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Frank hears the crunch when Gerard’s boot connects with his nose. He sees the white flash out over his whole field of vision. It's hot, so hot, and wet, and it feels like a whole sheet of skin is sliding off his face in thick waves.
It's not that bad, he knows that, and when he manages to see anything at all besides that searing white, he sees it's only a steady stream of blood— not a mess of clotted gore and flesh tearing off his face.
It's only a steady stream of blood, and it’s dribbling all over Gerard’s boots.
“Fuckin’ gross, man.” Gerard sneers down at him. Like he didn’t cause it, like he couldn’t move, like he couldn’t take not even a half-step back and get out of the way of the line of carnage.
The heels of Frank’s hands hurt. The tarmac was digging into them, but they were the last line of defense on the ‘keeping his head from hitting the pavement’ front. But as the seconds ticked by it was getting harder and harder, he was feeling really fuckin’ heavy. He tried to adjust, rest his weight on his forearm instead.
He barely got done with the movement before Gerard was tapping his cheek with the side of his boot. He clicked his tongue a bit, like he was getting a dog's attention. Which wasn’t exactly out of place; Frank felt a bit like his bitch, right then. “Clean them off.”
Frank blinked a few times, trying and struggling to re-focus his eyes. Fuck , he was hard. The ache of... everything throbbed right through him and into his cock, and Gerard’s degrading demands were only making it reach fever-pitch.
---
Gerard had kicked him elsewhere before he had ended up on the pavement, but it wasn’t like he didn’t deserve it; he had jumped Gerard first. He was still hyped up from their show and he always bursting with violent, reckless energy. He’d gotten some out on stage, sure, but not enough for his liking tonight.
So, he had shoved Gerard as they walked back to the van. He pushed Gerard as he stepped off the curb— caught him just at the right moment to make him stumble and swear, spinning around to confront Frank, telling him he could’ve fuckin’ broken his ankle. Frank grinned like the fucking devil the whole time.
Gerard had grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, slung him around— Gerard wasn’t crazy strong, but Frank wasn’t particularly heavy and he moved like a ragdoll in Gerard’s grip. He didn’t react fast enough to dodge Gerard’s knee coming up into his stomach and while he was doubled-up and winded, Gerard hit him again. Frank started to go down. He was laughing by around the third kick, around when Gerard started telling him he had something fuckin’ wrong with him.
---
Yeah, every connection of Gerard’s knee or boot burned so good. Frank’s ribs ached, pulled and stung at every heavy and shaking breath. A few more droplets of blood came off his face as he rattled out a breath and he finally looked up.
Gerard looked mostly disengaged, but the part of him that was paying attention to Frank was disgusted . Frank bared his teeth up to Gerard, some shitty fucking grimace. He tasted blood when he licked his teeth. And just for a moment, he had an excellent idea.
He spat what remained on his teeth and lips against Gerard’s boots.
This kick connected right in the pocket of his shoulder, right against his collarbone. After the hit it stayed its mark at his shoulder, settling atop it this time before pushing down. Forcing Frank’s face into the tarmac. Finally .
Frank breathed it in. Breathed in the taste of grit and rubber and oil and filth.
“Clean up your fuckin’ mess, Frankie.” and this time it sounded like a threat, and Gerard’s boot tried his shoulder firmly as emphasis on his “F’s.” Frank had to hold his hips back from grinding against the pavement.
He gave up on that when Gerard shoved down again.
It was Gerard’s turn to laugh, cruel and mocking, but it only made Frank harder, only made him grind harder, rut his clothed cock against the unyielding tarmac. Which was still, somehow, hot. Frank didn’t know if it was the low motor-burn of cars dragging and stalking over it, ebbing out thick heat and the gasoline-smell that was coating his throat and lungs right now, or residual sun, the long-cooking blackness soaking up every ray holding it all day and now well into the night like some overly-obsessed lover. Whatever it was, it felt good. It was warm, and maybe, somehow, Frank could almost pretend he was rubbing himself against another body— Gerard’s body.
This wasn’t bad though. The humiliation of it all— it- it obviously got him going. He he looked pitiful, and disgusting; Gerard’s laugh evidenced that enough. Freaky and needy e-fuckin'-nough that getting shoved and kicked and ordered around got him desperate enough to start fucking the floor. He could get off like this, with Gerard’s heel digging into his collarbone, easy. Easy, it wouldn’t take any trouble at all.
He was lost in his head again. Gerard put the toe of his boot to Frank’s lips. “You’re being too goddamn slow. Next one I’m kickin’ your teeth in.”
Frank didn’t need the threat; his tongue was already flicking past his lips the second the boot touched them.
Frank swore Gerard moaned when it happened, but he knew there was no chance in hell he was getting that admitted later. This was about humiliating him wasn’t it? Would be a shame to show Gee’s resolve slipping too. The first taste was striping, desperate— full press of the tongue in one long stroke across the length of the toecap and just onto the vamp. Frank got a taste of the blood— his blood— sure, but most of it was dirt and leather. Undistinguishable dirt. It was thick and sour and Frank knew he was getting a taste of every damn day of this tour— and even longer. Of every place Gerard had scuffed or tapped his shoes, of every person who stepped on his toes, of every muddy-puddle that he miscalculated the depth of or didn’t give a fuck enough to step over, every drop of sweat or piss or vomit or —blood, now— that had splattered against them. It tasted good. Disgusting, but good.
The next few licks were smaller, but Frank made them with purpose. He skewed his eyes up to look at Gerard— it kinda hurt, from this angle, but seeing Gerard bite back his expression into something more controlled when he got Frank’s eyes on him was worth it— and started with dirty little kitten-licks. Like it was some teasing blowjob. All eye contact, all cute little licks and kisses to the head.
“Asshole.” Gerard hissed it from between his teeth. So, he was feeling it something fierce.
Frank got pretty goddamn smug about that.
He returned to harsher licks, covering more of the surface. Over the sides, fully onto the vamp, into stitches and ridges and creases. When he started licking the upper he grabbed Gerard’s ankle as if to steady himself, ground himself, to pull himself deeper into it. Gerard did groan at the touch, it was undeniable this time. Frank thrust harder against the pavement.
He moved on to the other boot.
Something dawned on him that he was replacing the taste of Gerard’s boots. That now they would taste like his spit, that Gerard would carry that around with him every day, that if someone else licked Gerard’s boots, they would be tasting him on them— his taste on them first , as the basest layer.
He didn’t really want anyone else licking Gerard’s boots, though.
He was claiming them in some way, laying some of himself on Gerard, forging some pitiful connection, but it would mean something to him. He would walk every step with Gerard— not like he didn’t already in his puppy-dog heel-chasing abandon— but now it was worked in implicitly, unconsciously, unavoidably.
Gerard let another moan slip out.
When Frank looked up, Gerard was touching himself. Stroking his cock right above Frank, over Frank, over what he was doing— shit.
“ Gerard.” It came through as a request, as begging— which is kinda fuckin’ what it was— as Frank started to sit up. He wanted it so bad, to get his tongue on Gerard’s cock too, he could do that, he would be so good at that—
“Motherfucker— get back down!” Gerard administered another sharp kick, against Frank’s now-exposed ribcage. “You’ve had your mouth all on my boots, I don’t want that disgusting shit on me.”
Frank didn’t think it was a real excuse; Gerard was plenty gross, but he laid back down anyway, shifting Gerard’s stance so he could lay on his side with his tongue pressed against the edge of Gerard’s left boot. One hand on Gerard’s ankle, the other focused on pulling out his own cock and stroking in time with Gerard.
He half expected Gerard to stop him from that too, to demand he only get himself off by rutting against the pavement— or not at all— but he was met with no such protest.
His blood was long-since gone from Gerard’s boots, as was much of the grime that could be rubbed off without scrubbing power. That might be nice, too, to properly clean Gerard’s boots instead of just giving them a spit-shine. To get one of those fancy kits, with their brushes and their sponges and their waxes and oils. To sit at Gerard’s feet again, to hold his boot gentle in his hand, that meaty part between the thumb and index finger pressed against the wall of the heel. To scrub and wipe away, and to leave little kisses pressed to Gerard’s calves, his knees, his inner-thighs, as he did.
All he could reach right now were his shoes, so Frank just kept kissing those.
After a few tight-lipped pecks Frank escalated again. He sucked on the leather, full-on tongue-kissing it while he did, as if he was trying to leave a mark. A futile attempt to suck a hickey into old leather. He was pretty sure Gerard could feel it, though, at least a little. Even through the thick material and whatever ratty socks he had on that day, the pressure would still be there, the unnatural feeling of attention being lavished somewhere unused to this kind of touch. He was trying to be porny, act disgusting and desperate and get Gerard to do something, something drastic.
“Stop licking. Let go.” Gerard’s voice bit through. It was strained, and gravely, and wet with breath. Frank complied easily, pulling back and letting go, let all his thoughts and focus slip back into breathing— and into pumping his cock.
Gerard lifted his boot, and before Frank could protest its absence from his field of vision, it returned.
Directly on his face.
Gerard started light, just resting the sole against Frank’s face but pressed much, much harder at Frank’s pitiful surprised yelp. The heel dug into the side of his forehead— where Gerard was putting most of the pressure — but there was a not-insignificant burn from the front of the sole pressing against his cheek.
Frank was straining to hear Gerard’s pants and moans over the grating of gravel amplified loud against the shell of his ear and his own heavy heartbeat thudding through his skull. He needed to hear it, savor it, memorize the moans Gerard made when he wasn’t performing, when it was just for him. Frank knew he was making a hell of a noise himself, and he was losing control of his hips, thrusting sloppily into his fist, no rhythm or regularity, all just desperate-chase. He must’ve started begging at some point, cause Gerard scoffed through a groan at him. “Easy. Wait—”
“Gerard, please .”
“I said fuckin’ wait. ” The pressure got worse and Frank couldn’t fully bite back a scream. Gerard’s heel was digging into the corner his eye and it hurt, it hurt, it hurt . He felt like it was gonna pop right out, one more second and Gerard’s boot would force his eyeball right out of its socket, really tear his face open this time, Frank wondered if that would bleed, too, or if it would just come right out like a fucking cartoon, he couldn’t take another moment of this, he started to struggle away and—
Just like that it was over. Gerard lightened the pressure, and with it all of Frank’s hearing came flooding back from the wall of blood thudding in his eardrums, and now he could hear it all, with perfect blinding clarity.
God , Gerard was cumming.
Frank only caught the last few pulses, heard the last few unrestrained moans slip out, managed to see a few drops shoot past Gerard’s hand, and right onto him . Seemingly not on purpose, not directed, but Gerard’s cum now speckled his shirt, and Frank realized he hadn't been breathing for far too long and suddenly he was nonsensically begging; “Please, please, please, please .”
“Go.” Was all Gerard gave him, but it was enough.
Frank’s cum splattered the tarmac, stark against its gritty black— one drop reflected in the same way from where it had hit the midsole of Gerard’s boots. Frank cleaned it up dutifully.
He struggled up before Gerard could demand he lick up the mess he made on the street, too.
Gerard was tucking his cock back into his pants and pulling out his phone. He looked disgruntled and carried none of the same lovey-dovey afterglow that Frank was feeling. “They’ve left without us. How the fuck are we getting to the motel now.”
Frank just shrugged dumbly. His head was still spinning, and standing was hard, and both his cheeks and his forehead burned from being sandwiched between Gerard’s boot-sole and the street-grit, but it all intertwined into some good, happy buzz. His arm felt wet and sticky, and upon inspection he found it smudged with Gerard’s cum, rubbed off from where it fell against his shirt. Frank licked some off, ungracefully struggling to reach his elbow for a moment before giving up and resigning himself to rubbing all of it back into his shirt until it wasn’t obvious that this was any fresh sort of cum-stain.
“Wipe that stupid fuckin’ smile off your face.” Gerard shoulder checked him as he walked by.
Frank tried, but it was too much to manage. He pinched his nose, poked his eye, assessing the damage. They both hurt like hell but didn’t feel offset or misplaced enough that he would be ugly forever. Kind of a shame. He liked his face, but something about the thought of Gerard permanently altering it— fuckin’ ruining it— got him going all over again.
Gerard was half-way across the parking lot already, and showed no signs of waiting up for Frank.
Frank spat metallic-taste on the tarmac one more time, for good measure, and set off, falling back into step at Gerard heels.