his lashes at the black room in front of him, giving his faceless audience his best come hither look accompanied by his slow alluring smile. He batted those lashes, and slowly got up off the chair, and swayed over to the pole, and latching his leg around it coyly.

As he began to grind against the pole, he let out a few breathy moans as he very obviously groped himself; sweat began to drip over his chest, cutting streaks through the striking glitter. He let the coat slide from his shoulders. He finally stubs out the cigarette, and breathes out the last of the smoke.

Frank runs his tattooed hands slowly over his chest, teasing his nipples gently, and then continues, ghosting his fingers over his abdominal muscles. Fingertips brush the thin trail of hair that leads down, and a gasp slides past his lips. Frank realizes that he’s very obviously hard now – the trousers are tight, but not in the fucking crotch, obviously – and he decides to play this to the hilt, teasing himself through the cloth, listening in satisfaction to the pants he can hear through the holes cut in the glass.

“Take… take everything off…”

Frank bites his lip, and tips his head coquettishly. His tongue laps over his lips and he smiles slowly, enjoying the desperate noises that he can hear.

“No can do, sugar. As my boss put it, this isn’t a porno.” He grins playfully and dips his hands just past his waistline.

“Then stop acting like you’re in one.” The voice is raspy with lust and desire and Frank lights up a little more, loving the undivided attention.

He lets his eyelids slide shut over his eyes and shoves his hand past the waistline, palming his erection, and letting a loud moan glide past his wet lips. His hat’s abandoned on the floor, his cane’s propped up next to the chair and his coat’s crumpled by the pole, but all Frank can focus on is the heavy breathing from the other side of the glass and the way his member is aching with pure need.

Deciding the trousers need to go, Frank begins to tug them down his legs, making sure to give his audience a show to remember – moaning and grinding, whilst twisting and shaking his hips to let the cloth slide down to his ankles.

Clad in only black silk boxers, he crawls seductively up to the glass and runs his eyes into the darkness that faces him as if he was running his eyes over someone attractive. He winks, and then stands quickly but gracefully and begins to dance.

It’s subtle and slow at first, swaying gently in time to the music, until he begins to lose himself within it. Then he starts to run his hands all over his body in the filthiest manner he can muster and twirls with abandon, submitting to the music and the moans from the darkened room.

The lights in his booth dim, just as he hears a groan from the other side of the glass that he can only assume was made because whoever was his little audience just came. And hard.

And in the darkness, Gerard Way smiles in satisfaction, chest heaving, enjoying the afterglow caused by the infatuating glitter doused boy. Frank is fucking perfect for the job. He knew it.

=====================================================================

He’d been stripping for about a month now, and Frank still surprised himself at how much he enjoyed teasing the helpless sod in front of him. He couldn’t see any of their expressions, but the noises were often enough alone to make him want to fuck them senseless.

Shaking his head, he tried to clear his head of thoughts like that. If anyone caught him even thinking about it – well, he’d damn well be imprisoned, or worse, carted off to the asylum. And no one ever came out of those places the same. If they ever came out at all.

Sometimes, he was grateful that he couldn’t see his audience.

The clock informed him that the time was twenty to six – he’d have to leave in a couple of minutes, to make sure he got there on time. Gerard was always on his ass about every damn thing, even though he knew some of the female dancers were whoring about again – something they weren’t supposed to do – and that the bouncers were lazy and fairly useless.

And yet Gerard gave him hell about three minutes late! The club hadn’t even opened. The bouncers weren’t even there yet! It made him want to punch his boss then – no. Remember – might end up in the asylum. He didn’t want shock treatment – or worse. He wasn’t sure how it got worse than forcing an electrical current through your brain, but apparently, there was much more severe horrors that haunted the halls of those places.

Apart from the dressing down he got at the beginning of every shift, he didn’t see that much of Gerard. Usually the green-eyed man milled around, making sure everything was in its correct place, including them, the dancers. At the end of the day, he all but owned them, and they were treated as such.

But recently, he’d hardly seen him. It was odd. He mused as to why that would be; even if they were Gerard’s “possessions” they were still his biggest pull and made his club different from the others, and the man often spent a little time with them every week or so.

Even if was just twenty minutes each week; in order to maintain his unshakeable faith that he had the prefect troupe that complimented each other and worked brilliantly as a unit.

Mind eventually coming up with blank as to why Gerard was avoiding their dressing room and unable to think anymore, Frank glanced at the clock again, and groaned out loud. He’d been so lost in thought, thinking about his boss, that he’d failed to realize that ten minutes had slid past and he was late leaving his flat. He was supposed to be there at quarter past six, and it took him half an hour to get to the damn establishment he worked at.

He hurried out the house; grateful he didn’t have to bring anything with him.

=====================================================================

“Frank! You’re late! Again!” Frank sighs at the usual yelling he got from Gerard, and bobs his head to show he had acknowledged the taller man’s rant.

Before he had starting dancing in the booths, Gerard hadn’t even noticed he was alive – barring watching him dance on stage every now and then to make sure his performance was up to scratch – but now, the green-eyed man was harassing him every damn day. After absent-mindedly listening to his boss’ repetitive rant for a few minutes, he mumbled his half assed apology and made his escape.

He slides into the familiar concrete tunnels and walks quickly towards the dressing room, being greeted with the familiar simpering smiles and emphasized chests of the female dancers. Frank nods politely toward them all, before sauntering over to the rail with his usual costume. He supposed every other man would have loved to be in his position, with eight highly attractive women ready to spread their legs for him, but Frank (privately – very, very privately) found them mildly repulsive.

Frank begins his nightly ritual, costume, hat and cane to be followed by the make-up. But he’s not sure if he can be bothered to slather himself in glitter just yet. He can hear all the footfalls and voices of the various other employees as they scurry past the door, dancing into the endless abyss that resides under the (in)famous club. An hour until the club opens, the minutes slinking by in a continuous motion.

He can faintly hear Gerard yelling at what sounds like some of the bouncers, and the dealers muttering amongst themselves about cutting cards and dodgy deals. Frank’s not particularly surprised by the biased deals; after all, this is a club, and money needs to be made. And it’s not like Gerard’s the most… law-abiding boss in Nevada.

A loud knock jolts Frank out of his reverie and all the dancers – the women had finally “dressed” themselves in their skimpy outfits – looked towards the door to see Gerard leaning against the doorframe, with his signature smirk on his features. Of course, the bloody females start to pout and bat their lashes, and Frank wants nothing more to stick his head in a bin and empty his guts several times.

The boss doesn’t look even mildly ruffled by the attention lavished on him; his green eyes stay utterly calm and professional, with the air of a man who had spent much of his adult life looking at half naked women and their no doubt inviting bedroom eyes. But instead, his gaze seeks out the boy in the ringleader coat slumped at the dressing table.

“Frank?”

Russet eyes meet the green orbs, and part of Frank screams at him to stay in his seat and hold whatever conversation Gerard wants right there, in front of the brightly lit mirror and the eight women. But Gerard seems to want him to step outside with him, and the rational part of Frank’s brain is begging him to consider the consequences of being alone with a man that could land him in an asylum or with a lengthy prison sentence.

He’d always thought his boss was attractive – ugly, sinful, dangerous thoughts – but up until recently, it hadn’t been a problem. He’d interacted with a number of truly stunning men in his twenty-one years, and concealing the disgusting part of himself had quickly becomes second nature, essential to survival.

But dancing in that booth, removing nearly every last stitch of clothing from his body, grinding and touching himself to an anonymous audience he could only hear… It had awakened something lust fuelled inside him, which he’d never been able to discover before and suddenly his control was that little bit harder to cling to.

The man coughed once and Frank’s head snapped up and he gracefully rose from the seat and walked over to his boss, hips moving in that rhythmic action that drew so many spectators into the club, and caught Gerard’s difficult-to-please eyes. The younger man peered up at Gerard through his lashes, and tipped his head to the side, giving the illusion he was giving the taller man his undivided attention.

Gerard’s mouth twitched, fully enjoying the show Frank was (apparently) unconsciously giving him. He simply nodded his head towards the door before striding out, Frank following him.

The small boy leans against the cold concrete walls – not that he notices the temperature down here anymore – and digs a packet of cigarettes out of one of the coat’s numerous pockets, and draws a packet of matches out of another. The cancer stick is withdrawn from the pack smoothly and placed between pouty lips, before the match is lit and flickers, and then the cigarette is smoking.

Smoke curls from the pout, and russet eyes are just about illuminated by the lit end. Gerard’s eyes run over the delectable body in front of him, the intense gaze fixating one some of his favourite features – the inviting of hollows of Frank’s hips that were begging to be gripped, the plump lower lip that Gerard wanted to bite on so desperately and the delicate ink dyed into that smooth olive skin that he wanted to trace his fingers over like nothing else.

Frank was so dainty, like a doll, but at the same time he was captivating, demanding all of Gerard’s attention every time he was nearby. And as much as he wanted the tempting man in front of him – damn it being illegal and wrong – he knew he couldn’t risk everything he’d worked so hard for, just because of his heady lust.

At the same time, his mind was imploring him to press his lips to the pretty pair that belonged to Frank and take him against the cold concrete wall, right here and now. This club was his own little world, and he controlled every single part of it, except the want for the smaller boy in front of him.

But what he wanted was immoral in the world outside the walls of this place. It could place him and the dancer in a ridiculous amount of danger, just by the action of giving him a chaste kiss. So, rather than acting on his hidden attraction, he leant against the wall and drew a cigarette from his pocket.

He flicked the tip against Frank’s lit one, and then placed the cancer stick in his mouth, letting the smoke swirl down into his lungs, and felt a sinking weight in his stomach.

He’d seduced men before, and then killed them after he got what he wanted.

But he didn’t want that for Frank.

“You look like you’re thinking hard.”

The velvet voice from the pouty lips surprised him, but he grinned down at Frank, letting himself trace his eyes over the delicate features next to him.

“Just a little.”

“Wanna tell me why I’m standing in this freezing tunnel instead of coating myself in glitter and mascara for the show?”

Gerard knew he had a reason for bringing Frank out here, but he couldn’t quite remember; too hooked on the other man’s beauty. He felt like punching himself in the face – he’d taken so many attractive men before and never had these… ridiculous feelings for someone else.

It was, quite frankly, terrible for his reputation.

And yet, despite being in the business where stunning half naked men were plenty, Gerard had never been truly ruffled by one single man in all his time of running clubs, bar and casinos. He’d seen hundreds of strips shows – some increasingly more explicit that the ones Frank performed – and never gotten further than lust. So what was so different about the boy in front of him?

“Yeah, I considering putting together a more… commercial… strip show – rather than having just having the booths, having a show on the stage.”

“And let me guess, you wanted me to take part in this.”

“Actually, I wanted you to be the main performer.”

Frank raises a perfectly groomed eyeborw at Gerard's request, but inside his mind was tumbling and spinning. A month ago, he would of considered punching Gerard in the face for this proposition, but now, the recently awakened exhibitionist in him desperately wanted to flaunt himself on that stage and revel in the attention that would be lavished upon him.

Every eye in the place, following his every move with lust glazing the watching orbs… It was beginning to make him hard. Which was a really bad idea in front of the boss-you’re-secretly-but-definitely-not-supposed-to-be-attracted-to. Sticking around was no longer an option, no matter how much he wanted to stay around Gerard.

So, instead, he nods and lets that smile slide on his features, before turning and walking away from his green-eyed boss, making his hips do the familiar and bewitching sway.

At the dressing room door, he pauses and looks over his shoulder. He sees Gerard still standing there, cigarette in hand and so Frank bats his lashes at his boss, and then slides into the dressing room without seeing the reaction.

Gerard curses. His lack of attention led him to ignore the cigarette, which burnt his fingers. Damn Frank and his distracting hips.

=====================================================================

It is, for once, quiet in the club, but then Frank supposes he doesn’t usually end up being here until three in the morning. Then again, he doesn’t usually do three shows in one night. He kind of misses the days where he just did one damn dance and buggered off home again.

At the same time though, he has a feeling all the newfound exhibition-ism is making his control slip.

And he doesn’t seem to care. He’s disgusting, he’s a pervert, he’s a sexual predator, and he can’t bring himself to care. He wants men – he wants Gerard. Who is undoubtedly, straight and likely to have him arrested for being a sexual deviant.

The dressing room is empty apart from him, and he curses the irritating glitter. The silence is creeping him out a little, and whilst he’s no wimp, the eeriness of the usually bustling club is making his skin crawl. His very exposed skin, actually, his whole costume (barring the black silk boxers) was currently being hung on the rail.

So, the knock on the door makes him jump out of the chair he’s perched on, and fall on to the floor. A chuckle rings out into the dressing room and Frank is confronted with green eyes, lit up with bright mirth.

Gerard extends a hand to the scantily clad Frank, and pulls him off of the cold floor. Frank purrs his thanks, and then turns back to the mirror and continues with the brave task of removing the glitter.

The green-eyed man watches the muscles shift under Frank’s decorated skin, and the silence of the air in both the dressing room and beyond makes Gerard reckless. He wants that pretty skin under his hands, he wants the gorgeous boy in front of him to yield to him and he wants those perfect plump lips pressed up against his.

And he’s always gotten what he wants.

Frank’s body is practically singing to him, and Gerard lets the last of his control slide away, abandoning all possible consequences. He strides towards the alluring dancer, spins him around and crushes lips together frantically.

Frank’s pout collides with Gerard’s smirk, and the two pairs of lips mesh, skin sliding over skin, nerves frazzling with both need and intent. Gerard’s move slower, testing the dancer’s reaction, but Frank gives everything into the kiss, allowing Gerard’s now wet mouth to lead and loving the feeling of hunger that runs thorough the pair of them.

Every inch of skin Gerard touches sends another shiver down Frank’s spine – a reminder that this is perversion, but is a guilty pleasure that can’t be ignored – and the boss begins to back Frank towards the dressing table and pressing kisses down his neck.

The smaller man can feel Gerard’s hot breath being panted onto his neck, and all he wants is for Gerard to keep kissing him until he melts. The green-eyed man sweeps all the make-up off the crowded dressing table in a frantic gesture, and all the tubes and pots and bottles tumble and clatter onto the floor, the product they once held bleeding across the floor.

Pale hands lift Frank onto the cleared dressing table, and Gerard wraps Frank’s effeminate legs around his waist. Frank groans softly into his boss’s willing mouth, and tugs the more defined, but still delicate, body of Gerard closer by tightening his legs around the other man’s hips.

Gerard runs his hands over Frank’s inked skin with desperation, needing to feel the younger man’s compliance. Wanting to take the boy for himself, he began to ghost his hands lower and lower, over Frank’s chest and then his abdomen, until he was tracing the waistband of the black boxers.

Frank feels Gerard’s fingers dip below his waistband and the realization of what he’s doing shoots though his head like a bullet.

He’s kissing a man, he’s filthy and tainted and perverted, but he couldn’t help himself, and Gerard’s leaning back in to capture his lips again, and he can’t help himself, he can’t, this is a drug he wants, and it could kill them both.

The mesmerizing sensation of Gerard’s lips against his almost make him want to abandon any fear, any shame, but he can’t bring himself to – this is a man, it’s Gerard and, no, he can’t. Not to either of them.

But he wants to, oh god, he wants to.

He moves his hands up over Gerard’s sides, knowing this could be the last chance to touch the delicious man he’s wrapped around. Once his tiny palms reach Gerard’s pectorals, he knows his time is up. He shoves against his boss as hard as he can, letting his lips go reluctantly, and the green-eyed man stumbles back, eyes lit with lust and confusion.

“I’m not a whore.”

Frank’s face is earnest and flushed, eyes betraying how he feels about the stunning specimen of a man in front of him. Gerard smirks, seeing the desire and desperation writhing in the russet eyes facing him, before he steps closer to the dancer again and presses their lips together in the most bone melting kiss either has ever experienced.

Both men moan, and press their bodies together again. Frank’s head was a mess on conflicted thoughts and feelings. Lust, panic, desire, fear, frustration, disgust; all were squirming through his mind, each one trying to win out and convince him what to do.

It was made more difficult by Gerard’s body being so close and the revolting throbbing between his legs that the hideous actions were causing.

Fear and panic won out – a lifetime living in a homophobic society overruled his carnality.

“NO! I’m not a whore, Gerard, I’m not!”

And he ran, past the stunned (and stunning) man in front of him an down the cold concrete tunnels that lay in the underbelly of Vegas' most infamous club.


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Please tell me about this one :3