Dude, Quit Marshing My Mallow
Bandslash, NC-17, ~3200 words. Frank/Gerard. Warning: orgasm denial. Title by projectyl, who has zero interest in bandslash but is always more than happy to donate a few brain cells to the cause of terrible punnery.
Written for zarathuse, who needs more sexually frustrated MCR boys in her life.
EDIT: Apparently Mikey wasn't on the Projekt Revolution tour? Oops. >.>
***
Frank is sitting with his band at the 5-Point Cafe the night before the Projekt Revolution tour kickoff in Seattle, and he ordered his no-huevos rancheros twelve minutes and thirty-three seconds ago.
"Thirty-four. Thirty-five. Thirty-six. Where's my food?" Frank drums on the table with his thumbs, then promptly withdraws them in horror. "This table is covered in goo!"
Gerard swipes a finger across it. "Eh, that's a normal amount of goo for an eating surface in a dive," he says dismissively.
"No amount of goo is normal for any eating surface anywhere." Frank peers suspiciously at the table. He can't see much. The place is practically pitch black, probably to keep unwitting customers from calling them out on their spectacularly inadequate sanitation practices. He makes stinkeyes at the bartender, who's drying glasses with a hand towel that he probably just used to wipe his ass.
Mikey, crusty dirtbag that he is, plants his elbows right in the thick layer of greasy diner crud and rests his chin in his hands. "I heard about this psychological study," he says to Frank. "With marshmallows."
"Yeah?" That sounds like some science Frank could get behind.
"They rounded up a bunch of four-year-olds," Mikey continues. "Each kid was left alone in a room with a plate of marshmallows for like twenty minutes, and the scientists told them they could have either one marshmallow right away, or two marshmallows if they could wait."
"Or all the marshmallows on the plate, if they ate fast before the researcher dudes could stop them," Frank contributes helpfully.
Mikey gives him a pointed look. "They kept tabs on the kids for years, and the ones who could wait for the second marshmallow were basically better at life. Better SAT scores, better chance of getting into college, lower crime rates, higher IQs."
"Huh," says Frank, then, because he's a douche, "So you're saying I should get dessert? I don't think they have marshmallows here, but they have deep-fried Oreos. Or so they claim. I haven't actually seen any evidence that they serve food at all." He says it loud enough to irritate Mikey, but not loud enough for the servers to actually hear him. He's not quite that much of a douche.
The no-huevos rancheros, when they finally arrive, are awesome. This is what Frank likes about the West Coast--nobody stares at him like he's an alien from outer Vega when he explains his dietary preferences. Touring can get rough foodwise, especially in the Midwest and the South, but here in the Pacific Northwest he can find food in sushi restaurants and steakhouses, let alone dive bars.
Frank is looking forward to a good long shower at the hotel. He makes it a habit to get as preemptively clean as possible before tours. He's got the shower on his mind when Gerard jumps him just inside the door, which, okay, yeah, if they're gonna do that tonight they should probably do it before showering. Frank staggers forward with Gerard hanging off his neck and tips them both onto one of the beds, tugging at Gerard's pants.
"God damn," says Gerard, laughing. "You seriously are one impatient motherfucker. Can't you ever wait?" He rolls on top and pins Frank's arms above his head, kissing him maddeningly slowly. Frank squirms, but only a little. He sort of enjoys being held down.
Frank has done a whole bunch of idiotic shit in his life, and gotten himself into a lot of trouble in numerous creative ways. So he wouldn't consider this the absolute stupidest thing he's ever said. But it's pretty damn close:
"Sometimes I like having to wait."
Gerard pulls back and gives him a thoughtful look. Then he lets go of Frank's arms and stands up. "You said you wanted a shower? We should go to sleep pretty soon."
Frank props himself up on his elbows, confused. "I don't want to get all clean if you're just going to get me dirty again."
Gerard shoots him an innocent little grin. "No worries, I'm not getting you dirty tonight. Go, perform your strange little grooming rituals. Don't jerk off."
***
"I meant, like, a few minutes," moans Frank. "Just a little teasing. This is not fair."
They're on the bus heading down I-5 to California, and Gerard hasn't laid a hand on him in a day and a half. Frank is not a happy camper. Actually, that isn't entirely true--he does like being forced to wait, and it's pretty hot in addition to being excruciating--but he's whining anyway.
"Come on, it's been long enough. Fuck me, pleeeeease?"
"You know, there are poor people in Africa who have never gotten laid at all," Gerard tells him seriously.
Frank kicks at his shin petulantly. "Yeah, but they can jerk off."
Gerard smiles. "You could, too," he points out. "If you're really tired of waiting, you don't have to do what I say. You can jerk off whenever you want." He leans over to Frank, mouth brushing up tantalizingly against his ear. "But I don't think you're going to," he murmurs. "I think you love it, and even if you didn't, I think you'd do it because you can tell how fucking much it turns me on."
Frank sits motionless for a moment, then tips his head back and groans. It's true, he's totally getting off on it, and he'd do it for Gerard regardless.
He shivers at the sensation of lips running along his jaw. "You want to stop?" asks Gerard quietly, seriously, breath hot against Frank's neck.
This is new. They flirt and they kiss and they fuck, but they haven't talked about kinks or negotiated boundaries or anything like that. They've definitely never done this sort of power play. It felt like a joke at first, Gerard driving him up the wall for the hell of it, but now he's giving Frank a choice: brush it off or make it real.
Frank remembers the feeling of Gerard pressing his wrists against the scratchy hotel comforter, holding him down. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. "No," he says. "Fuck. No, make me wait a little longer."
The touch on his face vanishes. "Good," says Gerard cheerfully. "If you're patient, you'll get another marshmallow."
"I have earned at least five marshmallows by now," Frank declares. "Those kids only had to hold out for, what, twenty minutes? My SAT scores are gonna be awesome, I could go to fucking Yale."
They stop for dinner at a cafe in Weed, California, mostly because Gerard always wants to stop in Weed when they tour along the West Coast. Last time, he bought a sparkly "I ♥ WEED" bumper sticker and managed to surreptitiously stick it on the bus. It stayed there for three days until the driver noticed and took it off.
Mount Shasta is visible from the window next to their booth. The sun is setting, and it's a nice view if you're into that sort of thing. At the moment, Frank is more into food.
"I am starving," he announces, glaring around the packed restaurant. "It's gonna take forever for us to get dinner with all these people here, isn't it? Dammit, we should have gone to the Taco Bell."
Ray shakes his head firmly. "It's way too early in the tour for shitty burritos, dude. I'm not gonna get that desperate until at least Arizona."
The waitress actually shows up pretty quickly. After she takes their orders, Gerard pulls out his phone and starts tapping away. Frank is about to start teasing him about turning into his brother when he gets a text.
Don't talk until the food gets here.
Frank looks up at Gerard. He's watching him, eyes wide and a little uncertain. Frank wants to laugh. Only Gerard would try to puppy-dog-gaze him into sexual submission. It's definitely sexual--the flush in Gerard's cheeks is as much evidence of that as the boner developing in Frank's pants.
The boner that he's not going to be able to sneak off and take care of in the bathroom. The boner that he's going to have to just put up with until Gerard takes mercy on his poor blue balls.
Frank looks out the window at Mount Shasta, and doesn't say anything for the next twenty minutes. When their dinner arrives, he eats in silence, even though Gerard only said to be quiet until they were served. He's hoping good behavior will lead to some kind of reward, maybe a kiss--god, Gerard hasn't even kissed him in days--but even though Gerard's smug little smile gets wider and wider the longer Frank stays silent, he doesn't touch him at all that night.
***
Gerard is behaving normally on stage, which for him means constantly rubbing up against Frank and sticking his hand down his shirt. It's not as distressing as it could be, at least not yet. Frank is used to shows being separate from everything else, completely different worlds with completely different rules for behavior. When he's performing, he's full of adrenaline and he's focusing on the music, and maybe he's been a little hornier than usual lately, but it's nothing he can't handle.
Then in Mountain View, when Frank hasn't come in five days, Gerard up and kisses him on stage.
That's something they do in private, not something they do in front of thousands of people, and suddenly the automatic lines in Frank's mind between shows and real life start to waver. All the frustration he's been feeling on the bus catches up to him right there on the stage, and with Gerard's tongue in his mouth for the first time in what feels like forever, he has to shift his guitar to hide his erection.
Gerard leads the way to their hotel room, chattering away about some tour he wants to take at the Google world headquarters. "They have nap pods!" he says excitedly. "And ball pits, and Legos all over the place. They're this huge corporation and everything, but they know how important it is to nurture creativity. I wish we had an extra day here so I could go see it." He tosses his bag on the floor and starts taking off his clothes.
Frank doesn't say anything about the kiss, and he doesn't say anything about the stripping, but then Gerard stretches out naked on his bed and wraps a hand around his cock, and Frank can't help groaning, "Seriously? You're actually going to jerk off in front of me right now?"
"Yeah," says Gerard, "I am. And I think I want you on your knees while I do it." He looks Frank straight in the eye.
The time when Frank had any semblance of sexual autonomy is long past. He wants what Gerard wants, nothing less and nothing more. He drops to his knees.
Gerard is sweaty from the show, but it's still shining and sexy on his skin, not yet dried into a layer of filth. His breathing quickens as he pumps his cock, and Frank wants to crawl up to him and take over. He reaches out a hand into the air between them, hovering. "Can I?" he says.
Gerard looks at him, considering, not breaking his rhythm. "You want to touch?" he asks. "Tell me."
"Yeah," Frank whispers, feeling his cock straining against his jeans. "I want to touch you. I want to rub you, suck you. I want you to fuck me. Use me. Whatever you want, I'll do it for you. Please, Gerard, god, let me touch. I can't do this much longer. Please, fuck, please."
He watches helplessly as Gerard comes all over his stomach with a stifled cry. Frank is so close he could press a hand against his dick and cream his pants right now.
"Bus call's at five-thirty," says Gerard. He's watching Frank closely.
Frank takes a deep breath and lets it out. "Yeah," he says and gets to his feet.
***
They're somewhere in Texas, and Frank is going fucking insane.
He's hard all the time, constantly painfully achingly hard. Gerard is all over him during concerts, but refuses to touch him offstage, which is creating an extremely unwelcome Pavlovian association in Frank's brain between showtime and sexytime.
It's after soundcheck, and the band is sitting around in one of the green rooms, killing time until they have to start getting ready for the show. Ray is sitting in a chair by the makeup table, Mikey is on the floor leaning against the wall, and Gerard and Bob are at opposite ends of the couch. Gerard has a comic book open on his knee.
Frank grabs the paperback he's currently reading and flops across the couch with his head on Gerard's lap and his feet on Bob's. To his surprise, Gerard doesn't push him off like he's been doing every time Frank tries to snuggle up to him. He just shifts his comic book so Frank's hair isn't blocking it and lays a hand on Frank's chest.
Frank raises his book above his face and pretends to read, heart pounding under Gerard's hand. He's almost actually picked up the thread of the story when Gerard's hand shifts just a little, moving his fingers on top of Frank's nipple.
Frank looks up at him. He looks perfectly absorbed in his comic, calm and relaxed, as his fingers slowly shift apart and back together, pinching Frank's nipple between his index and middle fingers. Frank bites back a gasp.
There's no noise in the room except the rustling of pages and the light tapping of Mikey's phone keyboard. No one says anything about the blatant foreplay happening on the sofa. Or not so blatant, Frank realizes. If anyone looked over, they wouldn't actually see anything except a hand on his chest.
Well, and a circus tent erupting from his crotch.
Frank shuts his novel and places it over his abdomen, trying for casual. He shuts his eyes like he's taking a nap on Gerard's lap. It only serves to heighten his awareness of Gerard's fingers fondling him through the thin fabric of his shirt. Gerard lifts his hand slightly and drops it back onto Frank's chest, a little pat, except with Frank's nipple still clamped between his fingers.
Frank is going to die of sexual frustration. He is going to keel over and die right here, fuck. Gerard moves his fingers back and forth, rolling the nipple slightly, and Frank is going to die.
The door opens. "Come on, guys, time to say hello to your adoring fans," Brian announces.
"Oh, are we doing one of those tonight?" Gerard asks, all sweet and faux-clueless--or, knowing Gerard, possibly actually clueless. He stops torturing Frank's nipple and wriggles out from under his head. "C'mon, Frank, let's go give eBay's autograph economy a boost."
The signing is awful. Gerard, who seems to have ended his ban on offstage touching, keeps groping his thigh under the table. Frank can't focus on smiling and greeting the kids. He can barely even focus on spelling his name right.
"Frank, hi, it's great to meet you," says one of the few women of legal age in the line. She's pretty hot, which is really not helpful at the moment. "I'm sorry, you look really tired, but I was hoping for a picture with you?"
"We're, um, not supposed to come out from behind the table," Frank says apologetically.
Gerard smacks the back of his head. "Fuck that shit. Go let her take a picture," he says, grinning like the asshole he is.
Frank glares at him, which the woman completely misinterprets. "Oh no, you don't have to," she says, looking mortified. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked."
"It's fine," Frank reassures her, because he can't let her leave thinking that he was so repulsed by her he didn't want a picture of the two of them to exist. He gets up and lets her friend take the picture. She's probably going to put it on the internet, and then there will be eternal evidence of his Gerard-induced circus tent. Fuck.
***
"Hey, man, you okay?" asks Ray.
Frank is lying prone on the floor, because the buzzing of the bus on the highway is almost like a vibrator and he can't fucking help it anymore.
He lifts his hand and gives a weak thumbs-up. Ray doesn't move for a moment, probably trying to determine whether he should have the driver stop by an emergency room, but eventually he sighs and walks away.
Gerard comes up and spreads himself out on top of Frank, pressing his hard-on against Frank's ass. "How are you?" he murmurs into Frank's ear.
Frank wants to beg, to plead, to demand, but he's tried it all. Nothing works. He falls apart, and Gerard just laps it up and waits for more.
"I'm however you want me to be," he mumbles. "I'm whatever you fucking want, Gerard."
Gerard grinds against his ass, pushing Frank's cock down against the hard carpeting. "You can come tonight," he says.
Frank turns his head. "Really?"
"On stage. If you can come during the show tonight, you're allowed."
A few weeks ago, Frank wouldn't have believed it would be possible. Now, he hasn't had an orgasm in seventeen days, and he could probably come just from Gerard telling him to. "You owe me, like, ten million marshmallows," he says, and he can feel Gerard grinning against his neck.
The show that night is incredible. The band is completely on the same wavelength, and they're connecting with the crowd in a way that only happens once in a very long while. Frank jumps around and thrashes and humps his guitar, reveling in the vibrations and the energy and the excitement.
Halfway through "Give 'Em Hell, Kid," Gerard gets down on his knees and grabs Frank's ass through his thighs, and Frank forgets that he's on stage in front of an audience. He forgets that he's supposed to be playing. He forgets that he's a music performer, not a peep show performer, and he should not have sex on stage.
He straddles Gerard's shoulders, guitar swinging away forgotten. He grabs Gerard's face, sweat-slick and feverishly hot, and rubs up against his head--once, twice, and he can feel himself rushing past the point of no return. He slips off Gerard's shoulders as his orgasm crashes through him. He's coming with his entire body, everything around him jerking as his vision wobbles. He's faintly aware of grabbing his guitar and starting to play again on autopilot, letting his muscle memory do all the work for him, caught up completely in the aftershocks jolting through his thighs, his ass, his abs.
***
In the hotel after the show, Gerard cuddles up to Frank and asks, "So, how many marshmallows was that?"
"Just two," says Frank, "but the second one was the motherfucking Stay Puft Marshmallow Man."
Gerard bursts out laughing. "He's a sailor! He's in New York! We get this guy laid, we won't have any trouble!" he says in a terrible Bill Murray voice.
"Shut up and blow me," says Frank.
Gerard makes a concerned face at him. "You're gonna use up both of this month's orgasms in one night? You sure you want to do that?"
Frank yanks the pillow out from under his head and commences beating Gerard to a pulp, both of them giggling madly.
Written for zarathuse, who needs more sexually frustrated MCR boys in her life.
EDIT: Apparently Mikey wasn't on the Projekt Revolution tour? Oops. >.>
***
Frank is sitting with his band at the 5-Point Cafe the night before the Projekt Revolution tour kickoff in Seattle, and he ordered his no-huevos rancheros twelve minutes and thirty-three seconds ago.
"Thirty-four. Thirty-five. Thirty-six. Where's my food?" Frank drums on the table with his thumbs, then promptly withdraws them in horror. "This table is covered in goo!"
Gerard swipes a finger across it. "Eh, that's a normal amount of goo for an eating surface in a dive," he says dismissively.
"No amount of goo is normal for any eating surface anywhere." Frank peers suspiciously at the table. He can't see much. The place is practically pitch black, probably to keep unwitting customers from calling them out on their spectacularly inadequate sanitation practices. He makes stinkeyes at the bartender, who's drying glasses with a hand towel that he probably just used to wipe his ass.
Mikey, crusty dirtbag that he is, plants his elbows right in the thick layer of greasy diner crud and rests his chin in his hands. "I heard about this psychological study," he says to Frank. "With marshmallows."
"Yeah?" That sounds like some science Frank could get behind.
"They rounded up a bunch of four-year-olds," Mikey continues. "Each kid was left alone in a room with a plate of marshmallows for like twenty minutes, and the scientists told them they could have either one marshmallow right away, or two marshmallows if they could wait."
"Or all the marshmallows on the plate, if they ate fast before the researcher dudes could stop them," Frank contributes helpfully.
Mikey gives him a pointed look. "They kept tabs on the kids for years, and the ones who could wait for the second marshmallow were basically better at life. Better SAT scores, better chance of getting into college, lower crime rates, higher IQs."
"Huh," says Frank, then, because he's a douche, "So you're saying I should get dessert? I don't think they have marshmallows here, but they have deep-fried Oreos. Or so they claim. I haven't actually seen any evidence that they serve food at all." He says it loud enough to irritate Mikey, but not loud enough for the servers to actually hear him. He's not quite that much of a douche.
The no-huevos rancheros, when they finally arrive, are awesome. This is what Frank likes about the West Coast--nobody stares at him like he's an alien from outer Vega when he explains his dietary preferences. Touring can get rough foodwise, especially in the Midwest and the South, but here in the Pacific Northwest he can find food in sushi restaurants and steakhouses, let alone dive bars.
Frank is looking forward to a good long shower at the hotel. He makes it a habit to get as preemptively clean as possible before tours. He's got the shower on his mind when Gerard jumps him just inside the door, which, okay, yeah, if they're gonna do that tonight they should probably do it before showering. Frank staggers forward with Gerard hanging off his neck and tips them both onto one of the beds, tugging at Gerard's pants.
"God damn," says Gerard, laughing. "You seriously are one impatient motherfucker. Can't you ever wait?" He rolls on top and pins Frank's arms above his head, kissing him maddeningly slowly. Frank squirms, but only a little. He sort of enjoys being held down.
Frank has done a whole bunch of idiotic shit in his life, and gotten himself into a lot of trouble in numerous creative ways. So he wouldn't consider this the absolute stupidest thing he's ever said. But it's pretty damn close:
"Sometimes I like having to wait."
Gerard pulls back and gives him a thoughtful look. Then he lets go of Frank's arms and stands up. "You said you wanted a shower? We should go to sleep pretty soon."
Frank props himself up on his elbows, confused. "I don't want to get all clean if you're just going to get me dirty again."
Gerard shoots him an innocent little grin. "No worries, I'm not getting you dirty tonight. Go, perform your strange little grooming rituals. Don't jerk off."
***
"I meant, like, a few minutes," moans Frank. "Just a little teasing. This is not fair."
They're on the bus heading down I-5 to California, and Gerard hasn't laid a hand on him in a day and a half. Frank is not a happy camper. Actually, that isn't entirely true--he does like being forced to wait, and it's pretty hot in addition to being excruciating--but he's whining anyway.
"Come on, it's been long enough. Fuck me, pleeeeease?"
"You know, there are poor people in Africa who have never gotten laid at all," Gerard tells him seriously.
Frank kicks at his shin petulantly. "Yeah, but they can jerk off."
Gerard smiles. "You could, too," he points out. "If you're really tired of waiting, you don't have to do what I say. You can jerk off whenever you want." He leans over to Frank, mouth brushing up tantalizingly against his ear. "But I don't think you're going to," he murmurs. "I think you love it, and even if you didn't, I think you'd do it because you can tell how fucking much it turns me on."
Frank sits motionless for a moment, then tips his head back and groans. It's true, he's totally getting off on it, and he'd do it for Gerard regardless.
He shivers at the sensation of lips running along his jaw. "You want to stop?" asks Gerard quietly, seriously, breath hot against Frank's neck.
This is new. They flirt and they kiss and they fuck, but they haven't talked about kinks or negotiated boundaries or anything like that. They've definitely never done this sort of power play. It felt like a joke at first, Gerard driving him up the wall for the hell of it, but now he's giving Frank a choice: brush it off or make it real.
Frank remembers the feeling of Gerard pressing his wrists against the scratchy hotel comforter, holding him down. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. "No," he says. "Fuck. No, make me wait a little longer."
The touch on his face vanishes. "Good," says Gerard cheerfully. "If you're patient, you'll get another marshmallow."
"I have earned at least five marshmallows by now," Frank declares. "Those kids only had to hold out for, what, twenty minutes? My SAT scores are gonna be awesome, I could go to fucking Yale."
They stop for dinner at a cafe in Weed, California, mostly because Gerard always wants to stop in Weed when they tour along the West Coast. Last time, he bought a sparkly "I ♥ WEED" bumper sticker and managed to surreptitiously stick it on the bus. It stayed there for three days until the driver noticed and took it off.
Mount Shasta is visible from the window next to their booth. The sun is setting, and it's a nice view if you're into that sort of thing. At the moment, Frank is more into food.
"I am starving," he announces, glaring around the packed restaurant. "It's gonna take forever for us to get dinner with all these people here, isn't it? Dammit, we should have gone to the Taco Bell."
Ray shakes his head firmly. "It's way too early in the tour for shitty burritos, dude. I'm not gonna get that desperate until at least Arizona."
The waitress actually shows up pretty quickly. After she takes their orders, Gerard pulls out his phone and starts tapping away. Frank is about to start teasing him about turning into his brother when he gets a text.
Don't talk until the food gets here.
Frank looks up at Gerard. He's watching him, eyes wide and a little uncertain. Frank wants to laugh. Only Gerard would try to puppy-dog-gaze him into sexual submission. It's definitely sexual--the flush in Gerard's cheeks is as much evidence of that as the boner developing in Frank's pants.
The boner that he's not going to be able to sneak off and take care of in the bathroom. The boner that he's going to have to just put up with until Gerard takes mercy on his poor blue balls.
Frank looks out the window at Mount Shasta, and doesn't say anything for the next twenty minutes. When their dinner arrives, he eats in silence, even though Gerard only said to be quiet until they were served. He's hoping good behavior will lead to some kind of reward, maybe a kiss--god, Gerard hasn't even kissed him in days--but even though Gerard's smug little smile gets wider and wider the longer Frank stays silent, he doesn't touch him at all that night.
***
Gerard is behaving normally on stage, which for him means constantly rubbing up against Frank and sticking his hand down his shirt. It's not as distressing as it could be, at least not yet. Frank is used to shows being separate from everything else, completely different worlds with completely different rules for behavior. When he's performing, he's full of adrenaline and he's focusing on the music, and maybe he's been a little hornier than usual lately, but it's nothing he can't handle.
Then in Mountain View, when Frank hasn't come in five days, Gerard up and kisses him on stage.
That's something they do in private, not something they do in front of thousands of people, and suddenly the automatic lines in Frank's mind between shows and real life start to waver. All the frustration he's been feeling on the bus catches up to him right there on the stage, and with Gerard's tongue in his mouth for the first time in what feels like forever, he has to shift his guitar to hide his erection.
Gerard leads the way to their hotel room, chattering away about some tour he wants to take at the Google world headquarters. "They have nap pods!" he says excitedly. "And ball pits, and Legos all over the place. They're this huge corporation and everything, but they know how important it is to nurture creativity. I wish we had an extra day here so I could go see it." He tosses his bag on the floor and starts taking off his clothes.
Frank doesn't say anything about the kiss, and he doesn't say anything about the stripping, but then Gerard stretches out naked on his bed and wraps a hand around his cock, and Frank can't help groaning, "Seriously? You're actually going to jerk off in front of me right now?"
"Yeah," says Gerard, "I am. And I think I want you on your knees while I do it." He looks Frank straight in the eye.
The time when Frank had any semblance of sexual autonomy is long past. He wants what Gerard wants, nothing less and nothing more. He drops to his knees.
Gerard is sweaty from the show, but it's still shining and sexy on his skin, not yet dried into a layer of filth. His breathing quickens as he pumps his cock, and Frank wants to crawl up to him and take over. He reaches out a hand into the air between them, hovering. "Can I?" he says.
Gerard looks at him, considering, not breaking his rhythm. "You want to touch?" he asks. "Tell me."
"Yeah," Frank whispers, feeling his cock straining against his jeans. "I want to touch you. I want to rub you, suck you. I want you to fuck me. Use me. Whatever you want, I'll do it for you. Please, Gerard, god, let me touch. I can't do this much longer. Please, fuck, please."
He watches helplessly as Gerard comes all over his stomach with a stifled cry. Frank is so close he could press a hand against his dick and cream his pants right now.
"Bus call's at five-thirty," says Gerard. He's watching Frank closely.
Frank takes a deep breath and lets it out. "Yeah," he says and gets to his feet.
***
They're somewhere in Texas, and Frank is going fucking insane.
He's hard all the time, constantly painfully achingly hard. Gerard is all over him during concerts, but refuses to touch him offstage, which is creating an extremely unwelcome Pavlovian association in Frank's brain between showtime and sexytime.
It's after soundcheck, and the band is sitting around in one of the green rooms, killing time until they have to start getting ready for the show. Ray is sitting in a chair by the makeup table, Mikey is on the floor leaning against the wall, and Gerard and Bob are at opposite ends of the couch. Gerard has a comic book open on his knee.
Frank grabs the paperback he's currently reading and flops across the couch with his head on Gerard's lap and his feet on Bob's. To his surprise, Gerard doesn't push him off like he's been doing every time Frank tries to snuggle up to him. He just shifts his comic book so Frank's hair isn't blocking it and lays a hand on Frank's chest.
Frank raises his book above his face and pretends to read, heart pounding under Gerard's hand. He's almost actually picked up the thread of the story when Gerard's hand shifts just a little, moving his fingers on top of Frank's nipple.
Frank looks up at him. He looks perfectly absorbed in his comic, calm and relaxed, as his fingers slowly shift apart and back together, pinching Frank's nipple between his index and middle fingers. Frank bites back a gasp.
There's no noise in the room except the rustling of pages and the light tapping of Mikey's phone keyboard. No one says anything about the blatant foreplay happening on the sofa. Or not so blatant, Frank realizes. If anyone looked over, they wouldn't actually see anything except a hand on his chest.
Well, and a circus tent erupting from his crotch.
Frank shuts his novel and places it over his abdomen, trying for casual. He shuts his eyes like he's taking a nap on Gerard's lap. It only serves to heighten his awareness of Gerard's fingers fondling him through the thin fabric of his shirt. Gerard lifts his hand slightly and drops it back onto Frank's chest, a little pat, except with Frank's nipple still clamped between his fingers.
Frank is going to die of sexual frustration. He is going to keel over and die right here, fuck. Gerard moves his fingers back and forth, rolling the nipple slightly, and Frank is going to die.
The door opens. "Come on, guys, time to say hello to your adoring fans," Brian announces.
"Oh, are we doing one of those tonight?" Gerard asks, all sweet and faux-clueless--or, knowing Gerard, possibly actually clueless. He stops torturing Frank's nipple and wriggles out from under his head. "C'mon, Frank, let's go give eBay's autograph economy a boost."
The signing is awful. Gerard, who seems to have ended his ban on offstage touching, keeps groping his thigh under the table. Frank can't focus on smiling and greeting the kids. He can barely even focus on spelling his name right.
"Frank, hi, it's great to meet you," says one of the few women of legal age in the line. She's pretty hot, which is really not helpful at the moment. "I'm sorry, you look really tired, but I was hoping for a picture with you?"
"We're, um, not supposed to come out from behind the table," Frank says apologetically.
Gerard smacks the back of his head. "Fuck that shit. Go let her take a picture," he says, grinning like the asshole he is.
Frank glares at him, which the woman completely misinterprets. "Oh no, you don't have to," she says, looking mortified. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked."
"It's fine," Frank reassures her, because he can't let her leave thinking that he was so repulsed by her he didn't want a picture of the two of them to exist. He gets up and lets her friend take the picture. She's probably going to put it on the internet, and then there will be eternal evidence of his Gerard-induced circus tent. Fuck.
***
"Hey, man, you okay?" asks Ray.
Frank is lying prone on the floor, because the buzzing of the bus on the highway is almost like a vibrator and he can't fucking help it anymore.
He lifts his hand and gives a weak thumbs-up. Ray doesn't move for a moment, probably trying to determine whether he should have the driver stop by an emergency room, but eventually he sighs and walks away.
Gerard comes up and spreads himself out on top of Frank, pressing his hard-on against Frank's ass. "How are you?" he murmurs into Frank's ear.
Frank wants to beg, to plead, to demand, but he's tried it all. Nothing works. He falls apart, and Gerard just laps it up and waits for more.
"I'm however you want me to be," he mumbles. "I'm whatever you fucking want, Gerard."
Gerard grinds against his ass, pushing Frank's cock down against the hard carpeting. "You can come tonight," he says.
Frank turns his head. "Really?"
"On stage. If you can come during the show tonight, you're allowed."
A few weeks ago, Frank wouldn't have believed it would be possible. Now, he hasn't had an orgasm in seventeen days, and he could probably come just from Gerard telling him to. "You owe me, like, ten million marshmallows," he says, and he can feel Gerard grinning against his neck.
The show that night is incredible. The band is completely on the same wavelength, and they're connecting with the crowd in a way that only happens once in a very long while. Frank jumps around and thrashes and humps his guitar, reveling in the vibrations and the energy and the excitement.
Halfway through "Give 'Em Hell, Kid," Gerard gets down on his knees and grabs Frank's ass through his thighs, and Frank forgets that he's on stage in front of an audience. He forgets that he's supposed to be playing. He forgets that he's a music performer, not a peep show performer, and he should not have sex on stage.
He straddles Gerard's shoulders, guitar swinging away forgotten. He grabs Gerard's face, sweat-slick and feverishly hot, and rubs up against his head--once, twice, and he can feel himself rushing past the point of no return. He slips off Gerard's shoulders as his orgasm crashes through him. He's coming with his entire body, everything around him jerking as his vision wobbles. He's faintly aware of grabbing his guitar and starting to play again on autopilot, letting his muscle memory do all the work for him, caught up completely in the aftershocks jolting through his thighs, his ass, his abs.
***
In the hotel after the show, Gerard cuddles up to Frank and asks, "So, how many marshmallows was that?"
"Just two," says Frank, "but the second one was the motherfucking Stay Puft Marshmallow Man."
Gerard bursts out laughing. "He's a sailor! He's in New York! We get this guy laid, we won't have any trouble!" he says in a terrible Bill Murray voice.
"Shut up and blow me," says Frank.
Gerard makes a concerned face at him. "You're gonna use up both of this month's orgasms in one night? You sure you want to do that?"
Frank yanks the pillow out from under his head and commences beating Gerard to a pulp, both of them giggling madly.