(no subject)
so, idktbh is having this contest where if you make an awesome manip or icon, she'll go through all of them and whichever she likes best gets first prize of a piece of art, and a handful of icons. the problem being, i don't do manips or icons. so i asked her, if i write you 15 drabbles, can i get a piece of art? to which she said sure! so i spent the day writing drabbles based on some of her sexy gerard photos.
I'D LIKE TO NOTE HERE BEFORE ANYONE GETS UPPITY, THAT I HAVE NO IDEA WHERE IN THE TIMELINE MOST OF THESE PICTURES OCCUR, AND I REALLY DON'T CARE. THEY'RE JUST SHAGGING ANYWAY. ALL DRABBLES ARE MERELY INSPIRED BY THE GERARD IN THE PHOTO, I DON'T CARE ABOUT CANON. IGNORE ALL 'THE WIVES WOULD BE AROUND BY NOW' PLEASE.
also, 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.
Post part one: Gerard has sex with various combinations of MCR
GSF
Gerard takes a single sip, then barely stops himself from bursting into laughter. They’re being filmed, it would be a bad thing to get hysterical. He bites the insides of his cheeks and manages to tone himself down into a slight smirk. It’s not good, but it’s better than falling to the ground laughing.
He should have known, is the thing. Frank doesn’t often make idle threats. Well he does, in that screaming ‘I’m gonna cut you in half with a coin, Bob!’ doesn’t ever actually happen. But when Frank threatens someone, no matter how ridiculous his starting premise is, the person knows that eventually shit will go down. Like Frank throwing all Bob’s porn out the window.
Last night they were all fucking in the lounge. Bob was fucking Mikey, Gerard was fucking Bob, Ray was fucking Frank. It was going great, until someone decided to bang on the tour bus door. Almost everyone having come, they’d quickly gathered their clothes and sprawled around the bus so as to not look suspicious, Bob getting the door. Frank, the only one having not climaxed, swore bloody vengeance.
And now they’re being interviewed, and Gerard has no fucking clue his he’s managed it, but the little dixie cup of coffee in his hand tastes like Frank’s come. He can barely hold in his laughter, he wants to hug the devious, deviant little fucker. Judging by the way Ray is staring into his cup like it’s a crystal ball, he’s noticed too. It’s impossible to judge Mikey’s flat face, and Bob is too far down the line for Gerard to see. Frank, who’s curled so he partly facing the rest of the band, like a giant J on stage, is grinning maniacally. Nothing that the crowd wouldn’t expect of Iero. Really, this is something he should have expected too.
Sometimes it sucks being on tour. There are all the obvious things, difficulty sleeping, too much fast food, not enough space to chill. But the one that really gets to Gerard sometimes is holidays. The others can be solved with sex. If he can’t sleep he can wake up Mikey or Bob and they’ll sixty nine with him. If he’s not happy about McDonalds for the fifth day in a row, Frank will smear organic smooth peanut butter on his cock and have Gerard blow him. And when it’s all five of them together they can take up the entire lounge and it still doesn’t seem like enough people are touching him, like he’s close enough to everyone.
But holidays are different. Whenever they’re on the road and a holiday rolls around, all he wants is to be at home. It’s Halloween and Gerard wants to give out candy to toddlers dressed as pumpkins or dinosaurs, laugh at eighteen year olds and tell them to get the fuck off his porch. It’s Christmas and Gerard wants to be stepping on fallen pine needles as he goes for the coffee pot. It’s Boxing day and Gerard wants to be awake and in front of a Best Buy at three am, waiting, shivering, so he can get his ninety nine cent DVD player. It’s New Years, and he wants to be in a crowd of people, watching fireworks go off.
It’s Valentine’s day, and he goes to breakfast before the rest of them are awake. He wants to pout, and it’s hard to do that looking at the way Ray’s hair is mashed to his face in the morning. After a quiet and sullen plate of scrambled eggs he comes back to his bunk to see four ridiculous teddy bears. A white kitten with a heart shaped nose, a super-fluffy red teddy, a massive brown bear the size of a backpack with a little green pillow declaring him Beary Lovable, and a tiny elephant smaller than his cellphone, with it’s trunk wired and posable, and currently formed into a heart.
He loves his boys. He turns his back on the display and runs in the direction of catering. If he talks sweetly, maybe he can borrow a knife and cut some pancakes or an omelet into heart shaped pieces, and they can have a lovely breakfast in bed. Beds, whatever.
Their boyfriend/frontman is a fucking tease. It’s driving Frank fucking insane, and each time he looks over and sees Gerard grabbing his package or licking his fingers or shoving his entire microphone down his throat he gets harder. And every time he gets harder he plays a bit more frantically, he gets a bit more manic in his stage antics. He runs to Mikey and rubs himself back to back against him. He jumps on Bob’s shit and jumps off again. He hipchecks Ray.
Frank twirls around with his guitar. He wants to fuck everyone on the stage with him. He wants to fuck them all on stage. He wants a thousand screaming fans to watch as he lets Mikey and Gerard DP him. He wants them to all cheer as he sucks Bob’s cock. He wants them to cry as he licks Ray from head to toe before rimming him. God, he wants to fucking come, and he wants all four of them to come all over him.
Instead he has to make do with his imaginings, and a few shoves and sharp body parts. Nothing will happen until they get away from backstage. Hell, if Ray’s feeling picky again, nothing will happen until they all have a shower. Frank glances at Gerard. He’s got the mike right against his lips, it couldn’t be any more phallic, and he’s thrusting into the air like he’s frotting with the wind. Fucking tease.
Threesomes
Of course his hands are tied behind his back. Frank and Mikey always do this to him. Gerard likes to deny that he has sensory deprivation as a kink, but they both think he does, and it’s hard to go against what your lovers think of you.
Sometimes they take away smell. He’ll come home and the apartment will be stunningly empty of scents. They’ll have smoked their bowls with their heads out the window, blowing all the thick smoke into the air. There won’t be anything cooking, and Frank won’t have any of his candles burning -it started as a joke, Bob said every gay man had to have scented candles, Frank had pitched a manly fit, and now every time they go on tour Bob gets him a scented candle in each state. They go home with bags full of the stupid wax pillars.- so the room isn’t rose or forest or lemon. Mikey won’t even use the cherry lube as he’s opening himself up.
Sometimes they take away taste. Gerard hates those days. Not being able to kiss is hell. He also doesn’t like that he can’t suck either of them off. Sucking cock is one of his favourite pastimes.
Sometimes it’s hearing. It doesn’t affect the sex too much. Gerard thinks he probably looks ridiculous as Mikey is pounding into him, sound-cancelling headphones big and clunky on his head. But Mikey isn’t very vocal in bed, so he’s not missing much. And while Frank is extremely vocal, when they do this he’s determined and seeks outside help. Gerard loves the way Frankie looks, mouth stretched wide around a gag.
Sometimes it’s sight. There’s just something about not knowing who is going to touch him next that makes Gerard arch into every caress, every lick, every bite.
And sometimes it’s touch. Gerard will get home and they’ll cross his arms behind his back, making sure that the cord winds around the sleeves, not his skin. He’ll have to lean against a wall, or sit in a chair, and watch the way his lovers grind and move with and against each other, without touching them or himself.
Tonight he’s in a suit, trousers too tight against him as he gets hard watching Mikey lick a long stripe between Frank’s ass and balls. He’s making his arms numb, leaning on them as he leans against the wall. He’s dying to come, but knows he won’t get to until they’ve decided it’s his time. He needs, and he doesn’t get, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.
Gerard/Frank
Frank laughs, steps back a bit to take in the entire look. “Wow, they really went with the sex concept today, didn’t they?”
Gerard glances down at himself briefly. He doesn’t need to, he had to okay the pictures before they could be sent anywhere. Five hundred pictures of him looking nearly identical except for different stares and expression. He doesn’t see it. “What?”
“Seriously?” Frank smirks. “Well, they’ve got the choke me please tie” he starts before taking the end of the red checked material and pulling Gerard forward for a kiss. Even giving in to Frank’s tug, the fabric is slightly too tight around his neck, making it harder to breath. It adds a dimension to having his mouth covered by Frank’s, tongue gliding against his.
“And they’ve got the school boy uniform dress shirt, which just demands someone older and rougher ravish you,” Frank murmurs when he pulls away from the kiss. It’s not the point to say he’s older than Frank, not when his hand is curved around the bulge of his pants. He strokes Gerard outside his pants for a minute, then quickly opens the zipper and pushes his hand into his underwear. Gerard jerks into the touch.
“Then you’ve got the jacket with the ‘fuck me’ handles” Frank is pushing him to his knees, fingers loosely curled around the straps on the shoulder. Gerard reaches to undo Frank’s jeans and shove them to his knees. His cock is eye level, hard and wet at the tip.
“And the entire look is topped off with your messy, post blowjob hair.”
Gerard looks up at Frank and smirks. “But I didn’t blow anyone!” he protests, voice laced with innocence.
“Well, maybe you should get on that. Make progress.” Frank’s hands are still on his shoulders as Gerard takes his first lick. He thinks he’ll keep the jacket.
Gerard groans when he finds the picture of him going out for a smoke. It’s not as bad as some of the candids he’s found of himself. Before he sobered up he’d be emailed wildly, pathetically drunk pictures almost every day. Not that it had ever occurred to him to be embarrassed of them. It was the price you paid for living the life.
Though, the same could be said for this. Thanks to Frank he’s getting what he needs. If the only payment is getting photographed in Position Three, it’s worth it.
It comes unconsciously at this point. He’s so used to those cool metal cuffs sliding around his wrists that his arms automatically come together whenever he’s not thinking about how he should stand. They hurt more than the leather ones. Franks knows it, and he uses them anyway, and Gerard loves him for it. It’s just like when he has to kneel; his chin drops down to his neck and his hands meet behind his back - Position One. Position Two is the only one unlikely to happen in front of others, there’s not much call for Gerard to be on his hands and knees with his mouth open.
He pauses for a moment and clicks exit. He’s not going to be embarrassed about this. Nobody knows what it means, no fan is going to look at his wrists and think they should be locked together. And even if they do, he loves Frank and Frank loves him, and there’s no shame in it.
Gerard shifts again. He’s not sure what’s stronger right now, his lust for Frank, or his hatred for him. It’s a good thing Frank’s staying away, as there’s a fifty fifty chance of murder in the forcast for today. Or rather, it’s a good thing Frank ordered him to stay away. All he said was ‘don’t go to any of our rooms’, but Gerard’s well aware of what will happen if he doesn’t. So he’s been sitting in the lobby for the last two hours, listening to his ipod, hating and wanting.
When his ipod dies he puts it on the table in front of him, white wood with gilded gold edges. The charger is of course in his room, and he can’t get it. He could text one of the guys and ask him to bring it down, but that will lead to questions they will highly enjoy asking and Gerard strongly wants to avoid answering. He thought that at least Mikey wouldn’t want to know details of his brother’s sex life, but even he asks with the slightest of smirks. The only explanation for it is Mikey’s got less morals than he does.
Another guest comes into the lobby and Gerard gives for the nearest newspaper. He opens it wide and covers his lap. He’s in fucking Norway, he can’t understand a damn word. Hell, they don’t even have all the same letters English does. But it covers his cock, hard against the layers of fabric protecting it from the world. It wouldn’t do to make the eighty year old woman have a heart attack because some goth rockstar wants to get off in the middle of a hotel.
Every time he moves, he can feel the toy move with him. Inside him. Fucking Frank, what kind of bastard brings buttplugs on an international tour?
Gerard/Bob and Gerard/Ray
Bob’s the only one that gets it. Hell, even Gerard didn’t get it for awhile, and it’s his thing. Part of him just thought he was taking the interest in vampires to ridiculous and pathetic heights. But drunken European conversations with Bob have shown him that with basically anything that one person is into, there are a group of people on the internet that are into it.
They can’t do it on the bus, obviously. Shit, they can’t even shave off stubble on a moving bus. Mikey pretty much tests the boundaries of professional grooming when he tries to sculpt his hair with his flat iron and mass amounts of spray. Nothing with knives is remotely possible while hurtling down a highway at ninety miles an hour.
Even when they’re parked, the bus isn’t possible. At any point someone might come in. There’s a dozen different reasons, Mikey with food from catering that he doesn’t want to eat under a sun that’s beating down on him, or Ray with a friend to chill with. They can’t afford to bloody the sheets on the tour bus, it’s unlikely they’d be able to stop at a Walmart at three am to get more. And there’s very little room to maneuver.
So, in the end, it all comes down to hotel nights. Nights where he and Mikey take one key, Bob and Frank and Ray the other, but Mikey disappears and shortly after Bob comes in. He never says thank you to Mikey, because he knows he doesn’t have to. Gerard lies flat on the bed, carefully not moving as Bob draws his sharp lines across Gerard’s chest, legs, arms. Each one stings, like what he’d imagine a tattoo would feel like. The difference is, he only feels comfortable revealing his to Bob, where as Frank shows off to everyone.
It doesn’t matter if the sheets are stained in the morning. Between the simple act itself, and Gerard writhing as Bob fucks him afterward, and from laying on his side so Bob can wrap one of his arms around him, they always are. He’s not sure which action causes it, he’s not sure it matters. He doesn’t thank Bob either. He doesn’t have to.
Gerard considers himself to be waiting patiently. It doesn’t seem to be the general consensus of the band. Frank and Mikey are whispering to each other, and God knows that can never be a good thing, especially when the occasional snicker or giggle comes through the almost noiseless rustle of their speech. Bob is juggling crumpled balls of paper, and each time he drops one he chucks it as hard as he can at Gerard. Basically, all three of them are saying, without saying it to him, that he’s being a fucking spaz.
The problem with silent accusations that that if you verbally defend yourself, you make your case a hundred times weaker. It’s like a person at an asylum screaming he’s not crazy at a guard. So Gerard says nothing, just props himself on the soundboard and tries to not adjust any of the dials with his ass.
It’s not his fault anyway. Mikey and Frank and Bob should all know that, he doesn’t know why they’re acting like they don’t. It was their fault this morning, not letting him and Ray linger in the car for a morning handjob. And it’s Ray’s fault now. The entire fucking day Ray’s been saying ‘just let me get this one riff down, and then we can take a break’. While Gerard appreciates the creativity bursting from his boyfriend right now, he’s been waiting on his break for three hours.
He squirms on the soundboard and doesn’t flinch as another ball of paper hits him in the eyebrow.
I'D LIKE TO NOTE HERE BEFORE ANYONE GETS UPPITY, THAT I HAVE NO IDEA WHERE IN THE TIMELINE MOST OF THESE PICTURES OCCUR, AND I REALLY DON'T CARE. THEY'RE JUST SHAGGING ANYWAY. ALL DRABBLES ARE MERELY INSPIRED BY THE GERARD IN THE PHOTO, I DON'T CARE ABOUT CANON. IGNORE ALL 'THE WIVES WOULD BE AROUND BY NOW' PLEASE.
also, 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.
Post part one: Gerard has sex with various combinations of MCR
GSF
Gerard takes a single sip, then barely stops himself from bursting into laughter. They’re being filmed, it would be a bad thing to get hysterical. He bites the insides of his cheeks and manages to tone himself down into a slight smirk. It’s not good, but it’s better than falling to the ground laughing.
He should have known, is the thing. Frank doesn’t often make idle threats. Well he does, in that screaming ‘I’m gonna cut you in half with a coin, Bob!’ doesn’t ever actually happen. But when Frank threatens someone, no matter how ridiculous his starting premise is, the person knows that eventually shit will go down. Like Frank throwing all Bob’s porn out the window.
Last night they were all fucking in the lounge. Bob was fucking Mikey, Gerard was fucking Bob, Ray was fucking Frank. It was going great, until someone decided to bang on the tour bus door. Almost everyone having come, they’d quickly gathered their clothes and sprawled around the bus so as to not look suspicious, Bob getting the door. Frank, the only one having not climaxed, swore bloody vengeance.
And now they’re being interviewed, and Gerard has no fucking clue his he’s managed it, but the little dixie cup of coffee in his hand tastes like Frank’s come. He can barely hold in his laughter, he wants to hug the devious, deviant little fucker. Judging by the way Ray is staring into his cup like it’s a crystal ball, he’s noticed too. It’s impossible to judge Mikey’s flat face, and Bob is too far down the line for Gerard to see. Frank, who’s curled so he partly facing the rest of the band, like a giant J on stage, is grinning maniacally. Nothing that the crowd wouldn’t expect of Iero. Really, this is something he should have expected too.
Sometimes it sucks being on tour. There are all the obvious things, difficulty sleeping, too much fast food, not enough space to chill. But the one that really gets to Gerard sometimes is holidays. The others can be solved with sex. If he can’t sleep he can wake up Mikey or Bob and they’ll sixty nine with him. If he’s not happy about McDonalds for the fifth day in a row, Frank will smear organic smooth peanut butter on his cock and have Gerard blow him. And when it’s all five of them together they can take up the entire lounge and it still doesn’t seem like enough people are touching him, like he’s close enough to everyone.
But holidays are different. Whenever they’re on the road and a holiday rolls around, all he wants is to be at home. It’s Halloween and Gerard wants to give out candy to toddlers dressed as pumpkins or dinosaurs, laugh at eighteen year olds and tell them to get the fuck off his porch. It’s Christmas and Gerard wants to be stepping on fallen pine needles as he goes for the coffee pot. It’s Boxing day and Gerard wants to be awake and in front of a Best Buy at three am, waiting, shivering, so he can get his ninety nine cent DVD player. It’s New Years, and he wants to be in a crowd of people, watching fireworks go off.
It’s Valentine’s day, and he goes to breakfast before the rest of them are awake. He wants to pout, and it’s hard to do that looking at the way Ray’s hair is mashed to his face in the morning. After a quiet and sullen plate of scrambled eggs he comes back to his bunk to see four ridiculous teddy bears. A white kitten with a heart shaped nose, a super-fluffy red teddy, a massive brown bear the size of a backpack with a little green pillow declaring him Beary Lovable, and a tiny elephant smaller than his cellphone, with it’s trunk wired and posable, and currently formed into a heart.
He loves his boys. He turns his back on the display and runs in the direction of catering. If he talks sweetly, maybe he can borrow a knife and cut some pancakes or an omelet into heart shaped pieces, and they can have a lovely breakfast in bed. Beds, whatever.
Their boyfriend/frontman is a fucking tease. It’s driving Frank fucking insane, and each time he looks over and sees Gerard grabbing his package or licking his fingers or shoving his entire microphone down his throat he gets harder. And every time he gets harder he plays a bit more frantically, he gets a bit more manic in his stage antics. He runs to Mikey and rubs himself back to back against him. He jumps on Bob’s shit and jumps off again. He hipchecks Ray.
Frank twirls around with his guitar. He wants to fuck everyone on the stage with him. He wants to fuck them all on stage. He wants a thousand screaming fans to watch as he lets Mikey and Gerard DP him. He wants them to all cheer as he sucks Bob’s cock. He wants them to cry as he licks Ray from head to toe before rimming him. God, he wants to fucking come, and he wants all four of them to come all over him.
Instead he has to make do with his imaginings, and a few shoves and sharp body parts. Nothing will happen until they get away from backstage. Hell, if Ray’s feeling picky again, nothing will happen until they all have a shower. Frank glances at Gerard. He’s got the mike right against his lips, it couldn’t be any more phallic, and he’s thrusting into the air like he’s frotting with the wind. Fucking tease.
Threesomes
Of course his hands are tied behind his back. Frank and Mikey always do this to him. Gerard likes to deny that he has sensory deprivation as a kink, but they both think he does, and it’s hard to go against what your lovers think of you.
Sometimes they take away smell. He’ll come home and the apartment will be stunningly empty of scents. They’ll have smoked their bowls with their heads out the window, blowing all the thick smoke into the air. There won’t be anything cooking, and Frank won’t have any of his candles burning -it started as a joke, Bob said every gay man had to have scented candles, Frank had pitched a manly fit, and now every time they go on tour Bob gets him a scented candle in each state. They go home with bags full of the stupid wax pillars.- so the room isn’t rose or forest or lemon. Mikey won’t even use the cherry lube as he’s opening himself up.
Sometimes they take away taste. Gerard hates those days. Not being able to kiss is hell. He also doesn’t like that he can’t suck either of them off. Sucking cock is one of his favourite pastimes.
Sometimes it’s hearing. It doesn’t affect the sex too much. Gerard thinks he probably looks ridiculous as Mikey is pounding into him, sound-cancelling headphones big and clunky on his head. But Mikey isn’t very vocal in bed, so he’s not missing much. And while Frank is extremely vocal, when they do this he’s determined and seeks outside help. Gerard loves the way Frankie looks, mouth stretched wide around a gag.
Sometimes it’s sight. There’s just something about not knowing who is going to touch him next that makes Gerard arch into every caress, every lick, every bite.
And sometimes it’s touch. Gerard will get home and they’ll cross his arms behind his back, making sure that the cord winds around the sleeves, not his skin. He’ll have to lean against a wall, or sit in a chair, and watch the way his lovers grind and move with and against each other, without touching them or himself.
Tonight he’s in a suit, trousers too tight against him as he gets hard watching Mikey lick a long stripe between Frank’s ass and balls. He’s making his arms numb, leaning on them as he leans against the wall. He’s dying to come, but knows he won’t get to until they’ve decided it’s his time. He needs, and he doesn’t get, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.
Gerard/Frank
Frank laughs, steps back a bit to take in the entire look. “Wow, they really went with the sex concept today, didn’t they?”
Gerard glances down at himself briefly. He doesn’t need to, he had to okay the pictures before they could be sent anywhere. Five hundred pictures of him looking nearly identical except for different stares and expression. He doesn’t see it. “What?”
“Seriously?” Frank smirks. “Well, they’ve got the choke me please tie” he starts before taking the end of the red checked material and pulling Gerard forward for a kiss. Even giving in to Frank’s tug, the fabric is slightly too tight around his neck, making it harder to breath. It adds a dimension to having his mouth covered by Frank’s, tongue gliding against his.
“And they’ve got the school boy uniform dress shirt, which just demands someone older and rougher ravish you,” Frank murmurs when he pulls away from the kiss. It’s not the point to say he’s older than Frank, not when his hand is curved around the bulge of his pants. He strokes Gerard outside his pants for a minute, then quickly opens the zipper and pushes his hand into his underwear. Gerard jerks into the touch.
“Then you’ve got the jacket with the ‘fuck me’ handles” Frank is pushing him to his knees, fingers loosely curled around the straps on the shoulder. Gerard reaches to undo Frank’s jeans and shove them to his knees. His cock is eye level, hard and wet at the tip.
“And the entire look is topped off with your messy, post blowjob hair.”
Gerard looks up at Frank and smirks. “But I didn’t blow anyone!” he protests, voice laced with innocence.
“Well, maybe you should get on that. Make progress.” Frank’s hands are still on his shoulders as Gerard takes his first lick. He thinks he’ll keep the jacket.
Gerard groans when he finds the picture of him going out for a smoke. It’s not as bad as some of the candids he’s found of himself. Before he sobered up he’d be emailed wildly, pathetically drunk pictures almost every day. Not that it had ever occurred to him to be embarrassed of them. It was the price you paid for living the life.
Though, the same could be said for this. Thanks to Frank he’s getting what he needs. If the only payment is getting photographed in Position Three, it’s worth it.
It comes unconsciously at this point. He’s so used to those cool metal cuffs sliding around his wrists that his arms automatically come together whenever he’s not thinking about how he should stand. They hurt more than the leather ones. Franks knows it, and he uses them anyway, and Gerard loves him for it. It’s just like when he has to kneel; his chin drops down to his neck and his hands meet behind his back - Position One. Position Two is the only one unlikely to happen in front of others, there’s not much call for Gerard to be on his hands and knees with his mouth open.
He pauses for a moment and clicks exit. He’s not going to be embarrassed about this. Nobody knows what it means, no fan is going to look at his wrists and think they should be locked together. And even if they do, he loves Frank and Frank loves him, and there’s no shame in it.
Gerard shifts again. He’s not sure what’s stronger right now, his lust for Frank, or his hatred for him. It’s a good thing Frank’s staying away, as there’s a fifty fifty chance of murder in the forcast for today. Or rather, it’s a good thing Frank ordered him to stay away. All he said was ‘don’t go to any of our rooms’, but Gerard’s well aware of what will happen if he doesn’t. So he’s been sitting in the lobby for the last two hours, listening to his ipod, hating and wanting.
When his ipod dies he puts it on the table in front of him, white wood with gilded gold edges. The charger is of course in his room, and he can’t get it. He could text one of the guys and ask him to bring it down, but that will lead to questions they will highly enjoy asking and Gerard strongly wants to avoid answering. He thought that at least Mikey wouldn’t want to know details of his brother’s sex life, but even he asks with the slightest of smirks. The only explanation for it is Mikey’s got less morals than he does.
Another guest comes into the lobby and Gerard gives for the nearest newspaper. He opens it wide and covers his lap. He’s in fucking Norway, he can’t understand a damn word. Hell, they don’t even have all the same letters English does. But it covers his cock, hard against the layers of fabric protecting it from the world. It wouldn’t do to make the eighty year old woman have a heart attack because some goth rockstar wants to get off in the middle of a hotel.
Every time he moves, he can feel the toy move with him. Inside him. Fucking Frank, what kind of bastard brings buttplugs on an international tour?
Gerard/Bob and Gerard/Ray
Bob’s the only one that gets it. Hell, even Gerard didn’t get it for awhile, and it’s his thing. Part of him just thought he was taking the interest in vampires to ridiculous and pathetic heights. But drunken European conversations with Bob have shown him that with basically anything that one person is into, there are a group of people on the internet that are into it.
They can’t do it on the bus, obviously. Shit, they can’t even shave off stubble on a moving bus. Mikey pretty much tests the boundaries of professional grooming when he tries to sculpt his hair with his flat iron and mass amounts of spray. Nothing with knives is remotely possible while hurtling down a highway at ninety miles an hour.
Even when they’re parked, the bus isn’t possible. At any point someone might come in. There’s a dozen different reasons, Mikey with food from catering that he doesn’t want to eat under a sun that’s beating down on him, or Ray with a friend to chill with. They can’t afford to bloody the sheets on the tour bus, it’s unlikely they’d be able to stop at a Walmart at three am to get more. And there’s very little room to maneuver.
So, in the end, it all comes down to hotel nights. Nights where he and Mikey take one key, Bob and Frank and Ray the other, but Mikey disappears and shortly after Bob comes in. He never says thank you to Mikey, because he knows he doesn’t have to. Gerard lies flat on the bed, carefully not moving as Bob draws his sharp lines across Gerard’s chest, legs, arms. Each one stings, like what he’d imagine a tattoo would feel like. The difference is, he only feels comfortable revealing his to Bob, where as Frank shows off to everyone.
It doesn’t matter if the sheets are stained in the morning. Between the simple act itself, and Gerard writhing as Bob fucks him afterward, and from laying on his side so Bob can wrap one of his arms around him, they always are. He’s not sure which action causes it, he’s not sure it matters. He doesn’t thank Bob either. He doesn’t have to.
Gerard considers himself to be waiting patiently. It doesn’t seem to be the general consensus of the band. Frank and Mikey are whispering to each other, and God knows that can never be a good thing, especially when the occasional snicker or giggle comes through the almost noiseless rustle of their speech. Bob is juggling crumpled balls of paper, and each time he drops one he chucks it as hard as he can at Gerard. Basically, all three of them are saying, without saying it to him, that he’s being a fucking spaz.
The problem with silent accusations that that if you verbally defend yourself, you make your case a hundred times weaker. It’s like a person at an asylum screaming he’s not crazy at a guard. So Gerard says nothing, just props himself on the soundboard and tries to not adjust any of the dials with his ass.
It’s not his fault anyway. Mikey and Frank and Bob should all know that, he doesn’t know why they’re acting like they don’t. It was their fault this morning, not letting him and Ray linger in the car for a morning handjob. And it’s Ray’s fault now. The entire fucking day Ray’s been saying ‘just let me get this one riff down, and then we can take a break’. While Gerard appreciates the creativity bursting from his boyfriend right now, he’s been waiting on his break for three hours.
He squirms on the soundboard and doesn’t flinch as another ball of paper hits him in the eyebrow.