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Gerard's always lived there, in a suburb at the edge of the desert, where the Ultimate Fighting arena was built the year before he was born. He never moved away. Never wanted to. Fight Night's in his bones. The one time his parents took him to Disneyland, he couldn't fall asleep at night because the far-off noises and lights were all wrong. The thick, satisfying thudding of metal in the distance is woven into the fabric of who he is. He's pretty sure he was conceived in the stands of the arena to the lights and the sirens and the sound of the robots shattering.

Fight Night's called Fuck Night in the local parlance. Mostly by teenage losers like Gerard used to be, but yeah, it's a name. Gerard knows a person, the only one he knows who didn't ditch school as soon as they could, who wrote some paper for college on the Fuck Night phenomenon, even.

It's some multilayered shit. Like. Remember when you were in high school and it was Fight Night, and how you invited your girlfriend over and fingered her in front of the TV in your room? And how, even with the door open as per the house rules, the 'rents couldn't see or hear anything 'cause their asses were parked in front of the TV in the living room and the roar of the crowd and the slamming of metal against metal like the most kickass movie car crash covered up your girlfriend's moans?

That's one thing. The other thing's that there's actual Fuck Night porn for when you're alone but wanna come anyway, 'cause you've got a libido just like most people. That was Gerard back when he was a horny, surly teenage punk in his black-painted bedroom. He didn't have a girl to finger or eat out because he was too busy pretending like he didn't wanna be on his knees with his mouth full of UFC fighter cock. He just jacked off watching Fight Night with Fuck Night porn running simultaneously on his laptop.

Top-notch Fuck Night porn, too, none of that amateur shit; the ones with look-alike actors and dozens of filthy-hot plots to get off to. Gerard's favorite was Scorecard Girl Gets Boned III. That one's still popular 'cause the music doesn't suck and the production values are great, and so's the full-lipped brunette scorecard girl with globular tits and a tight ass in the shortest dress on god's green earth who sucks both fighters and gets punishfucked with the announcer's massive strap-on for distracting them during the fight. Yeah, you know the one. Gerard's cock got so fucking chafed jacking it to that video - so he likes friction, fucking sue him - but it was worth every moment.

(And then his asshole hacker of a little brother replaced his perfectly healthy, satisfactory Fuck Night porn full of subby girls and leather announcers of various genders with the same type of porn, only gay. Gerard cursed him for the dickwad that he was, uncomfortably watching the leather daddy announcer give it to both fighters and then again to the loser until the loser begged and cried.

Gerard firmly sat on his hands the entire time, and then went to bed and aggressively humped the mattress three times, pretending he was a fighter who was going places but lost a fight - 'cause you just lost fights sometimes; it was inevitable - and the winner and announcer and skinny cold-faced dudes from the VIP booth were jacking off on his ass, streaking it with come and calling him a n00b who didn't deserve to have their cocks inside him. He couldn't think of anything more humiliating.)

(The next morning Gerard sucked it up and bought the straight porn all over again. He didn’t delete the gay stuff, though. He moved that to a different folder, for when he was ready.)

So that's Fuck Night too. It's the kind of thing Gerard never talks about with his other fighthead friends or Meowington enthusiasts, but it's all in that college paper, the universal experience of sitting in front of a laptop blaring Fuck Night sex noises with your dick upright like it wanted to watch the porn too. It's a beautiful, shameful memory.

And there's another thing about Fuck Night, the only one that's really real. The one that counts, 'cause nothing you did in your teens counts for much, right?

The real one's when you get older and finally don't need permission from your mama and daddy to go to the fighting arena. 'Cause you do what you fuckin' want. You're legal. And metal slams against metal like a movie car crash, but even more kickass because it's fucking right in front of you. And the adrenaline starts pumping and then the clothes come off and you just gotta get your face between some babe's legs. 'Cause that sound makes you remember how you were a desperately horny teenage punk. And you're still desperately horny and kind of a punk, even though you're a few years older now and probably could manage not to come in your pants as soon as you got your head under a skirt.

Here, individual experiences vary too. Some wanna suck dick. Some can't get anyone to get off. But it's all more or less the same. Bright flood lights and bodies, so many bodies casting shadows, robots casting shadows, the blue-green flickering of cats around the perimeter, and sex in the air.

Gerard didn't have a girlfriend when he started going to the fights either, but he watched the fucking out of the corner of his eye happen to other people. Other skinny punk kids who were no better than him and were in some cases much younger pulled hot tail in miniskirts and ripped black t-shirts and pixy stix-colored hair. That's how he knew he had to fight to get what he wanted, 'cause no one wanted him without that.

And now he's, like, twenty-five and a hotshot fighter with a number in his name and a solid, double-digit number number of dudes and chicks, and the skinny dude with cold eyes in the seat opposite him just punched out his mouse cold. Gerard's dick practically makes a sproing noise even as the rest of Gerard wants to run up to his piece of shit mouse that crapped out on him and has the gall to lie on the ground like a slain goddamn warrior and kick it until his feet bleed.

'Course, then Deadmau5-call-me-Joel's mouse craps out too and crashes down, and glass crashes everywhere - down, up, and sideways - and everyone screams, and Gerard has other things to worry about than his boner.

When he comes to, there are sirens blaring and the arena's mostly cleared of dead mouse. Gerard pushes up on his hands and immediately bounds back onto his knees and then his feet because the giant ragged strips of red-painted metal may be gone but there's still glass all over the floor.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," he mutters, picking out a piece of glass out of his palm. He kind of needs his hands to be whole. The cuts look shallow for the most part, and Gerard takes a deep breath and stands up. His head's pounding. Motherfucker.

"Motherfucker," Joel groans from a few feet away.

Gerard grits his teeth and slams him against his mangled chair. A member of the clean-up crew gives them a once-over but turns away. Clearly if they're fighting they're well enough to not waste resources on. "What the fuck kind of show are you running, freakazoid? What the fuck was that?"

Joel shoves him away and bares his teeth. "Fuck you."

"Yeah, I don't think so." Gerard kicks the overturned chair, imagining it's his useless collapsed robot. "Fuck."

"Come off it, Gee-three-rard, no one likes a sore loser."

Gerard knows he didn't really lose. No matter how crushed he was at the time, Gerard's not an idiot about fighting. He knows when a mouse is punched out in a way that blows out its circuits and receivers and when there's a fishy malfunction, and that was definitely a fishy malfunction. An investigation-worthy malfunction.

Still, he's pissed off. "You know what? Fuck off." Gerard squeezes his hands into fists and howls in pain. "Fuck."

"Your vocabulary could use some work," Joel comments. He puts his hands on his knees and coughs, loud hacking and wheezing noises. "We gotta replace the asbestos in those mice with something else."

"You're a shitty-ass comedian." Gerard sighs, the anger draining out of him. "Bet the med station got smashed."

Joel looks at him. He doesn't look quite so cold now. He's rattled. That knocked you down to earth, Gerard thinks with satisfaction. "My trailer's parked nearby. I have band-aids."

Gerard doesn't really believe him about the band-aids, but he follows him anyway, out of a half-acknowledged desire to have company while trying to untense. Turns out, Joel really does have them, and what's more, they're glow-in-the-dark and have Meowingtons printed on them. Gerard rolls his eyes for show, even through secretly he thinks they're pretty awesome, and sticks him all over his palms, feeling like a little kid. They don't stick well and he can't open and close his hands without the band-aids shifting, but at least he's not scraping his wounds against his dirty jacket.

Cleaned-up, Gerard looks around, avoiding Joel's slouched form. It's a piece of shit trailer, nothing interesting about it. He kinda figured a rock star fighter would have better digs, even if he doesn't spend more than a few hours in it per match. Kinda dirty carpet. A Meowington cat licking its paw with its chain-link tongue on a table, its eyes looking blue and smug straight at Gerard, extra-freaky-cool in its shabby surroundings. There's a TV in a corner and some disc cases. Familiar-looking ones.

"Post-Fuck Night viewing, huh?" he asks Joel snidely, but Joel just smirks.

"You should hear the rumors about yourself before you rag on my porn collection, Gee-three, baby."

Gerard's insides go hot at Joel's tone, and he turns away, to the door. "You don't know anything about me."

Joel steps up quick as anything, breathing into the back of Gerard's neck and squeezing the muscle where it joins his right shoulder. Gerard goes limp automatically like he's a fucking combat robot and Joel just hit the right control. He shakes it off. "Fuck off."

Joel steps closer. "No, I don't think so. Put your hands on the door."

Gerard keeps them down. "You're fucking quick to give orders."

"C'mon, I know you wanna fuck. You've fucked your way through every match you've been in. Don't tell me I'm an exception."

"Fuck off."

Joel snakes his hand around and squeezes Gerard's dick. It's already more than half-hard, and Gerard hisses and his knees buckle. He feels his asshole tighten and he wants to drop on all fours and bow his head. Fuckin' post-fight adrenaline. Fuckin' post-terror adrenaline.

"Yeah, I thought so," Joel says, stepping back. "As long as it's not me, my ego is safe."

Gerard presses his lips together and opens the door. From here, the fallen mice look like giant gleaming boulders lousy with rock climbers, if rock climbers tried to take mountains apart and move them.

He sees a flash of green-blue, then another. Meowingtons scaling the robots. "Weird," he says out loud. And then he thinks, where's he going to go? Does he have anything better to do?

Behind him, Joel chuckles, seeing Gerard's indecision like he's said what he thought out loud. "You sure you don't want a fuck? I happen to be really well-informed about what you like. Well. Everyone is."

Gerard's stomach goes hot and tight at the thought. "Fine."

"Okey doke. Leave the door open."

Joel flicks on the light in the trailer. Gerard winces. It's bright, brighter even than the arena had been because it's such a small space. "The fuck?"

"Jesus, Three-Gee, is that the only fucking word in your vocabulary?" asks Joel wearily, and then his voice changes. "You're the UFC pretty boy. All of them out there have got posters of your pretty mouth in their rooms. Everyone who sees you sucking my cock will know it's you just by your stupid hair. So leave the fuckin' door open and get on your knees like I tell you. In profile. Give 'em a show."

Joel puts his hand heavily on Gerard's shoulder again and pushes down. Gerard hates the inexorable weight of it, but it makes him blind with lust too, and he drops to his knees. Out of the corner of his eye he sees the cat jump from the table to the door. He closes his eyes, because the cat's eyes and joints are so bright. He doesn't know if it's a model that records video and he's honestly not sure which he would prefer.

"Come on, pretty baby loser, make 'em all a pretty cocksucking picture," Joel mutters, staring down at him with cold eyes, his pupils blown.

Gerard snarls at him and Joel sticks three fingers into his mouth. They taste like metal and grime, like Fight Night before the sex starts, and Gerard gags and slurps around them 'cause it's a reflex at this point.

"I know you want your ass plowed," says Joel, unbuckling his belt and pulling down his zipper with one hand, "but I have places to be, so it's gotta be your mouth. Open up, buttercup."

Gerard glares at him even as his stomach churns at the sight of jeans sliding down hips and hard cock in underwear, and then Joel pulls out his cock, thick and dark with blood, and grips it at the base. He shoves his fingers deep into Gerard's mouth and then pulls them out, twines his hand in Gerard's hair and pulls, the sharp stinging pain making Gerard's eyes water.

Gerard's mouth feels tender and swollen already, and it's only gonna get better. Joel smacks his cheek with his dick and Gerard tries to catch his cock in his mouth, and that's reflex too.

Joel laughs under his breath and smacks his face with his dick a few more times with wet, obscene-sound smacks, until Gerard's eyes roll back in his head. He slumps back as far as Joel's hand in his hair will allow and takes it all, cheeks stinging from humiliation, and then Joel pushes into Gerard's mouth with his cock that tastes sweaty and bitter and tells him to suck, and Gerard sucks.

"Hope everyone sees you here on your knees, baby," says Joel and pulls out. Gerard whines, chasing Joel's cock with his mouth and then gasps when Joel jerks his head back and keeps it in place. Gerard looks out of the corner of his eye, chest going tight at the dark wide-open rectangle of the door and the vast openness of the desert and downed metal witnessing his cocksucking exploits, but if anyone's there, they're concealed by the darkness.

"It's cool," says Joel, gasping raggedly and jacking his dick right in front of Gerard's face. "If anyone sees, you can just tell 'em you were such a whore 'cause you were glad to be alive."

Gerard's mouth falls open and he runs his tongue over his lips. His eyes track the blurred movement of his hand, the shocking slickness of Joel's dick. He's gonna shoot in Gerard's fucking eyes if Gerard's not careful. That makes Gerard whine and reach into his pants, fumbling for his own cock, and Joel laughs breathlessly and nudges his hands away with his boot. "Nope. Pay attention when I'm coming on your face."

Gerard holds his arms out to his sides and whines, "Please, please," and Joel winds his hand tighter in Gerard's hair and keeps it in place right in front of his dick, and Gerard manages to close his eyes just as the first splashes of hot spunk stripe his cheeks and mouth and drip down to his chin.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Joel pants. "Clean me up, asshole," and Gerard sticks his tongue out obediently and laps up the come running down Joel's cock.

Joel shoves Gerard's head back and lets go with a satisfied sigh. Gerard's dick is so fucking hard, but he's not allowed to jerk off so he's not going to. He'll hump the mattress like old times.

"Fuck," Gerard says hoarsely, feeling around the edges of his voice. "What the fuck." He blinks his eyes open. The cat's glowing somewhere at the perimeter of his vision and his eyelashes are stuck together and clumpy. He hopes it's not come. It probably is.

Joel's sprawled in a chair panting and running his fingers over his soft dick with his eyes trained on Gerard. "You can stay there if you really need to get fucked. Give me half an hour."

Gerard scowls and gets on his feet. "Fuck off, I'm leaving. Don't tell anyone about this."

Joel giggles, for real giggles, and Gerard glares at him and leaves, stumbling awkwardly, his boner heavy between his legs and the best kind of dirty feeling flooding his body. He skirts the metal wreckage and makes his way to the VIP parking lot where his car's parked and gets off in the driver's seat, wincing at the band-aids sliding and scraping over his dick.

Next time he's up against Deadmau5-call-me-Joel, he'll win, and it'll be even sweeter, getting fucked in the ass by the loser.

Fuck Night. Fuck yeah. He's never moving.