Archive of Our Own ^beta

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.

Chapter Text

Long, pale fingers press down on Frank's tongue, and he moans around them when they lewdly fuck into his throat, making him gag. He's on his stomach, face pressed into the bed, and doesn't know where he is, but he also doesn't really give a fuck. When he wiggles, pleasure ripples through him from the cock inside him, massaging his prostate. 

He feels like he's floating on air, warm and cold at the same time. It's the most at peace he has felt in a long time, and he drowns in it. There's pressure against his head, and he is shoved down, forced to moan into the soft sheets. 

“Spread yourself open for me, baby.” 

It's the same voice. His voice. It burns across Frank's skin like a white hot branding iron, his flesh sizzling and bubbling around the pleasure. 

He does as he's told, working a hand back to spread his ass open for the man, exposing his hole where their cock is splitting him in half. Frank's skin dimples under his grip, digging digits into the tender flesh hard enough to bruise. 

“Please- Oh my fucking-” Frank groans, voice muffled by the bed sheets he's biting at. 

The man moans when he pushes into Frank, and he smiles through squished cheeks into the bed as satisfaction rolls through him. Liquid euphoria licks at his body, pulling his muscles taut. 

“Did you think about this when I was making you cum, pretty boy?” The stranger laughs, voice eerily calm for how fast he's fucking into Frank. “Did you think about how good you'd feel with my cock buried in you?”

Soft hips press against him, smooth, cool skin soothing the burn of the stretch. The faceless man behind him pulls out, long and slow, before snapping their hips, pushing into him in brutal thrusts. There are hands everywhere, pushing down on his stomach, in his mouth, on his cock. 

“Yes,” Frank breathes, rocking his hips down to get eye-rolling friction on his cock. “Wanted you to fuck me right in the middle of the crowd, show everyone how much I wanted it.” 

“Such a dirty boy,” The man coos. 

Frank feels electric as that cock rubs against his prostate again and again, his eyes lit up as electric currents of pleasure grow behind his stomach. He can feel it, tangible and right above their bodies; if he tried, he could grab it and pull it down like warm silk over them. 

He's there, right fucking there, teetering on the edge and ready to fall off with a bitten off whine. 

“Fuck, I'm going to-”

Frank starts with a gasp, light from his window blinding him as he tilts his head to glare at it, the dream he was just enjoying already fading into the back of his mind. Lois barks from the hallway, no doubt that's what woke him. 

Stiff limbs ache, his back, his hips and legs tight and painful, miles away from the pleasant ripples in his dream. It's not fair, it's so unfair, in fact, he has to resist the urge to stomp his feet against the bed like a petulant child. 

“What the fuck?” he screams behind clenched teeth. The universe is against him; that's what he settles on to explain everything the last twenty-four hours has thrown at him. 

It takes ten seconds for the pounding headache to start like a kick drum behind Frank's eyes. He sits up with a groan, dick still hard from the dream as he scrubs a hand across his face. He'll blame the brain demon for the dream. He blames the demon for a lot of things, but this was specifically the creature. 

Lying in bed to analyse his dream sounds much more appealing than the cold floorboards of his apartment, but when Lois starts scratching at his door, Frank has to stretch sore limbs and get up to tend to her. 

“Did you have good dreams?” Frank coos to her as he pets her head. “I know I did.”

Ghosts of pale hands and solid chests haunt Frank's brain as he leads Lois through the apartment. How those fingers left trails of fire across his body. What they could've done with a bed and the leather cuffs he hides in the bedside table. Frank tries hard not to let disappointment seep into the cracks in his brain, but to no avail, it finds a way. 

He talks to her because at least someone is willing to listen to him analyse his dream, even if they're wildly inappropriate for her sweet puppy ears to hear. Lois just wags her tail and pants at him. 

“I need to get fucked,” he sighs to no one and feeling stupid for telling his dog about the wet dream. “You're a good listener,” he compliments her with a giggle. 

Walking into the main landing of his apartment, Frank eyes the pile of clothes lying in the entryway, and he glares at them. He can almost see the stench of alcohol and cum on them, so he stands there looking at them, willing the memory of a large hand on his throat to just go away. He missed his chance, but that doesn't mean he can be pathetic about it. 

Lois watches him from the sofa, her large eyes tracking him as he bends to pick up the clothes. Frank pulls his house keys and wadded-up receipts from his pockets, along with a folded piece of black paper. 

He doesn't have the energy to discern what it is with the thumping in his head, so he throws it on the side table next to the door and promptly sticks his head under the shower to relieve the pressure against his skull. 

As soon as he steps out of the bathroom, his brick of a phone is buzzing incessantly in the sheets of the bed. It's Ray, and Frank thinks about ignoring it, but knowing his best friend, he'll just call until he picks up or turn up at his door. 

“Dude, are you alive? Jesus fucking christ,” Ray huffs down the phone. 

“I'm fine, Ray, I just feel a bit like I'm dying,” Frank grumbles, thinking about taking an ice bath to dull the aching fire under his skin. 

“How long did you stay out last night? After I told you to go home, I might add.”

Frank hums, trying not to let guilt seep into his voice. “Only another hour or so.” 

There is a small laugh down the end of the other line, and Frank smiles sheepishly into the empty apartment. “Did your perverted Cinderella turn up?”

“No,” he huffs. Frank's eyes fall on the folded note discarded on the side table. “My dream man vanished right under my nose like a fucking phantom.” 

The sneaky pang of loneliness makes itself known in Frank's chest. He sighs, feeling deflated and wrung out. He's hot and young, full of destructive energy and insatiable, it shouldn't be so fucking hard to find someone to love him with as much force as Frank harbours. He'd take boring and unfulfilled sex for the sweet thrill of being loved. Maybe that was his issue. 

“Frank, I promise you, you’re going to find someone as weird and freaky as you who is going to love you. I don’t see a version of your life where you don’t end up with a guy who will worship you,’’ Ray reassures in a way only he knows how. 

Frank blows out a steady breath and nods. He knows this. Ray has said the same words a million times over. Believing his friend sounds a lot better instead of letting misery plant its seed in his brain. “I’m just tired of being alone.” 

“You’re not alone, dude. You have me, Mikey, and so many other people who love you. Romance and sex aren’t all that life is about,” Ray reassures softly.

Frank laughs because, easy for Ray to say when he never has issues with finding someone to love, when he’s never had someone say his need for love is too much for the other person to handle. 

Ray is saying something, but Frank's brain can't focus on it with the way the paper pulls his body towards it. It's thick paper, probably expensive cardstock. It's smooth in his hands when he unfolds it. There is a number scrawled in white marker along with several little hand-drawn bats. 

“What the fuck?” 

“What did you do?” Ray sighs. When Frank doesn't reply, other than a noise that can only be classified as a squeak. “Frank?”

His poor, poor heart is beating painfully in his chest. Who was this fucking guy? If it were him, Frank’s evil brain demon corrects. Frank prays to whatever might be out there, to the universe and to every deity he can name, to let it be from him. 

“I think- I don't know if it was him, but- I think he slipped his number into my back pocket,” he rushes into the phone, his brain already whirling with possibilities. 

No one else touched his ass except for him. No one had been close enough to slip the note into his pocket. It has to be from him. That little nugget of information has Frank vibrating. 

“Dude,” Ray gasps, sounding just as stunned as Frank. “You've got to text him and-”

“I don't know if it's him, Ray,” Frank interrupts before he can let the other man get his hopes up. God, he fucking hopes it’s from him. 

“That's when you find out, Frankie.” 

“I'm not doing this again,” Frank decides, regretting his choice of words when Ray sighs. The sneaky tendrils of doubt have planted themselves deep in him. 

“Frank-”

“No. I'm tired of getting too invested and freaking the other person out. I'm done,” he says. Frank stares down at the paper, willing it to burst into flames along with the memories that are seared into his brain. 

“You do whatever you want, man. The only thing I'll say is that this dude choked you out, and you, being the pervert you are, had a great time. This guy could be good for you.” Ray, forever the optimist with a heart of gold, always knows what to say. 

Frank thinks about it, like really thinks so much it hurts his brain. He did have a great time, a life-changing, fantastic time even. 

“I'll give it a couple of days,” he concedes quietly. He opens the table drawer and tosses the note inside, intent on forgetting about its existence and ignoring the way he can hear Ray smiling through the phone. 

The note in question burns a hole in the drawer for a week. Every time he gets home from work or even just walks past it, Frank swears he can feel the heat radiating from the furniture. Even Lois can feel it, but Frank would rather her judging eyes be anywhere else as he sits on the sofa staring at the table. 

It had been a hard week. Between getting yelled at by a parent for teaching their kid how to play a queer song, his shitbox of a car finally taking its last breath, and general mind-numbing loneliness, Frank's week had been less than ideal by anyone's standard. 

That's how he finds himself on a Friday night, pulling on the same low-waisted jeans and tight shirt to seduce some boring guy into fucking him into the mattress. If the hope of him being at the club was fuelling him, he isn't going to voice that out loud. 

He plants himself on the sofa to wrestle with a pair of Docs when his eyes land on the dreaded drawer that has haunted his dreams. Before he can overthink it, Frank rips open the drawer to grab the note and unfold it.

The paper is as thick and expensive as the first time he pulled it out of his pocket. Lois huffs when he just stands there, holding the paper in his hand, running his fingers over the bat's. 

“Oh, be quiet,” Frank grumbles to her, scratching her lightly behind the ears. 

Frank takes a breath and grabs his phone. His body and brain fight against each other, one remembering the way he felt in the club, the lights and the pleasure that coursed through him. The other is saturated in thoughts of disappointment and piecing together an imaginary future where this ends the same way all of Frank's other relationships have ended. 

Self-destructive tendencies be fucking damned.

He opens a contact and adds the number. That's where his confidence ends, apparently, deflating so fast it gives him whiplash. Frank tosses his phone and groans into his hands. Nothing to fuel a night out like feeling pathetic and desperate. 

“Fucking loser,” he groans to himself as he pushes himself off the sofa, leaving his phone behind, and promptly leaves the apartment before he can convince himself it's a bad idea. 

The second he gets to the club, he already wants to leave, but the horny monster in his head has him pushing through the crowd.

Music rumbles in his chest, eyes peeled for black hair and pale hands. A goth shouldn't be hard to find in a crowd of bright colours and glitter, but fuck, Frank's eyes blur from the overstimulation. 

He dances in his own uncoordinated way. Rolling his hips and moving his body to the bass until someone taps him on the shoulder. The man is not his type, in any sense of the word, tan skin with large muscles that ripple when they move together, and classically handsome, but Frank's middle name is desperation.  

They're a mirror image of the last time he was here. His ass pressed against the stranger's crotch, hips moving seductively as he put on a show, baring his neck, moaning low and sweet in his throat. The only difference is the absence of soft flesh around their waist and the hand that stays firmly on his middle. 

“So hot, honey,” the stranger whispers in his ear. The hot breath ghosts his ear and makes Frank cringe. “I'll show you a good time.”

He's not having a good time, but still presses his hand over the stranger's in an attempt to bring it higher. Fingers brush over his chest in a way that should have Frank's dick hardening, but the touch leaves a gross taste in his mouth. The second their hands are brought to Frank's neck, the man jerks away from him as if his intention had electrocuted him. 

“What the fuck?” Frank shouts at the stunned man, who can only scoff and shake his head before he pushes away from Frank. 

“Fucking freak.” It could've been the man or Frank's brain demon who says it under their breath, but he's too pissed to care. 

Frank tries hard not to let his eyes cloud with frustrated tears, but he's only a man. Instead of going home defeated and angry, he plants himself at the bar and lets people buy him drinks until he loses track of time. 

The thought comes to him that maybe he shouldn't have been trying to recreate their encounter, that he should just let it go, or go home to text that number and pray to whoever is listening that it's his pervert. 

Frank leaves after too many drinks and not enough sightings of dark hair and wide chests. He's drunk. The type of intoxicated that has him almost braining himself on the corner of the dresser when he attempts to pull his shoes off.

Quiet stillness makes his apartment feel like an Ikea floor model, and he hates it with so much passion. The drop of his boots echoes off the walls before he switches on the TV, filling the silence with trash reality TV. 

The phone is right where he left it, tossed aside on the sofa, and he sticks his finger up at it, intent on ignoring it before he remembers that this man might have ruined all of his encounters, leaving Frank craving their touch. 

“Stupid fucking perverted fuck,” he slurs venomously and leans on the wall to finally rid himself of the shoes. 

Lois lies on the sofa, judging him with her beady little eyes right next to the phone. He grabs it, drunk confidence thrumming through him as he opens a new chat with his newest added contact. 

He's horny, and sad, and of course, desperate. Frank takes a moment to genuinely pray and apologise for all the devilish things he's done in his life, but to please, please, let this number lead him to a man who will tie him down and play with him until he can't breathe. 

Frnkiero (22:46): Is this the dude that jerked me off in the club? 

Classy, real classy. Frank cringes at himself, and leaves the phone face down on the sofa as he potters through his apartment. The skin on his thumb starts to bleed with the way he chews on it, ears perked like a dog for the distant vibration of his phone. 

He's drunk, and that's when the brain demon likes to wiggle its way out of its confines. That's what Frank will blame, his drunken state and the demon, for how unfiltered that message is. 

Minutes that could be hours with the way his brain has checked out, the buzz does come. Frank throws himself over the back of the couch to grab at the phone, only to be disappointed when the message is from Mikey, something about his older brother getting into New Jersey and staying with him for a while. Frank couldn't give a single fuck. 

He nearly throws the device at the wall, but he also really wants his security deposit back, so he clenches the phone in his hand so hard it would crack if it weren't an indestructible brick. The phone buzzes again as he goes to put it down, and Frank's eyes almost bulge out of his head, his entire body jerking in reaction. 

973-508-1397 (22:58): Hey, pretty boy, I was waiting for you. 

Holy fucking shit.