(no subject)
Title: Nothin' Left To Do But...
Pairing: Frank/Gerard
Rating: R
Wordcount: 1256
Summary: Frank won't have relations with his boyfriend until he doesn't smell like death.
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.
Blowjobs are pretty much a no past the first week of tour. Maybe if Frank was dating someone else, some guy that just got kinda greasy without showering. Gerard is not that guy. Gerard sweats like a motherfucker. Sweat builds up when you don’t shower, especially in your wings. Multiple layers of sweat leads to Frank trying to give a blowjob and nearly dying. He can't breathe from his mouth, it’s clearly occupied. Nor can he breathe from his nose because seriously, the smell of Gerard and his fetid fucking wing tips curling around Frank’s head.
Nor do Gerard’s enthusiastic offers to blow him work. Frank feels almost guilty about saying no. Saying no to a blowjob seems akin to a crime against humanity. Blowjobless men all over the planet would kill for Gerard’s mouth -or the same mouth on a woman if they were truly Kinsey six. But the thing is, Frank's a hair grabber. After a week without showering Gerard’s hair is a huge turn off. It's slick enough that soon baby seals will be dying in it and he just can't touch it.
Still, Frank's cock hasn't quite caught up with the natural disaster hair = no blowjobs train of thought yet. Maybe it won’t ever. After all there’s no circumstance in which daydream Frank doesn’t want to sex up daydream Gerard, and that’s the level his cock works on. Every time Gerard offers he gets uncomfortably hard in his tight jeans. Gerard of course notices, which makes it basically impossible to keep up the pretense about not wanting Gerard to give him head right now.
Finally Gerard asks, all big eyes and pouty lips, “are you mad at me? We haven’t had sex in like a week and a half.”
Frank rolls his eyes. “You haven’t showered.”
“I could shower.”
“How?” Frank asks, perfectly reasonably. The bus doesn’t have a shower. There’s no reason for it to, no way for a bathroom that size to hold a shower capable of wingspan.
“Wet naps?”
“Look. We’ll have sex the next time we get a hotel night. We’ll get one soon.”
“Your clean obsession sucks, Iero.”
It’s only two days later that they’re pulling into a parking lot. They're in, well, actually Frank doesn't know, Ray's the one that always knows where they are. But they're somewhere with trees. A hotel with a parking lot the size of the building, and all over the damn thing are tiny spots with a single tree planted in red rock. It looks nice, until you consider that some night some drunken asshole is going to drive right into one and tear it from the ground.
The inside of the hotel isn't much more logical. The floor is shining marble, slippery as fuck even when sober. When he jumps on Bob the big guy staggers forward, skids, and drops to his knees. Frank plummets to the ground and curses a stream. The old lady eating a fifteen dollar sandwich in the cafe across the check in counter glares at him. He doesn’t let it faze him, just waits until Bob’s standing an climbs back on. This time Bob actually supports him with one reluctant hand. Frank rests his chin on Bob’s scalp. He smells sweaty, but not nearly as bad as Gerard, who at this point is like that one kid from Charlie Brown who had the cloud around him. Except that’s a bubble of dirt, and Gerard’s is more a bubble of stench.
The counter lady hands out their key cards. Both Mikey and Gerard take one and Frank can't help his grin. Sometimes the Ways want to room together, and as much as it feels like a cockblock, Frank knows it isn’t. They’re just the Way-bros. But with a key in either of their hands, his night is pretty much set now.
“Dick around if you don’t care, but straight into the bathroom if you want sex,” Frank says cheerfully when Gerard sticks the card into the machine above the door handle. Unsurprisingly, Gerard tosses his suitcase down just out of the way enough that the door can close and follows him into the gleaming white bathroom.
Like every hotel bathroom, there are complimentary toiletries on the edge of the counter housing the sink. There’s a bar of paper wrapped soap and tiny bottles of shampoo, conditioner, and feather oil beside it. It makes Frank smile to see them. He has his own of all of the above, of course, he wouldn’t go on tour without a bag of toiletries, but seeing them in a row makes him feel like the world is on his side. Cleanliness is good.
Frank turns the taps, hot first, then tempers it with the cold. He sticks his wrist under the spray, making sure it’s a temperature that Gerard won’t complain about. He sheds his clothes as quickly as he can then steps under the spray. Frank’s wings contract automatically at the shock, but spread again when they realise there’s no danger. Before he has the chance to get witty with a ‘water’s fine’ comment, Gerard nestles in front of him, taking the full brunt of the spray.
“What do you want first?”
Gerard looks at him, a small smile on his face. “Lets be honest, this is really about what you want. So you pick.”
It doesn’t take long to think about it. Gerard’s feathers need a good grooming, and that could take upwards of an hour. He already smells a ton better just by being under the water. His hair, on the other hand, only looks greasier and clumpier under the stream.
“I’m going to wash your hair. And then we’re going to blow each other. And then we’ll think the dirtiest thoughts we can while drying off so we can have some really good bed sex. Sounds like a plan?”
In answer Gerard tilts his head towards him. Frank grabs the bottle he brought in with him and squirts a bit on his hand, then rubs his hands together so he’s got a full coating like a glove. It’s a protective barrier against the nasty oiliness, at least until his fingers are deep into Gerard’s hair, and at that point the shampoo is already doing its magic.
Frank spends maybe a minute massaging, turning everything into a white froth on the top of Gerard’s head. Then Gerard pulls away and drops to his knees, wings scraping the non-slip mat on the bottom of the tub. “Lets work it concurrently.”
Frank’s pretty sure it’s a bad idea. Gerard is going to get bubbles up his nose, and then he’ll suffocate. Frank’s also pretty sure Gerard won’t listen to reason if he tries to explain that. Better to just let his boyfriend go for it.
He braces himself against the cool wall, feeling the pattern of the tile against his lower back, the part that’s not shielded by wings. Frank wishes for a second he was closer to the water so he could be deluged in warmth, but it’s not a big enough deal to stop everything and ask Gerard to move. He whimpers with the first sink of Gerard’s mouth on him. It’s only been two weeks, but it feels like forever.
His fingers twitch as Gerard continues blowing him. It’s an unconscious movement, as much as biting his lip or moaning might be. Still Frank has to laugh at the idea that he’s still washing his boyfriend’s hair even through sex. Concurrent is right.