(no subject)
Post Part Two: Gerard/other males.
Again, just to make it clear, I don't know the canon behind a lot of these pictures, and I DON'T CARE. I'm just posting drabbles based on inspiring pictures.
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.
Gerard/guys in bands
Gerard giggles. The best shit happens when he’s drunk. He fell more times than he can count -he can’t really count at all right now- getting to the Used bus, but he made it. He even remembered the security code on the bus. And that’s good because he didn’t have to interrupt anyone, just wander up the stairs.
Gerard giggles again. There’s a lot to interrupt. Bert is sucking Quinn’s cock, Quinn half kneeling, half sitting on Bert’s face. Bert’s legs are pulled up, Jepha fucking into him as quick as possible, way off Quinn’s rhythm.
“Hey guys!” he says.
“Want in?” Bert asks. Gerard laughs, because even this drunk he can recognise a pun. “Get naked, fucker.”
Gerard doesn’t even try to take off his hoodie, it’s an evil piece of clothing that never comes off easily when he wants it to. But he sits on the stair so he can take his shoes off, and manages to get his pants down without falling over, even though he only stands on one leg at a time. Pretty fucking impressive, if you ask him.
He doesn’t know exactly where to join in, so he ends up grinding against Jepha’s beautiful colourful back. He can’t exactly see all the designs and colours, but he knows they look great. And they feel great against him too. When he comes, it’s half on the hem of his hoodie, half on Jepha. He smiles again, and uses his sweater to wipe it all up. It’s not like people are supposed to smell nice on tour anyway.
Wearing a boa, even far too tightly, is nothing like breathplay. Neither are handkerchiefs, and he looks stupid wearing them, like some sort of twenty first century cowboy. Neither is a scarf pulled around his neck three times, supposedly to protect against the winter cold, even though he’s not wearing boots or mitts. Neither is his own hand, fingers automatically letting up the second he starts to gasp, brain fighting his real desires.
Still, they’re all he’s got. It’s been a long time since he’s seen Patrick, and he doesn’t feel comfortable asking anyone else for it. He doubt they’d understand.
Patrick did. He knew that holding his fingers tight against someone’s throat as a good way to make them hard. Gerard’s got a feeling he learned that lesson with another member of his band, but he never asked. He doesn’t need the answer. Whenever he and Patrick hooked up, whether the sex act was a rushed handjob, a blowjob, or the rare times they were actually able to find a place to fuck, there was always a side note of Patrick’s hand on his neck.
He doesn’t know how to text Patrick and say I need someone to choke me and I trust you. He’s a different person than he was on Warped, he shouldn’t need it anymore. That he does won’t change the fact that Patrick won’t need it. So he’s left with memories, and feathers and cotton and wool, and his own weak and pathetic hand. He only wishes it could be enough.
Gerard/males in the scene
He was never the sports player. Dear God, he was pretty much the furthest one could get from a fucking football or soccer star. He was (mostly) happy with his video games and DnD, his art and his liquor. But just because he never felt a craving to play sports didn’t mean he didn’t want to experience some of the other things the jocks did.
Gerard liked that they could just drink in massive groups, people falling over each other and laughing and having conversations with people from other high schools, because the cool kids of every school were interconnected. He only had himself, or sometimes Mikey, when he decided he didn’t feel guilty about corrupting him. He liked that they only needed to make D’s, and nobody cared if they got higher because they’d get an athletic scholarship anyway. He liked that they got first pick of where to sit in the cafeteria. And he liked the stupid varsity jackets, and how the boys would work so hard to get them, only to give them up to the first girl that put out.
He never thought he’d get to experience any of it. But for the longest time, he was that drunk guy, having conversations with strangers. The grades thing isn’t relevant anymore, and that’s the point, nobody cares that Patrick dropped out because he’s a fucking rockstar, nobody cares that Joe got all A’s. And Gerard finds himself eating in a dozen different places. If he doesn’t eat in someone’s bus, he can find a place to sit outside. He’s been in forty states, and has had his first pick of where to sit in each one.
Most importantly though, he’s got the marks of ownership. It’s a strange way to phrase it, it’s not like he’s in a D/s relationship. But it’s a valid way, because he’s got buttons on his jacket, and the buttons scream out his. Everyone on tour knows that every item Freddy The Techie owns is plastered in buttons, or stickers if it’s something things can’t be pinned to. And now Gerard’s wearing a cluster on every jacket he wears, and it’s a sign no one can miss. It’s brilliant.
When he can, Gerard tries to member the names of the fans. It’s basically impossible, for every email or forum post he can look at there are hundreds he can’t. There are audiences of thousands that would do anything to meet him, and he can’t do anything more than sing as loud as he can, try to make them feel like he’s singing just for them.
He does a bit better with the fans that actually make it back stage. Meet and greets are the bane of Bob’s existence, but Gerard likes them. Their excitement at seeing him makes him smile. He hardly ever gets the motts, because he just thinks back to how he would have felt meeting The Misfits. Explosive glee comes naturally at a concert, and he never feels the urge to tell them to cool it.
Sometimes he possibly crosses a line. There are differing opinions on what to do with groupies, from Mikey and Pete’s stance of fuck them all, to Ray’s of stay the fuck away. Gerard tends to hover closer to Ray’s side, but sometimes, when the mood is right, and the right fan is asking if he can get a picture, he’ll lean close or tilt his chin up, and go for a kiss. Michael, Adam, Kris, Stephon, a hundred others spread through countries and years; their pictures always seem happier.
Gerard genfic
There are classic movies; Gone With the Wind, Ben Hur, Annie. And then there are classic movies; Dune, Eraserhead, The Holy Grail. In his mind a movie doesn’t need an award to be amazing, doesn’t need outside praise for him to reccommend it to everyone he knows.
Gerard is a big fan of watching his favourite movies a dozen times a year. At home he’s still got a rack of VHS tapes with movies recorded from tv on them, he knows the commercials as well as he knows the plot. Usually each blank VHS can fit two movies on them, with some room to spare, but the few times he’s tried to record in those last 2 hours the ending inevitably gets cut off. On tour he’s got some on dvd, the others burnt onto his computer. He’s got a mental list of movies he’ll watch every time he catches them on tv on hotel nights, or while at home. He likes being able to stop on TBS and recognise any moment of The Breakfast Club, know that Ally Sheedy is about to use her dandruff as snow, or that Prinicpal Vernon is about to completely fail at trying to prop open the tampered door with the bookcase.
Quoting movies is only made better when other people can do the dialogue as well. When coffee’s not ready he can shout ‘you just bought yourself another Saturday’ to the bus in general, and at least one of the four will respond with ‘so’ in that exact sneering Bender tone. Gerard can watch Frank stumble into something and end up backstage pouring blood, and say clearly ‘tis but a scratch’ if anyone asks him about it.
He’s also a big fan of giving props to the movies he’s a fan of. Half their look is based on classic horror. And so what if Mikey snickers -fuckin’ Mikey, who’s done enough crazy shit with his hair to blow Ru Paul’s mind- when he comes back from the shoot and doesn’t wash all the gel and chemical spray out? He likes looking like Edward Scissorhands.
Gerard crossover
Gerard is used to people walking up to him and asking for autographs or pictures. What he isn’t used to is people mocking him, or questioning him. Elitist, rockstar behaviour or not, it’s true. So when some tall, gangly freckled teen comes over to him and says “That’s not real red hair” he doesn’t really know how to react.
He settles on, “No, and neither is that girl over there actually Sailor Moon.”
The guy’s arms cross over his chest, and really, Gerard doesn’t remember British people being this bitchy. “Honestly, I don’t know how she thought we should look for the cup here. Like the Smith family would ever come here. Zacharias would hex someone so quickly, moody git. And your lot think we’re insane! We’re not dressing up like all manners of beast and person.”
Gerard’s got no idea what he’s talking about, but complaining about cosplay at fucking ComicCon just seems crazy. “It’s ComicCon. Get over it.”
“I guess the one good point is being able to snog a redhead bloke that isn’t my bloody brother.” The guy bends down -he’s at least Gabe Saporta tall, if not taller- and kisses Gerard. Gerard automatically opens his mouth, letting the teen’s tongue in. With his new look, it’s unlikely anyone is going to notice he’s Gerard Way and snap a picture.
He pulls away and smiles for a moment before wiping the excess saliva on where his sleeve is riding up, showing cutter scars. Gerard wants to ask him if he’s alright, but he asks a question first. “Don’t suppose you’ve seen any golden cups?”
Gerard’s about to suggest the merch room, you can find just about anything there, when the guy shakes his head. “Of course not. This couldn’t possibly be that easy. Have a good day, mate.” As he turns his back, Gerard thinks he sees a wand in his pocket. Complaining about cosplaying when he’s got a fucking wand. It never ceases to amaze him how hypocritical some people are.
Again, just to make it clear, I don't know the canon behind a lot of these pictures, and I DON'T CARE. I'm just posting drabbles based on inspiring pictures.
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.
Gerard/guys in bands
Gerard giggles. The best shit happens when he’s drunk. He fell more times than he can count -he can’t really count at all right now- getting to the Used bus, but he made it. He even remembered the security code on the bus. And that’s good because he didn’t have to interrupt anyone, just wander up the stairs.
Gerard giggles again. There’s a lot to interrupt. Bert is sucking Quinn’s cock, Quinn half kneeling, half sitting on Bert’s face. Bert’s legs are pulled up, Jepha fucking into him as quick as possible, way off Quinn’s rhythm.
“Hey guys!” he says.
“Want in?” Bert asks. Gerard laughs, because even this drunk he can recognise a pun. “Get naked, fucker.”
Gerard doesn’t even try to take off his hoodie, it’s an evil piece of clothing that never comes off easily when he wants it to. But he sits on the stair so he can take his shoes off, and manages to get his pants down without falling over, even though he only stands on one leg at a time. Pretty fucking impressive, if you ask him.
He doesn’t know exactly where to join in, so he ends up grinding against Jepha’s beautiful colourful back. He can’t exactly see all the designs and colours, but he knows they look great. And they feel great against him too. When he comes, it’s half on the hem of his hoodie, half on Jepha. He smiles again, and uses his sweater to wipe it all up. It’s not like people are supposed to smell nice on tour anyway.
Wearing a boa, even far too tightly, is nothing like breathplay. Neither are handkerchiefs, and he looks stupid wearing them, like some sort of twenty first century cowboy. Neither is a scarf pulled around his neck three times, supposedly to protect against the winter cold, even though he’s not wearing boots or mitts. Neither is his own hand, fingers automatically letting up the second he starts to gasp, brain fighting his real desires.
Still, they’re all he’s got. It’s been a long time since he’s seen Patrick, and he doesn’t feel comfortable asking anyone else for it. He doubt they’d understand.
Patrick did. He knew that holding his fingers tight against someone’s throat as a good way to make them hard. Gerard’s got a feeling he learned that lesson with another member of his band, but he never asked. He doesn’t need the answer. Whenever he and Patrick hooked up, whether the sex act was a rushed handjob, a blowjob, or the rare times they were actually able to find a place to fuck, there was always a side note of Patrick’s hand on his neck.
He doesn’t know how to text Patrick and say I need someone to choke me and I trust you. He’s a different person than he was on Warped, he shouldn’t need it anymore. That he does won’t change the fact that Patrick won’t need it. So he’s left with memories, and feathers and cotton and wool, and his own weak and pathetic hand. He only wishes it could be enough.
Gerard/males in the scene
He was never the sports player. Dear God, he was pretty much the furthest one could get from a fucking football or soccer star. He was (mostly) happy with his video games and DnD, his art and his liquor. But just because he never felt a craving to play sports didn’t mean he didn’t want to experience some of the other things the jocks did.
Gerard liked that they could just drink in massive groups, people falling over each other and laughing and having conversations with people from other high schools, because the cool kids of every school were interconnected. He only had himself, or sometimes Mikey, when he decided he didn’t feel guilty about corrupting him. He liked that they only needed to make D’s, and nobody cared if they got higher because they’d get an athletic scholarship anyway. He liked that they got first pick of where to sit in the cafeteria. And he liked the stupid varsity jackets, and how the boys would work so hard to get them, only to give them up to the first girl that put out.
He never thought he’d get to experience any of it. But for the longest time, he was that drunk guy, having conversations with strangers. The grades thing isn’t relevant anymore, and that’s the point, nobody cares that Patrick dropped out because he’s a fucking rockstar, nobody cares that Joe got all A’s. And Gerard finds himself eating in a dozen different places. If he doesn’t eat in someone’s bus, he can find a place to sit outside. He’s been in forty states, and has had his first pick of where to sit in each one.
Most importantly though, he’s got the marks of ownership. It’s a strange way to phrase it, it’s not like he’s in a D/s relationship. But it’s a valid way, because he’s got buttons on his jacket, and the buttons scream out his. Everyone on tour knows that every item Freddy The Techie owns is plastered in buttons, or stickers if it’s something things can’t be pinned to. And now Gerard’s wearing a cluster on every jacket he wears, and it’s a sign no one can miss. It’s brilliant.
When he can, Gerard tries to member the names of the fans. It’s basically impossible, for every email or forum post he can look at there are hundreds he can’t. There are audiences of thousands that would do anything to meet him, and he can’t do anything more than sing as loud as he can, try to make them feel like he’s singing just for them.
He does a bit better with the fans that actually make it back stage. Meet and greets are the bane of Bob’s existence, but Gerard likes them. Their excitement at seeing him makes him smile. He hardly ever gets the motts, because he just thinks back to how he would have felt meeting The Misfits. Explosive glee comes naturally at a concert, and he never feels the urge to tell them to cool it.
Sometimes he possibly crosses a line. There are differing opinions on what to do with groupies, from Mikey and Pete’s stance of fuck them all, to Ray’s of stay the fuck away. Gerard tends to hover closer to Ray’s side, but sometimes, when the mood is right, and the right fan is asking if he can get a picture, he’ll lean close or tilt his chin up, and go for a kiss. Michael, Adam, Kris, Stephon, a hundred others spread through countries and years; their pictures always seem happier.
Gerard genfic
There are classic movies; Gone With the Wind, Ben Hur, Annie. And then there are classic movies; Dune, Eraserhead, The Holy Grail. In his mind a movie doesn’t need an award to be amazing, doesn’t need outside praise for him to reccommend it to everyone he knows.
Gerard is a big fan of watching his favourite movies a dozen times a year. At home he’s still got a rack of VHS tapes with movies recorded from tv on them, he knows the commercials as well as he knows the plot. Usually each blank VHS can fit two movies on them, with some room to spare, but the few times he’s tried to record in those last 2 hours the ending inevitably gets cut off. On tour he’s got some on dvd, the others burnt onto his computer. He’s got a mental list of movies he’ll watch every time he catches them on tv on hotel nights, or while at home. He likes being able to stop on TBS and recognise any moment of The Breakfast Club, know that Ally Sheedy is about to use her dandruff as snow, or that Prinicpal Vernon is about to completely fail at trying to prop open the tampered door with the bookcase.
Quoting movies is only made better when other people can do the dialogue as well. When coffee’s not ready he can shout ‘you just bought yourself another Saturday’ to the bus in general, and at least one of the four will respond with ‘so’ in that exact sneering Bender tone. Gerard can watch Frank stumble into something and end up backstage pouring blood, and say clearly ‘tis but a scratch’ if anyone asks him about it.
He’s also a big fan of giving props to the movies he’s a fan of. Half their look is based on classic horror. And so what if Mikey snickers -fuckin’ Mikey, who’s done enough crazy shit with his hair to blow Ru Paul’s mind- when he comes back from the shoot and doesn’t wash all the gel and chemical spray out? He likes looking like Edward Scissorhands.
Gerard crossover
Gerard is used to people walking up to him and asking for autographs or pictures. What he isn’t used to is people mocking him, or questioning him. Elitist, rockstar behaviour or not, it’s true. So when some tall, gangly freckled teen comes over to him and says “That’s not real red hair” he doesn’t really know how to react.
He settles on, “No, and neither is that girl over there actually Sailor Moon.”
The guy’s arms cross over his chest, and really, Gerard doesn’t remember British people being this bitchy. “Honestly, I don’t know how she thought we should look for the cup here. Like the Smith family would ever come here. Zacharias would hex someone so quickly, moody git. And your lot think we’re insane! We’re not dressing up like all manners of beast and person.”
Gerard’s got no idea what he’s talking about, but complaining about cosplay at fucking ComicCon just seems crazy. “It’s ComicCon. Get over it.”
“I guess the one good point is being able to snog a redhead bloke that isn’t my bloody brother.” The guy bends down -he’s at least Gabe Saporta tall, if not taller- and kisses Gerard. Gerard automatically opens his mouth, letting the teen’s tongue in. With his new look, it’s unlikely anyone is going to notice he’s Gerard Way and snap a picture.
He pulls away and smiles for a moment before wiping the excess saliva on where his sleeve is riding up, showing cutter scars. Gerard wants to ask him if he’s alright, but he asks a question first. “Don’t suppose you’ve seen any golden cups?”
Gerard’s about to suggest the merch room, you can find just about anything there, when the guy shakes his head. “Of course not. This couldn’t possibly be that easy. Have a good day, mate.” As he turns his back, Gerard thinks he sees a wand in his pocket. Complaining about cosplaying when he’s got a fucking wand. It never ceases to amaze him how hypocritical some people are.