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been holding on forever

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Frank literally cannot tie his tie. The red silk just keeps fucking slipping and his fingers aren't cooperating, which doesn't bode well for the next few hours that he's about to spend playing guitar.

When Gerard turns the corner from the green room into the dressing room and sees Frank struggling, he just laughs his honking little laugh and crosses the floor to Frank.

"And to think you were the Catholic school kid," he says, sliding the tie out of Frank's grip easily with one finger and pulling it all the way off. "Let me do it."

Frank does. Gerard crowds into his space, a little too close, and looks down at him with a curious little smile Frank can't read before lowering his gaze to Frank's throat, open and bare but for the art winding across it.

But instead of tying it so Frank can slip it over his head himself, Gerard winds it around his neck, sliding it under the collar of Frank's white shirt. He can feel the cool of it through the fabric, and he breathes in deep, letting Gerard's deft fingers pull the wide end around, loop it under, just like Frank taught him. He feels contained, with Gerard's arms on either side of him, closed in and small.

Gerard's fingers brush Frank's neck when he pushes the end of the tie up through the loop, giving Frank goosebumps even though they're calming and warm against his jugular. The circle of silk tightens, just this side of not quite enough, and Frank has to take another deep breath.

Gerard finishes the loop and starts to push the knot up, meeting Frank's gaze as Frank looks up at him. The Windsor knot slides up until it's nestled in the hollow of Frank's throat, a little too tight. Gerard holds his gaze, hands still wrapped around the tie, and stays there.

Frank's breathing starts to come a little harder, a little harsher, a little heavier. An anthem beats in his chest, a rapid tattoo, quick and thumping.

Gerard doesn't let go. Instead, he slides the knot up higher until it's snug against Frank's windpipe, silk cold and velvety against his skin.

"What," Frank tries to ask, but it comes out a little whimpery, scratchy and high. Because what, what is Gerard doing, why does it feel so good, how much time do they even have before stagecall—

"Red looks good around your throat," Gerard hums, and his tone is not at all conversational. His eyes are dark, gaze boring into Frank, intense and hungry and Frank feels like he's falling, drowning in it. Frank's cock twitches, and he barely stifles an embarrassing, animalistic sound from the back of his throat.

"Always look so good in your tie," he continues, herding Frank so his back is against the wall, all up in his space. "Always wondered what it would look like a little tighter."

Frank can't breathe. His lungs feel like they're being squeezed, and it isn't because of the fabric around his neck, pressing ever so slightly into his windpipe. He's never exactly been subtle around Gerard, never been subtle about what he wants, but Gerard— Gerard has never—

A thigh presses up between Frank's legs, snug against his semi, hard from just a tie a little tight around his neck, fabric just barely digging into his skin. It's humiliating, to know Gerard can feel his arousal right up against his leg. Gerard leans in, tie still threaded between the fingers of one hand, until they're breathing the same air, heavy and promising. His eyes ask if this is okay, if Frank wants this, wants him— and Frank knows his eyes answer back.

Frank wants to grind, wants to thrust against Gerard's thigh, wants to shove himself against the solid muscle until he comes in his pants— but he can't. His fingertips start to buzz, the oxygen cutoff hitting him. He can't make himself move, not with the provocation that glints in Gerard's eye, now, daring him to try something.

The roar of the crowd and the noise of the openers through the walls become an afterthought. Frank can hear nothing but buzzing, feel nothing but the steady pressure around his throat and pressure against his dick, see nothing but Gerard's eyes, burning into his, regarding Frank heavy and wanting.

"Do it," Gerard says, low and easy, thumb pushing the knot even further up incrementally, slowly, like he knows he has Frank wrapped around his little finger. His words caress Frank's face, curling in the air, intoxicating. Frank knows maybe he shouldn't— this is their band, this is their friendship, this is their livelihood— but he can't not. He wants to be good, he wants to be so good, and the construction of the tie around his neck and the quiet, careful force of Gerard's words make his mind cloud.

And so Frank does, whining low when his cock makes contact with Gerard's thigh, starting to push his hips down and work them. Gerard leans even further over him, dark and heavy, and Frank just wants him to kiss him, please, god— but he can't speak, Gerard didn't say, he just wants to be good—

"So good, Frankie," Gerard whispers, bouncing his leg up once slowly. He brings the hand not gripping the tie to soothe at Frank's hip, at odds with the iron grip keeping the silk tight around Frank's neck across the scorpion. "So good, look at you." Frank can't help but whine, disgustingly needy and high. The praise winds around his spine like clouds around a mountain, brushing his nerves and setting them alight.

Gerard leans down to breathe in Frank's ear, so close he can feel wisps of Gerard's hair across his helix, so close Frank shivers, the movement sliding the silk across this throat. "When we go out onstage," he says, "Everyone is going to know. They're going to see the mark around your neck, your cock against your zipper."

Frank whines. "Please," he says, although he's not sure what he's asking for, for more pressure or Gerard's mouth on his or maybe some dick.

"Keep going," Gerard orders, bringing the hand at Frank's hip to his cock. Frank shudders like a dog at the first point of contact, just Gerard's fingers pressing, exploring, teasing. "That's it, look so good humping my leg like a whore," Gerard murmurs, voice low and commanding and like nothing Frank's ever heard before.

"Oh, fuck—" Frank starts, cut off by a gasp when Gerard presses, presses down hard on his cock, flashing Frank a wicked grin. "Shit, Gerard, please— fucking, please, your hands—"

But Gerard pulls his hand away now, instead using both to pull the tie even tighter one last time, skin pulling at the edges of the red fabric. Frank's world blurs at the edges. He's so fucking hard, needs more than just Gerard's leg, and the squeeze of the tie is just— it's so—

And then Gerard is gone, a step back, tie dropped and hanging loosely against Frank's chest, dick still obvious and painfully hard in his pants.

"Gerard—" he starts, but Gerard hushes him, takes a step back in to run a hand through Frank's hair.

"You're gonna wait," he tells Frank, one hand gently in the hairs at the nape of Frank's neck, with no room for argument, no air for discussion. "You're not going to come until tonight. Not onstage. Okay, Frankie?"

Frank thinks about the pressure and vibration of his guitar against his cock. He thinks about sitting on the speakers, humping Gerard's head, fucking himself on his instrument, getting off onstage just so Gerard will see the patch on his pants, wet and spreading— but he won't. Gerard said no, Gerard said wait, so he won't.

"Okay," Frank breathes, cock aching. "Yes."

"Yes?" Gerard asks, expectantly, hopefully, still with an air of authority that makes Frank absolutely melt, makes him want to get on his knees for Gerard right then and there.

And god knows he would, would suck Gerard off backstage or onstage or anywhere, really, just to feel his cock down his throat or those hands tugging at his hair.

"Yes, sir," Frank says obediently.

-

Frank leaves his tie on way too tight for the show, the light pressure reminding him, keeping him on the edge, promising.

He stays hard through the entirety of the set, Gerard pulling on his tie and sticking his hand down Frank's pants and sucking on his own fingers. It's obscene, the things Gerard will do to himself while performing, the things he could make Frank do if he really wanted to.

Afterwards, as they walk off to the screams of the crowd, Gerard completely ignores him. It makes something bubble in Frank's gut, up his throat, threatening to spill out of his mouth. It's want— want, want, want. He wants Gerard. He hadn't known how much until Gerard had touched him, spoken to him like that— but now that he has, Frank can't stop.

He's close— so close— to dropping to his knees in front of Gerard, to begging for something, anything— Gerard's tongue, his fingers, his cock— Frank doesn't care. He's been hard for hours, hours now, and he would take just Gerard's leg and some dry humping again at this point. He'd suck him off in front of all the techies, let Gerard fuck his mouth, hands tight in his hair, cock hitting the back of his throat, his hands behind his back, maybe tied—

Frank doesn't realize he's stopped dead in the middle of the hall, the whole band and all their techs gone on without him, until he feels a hand drag across his shoulder, the touch slow and dancing.

He startles and looks up, and there's Gerard, same curious little smile on his face, his arm still around Frank. It's comforting and somehow promising at the same time, a weight, like Gerard knows what even that does to Frank.

He leans down to whisper into Frank's ear, words like poison, sweet and heavy. "Everyone could see you onstage, baby. So hard for me, doing such a good job waiting."

Frank's breathing starts to come hard again, even just Gerard's voice working him up. He's hard. He's so hard, and he wants to come so bad. He could— he could come right now, with just a hand on his cock. But Gerard said wait, so he has to wait, has no other choice.

"Fuck," Frank says, voice gone high and rough and needy. "Fuck, Gerard, please."

"Keep begging," Gerard hums, thumb running across Frank's collarbone, the single point of contact an aphrodisiac. "Sounds so good coming out of that perfect mouth of yours."

Frank groans quietly, eyes sliding closed, and feels Gerard's thumb press into the hollow of his throat as he does, pressure like the tie, tight and restrictive and still not enough.

"Fuck me," he says, words spilling out like a flood. "Please, please, fuck me. God, I want—"

"No," Gerard interrupts, firmly but not unkindly. "Not here."

"Okay," Frank breathes, satiated, but barely, for the time being with the hand on his neck, Gerard's solid presence behind him. "Okay, sir."

"Good boy," Gerard murmurs, leading him forward to join the rest of the band getting changed.