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Jun. 4th, 2012 05:54 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
gala_applesTitle: Four Times Frank Lied (and one time he told the truth)
Pairing: Frank/Mikey
Rating: pg
Wordcount: 1648
Summary: It's just easier when no one knows.
Prompt used: Frank is a werecat on bandom_meme
Disclaimer: This is a non-profit, non-commercial work of fiction using the names and likenesses of real individuals. This fictional story is not intended to imply that the events herein actually occurred or that the attitudes or behaviors described are engaged in or condoned by the real persons whose names are used without permission.
Mikey looks around Frank’s apartment. Frank knows it’s nothing impressive. He’s only just gotten out of his mother’s basement, and anyone looking around could tell. Frank’s walls are decorated with posters and band flyers. His furniture configuration is awkward as hell, his table is jammed between the corner of the counter and his couch. His books are fucking everywhere, the single decorating disaster that actually annoys Frank. His piece of shit MDF bookcase fell apart when he was carrying it up the stairs. Fuck the threadbare cushions and the patchwork walls, books deserve better than random stacks.
Still, it’s Frank’s, and he doesn’t have to introduce Mikey to his mom before Frank takes him to his bedroom. Hell, if he wants to he can make out with Mikey in the living room, or the kitchen. He can make out with him outside the front door, and not worry that the neighbours are watching and are about to compile a report and send it to his mom. Assuming that Mikey wants to make out, of course. He doesn’t seem picky after a show, but maybe he’s got some kind of criteria Frank’s just not seeing.
Mikey’s got enough respect to walk around the piles carefully, enough Way brother nastiness to sit on top of the dirty clothes pile that’s growing slowly bigger as Frank keeps forgetting to buy a second laundry basket. “Why do you have scratching posts? You don’t have animals. I thought you were a dog guy anyway.”
Frank has about three seconds to bluff before the silence goes on too long. The best he can come up with is ‘what posts?’, which is pretty fucking sad. Evidently Mikey thinks so too, he rolls his eyes and points to them.
“Those? Dude, I got those from Ikea. I thought they were freaky awesome sculptures!”
Mikey laughs, head tilting back. His hair doesn’t move an inch, too matted from hairspray and unfortunate choices of hats. “Definitely not. But keep them anyway, because that’s hilarious.”
*
Frank bends forward and retrieves the textbook at his feet. Balanced on top of it is a small saucer, blueberry papers, and embroidery scissors. He frowns at the utter lack of greenery on the plate. Yeah, it’s been a long and lazy day, but when Mikey came over at nine with four coffees and a box of doughnuts, they had three dime bags between them. Now there isn’t even enough to fill a joint.
Frank really wants a joint.
Mikey comes in from the bathroom, and before he can sit down again Frank presses him into service. “Can you go into my drug box, and see if my grinder is in there? I think I might have left some pot inside it from last time.” If it’s true, it’ll probably be dried out and crumbly, but that’s better than nothing.
When Frank rearranged shit so his belongings would better fit the tiny apartment, the best place for the couch was in front of one of the few outlets. That left Frank with the necessity of keeping it half a foot from the wall, so there was room to pull in the outlet doubler thingy. There’s room for a lot of weird shit behind his couch, his drug box is hardly the weirdest. Mikey’s voice is loud but muffled as he talks with his head and arm crammed behind the couch. “Hmmmm. Half a bottle of Ativan, four E- leftovers, I guess, they’re all different stamps, I think that’s Oxy, why the fuck are you doing oxy? That shit is fucked up. There are a few other prescriptions, I’ve never even heard of this shit. And- What the hell? This is catnip?”
“You can smoke it. It’s mild, but interesting.” Both of those sentences are true. It’s not how Frank experiences it, but he’s not lying.
*
He and Mikey don’t separate long once they get back to Jersey. Frank has to see his family, Mikey has to see family aside from Gerard. But by mid-evening they’re together again.
“First home date,” Mikey says lowly with a smile.
“I think we did pretty well on the road.” They went to different restaurants than the guys and the crew sometimes. They saw a movie once or twice. They went bowling once, which Frank still counts, even if Bob and Cortez did crash. All in all, nothing too different than they’d do if they had nine to five jobs. Maybe a little more snuggling, but considering the layout of a tour bus and the rarity of getting a flat surface to yourself, sharing bunks and cushions is to be expected even outside of dating.
“Yeah, but I can actually make you dinner now.”
“Can you cook?” It probably doesn’t matter either way. Mikey’s body is already half inside Frank’s fridge, he’ll obviously be making dinner no matter what.”
“Yeah. Not as good as Elena or Mom, but better than anyone else in the extended family. You know you have like fifteen cans of tuna? You should probably check the expiry date. Well, if you’re actually going to eat that much tuna, it’s kind of a lot.”
“Yeah, I’ll eat it. I like it.” Technically it’s not Frank that likes it, but he tries to be as accommodating as possible to his other self.
*
Frank likes relationships. Random making out is fun, of course, but beyond that he likes to like the person first. If he’s maybe overcompensating because his other self fucks any female in heat, well, everyone has their own personal coping mechanisms for whatever weird shit happens in their lives.
They spent the second half of tour, once they were together, having fun with handjobs. The last month they’ve added blowjobs, frotting, and rimming to the repertoire, all the sex that takes more room. If Frank can be certain of one thing, it’s that they’ve both enjoyed themselves. But this morning Frank was putting away the groceries Mikey bought, and in the bottom of the bag was a box of condoms. It’s obvious what Mikey wants, generally at least, if not specifically.
The question is bound to come up, and yet when it does, Frank’s paralyzed. ‘Top or bottom’, both sound equally unreasonable to him. It’s impossible to forget the feeling of his penis spines scraping out the inside of a feline. He’s never had only part of himself shift, never had human arms but paws for hands, or a human face and cat ears, but he’s not thinking logically, just fearfully. He doesn’t want to do that to Mikey, and he never wants to feel it himself.
After a minute of awkward silence Mikey sighs. “This the point where you tell me you’re another Pete?”
Penetrative sex has never been his go-to sex act. He’s always been able to have a relationship that skirts around it with really great oral sex. Women especially let him get away with it. But a large part of the reason Mikey and Pete didn’t work was the inability to get hands into pants. Mikey’s gunshy of guys that are gunshy these days, and Frank refuses to let his unjustified paranoia ruin what they could have.
“I bottom.” Unless Mikey hasn’t been telling him the same thing he hasn’t been telling Mikey, his cock should be fine.
*
“Frank, there’s cat hair all over your clothes.”
Frank puts his book down and looks at Mikey. He seems a lot more pissed off than the situation warrants. “Yeah? If you’re trying to borrow completely one hundred percent clean clothes at this stage of touring, you’re really out of luck.”
“We’re on tour. There are no cats on any of the buses. Are you cheating on me? Rubbing against some oddly hot cat lady?”
“Are you fuckin’ kidding me? I love you!”
Mikey doesn’t look mollified. If anything he looks more angry than a minute ago. “It’s really interesting how the first time you’ve ever said that to me is now. Like you’re trying to distract me.”
“Fuck you!” Getting angry back probably isn’t the best strategy, but Frank’s not fucking happy at the insinuation that he’d cheat. Just because he’s bad at romantic words doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel in love with Mikey.
“Tell me who you’ve been rubbing against! Do you love them too?”
It’s harder to switch when he’s not under the moon’s influence. Frank’s got more autonomy that some werecat breeds, some have to spend the entire night as a cat, and can’t switch at all during the day. As a were-tabby he can choose to ignore the call as the sun sets, and can choose to force it without the call at high noon. Frank focuses, not letting Mikey’s rant distract him. Every werecat has two focus points, Frank’s to-cat is his phantom tail. The feeling of having it never quite goes away.
Once he’s a cat he stretches and pads forward. There are so many good smells he’d like to explore, but he settles on twinning between Mikey’s legs. Mikey’s socks smell fascinating.
He only lets himself enjoy the feeling of catness for a minute. That’s not what this is about. With a twinge of regret he focuses on the idea of fingers, his to-human point. Mikey’s staring as he grabs his jeans to pull them back over his hips.
“Explain the cat hair?”
Mikey replies faintly “pretty much an argument ender.”
“Yeah. I do love you, you know.”
“Yeah. I figured. But I was born into a family of blurters. Maybe say it once a week or something, as compared to Gerard’s three times a day?”
“Maybe I’ll purr it at you.” He can’t help but grin at Mikey. It’s the first time he’s told someone, first time he’s talked about it to someone that isn’t another werecat. It’s pretty awesome to be totally truthful.
Pairing: Frank/Mikey
Rating: pg
Wordcount: 1648
Summary: It's just easier when no one knows.
Prompt used: Frank is a werecat on bandom_meme
Disclaimer: This is a non-profit, non-commercial work of fiction using the names and likenesses of real individuals. This fictional story is not intended to imply that the events herein actually occurred or that the attitudes or behaviors described are engaged in or condoned by the real persons whose names are used without permission.
Mikey looks around Frank’s apartment. Frank knows it’s nothing impressive. He’s only just gotten out of his mother’s basement, and anyone looking around could tell. Frank’s walls are decorated with posters and band flyers. His furniture configuration is awkward as hell, his table is jammed between the corner of the counter and his couch. His books are fucking everywhere, the single decorating disaster that actually annoys Frank. His piece of shit MDF bookcase fell apart when he was carrying it up the stairs. Fuck the threadbare cushions and the patchwork walls, books deserve better than random stacks.
Still, it’s Frank’s, and he doesn’t have to introduce Mikey to his mom before Frank takes him to his bedroom. Hell, if he wants to he can make out with Mikey in the living room, or the kitchen. He can make out with him outside the front door, and not worry that the neighbours are watching and are about to compile a report and send it to his mom. Assuming that Mikey wants to make out, of course. He doesn’t seem picky after a show, but maybe he’s got some kind of criteria Frank’s just not seeing.
Mikey’s got enough respect to walk around the piles carefully, enough Way brother nastiness to sit on top of the dirty clothes pile that’s growing slowly bigger as Frank keeps forgetting to buy a second laundry basket. “Why do you have scratching posts? You don’t have animals. I thought you were a dog guy anyway.”
Frank has about three seconds to bluff before the silence goes on too long. The best he can come up with is ‘what posts?’, which is pretty fucking sad. Evidently Mikey thinks so too, he rolls his eyes and points to them.
“Those? Dude, I got those from Ikea. I thought they were freaky awesome sculptures!”
Mikey laughs, head tilting back. His hair doesn’t move an inch, too matted from hairspray and unfortunate choices of hats. “Definitely not. But keep them anyway, because that’s hilarious.”
*
Frank bends forward and retrieves the textbook at his feet. Balanced on top of it is a small saucer, blueberry papers, and embroidery scissors. He frowns at the utter lack of greenery on the plate. Yeah, it’s been a long and lazy day, but when Mikey came over at nine with four coffees and a box of doughnuts, they had three dime bags between them. Now there isn’t even enough to fill a joint.
Frank really wants a joint.
Mikey comes in from the bathroom, and before he can sit down again Frank presses him into service. “Can you go into my drug box, and see if my grinder is in there? I think I might have left some pot inside it from last time.” If it’s true, it’ll probably be dried out and crumbly, but that’s better than nothing.
When Frank rearranged shit so his belongings would better fit the tiny apartment, the best place for the couch was in front of one of the few outlets. That left Frank with the necessity of keeping it half a foot from the wall, so there was room to pull in the outlet doubler thingy. There’s room for a lot of weird shit behind his couch, his drug box is hardly the weirdest. Mikey’s voice is loud but muffled as he talks with his head and arm crammed behind the couch. “Hmmmm. Half a bottle of Ativan, four E- leftovers, I guess, they’re all different stamps, I think that’s Oxy, why the fuck are you doing oxy? That shit is fucked up. There are a few other prescriptions, I’ve never even heard of this shit. And- What the hell? This is catnip?”
“You can smoke it. It’s mild, but interesting.” Both of those sentences are true. It’s not how Frank experiences it, but he’s not lying.
*
He and Mikey don’t separate long once they get back to Jersey. Frank has to see his family, Mikey has to see family aside from Gerard. But by mid-evening they’re together again.
“First home date,” Mikey says lowly with a smile.
“I think we did pretty well on the road.” They went to different restaurants than the guys and the crew sometimes. They saw a movie once or twice. They went bowling once, which Frank still counts, even if Bob and Cortez did crash. All in all, nothing too different than they’d do if they had nine to five jobs. Maybe a little more snuggling, but considering the layout of a tour bus and the rarity of getting a flat surface to yourself, sharing bunks and cushions is to be expected even outside of dating.
“Yeah, but I can actually make you dinner now.”
“Can you cook?” It probably doesn’t matter either way. Mikey’s body is already half inside Frank’s fridge, he’ll obviously be making dinner no matter what.”
“Yeah. Not as good as Elena or Mom, but better than anyone else in the extended family. You know you have like fifteen cans of tuna? You should probably check the expiry date. Well, if you’re actually going to eat that much tuna, it’s kind of a lot.”
“Yeah, I’ll eat it. I like it.” Technically it’s not Frank that likes it, but he tries to be as accommodating as possible to his other self.
*
Frank likes relationships. Random making out is fun, of course, but beyond that he likes to like the person first. If he’s maybe overcompensating because his other self fucks any female in heat, well, everyone has their own personal coping mechanisms for whatever weird shit happens in their lives.
They spent the second half of tour, once they were together, having fun with handjobs. The last month they’ve added blowjobs, frotting, and rimming to the repertoire, all the sex that takes more room. If Frank can be certain of one thing, it’s that they’ve both enjoyed themselves. But this morning Frank was putting away the groceries Mikey bought, and in the bottom of the bag was a box of condoms. It’s obvious what Mikey wants, generally at least, if not specifically.
The question is bound to come up, and yet when it does, Frank’s paralyzed. ‘Top or bottom’, both sound equally unreasonable to him. It’s impossible to forget the feeling of his penis spines scraping out the inside of a feline. He’s never had only part of himself shift, never had human arms but paws for hands, or a human face and cat ears, but he’s not thinking logically, just fearfully. He doesn’t want to do that to Mikey, and he never wants to feel it himself.
After a minute of awkward silence Mikey sighs. “This the point where you tell me you’re another Pete?”
Penetrative sex has never been his go-to sex act. He’s always been able to have a relationship that skirts around it with really great oral sex. Women especially let him get away with it. But a large part of the reason Mikey and Pete didn’t work was the inability to get hands into pants. Mikey’s gunshy of guys that are gunshy these days, and Frank refuses to let his unjustified paranoia ruin what they could have.
“I bottom.” Unless Mikey hasn’t been telling him the same thing he hasn’t been telling Mikey, his cock should be fine.
*
“Frank, there’s cat hair all over your clothes.”
Frank puts his book down and looks at Mikey. He seems a lot more pissed off than the situation warrants. “Yeah? If you’re trying to borrow completely one hundred percent clean clothes at this stage of touring, you’re really out of luck.”
“We’re on tour. There are no cats on any of the buses. Are you cheating on me? Rubbing against some oddly hot cat lady?”
“Are you fuckin’ kidding me? I love you!”
Mikey doesn’t look mollified. If anything he looks more angry than a minute ago. “It’s really interesting how the first time you’ve ever said that to me is now. Like you’re trying to distract me.”
“Fuck you!” Getting angry back probably isn’t the best strategy, but Frank’s not fucking happy at the insinuation that he’d cheat. Just because he’s bad at romantic words doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel in love with Mikey.
“Tell me who you’ve been rubbing against! Do you love them too?”
It’s harder to switch when he’s not under the moon’s influence. Frank’s got more autonomy that some werecat breeds, some have to spend the entire night as a cat, and can’t switch at all during the day. As a were-tabby he can choose to ignore the call as the sun sets, and can choose to force it without the call at high noon. Frank focuses, not letting Mikey’s rant distract him. Every werecat has two focus points, Frank’s to-cat is his phantom tail. The feeling of having it never quite goes away.
Once he’s a cat he stretches and pads forward. There are so many good smells he’d like to explore, but he settles on twinning between Mikey’s legs. Mikey’s socks smell fascinating.
He only lets himself enjoy the feeling of catness for a minute. That’s not what this is about. With a twinge of regret he focuses on the idea of fingers, his to-human point. Mikey’s staring as he grabs his jeans to pull them back over his hips.
“Explain the cat hair?”
Mikey replies faintly “pretty much an argument ender.”
“Yeah. I do love you, you know.”
“Yeah. I figured. But I was born into a family of blurters. Maybe say it once a week or something, as compared to Gerard’s three times a day?”
“Maybe I’ll purr it at you.” He can’t help but grin at Mikey. It’s the first time he’s told someone, first time he’s talked about it to someone that isn’t another werecat. It’s pretty awesome to be totally truthful.