Well Done
Bandslash, R, ~1,600 words. Ryan/various.
***
Ryan isn't attracted to Brendon, not really. They've coexisted in too-small spaces for too long, with undesirable personal habits and unclipped toenails constantly digging into each other's skin. Romance requires a little room for pretense of perfection, at least at first, and Ryan didn't have enough time to admire Brendon's body before he started having to smell it all the time.
That doesn't stop him from springing an uncomfortable erection when Brendon picks up an instrument he's never seen before and starts playing it like he's been taking lessons for years.
"What did you say this is called?" Brendon asks, twanging out "Nine in the Afternoon" on the little metal tabs.
"It's a mbira," says Jon. "Thumb piano. It's from Africa."
"Sweet." Brendon starts plucking out a melody Ryan vaguely recognizes from "Pirates of the Caribbean," then changes to Coldplay's "Life in Technicolor" with one thumb. "Mashup!" he says gleefully. "Technicolor pirates!"
He transitions seamlessly to "Any Dream Will Do" from Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat and starts singing along. Ryan curls up a little to hide the bulge in his pants.
***
Ryan definitely isn't attracted to Zack. He's too much of a mom to them. Plus, he's too manly. Ryan doesn't do muscles and chest hair in general, and Zack is masculine enough to pull off the mom thing without getting any shit from anyone.
In Dallas, a guy comes up to Ryan outside the venue. "My girlfriend broke up with me yesterday," he says.
"That sucks," Ryan says warily.
"She broke up with me 'cause she didn't want to cheat on me," the guy says. "She's gonna try to fuck you after the show tonight. She's gonna throw herself at you like some cheap fucking groupie. You fuck groupies?"
Ryan does fuck groupies sometimes, although he doubts he'll have time before bus call tonight. He suspects that would not be a wise response to the question. "Um..."
Unfortunately, the guy seems to take this as a yes. "Fuck you, asshole," he says, and there's a fist coming at Ryan's face.
It happens so fast Ryan doesn't even catch it. One moment he's about to get his face mashed in, the next Zack is standing in front of him and his would-be attacker is up against the wall with his arm twisted behind his back. "On the bus," Zack commands. "Stay away from the windows."
Ryan doesn't want to stay away from the windows. He wants to watch, to see what Zack will do with the guy, maybe jerk off to Zack's quick, efficient movements. But control is Zack's job, and Ryan knows to listen to that tone. He stays away from the windows.
***
Gabe is pretty hot. But a lot of people think so, and Gabe is not the most reliable when it comes to safe sex, so it probably wouldn't be a good idea to fuck him.
Still, Ryan can look. When they end up in a club one night that has a stripper pole nobody happens to be using, and Gabe casually slings a couple lanky limbs around it while he's chatting with his band, Ryan definitely looks. When Vicky-T's lips shape the words "dare you" and Gabe starts sliding down the pole, his ass nearly touching the ground before he rises back up, Ryan can't tear his eyes away.
It starts out silly, a joke, but after a minute or two Gabe starts climbing higher and higher on the pole and people start moving out of range of his flailing legs. Then the music hits a good beat and something seems to click into place, and Gabe isn't flailing anymore, he's really dancing. He hauls himself up with his arms and locks his legs around the pole, leans back and lets go with his hands, rotates in a way that looks effortless, but Ryan can see his thigh muscles straining through his tight jeans even in the low lighting of the club.
It's not the sexual overtones of the dance that get to Ryan. It's the skill, the sheer amount of practice that must have gone into perfecting these moves.
Gabe flips upside down, and Ryan tries to remember to breathe.
***
Ryan doesn't find Patrick physically attractive at all, which is a damn shame, because he suspects Patrick would be an amazing boyfriend. He's smart and sweet and funny, and unlike a depressing number of people on the scene, he truly gives a shit about music. He always listens to the crappy burned CDs fans press into his hands, he pays attention to new artists and jots a note on his phone anytime anyone mentions a band he hasn't heard yet, he never judges anyone for their taste, and he spends every spare second of his time creating his own music.
He's futzing around with GarageBand now, mixing together a cappella tracks of his own voice. Ryan's pretty sure Patrick forgot he was in the room by the time he reached for the microphone. He's not recording lyrics, just random syllables strung together in a catchy tune; at least, that's what Ryan thinks until he splices in the final track and lyrics emerge from the babble, syllables from different tracks blending together to form words. It's rough, not perfect yet, but Patrick's head is bent over his screen and Ryan knows it will stay there until the song is finished and polished. Because there's nothing more important to Patrick than this.
Ryan tries to resist, he does, but the way the tracks come together is too much. He rubs the front of his pants, listening to Patrick play one segment over and over. It's the phrase "my tongue uncensored," the "my... un... sored" parts from one track stumbling into the "tongue... cen" from another. Patrick shifts something a fraction of a second forward, and suddenly it sounds like it's all one track, like he sang the phrase all the way through.
There's no reason to do it this way. Listening to the end result, no one will know how much work went into it. Patrick's just doing it to see if he can.
He lifts his head and looks over. Ryan jerks his hand away from his crotch just in time to avoid an extremely awkward moment.
***
Ryan is attracted to Gerard Way, enough that when the opportunity arises to give him a blowjob on My Chem's bus, he doesn't think twice before dropping to his knees.
After Gerard comes down Ryan's throat, he leans forward to stick a hand down the back of Ryan's pants and drags him up by his ass onto the padded bench. "What can I do for you?" he whispers. "What do you want?"
"Um," says Ryan. "There's something. But it's kind of weird."
"Oh, goody," Gerard says brightly. "I love weird. Bring it on."
Ryan picks up a sketchpad from the table and holds it out. "Could you draw for me?" He eyes the partially decapitated violin-woman-creature on the top page. "Maybe not that. Something else."
Gerard stretches out along the bench on his stomach, propping himself up on his elbows, like this is a perfectly normal request for a one-night stand. His jeans are still undone, bunched up at the top of his thighs, his ass hanging out. "What should I draw?"
"I don't even care," says Ryan. "Christopher Walken. A roller coaster. A Smurf. It doesn't matter." He lies down on top of Gerard, settling his chin on Gerard's shoulder and his cock in the crack of Gerard's ass, and watches as Gerard starts sketching vague outlines across the whole page. Gradually, the lines get darker, and a picture starts to emerge: a person, sitting down. The perspective on the frontal view of the knees is perfectly proportioned. Ryan presses his hips down, and Gerard squeezes his ass around Ryan's cock.
It's clear that Gerard has spent a lot of time doing this. Ryan's focus wanders away from the picture to the way the quick, sure motions of Gerard's hands translate to a blur of eraser at the other end of the pencil. When he looks back, Gerard has added a bar across the person's lap and a smaller figure clinging to its sleeve.
"Are you drawing Christopher Walken and a Smurf on a roller coaster?" Ryan asks. He is more turned on than anyone asking that question should ever be.
"Yeah," says Gerard. "This is actually pretty tough. I've never tried to draw with someone humping my ass before."
"You're doing a great job," Ryan assures him breathlessly. Gerard squeezes his ass cheeks together again. Ryan moans and thrusts forward. The drawing is taking a clear shape, with outlines of the looping roller coaster track in the background.
Then Gerard fills in the details of Christopher Walken's face, and it looks exactly like Christopher Walken, and Ryan comes all over Gerard's back.
Gerard signs his name in the corner of the page and rips it out. "Souvenir?"
"Fuck yes," says Ryan as soon as he can breathe again. "Um, I'm not into Christopher Walken. Or Smurfs. That was just... you drawing is really hot."
"It's really hot that you think me drawing is hot," says Gerard. He twists his head around for a kiss. He kisses like he talks: forcefully and sincerely, with plenty of lip.
Ryan puts the drawing up on his refrigerator. Occasionally, someone spots the signature and asks incredulously why Gerard Way sketched him a picture of, um, is that Christopher Walken?
Ryan's answer is always the same: "Because he could."
***
Author's note: I'd never seen Gabe poledance before I wrote this--I just thought it seemed like something he might be able to do. Then I checked YouTube to see if there were any videos of him poledancing, and obviously, this being Gabe, there are. Turns out he really, really, really can't. Oh, well. Artistic license? :D?
***
Ryan isn't attracted to Brendon, not really. They've coexisted in too-small spaces for too long, with undesirable personal habits and unclipped toenails constantly digging into each other's skin. Romance requires a little room for pretense of perfection, at least at first, and Ryan didn't have enough time to admire Brendon's body before he started having to smell it all the time.
That doesn't stop him from springing an uncomfortable erection when Brendon picks up an instrument he's never seen before and starts playing it like he's been taking lessons for years.
"What did you say this is called?" Brendon asks, twanging out "Nine in the Afternoon" on the little metal tabs.
"It's a mbira," says Jon. "Thumb piano. It's from Africa."
"Sweet." Brendon starts plucking out a melody Ryan vaguely recognizes from "Pirates of the Caribbean," then changes to Coldplay's "Life in Technicolor" with one thumb. "Mashup!" he says gleefully. "Technicolor pirates!"
He transitions seamlessly to "Any Dream Will Do" from Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat and starts singing along. Ryan curls up a little to hide the bulge in his pants.
***
Ryan definitely isn't attracted to Zack. He's too much of a mom to them. Plus, he's too manly. Ryan doesn't do muscles and chest hair in general, and Zack is masculine enough to pull off the mom thing without getting any shit from anyone.
In Dallas, a guy comes up to Ryan outside the venue. "My girlfriend broke up with me yesterday," he says.
"That sucks," Ryan says warily.
"She broke up with me 'cause she didn't want to cheat on me," the guy says. "She's gonna try to fuck you after the show tonight. She's gonna throw herself at you like some cheap fucking groupie. You fuck groupies?"
Ryan does fuck groupies sometimes, although he doubts he'll have time before bus call tonight. He suspects that would not be a wise response to the question. "Um..."
Unfortunately, the guy seems to take this as a yes. "Fuck you, asshole," he says, and there's a fist coming at Ryan's face.
It happens so fast Ryan doesn't even catch it. One moment he's about to get his face mashed in, the next Zack is standing in front of him and his would-be attacker is up against the wall with his arm twisted behind his back. "On the bus," Zack commands. "Stay away from the windows."
Ryan doesn't want to stay away from the windows. He wants to watch, to see what Zack will do with the guy, maybe jerk off to Zack's quick, efficient movements. But control is Zack's job, and Ryan knows to listen to that tone. He stays away from the windows.
***
Gabe is pretty hot. But a lot of people think so, and Gabe is not the most reliable when it comes to safe sex, so it probably wouldn't be a good idea to fuck him.
Still, Ryan can look. When they end up in a club one night that has a stripper pole nobody happens to be using, and Gabe casually slings a couple lanky limbs around it while he's chatting with his band, Ryan definitely looks. When Vicky-T's lips shape the words "dare you" and Gabe starts sliding down the pole, his ass nearly touching the ground before he rises back up, Ryan can't tear his eyes away.
It starts out silly, a joke, but after a minute or two Gabe starts climbing higher and higher on the pole and people start moving out of range of his flailing legs. Then the music hits a good beat and something seems to click into place, and Gabe isn't flailing anymore, he's really dancing. He hauls himself up with his arms and locks his legs around the pole, leans back and lets go with his hands, rotates in a way that looks effortless, but Ryan can see his thigh muscles straining through his tight jeans even in the low lighting of the club.
It's not the sexual overtones of the dance that get to Ryan. It's the skill, the sheer amount of practice that must have gone into perfecting these moves.
Gabe flips upside down, and Ryan tries to remember to breathe.
***
Ryan doesn't find Patrick physically attractive at all, which is a damn shame, because he suspects Patrick would be an amazing boyfriend. He's smart and sweet and funny, and unlike a depressing number of people on the scene, he truly gives a shit about music. He always listens to the crappy burned CDs fans press into his hands, he pays attention to new artists and jots a note on his phone anytime anyone mentions a band he hasn't heard yet, he never judges anyone for their taste, and he spends every spare second of his time creating his own music.
He's futzing around with GarageBand now, mixing together a cappella tracks of his own voice. Ryan's pretty sure Patrick forgot he was in the room by the time he reached for the microphone. He's not recording lyrics, just random syllables strung together in a catchy tune; at least, that's what Ryan thinks until he splices in the final track and lyrics emerge from the babble, syllables from different tracks blending together to form words. It's rough, not perfect yet, but Patrick's head is bent over his screen and Ryan knows it will stay there until the song is finished and polished. Because there's nothing more important to Patrick than this.
Ryan tries to resist, he does, but the way the tracks come together is too much. He rubs the front of his pants, listening to Patrick play one segment over and over. It's the phrase "my tongue uncensored," the "my... un... sored" parts from one track stumbling into the "tongue... cen" from another. Patrick shifts something a fraction of a second forward, and suddenly it sounds like it's all one track, like he sang the phrase all the way through.
There's no reason to do it this way. Listening to the end result, no one will know how much work went into it. Patrick's just doing it to see if he can.
He lifts his head and looks over. Ryan jerks his hand away from his crotch just in time to avoid an extremely awkward moment.
***
Ryan is attracted to Gerard Way, enough that when the opportunity arises to give him a blowjob on My Chem's bus, he doesn't think twice before dropping to his knees.
After Gerard comes down Ryan's throat, he leans forward to stick a hand down the back of Ryan's pants and drags him up by his ass onto the padded bench. "What can I do for you?" he whispers. "What do you want?"
"Um," says Ryan. "There's something. But it's kind of weird."
"Oh, goody," Gerard says brightly. "I love weird. Bring it on."
Ryan picks up a sketchpad from the table and holds it out. "Could you draw for me?" He eyes the partially decapitated violin-woman-creature on the top page. "Maybe not that. Something else."
Gerard stretches out along the bench on his stomach, propping himself up on his elbows, like this is a perfectly normal request for a one-night stand. His jeans are still undone, bunched up at the top of his thighs, his ass hanging out. "What should I draw?"
"I don't even care," says Ryan. "Christopher Walken. A roller coaster. A Smurf. It doesn't matter." He lies down on top of Gerard, settling his chin on Gerard's shoulder and his cock in the crack of Gerard's ass, and watches as Gerard starts sketching vague outlines across the whole page. Gradually, the lines get darker, and a picture starts to emerge: a person, sitting down. The perspective on the frontal view of the knees is perfectly proportioned. Ryan presses his hips down, and Gerard squeezes his ass around Ryan's cock.
It's clear that Gerard has spent a lot of time doing this. Ryan's focus wanders away from the picture to the way the quick, sure motions of Gerard's hands translate to a blur of eraser at the other end of the pencil. When he looks back, Gerard has added a bar across the person's lap and a smaller figure clinging to its sleeve.
"Are you drawing Christopher Walken and a Smurf on a roller coaster?" Ryan asks. He is more turned on than anyone asking that question should ever be.
"Yeah," says Gerard. "This is actually pretty tough. I've never tried to draw with someone humping my ass before."
"You're doing a great job," Ryan assures him breathlessly. Gerard squeezes his ass cheeks together again. Ryan moans and thrusts forward. The drawing is taking a clear shape, with outlines of the looping roller coaster track in the background.
Then Gerard fills in the details of Christopher Walken's face, and it looks exactly like Christopher Walken, and Ryan comes all over Gerard's back.
Gerard signs his name in the corner of the page and rips it out. "Souvenir?"
"Fuck yes," says Ryan as soon as he can breathe again. "Um, I'm not into Christopher Walken. Or Smurfs. That was just... you drawing is really hot."
"It's really hot that you think me drawing is hot," says Gerard. He twists his head around for a kiss. He kisses like he talks: forcefully and sincerely, with plenty of lip.
Ryan puts the drawing up on his refrigerator. Occasionally, someone spots the signature and asks incredulously why Gerard Way sketched him a picture of, um, is that Christopher Walken?
Ryan's answer is always the same: "Because he could."
***
Author's note: I'd never seen Gabe poledance before I wrote this--I just thought it seemed like something he might be able to do. Then I checked YouTube to see if there were any videos of him poledancing, and obviously, this being Gabe, there are. Turns out he really, really, really can't. Oh, well. Artistic license? :D?