Fic: Ten Ficlets
Ten Drabbles Ficlets I wrote for The Masochist Meme. Some of them technically aren't Drabbles as they went a few hundred words over 1000. Actually none of them are Drabbles, as not one is exactly 100 words. (Thank you Wikipedia) So let's call them ficlets. But hey, who's in it for the technicalities anyway?
For gracie321 - Frank/Gerard/Brian
Clarity
789 words
They really need to be drunk for this to work.
Which might have been an option two and a half years ago, but it is so completely not going to happen now. Gerard is just going to have to rely on his wits. His wits have gotten Frank and Brian into his hotel room, the three of them smushed onto the bed, which is a good start. However shifting the gears from "Star Wars Marathon" to "Threesome" is proving nearly impossible.
For the first time in a really long time, Gerard wishes he could have a drink.
Fuck it, he thinks. Fuck it.He doesn't need dutch courage. He's just going to take the plunge. Brian's on his left, sitting slumped against the headboard, so close Gerard can hear his breaths, see every detail of the man with the red shield tattooed on his neck, under the dancing light of the television. His heart pounding, fingers curling into the sheets as he does, Gerard turns his head to the side and presses his mouth over the red shield, feeling the warmth and pulse beneath his lips.
Brian startles immediately, his body leaping up off the bed, but Gerard is ready, latched on and he doesn't break contact.
"Gee, what?" Breathless confusion in Brian's voice as Gerard detaches himself with a final lick to Brian's neck. He doesn't answer the almost-question, instead lifting one hand to Brian's cheek, pulling him down for a kiss.
Brian's lips aren't moving. Gerard fights a rising panic. This is all a mistake. He's ruined it all. Frank's right behind him and he can tell by the lack of movement that he's watching, there's no way he's missing this. He's nearly ready to cave into himself, pull away, apologize, when softly, tentatively, Brian kisses back.
Relief floods through Gerard even as desire threatens to rob him of all remaining thought. His hand slides up into Brian's hair, gripping tight and pressing closer, kissing harder until Brian's slipping him tongue and tearing a moan from him.
Blood rushing in his ears, he almost doesn't hear the half-laugh, half-cough noise Frank makes. He does feel it when Frank starts to slide off the bed, muttering something about finding his own room. Adrenaline rushes through him and his hand flutters behind him, reaching for Frank, somehow blindly grabbing him by the forearm.
He's panting when he breaks the kiss, turning slowly from Brian to Frank, eyes hazy with lust, lips feeling swollen as he says, "No, Frank. Stay. Please. Stay." He turns back to Brian. "Both of you."
There it is. He said it.
Silence is heavy in the room as the meaning of what he's proposing sinks in for both of them.
Frank's eyes flick from Gerard to Brian. They share a long look. Gerard holds his breath.
Slowly Brian raises an eyebrow at Frank, one shoulder coming up in an expression that says Why not?
Gerard watches Frank closely, heart lifting as Frank's brow unfurrows and his lips slowly stretch into a wicked grin. Then Frank's giggling and diving onto the bed, landing hard on top of both himself and Brian in a mess of limbs.
They're laughing as they wrestle on the bed, elbows catching, legs sliding, hands brushing, until Gerard finds the scorpion on Frank's neck and latches onto it. The laughing quietens as Frank arches beneath him, Gerard's hands sliding up under the guitarist's shirt to trace the bluebirds he knows are there.
Soon there's an arm around Gerard's back, pulling him closer and when Gerard breaks his mouth from Frank's neck and looks up he's met with a sight that forces an ache through him. Brian's kissing Frank, and Frank's kissing back. It's hard and intense and Gerard's getting glimpses of tongue when their mouths shift. It's so insanely fucking hot Gerard's not sure if he can take it. His breath comes out in a gasp and his hips buck forward, rubbing on both their bodies like he has no control at all.
Brian slowly releases Frank's mouth, but not before sucking hard on his lower lip and catching Frank's lip ring on the way up. Then they're both looking at him. Frank and Brian. Eyes warm and hazy as they start to move.
The bed is soft under Gerard's back as two pairs of inked arms press him down onto it. Then they're taking turns kissing him and he's fumbling with their clothes until they all stop to strip off. As the orgy of tattooed flesh comes down on him, all Gerard can think is this is exactly the way he wanted it. Exactly. He's seeing everything, feeling everything. It's all crystal clear.
And he's never been more glad to be sober.
For equinescientist - Bob/Frank
Territory
372 words
Bob is minding his own business, in his own bunk, trying to read quietly dammit when his lap suddenly becomes full of squirming, giggling Iero.
"Frank!" Bob growls, trying not to "Ooof" audibly as one of Frank's flaily legs gets him in the stomach. "Frank!" He tries again, but Frank is laughing too hard to respond.
With something akin to resignation, Bob grabs a handful of Frank's shirt and shoves him towards out. It doesn't work though, Frank somehow manages to get stuck, despite being half the size of a normal person. He starts shrieking,
"Bob ow! Bob my head!"
"Are you gonna get out?" Bob growls, trying not to laugh even though Frank with his head smushed against the bunk strut is about the funniest thing ever.
Frank's still giggling even though he's trapped, Bob's arm between his shoulderblades isn't going anywhere. He sends one flailing, reaching hand behind himself, trying to grab any part of Bob he can find.
Well, probably any part but that part. And it's really highly inconvenient that the magazine Bob was reading (which is now crumpled beneath Frank's ass) is not the latest issue of Modern Drummer, but rather something with a more adult bent.
So when Frank gets a handful, he really gets a handful. And that shuts him right up. For maybe, three seconds (because this is Frank we're talking about).
"Are you sure you want me to get out?" Frank's voice is suddenly very small. He hasn't actually let go either.
His face pinkening by the second, Bob releases his hold on Frank, letting him fall into the bunk on his back with rush of breath. Frank's wearing a half-smile but his eyes are unsure, somehow pleading. Somehow extremely pretty too.
Almost as if to remind Bob there's still a question that needs answering, Frank hand just presses up.
Anything close to rational thought goes out the window and before Bob's even really aware of it he's flopping down over the smaller man and finding Frank's mouth with his own. Frank's arms twine up around his neck, pulling Bob closer as he slides his tongue in.
And Bob can't fathom why he would even consider kicking Frank out of his bunk. Ever.
For fight_thepast - Frank/Mikey
The Friday Night Routine
1 196 words
"Cher, Gambit loves you." Frank barely gets the words out before he dissolves into giggles, half falling off the couch and coming dangerously close to slopping bong water on himself.
Mikey's already off and running, laughter bubbling out of him, draped bonelessly over the edge of the couch with his bony ass on the floor. They're watching animated X-men re-runs and it's just, the funniest thing ever. Though most of that is probably the pot talking but - "Dude. Dude. Frank's panting it out between laughing fits. "He just..." another explosion of snickering pours out of him as he struggles to get the words out. "Just... confessed his love... in third fucking person."
Mikey's already there like he didn't even need Frank to explain it. He's barely staying upright, gasping for breath between laughing fits, tears rolling down his cheeks.
"I know. I know, right?" Mikey has to stop even attempting to speak for a moment, bent double and smothering an endless peal of giggling into his knees. "He just... It's like this right?"
Mikey grabs Frank to demonstrate, pulling him the rest of the way off the couch and Frank just barely manages to get the bong onto the coffee table without spilling. He's had practice over time. This is pretty much normal Friday night behaviour for the two of them. Frank had no idea how much fun Mikey was til he moved in. He looks so straightlaced and quiet like he wouldn't say boo to a mouse, but you get even three puffs of bud into him and the dude is a fucking comedy goldmine.
Mikey's manhandling Frank into position, laying him across his lap like Rogue is on the screen. As soon as Frank figures it out he gets indignant. Well as indignant as you can be when you can't stop laughing.
"Hey! Hey asshole." He starts flapping his hands at Mikey, getting in the way of Mikey's good works, throat-laughs still leaking out of him sounding like Mutley. "Why am I Rogue? I'm not the fucking chick!" He's not making his point, not even slightly, because he can't stop laughing but whatever, Mikey wont listen to him anyway.
"Of course..." Mikey's eyes are squinched up and he stops for a moment, leaning into Frank's neck and just letting it all bubble out of him like a torrent of insane glee. "Of course you are Frankie... you're always the girl..."
"No, no, nonono." Frank has to pause and heave in a breath. Fuck, he can hardly get this out. He palms his hands over his face, wiping away tears. "You're the fucking girl Mikeyway. You have..." Another snicker bubbles out of him, he can barely speak, "You have girl's hair!"
"I do not..." Mikey's pointing at him now, stumbling over his own mouth that wont stop splurting out giggles, "Do not have girl's hair!"
Mikey's hands are surprisingly strong when he grabs Frank and pushes him against the couch. What follows is the saddest attempt at wrestling ever seen in the modern world. It mainly consists of a lot of rolling around on the floor, some half hearted attempts at flips and holds that they both just can't stop cackling long enough to actually follow through on and a whole stack of giggling.
Frank winds up pinned beneath Mikey's gangly body, Mikey laughing into his neck, his bony weight holding Frank in place. Their chests bounce against each other, vibrating with laughter and Frank can barely breathe. His chest hurts from gasping. He takes a few deep breaths, feeling the laughter start to ebb away, though the hysteria still sits in his chest, waiting for the next tiny cue to release again.
Mikey's settled down a bit too. He pulls his face from the hollow of Frank's neck and looks down at him from propped elbows. His eyes are bloodshot and shiny with tears and he's got the biggest, stupidest, douchiest grin on his face. Frank's looking up at him, at Mikey's stupid face and it's like something just clicks into place. Like he finally figured out the solution to a problem he didn't even realise he was thinking about.
And because Frank's not one to step down when he's got his mind on something, and possibly also with the help of the beer and the pot and the insane amounts of glee-induced adrenaline, he just goes for it. Leans up, and shoves his mouth over Mikey's big dumb smile.
Mikey make a surprised noise, followed by a smothered snicker (smothered because he's still got Frank's mouth on his) and finally, finally kisses back. It's actually a lot more relaxed than a first kiss should be because they're both so high and smoke-sated, but that's good. It's slow and it's lazy as Mikey's lips slide over his and when they graduate to tongue Mikey's whole body shifts lower so they're flush. Stuck. And Frank's feeling pretty good about this. Pretty fucking good.
It goes on like that, slower than ooze, Frank's hand trailing up and down Mikey's slender back, Mikey's hands drawing patterns down Frank's arms. They're kissing deep and lazy, like there's nothing else in the world they'd rather be doing. There probably isn't either.
Mikey finally comes up for air, head dropping on Frank's shoulder and just breathing deeply. He's rolling his hips a little on Frank as he does and Frank feels like he's fighting a warm red cloud he's so hot. So into this.
"So... " Mikey's mumbling into Frank's collarbone. "If I'm the girl. And you're the girl..." Mikey's head comes up so Frank can see the giggle already tugging on his mouth before he can even get the sentence out. "What's that make us?"
"Fucking lesbians!" Frank shouts it out and that's it, Mikey breaks, hiccuping laughter barrelling out him as he goes boneless on top of Frank. That tips Frank right over, hysterical giggles bubbling from his lips, gasping for breath and covered in a squirming Mikey-blanket.
Somewhere in the giggle fit they find each other’s mouths again, peppering kisses and gropes on each other between laughing jags. It takes forever to even get their clothes off and Mikey almost gets swallowed by his shirt trying to pull it over his head. He winds up with his arms stuck above him in the air, tangled in too-tight-shirt, laughing into the material that smothers him. When Frank disentangles him they tumble back onto the carpet, smearing Cheeto-powder into it and puzzling their way through the rest of their clothing removal.
Frank doesn't think he's ever lasted this long through a hand job before. Or smiled this much while getting one. The pot keeps it slow and lazy, but also light and silly and when they both finally get off it's even funnier than Gambit's love confessions.
That's how they wind up, sticky bodies entwined and Mikey's arms wrapped right around Frank as they ride out the last of their giggles. Frank's grinning up at Mikey and Mikey's got this glazed douchey smile pasted on his sweet, pretty face.
Frank's thinking this should definitely be their new Friday night routine. Maybe Saturday, Sunday and every other night's too.
For villiagegreen - Mike Dirnt/Mikeyway
Picking Up (where we left off)
805 words
When Mike turns back from the bar and bumps right into Mikey Way he can't help thinking that this is the last person he was expecting to see tonight.
Which is stupid of course, because it's the NME awards and just about any band they've ever met or toured with is here. But it just didn't occur to him that it might happen. That he'd see Mikey again, face to face. In the flesh.
The first thing he notices is how different Mikey looks. No more glasses. Hair slicked back and up and off his face like he doesn't need it to hide behind anymore. Not that he ever did. He's still beautiful.
"Mikey." Mike says it with a smile, turning the name into a greeting.
"Mike.' Mikey smiles back and it goes all the way to his eyes. It puts a little lilt in Mike's heart, even though it shouldn't. He doubts Mikey even remembers that night on the tour, he was so drunk and strung out when Mike found him, sniffling and tearstained hiding behind a Marshall stack. Mike remembers though. It's burned on his mind. Fixed. Like a tattoo.
Before he can stop himself his hand's gone up to Mikey's face, fingers dancing along his cheekbone, proudly exposed.
"No more glasses." There's a note of wonder in Mike's voice, he hopes Mikey doesn't hear it.
"No, I got them done." Mikey's voice sounds deeper, if that's possible. His mouth twists into a little grin as he waves a hand, "Adios Paul Frank, hello twenty-twenty."
"Looks good. Looks really good." Mike wants to kick himself for being so obvious. He's barely said hi to the kid and he's already drooling at him. Not that Mikey's a kid anymore. Not at all. He's grown up.
Far from the kid with the smudged, crooked glasses that Mike found and held and whispered to. Mikey had hung onto him, glasses pressing into Mike's neck, muttering drunken nonsense at him, leeching out the hurt. Mike never was sure what caused it, it probably wasn't one single thing, more an avalanche of nonsense fuelled by alcohol, causing the breakdown. No, all Mike can remember is the way Mikey looked up at him, his eyes wet and pleading. The way he latched his fingers in Mike's hair and pulled him down for a sloppy but intense kiss. How hard it was, so hard to pull away. But he did. Because he's not like that. He doesn't take advantage, especially not of pretty young boys with crooked glasses who look thin enough to break.
Billie Joe called him ten kinds of idiot for passing it up. He called himself the same things, because look what he could have had? But he knows he couldn't have lived with himself if he'd taken advantage of it, the mixture of grief and drunkenness and hero worship that was being offered. He just couldn't.
But Mikey's smiling at him now. Hot grown-up, free-of-glasses Mikey is looking like the cat that ate the cream. He probably doesn't even remember.
"Thanks." Mikey's voice carries over the too-loud murmur of the room, tiny twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth. "You're looking pretty good yourself there, Mike." Mikey's eyes drop low and scan their way back up, cataloguing every inch of Mike and oh, okay. He may not be an expert at this but he's pretty sure Mikey's flirting with him. Well. Hello.
"Now Mikeyway. I think you should let me buy you a drink." And Mike's putting his full-beam smile on now, turning the charm up to eleven. He can do this. He's not that rusty at the whole picking-up caper.
"I don't think they're gonna take your money, Mike. It's an open bar." Mikey's eyebrow twitches up and the kid is fucking smirking at him now. Oh this is on. So on.
"Well then, let me get you a drink. Mister Way." Mike grabs Mikey by the arm and steers him back to the bar, letting his hand stray to the small of Mikey's back, feeling daring. Before he's even gotten two steps there's a brush over his ass and Mikey's hand is slipping into the back pocket of his jeans. And he knows he's way out of his league now. Mikey is so, so far ahead of him.
"Why don't we skip the drink?" Mikey's saying, guiding their journey past the bar and outside, away from the milling crowd. "I don't really drink much anymore, anyway." Mikey's saying, tugging on Mike's hand, pulling them into a shadow. "Besides. You and I have unfinished business."
He does remember. The thought barely gets out before Mikey's grabbing his head for a kiss, lips covering his expertly, firm and soft and delicious. And Mike knows he's been out-flirted completely. And he really, really doesn't care.
For phelixstar - Gerard/Bert
Anywhere (is where I wont be)
1 169 words
Gerard's swaying a little on his feet. Or maybe the room is swaying and he's standing perfectly still. Either way, it's throwing him off. Stupid room.
"Bert?" His voice comes out frail. Where did he go? He was here a minute ago.
"Hey." Strong arms around him, warm voice in his ear, scent of cigarettes. "Got you." Gerard's hands slide over the arms that encase him, fingers trailing over tattoos, fine hairs, jutting bones. The relief he feels is instant, Bert's solidity grounding him, the room even seems to settle a little, though it is still swaying, kinda.
Gerard slides his arm up and back, digging one hand into Bert's hair, pulling him close as he turns his head for a kiss. Bert's tongue darts out to trace his lips first before finding his mouth properly, pressing full and hard and giving him tongue straight away. Because that's Bert. He doesn't hold back. It's always zero to one hundred with him and Gerard lives to ride that way.
Gerard moans into the kiss, turning in Bert's arms so they're facing, digging his hand further into Bert's hair as his other hand clutches a handful of Bert's shirt. He's arching into Bert already, pushing and rubbing up against him, wanting more, always wanting more. It happens so quickly now, no warm up necessary. Like his body is already attuned to what's coming and immediately arms up for it, quickening, hardening, throbbing.
Bert's slides a hand down, covering Gee's crotch, feeling how hard he is already through is jeans. A growl of satisfaction leaks into their kiss, Bert's mouth twitching like he's fighting a smile. He breaks the kiss, pressing his forehead to Gerard's, wicked smile curling his lip.
"Already Gee?" He's murmuring, voice deep and throaty and it makes Gerard buck into his hand, groaning with need. "Fuck, I've barely touched you." Bert twitches his hand as he speaks, pressing and rubbing, giving Gee the friction he's aching for.
Gerard doesn't have a thing to say. His limbs feel liquid, saturated and heavy with desire. He just pulls Bert's head closer to his and kisses him again, stroking, devouring his lips eagerly. He's rolling his hips wantonly against Bert's hand, desperate for more contact, shamelessly begging for it.
Bert shoves him back onto the bed, placing him down on the mattress and crawling over him. They're both so ready and it's taken no time at all. Gerard is already scrabbling at Bert's belt, getting annoyed when he can't figure it out even though he's too busy kissing Bert to actually look at what he's doing. Bert chuckles throatily, brushes his hands aside and undoes it himself. As soon as button and zip are open Gerard's hands are inside, sighing with relief when Bert's not wearing underwear. He fills one hand with warm hardness, his other hand sliding lower to gently dance over Bert's balls and it's Bert's turn to moan and shiver.
Gerard can't push the satisfied smile from his face as he shapes and strokes Bert. It's almost muscle memory now, the way his hands move, seeking out Bert's sensitive spots, pressing and rubbing at them til he groans.
"Asshole." Bert mutters, with no real malice. That's when Gerard knows he's really got it right, if Bert starts swearing he's definitely liking it. Gerard trills out a satisfied little laugh as he pulls another shudder from Bert who groans again and reaches for Gerard's belt to retaliate.
"You fucking love it." Gerard teases, mouth pulling into a smug grin.
"I fucking do." Bert mutters, barely getting the words out before he's gasping from Gerard's nimble fingers. "Oh fuck you." He breathes, eyes squinching shut and Gerard can feel the throb in his hand as Bert struggles for control. He can't help smiling. He loves doing this to Bert.
He's not smiling when Bert gets his pants open and his hands inside. He's groaning, loud and long at the sheer fucking bliss of Bert's fingers and fuck if he doesn't know exactly the way Gerard likes to be touched. Firm, fast and exactly perfect and it's making Gerard's own hands fumble on Bert's cock because he just can't keep his concentration.
"Fuck. Fuck. Wait." He has to pull his hands out of Bert's pants to grab Bert's wrists stilling them. "It's too much." He's panting, barely able to breathe. "Fuck. I just need..." He struggles, tongue feeling too large and heavy to move, heat in his groin pulling all the spark out of his brain.
"You need to be fucked." Bert supplies, voice rough. And he's totally right. The words nearly make Gerard shoot his load on the spot, but he keeps himself in check, biting down on his lip and breathing deep, fingers tightening around Bert's wrists because he just can't take anymore contact right now. He's gonna blow his load everywhere.
"Yes. Yeah. Fuck yeah, Bert." He kisses the smile on Bert's face. "Fuck yeah."
Bert rolls him over onto his belly, manhandling him till his jeans are off and his ass is in the air. Gerard has to bite down hard on his own hand when Bert's slippery fingers find him. He's too close and even though his cock is untouched the twist of Bert's fingers feels amazing. He breathes deep and tries to relax, as one finger becomes two, becomes three.
"I'm ready, I'm ready fuck, please Bert, please." The words tumble from his mouth, half muffled into the mattress but Bert gets it, he hears him. Gerard hears the snick and snap of a condom before the first blunt press of Bert's cock draws a moan from him. Bert pushes in slow, but constant. Gerard's so tense from teetering on the brink it hurts a little, but only for a moment and then he's full, so fucking full of Bert's cock he can't stand it. It's too much.
"Oh jesusfuck, Bert. Fuuuuuuck." He knows he's making too much noise but he can't help it. Bert starts to move, setting a pace that's probably too fast but for Gerard it's perfect and he barely has time to get his fist around his cock before he's flatlining, whiting out, spraying all over the sheets with an agonised moan.
Bert keeps pumping into him, chasing his own release at a flat-out run as Gerard's still feeling aftershocks throb through his softening cock. He can hear it in Bert's voice as he gets close, his grunts building up, getting louder. Then Bert's folding forward, mouth hot on Gerard's neck as he moans out his orgasm, hips bucking, hands grasping at Gerard's shoulders.
After seconds or minutes, Bert peels away his deathgrip and rolls them to their sides. He pulls out and ditches the condom as Gerard burrows his face into Bert's neck, cuddling into him.
"Don't ever go away okay?" Gerard's voice sounds ragged and strangely childlike. Bert squeezes him tight and holds on.
"Don't worry Gee, I'm not going anywhere."
Gerard makes a satisfied noise and drifts off.
For b_dsaint - Pete/Mikey
Familiar
1 318 words
It was actually Alicia's idea.
Too many times she'd seen the same expression on Mikey's face as he read a text message from the same number. Glanced at too many emails over his shoulder. Read between the lines on too many tweets between mikeyway and petewentz @twitter.com.
She called Ashlee.
Mikey still isn't entirely comfortable or in the loop as to how they wound up here. It was all offscreen movements, patterns being painted by other people's hands.
But he doesn't really care. It doesn't matter how they got here. What matters is they're here. Just them.
Pete is standing in his living room, looking older and younger and exactly the same. His hair is smushed flat beneath his stupid grey-checked grandpa hat and his hands are stuffed deep in the pockets of his ridiculous pink hoodie.
But he's here. Smiling at Mikey with his too-big teeth and his brown eyes dancing and Mikey didn't even realise he's been missing him this much. Not until he's right here, in front of him.
His old awkwardness comes flooding back. He nearly reaches up to adjust his glasses before he remembers he doesn't wear them anymore. He shifts on his feet, not sure what the next part is. It's on the tip of his tongue to offer Pete a drink, play the host, but Pete's quicker and more impatient, just like he always has been. He crosses the two steps between them, hands coming up to touch Mikey's face. Fingertips brush lightly over his cheekbones and eyebrows as Pete studies him with something like wonder, hands feathering upwards over his slicked-up hair.
"You're so... different." Pete's saying, almost to himself. Mikey's not sure if this is a good thing. It must show on his face or the way he bites his lip because Pete interjects almost immediately. "I mean, you look good, really fucking good, it's just... different."
Mikey still hasn't found words so he stays silent, watching Pete, drinking him in. Pete's fingers ghost down his cheek, pads sliding gently across Mikey's lower lip, almost like he's re-learning him. Finding him again after all this time.
Mikey knows it's coming. From the way Pete is staring at his mouth. The way the tip of his tongue darts out to wet his lips is a signal and Mikey welcomes it. Pete leans in, fingers soft on Mikey's chin, tilting his head down for a kiss.
It's at once familiar and new. Pete tastes different, fresher, cleaner somehow but still essentially Pete and Mikey falls back into him like no time has passed at all. This isn't all he's missed about Pete, the random mad conversations, the devious plans, the half cocked ideas, the way he laughed. Mikey missed those too. But this... this is the one thing he can't get anywhere else. He's been able to synthesize a lot of what was absent through messages and calls and photos, but not this. This he needs to get from the source and he's been starving for it.
Pete kisses him firmly, lips stroking over Mikey's, tongue delicately pressing at Mikey's mouth before slipping inside. Mikey tilts his head to the side, deepening the kiss, pressing up closer to Pete until they're flush and he can't help the strangled noise that leaks out of him at the contact. Pete's hard where Alicia is soft, angles where she is curves. It's neither better nor worse, just different but god he's missed this. Pete himself but also this the hard slide, the rough grasp of strong hands on him.
Without a conscious thought their legs have scissored, and Pete's pushing up against him, grinding on him so Mikey can feel the press of his hard-on. It's a rush, Mikey has to break the kiss, gasping for air even as he pushes back on Pete, rubbing his own ache on Pete's thigh.
It's like Warped all over again. Fully clothed and pressing into each other, rutting like teenagers all need and want and no time to strip off. But it's better than Warped because there's a couch or a bedroom, and no chance of being walked in on and shrieked at by bandmates. No need to be quiet.
Staying upright gets too difficult almost immediately, so Mikey starts backing up, pulling Pete with him to the couch, falling back onto it and drawing Pete on top of him. Without missing a beat Pete finds his mouth again, tongue sliding inside as his hands slide up under Mikey's shirt, tracing over skin. Mikey's not as skinny as he once was but Pete doesn't seem to mind, tugging up on Mikey's shirt until he stops to take it off. Mikey drags on Pete's clothes too, and he's grinning wickedly as he unzips the stupid pink hoodie revealing the "Mikey Fuckin Way" shirt Pete's wearing beneath it.
Mikey chokes out a laugh at the sight.
"Sentimentalist!" he accuses, feeling like his smile might split his face in half. Pete's grinning at him cheekily.
"Fuck you, Way. Jesus, I try to do something nice..." Pete admonishes but the illusion of any anger in his voice is destroyed by the giant smile he's wearing.
Mikey's had enough of the shirt already, so he pulls it off Pete, and it takes the stupid hat with it which Mikey's also infinitely happy about. He makes a start on Pete's belt and pants because fuck if he's gonna wait any longer for this, he's waited long enough. Luckily, Pete's on side and between the two of them they get their pants off in record time and only a small amount of trouble in the shoe department.
Then they're both blessedly, totally naked and Mikey's got Pete stretched over him, all warm skin and black ink and it's just what he's been aching for. Pete fists Mikey's cock and Mikey returns the favour, they rub on each other, kissing and stroking and it's not enough but it's also too much, because it's been too long and it's just too intense having Pete back like this. Straight back in his life, into his living room and throbbing in his hand in minutes. But he wouldn't give it back for anything. He lifts his free hand to Pete's head, pulling him down to devour his mouth and as their tongue tangle their hands quicken and Mikey knows they wont last long this time. This first time back.
Pete pulls his mouth off Mikey's to grunt into his cheek and stare at him. Mikey knows that's his signal, Pete's gonna blow, so Mikey quickens the movement of his hand, not looking away for one second. Pete's gasping rhythmically, tone getting higher with each stroke until he's there - there moaning out Mikey's name and bucking on top of him as Mikey feels the warm rush hit his stomach.
Pete doesn't even take recovery time, his own hand moving faster even as he still pants out his aftermath into Mikey's neck. Mikey starts to arch up off the couch, bending up as feels his orgasm's screaming approach. Pete's fingers tighten around him, pumping impossibly quicker. Pete pulls his head from Mikey's neck, looking down on him, waiting for him to shatter.
"Come on, Mikey."
And that's all Mikey needs. He bucks up into Pete's hand, shooting up on him as a moan tears from his throat. Pete watches every motion, every breath, every gasp, not stopping until he's wrung Mikey dry and Mikey's feeling fuzzy from it.
Pete collapses onto Mikey when they're done and they both fade out, falling into a relaxed exhaustion and wallowing in it in a way they never could've back on tour. They revel in the freedom of not having to wrestle themselves straight back into their clothes, Mikey running warm hands up and down Pete's full sleeve.
"Missed you." Pete says it first but Mikey chimes in like a call-and-response.
"Missed you too."
For liescontinue - Frank/Gerard
Why I Hate House Parties
729 words
"I dare you to kiss Frank."
Well fuck.
That is the last time Gerard is sharing anything with his stupid brother ever again. Because obviously Mikey doesn't know there's a line between what Gerard chooses to share with Mikey and what Mikey is allowed to share with his stupid smirking soccer-star boyfriend.
There is not supposed to be a reality where Pete knows about Gerard's crush on Frank. This is not an eventuality that is allowed in Gerard's life. And yet here it is, painted all over Pete's annoying, knowing face under the guise of a game of truth or dare.
Gerard hasn't even looked beside him to see if Frank heard or is paying attention. He knows he has though, because every other pair of eyes in the circle is looking at Frank, waiting for a reaction. With a final, very long, very scathing glare at his brother (who doesn't even bother to pretend to feel sorry about his betrayal) Gerard finally manages to turn his gaze to Frank.
To find that Frank is staring at him. It's almost like looking in a mirror because Frank's expression, Gerard is certain, is identical to his own. Something of the lines of "Did he really just say that?" with a measure of "I am watching to see what you do first."
There's no answer for it, because Pete quite clearly has the upper hand. Not only does he have the will of the surly group of highschoolers behind him, two turns ago he was dared to run through the house naked and the crazy fucker actually did, rendering all further dares he dealt out with an unavoidable guarantee of completion. There's no arguing a dare with the guy who just streaked the entire fucking house party. No fucking way.
So the sigh that rises to Gerard's lips is one of resignation. He'd be lying to himself if he didn't admit he was a teensy, little bit excited. But the excitement is pretty much buried under the crushing weight of his mortification and nervousness.
But he has to do this. He has no choice. Gerard slides closer to Frank on the carpet, trying to work up his nerve. Frank's sitting cross-legged, nearly buried in a dark hoodie that's too big for him, his black hair falling half over his face, obscuring his clear hazel eyes. Gerard's mouth is watering a little. Probably nerves, he tells himself, not just that Frank is looking particularly hot tonight. Which he is. Very much.
Gerard wants to ask Frank if it's okay. But that's not how the game works and anyway, he's not sure he can make his mouth forms words right now. His chest is shifting with fast breaths and he feels warm and flushed. He can't really believe he's going to do this. But he is. He has to. He leans forward, getting incrementally closer to Frank and Frank is just staring at him, not moving and not moving away, just sitting there, hands fisted in his lap, ready.
Gerard's eyes flutter closed a moment before their lips meet, so he doesn't know for sure if Frank leaned in that last half-inch or if it just feels like he did. But Frank doesn't flinch away when their lips make contact, or when Gerard presses into the kiss, making it deeper. Frank actually kisses back, working his lips over Gerard's, making Gerard quiver with a warm excitement. There's the briefest, tiniest touch of tongue to Gerard's lips, like Frank's asking permission and Gerard's getting warm all over thinking maybe, maybe this is a real kiss. He's leaning into it, ready to slide his mouth open and see if it is... when a loud crash somewhere in the next universe nearly gives him a heart attack.
Startled, Gerard pulls back, eyes popping open, quivering like a scared rabbit. When his eyes finally focus he sees Frank's looking equally shocked, eyes flicking behind Gerard for the source of the racket.
"Sorry!" A slurry voice from the kitchen calls. "You didn't need that punch bowl did you, Pete?" Pete makes a grumpy noise and yells something back, but Gerard doesn't hear it. He's too busy studying Frank, trying to figure out what just happened.
Frank's not giving anything away though. He just smiles a little half-smile at Gerard, showing him they're all cool, and turns back to the game.
For magic_electric - Frank/Gerard with a side of Bob
Blankets Make Bad Walls
876 words
"Mmm.... yeah.... that's good. Fuck, Frank you're so good at that." Gerard's not even bothering to keep his voice down, hissing at Frank in a guttural moan that is completely impossible to filter out. Especially when it's coming from the bed four feet away, in the same fucking hotel room.
"Jesus fucking christ you guys. I'm right here!" Bob grumbles, probably louder than necessary but what the fuck does he care? Obviously everyone around here is presumed deaf with all the goddamn noise that's going on.
"What?" Gerard's face is blank, peering over the edge of the blanket at Bob. Like a meerkat, Frank's eyes pop into sight as well, the wobbling blanket barely obscuring the two of them from neck down. Frank's mouth is very wet and his lips looks swollen and Bob just does not, he does not need to see this.
"I am not deaf, you fuckers and I'm not blind either. Can you just stop all the fucking?"
"What? Why?" Frank's making puppy eyes at him and that is so not going to work. Not when they are intent on being noisily carnal while Bob needs to get some urgent sleep.
"Come on, Bob. It's like the first hotel night in aaages." Gerard is trying on some charm, but Bob's too annoyed for it to even penetrate through his thick shield of grr.
"I don't fucking care. You should've got a room together. You-" He points at Frank, "Are not supposed to be here. Go to your own room."
"But I'm sharing with Ray and he snores! And he doesn't give good head like Gerard." Frank shoots a little smile at Gee as he says this and Gerard practically glows with pride.
"Oh god you did not - you did not just say that! Fuck!" Bob covers his ears, but it's too late, the words are already ringing in his head and there's no escape from them.
When he finally glances up long enough, something's changed in the other bed. Frank and Gerard are still looking at him, all innocent and wide-eyed, but something's going on. Bob can't quite put his finger on it, until he notices how Gerard keeps blinking and sort of... twitching.
Oh. Oh great. Now Frank's just... doing something behind that blanket and they're just going to pretend that he's not. Fuck. Fuck that.
"You!" Bob points at Frank. "You... you're not. You're really, really not..."
"Really not what?" Frank answers, cool as ice, but his shoulder is moving, and Gerard's starting to sway and zone out a bit.
"You are totally... " Bob's struggling for words now, his indignation getting in the way of his tongue. "Totally hand-fucking him!" Bob finally spits out.
Frank starts to deny it, smirk already firmly in place, but Gerard gets in first, shooting off his mouth, "He totally is. You wanna see?"
Then Gerard tears the blanket-wall down and Bob's seeing far more of his bandmates than he's ever, ever wanted to. They are both completely naked, Gerard leaned back against the headboard with his legs stretched out, Frank sitting cross-legged between them. And then there's their cocks, which Bob really tried hard not to notice, but it's impossible since Frank's is completely hard, jutting upwards between his legs and of course Gerard's has Frank's hand wrapped around it, jerking him off very slowly.
All the words Bob had ready to smite with die in his mouth and as much as he knows this is the point where he really, really needs to leave the room and go crash with Ray he just. Can't. Manage it.
Because bandmates or no bandmates, the sight is pretty hot and you cannot expect any man to look away from anything vaguely (or in this case graphically) sexual. It's not his fault anyway, it's theirs. They started this. They can take the fucking blame.
Except they're not particularly interested in taking the fucking blame, Frank seems more interested in taking a much closer look at what his hand is doing and then - hello Bob is bearing witness to Frank giving Gerard a blow job. A particularly good one too, if the way Gerard is arching back and moaning is anything to go by.
Bob goes through several different states of being in a matter of seconds. His flight response flares and swiftly dies, embarrassment sets in, but is hastily shoveled aside when it becomes seriously obvious that he's the only one in the room feeling even slightly embarrassed by this. Lastly, a strange calm settles over him, somehow allowing him to be at peace with what he's seeing, what he’s hearing and the slow heat building in his groin. He leans back against the wall, settles in and just watches.
Well not onlywatches, Frank could use a pointer or two.
"Frank, you should use your hands more. Show his balls a bit of love, dude."
Frank vocalizes something that might have been intended as "Fuck off Bob" if he wasn't saying it around a mouthful of cock. But he does slide his free hand down between Gee's legs and start rolling his sacs around.
Gee arches further, moaning out a quivering. "Ohhhh... thanks Bob...." between groans. This pulls Bob's mouth into a grin.
"Anytime Gee. Anytime."
For bebunny - Ray/Brian
Stay For Breakfast
647 words
It should be weird, but it isn't.
Ray's cooking eggs in his pokey little kitchen, Brian's sitting at his tiny scratched-up table in the same jeans he was wearing last night and one of Ray's clean t-shirts. It should definitely be weirder than it is.
Ray didn't even expect Brian to still be there this morning. He woke up thinking he’d find the bed beside him empty, Brian having slipped away, realizing they'd both done something infinitely stupid. But Brian was still there in his bed when Ray awoke, one arm clasped across Ray's chest as he slept on peacefully. Ray couldn't help but trace the stars tattooed on the arm lying over him.
Ray had been riding high last night. It was good show, no a fucking excellent show and everyone knew it. Brian in particular, though he'd seen them dozens of times now. He kept popping up at show after show, never pushy but always tenacious, letting them know he was just waiting. Waiting for them to wise up and let him on board.
Maybe last night Ray was a little too wired, a little too drunk. Maybe he felt bad for Brian because he kept getting ignored and shoved aside by the rest of the band. But he kept coming back. Ray can respect that.
Maybe Brian was looking particularly hot last night. Maybe Ray was feeling particularly daring.
Whatever the case, when Ray grabbed a handful of Brian's shirt, pulled him forward and mashed his mouth over his, he wasn't really thinking about what it would mean the next morning. He was just thinking about how great Brian's lips felt, how firm, how strange to feel the prickle of stubble where their chins touched while Brian buried his hands in Ray's hair and slipped him tongue.
He didn't think they'd wind up panting in each other's arms in the back alleyway behind the club, groping and rubbing on each other until a bunch of drunks came stumbling out the back door and scaring them into a cab. It seemed only natural for them to head to Ray's tiny apartment, lock the door behind them and for Ray to kiss Brian up against the door.
Yes he was drunk, but he knew what he was doing. It was his call to peel off Brian's shirt, uncover more tattoos, tasting each one with the stroke of his tongue. It was his decision to let Brian peel down his pants and suck his cock until he was shuddering and gripping Brian's hair, trying hard not to explode.
When Brian asked if he had anything, he knew "anything" was condoms and lube. And he did. And they used them. And fuck if he's gonna say he didn't enjoy it. He fucking loved it. Brian's ass was so tight around his cock, his skin so hot, his dick so hard and perfect in Ray's hand as he jerked him in time with his thrusts. It was probably one of the best nights of sex Ray's ever had.
So he's not going to pretend it didn't happen. No way.
He drops two plates of scrambled eggs on the table, taking a seat across from Brian.
Brian gives him a small smile before he digs in and Ray can feel one stretching across his own face in reply.
"Don't worry about Gerard. He'll come around." Brian looks up, a little confused by the non-sequitor. They weren't even talking about the band. Ray just rattles on. "You're doing the right thing. Just hang in there. They'll see soon enough."
"They'll see what?" Brian's brows are furrowed, but his expression is still open, curious.
"That you're one of us. That you belong."
"You sure about that?" Brian asks, twirling the fork in his hand.
"Yeah." Ray says with a smile. And he is sure. Surer than he's been about anything in a long time.
For dancinbutterfly - Gerard/Pete
Ink Without Needles
1 161 words
The tip of the Sharpie is cold and wet on Gerard's skin. As patterns play over his shoulder and back and down his arm Gerard's trying very hard to keep still, not shiver when it tickles, not twitch when it strays across a sensitive spot.
Not that he has much choice. He has no real say in this at all. He already pointed out the ridiculousness of Pete being the one to do the skin artistry rather than Gerard, who is, you know, the artist. But Pete and Gerard are a lot alike in probably more ways than is healthy in a relationship (or whatever they want to call this thing they have) so Gerard knows he needs to let Pete do this. Because Gerard wouldn't let it lie either.
So that's why he's stretched across the bed naked, his pale skin a curved and rounded canvas for Pete's pen.
Pete's not drawing graphics, Gerard can tell. The way the pen is sliding, Pete is writing words. From the feel of them, it's long strings of words running on, Pete only pausing occasionally to hum to himself before moving to another part of Gerard's body, a new swathe of skin, to unfold another scrawling line of text.
Song lyrics, Gerard is thinking, it has to be song lyrics. Which would explain why the tuneless humming Pete keeps slipping into keeps changing rhythm and cadence, even if it's too soft for Gerard to identify exactly what it is.
Pete finishes scrawling a line right up Gerard's spine before he caps the pen. Gerard is treated to a mess of goosebumps as Pete blows gently over the fresh words. He crawls on top of Gerard, his jeans and shirt rough against Gerard's naked and now very sensitized skin. Breath hot in Gerard's ear as he whispers, "You should see it. You look amazing."
Gerard grins into the mattress, turning his head sideways to try and catch Pete's mouth in a kiss. Pete lets him, melts into him, sucking his lower lip even though the angle is awkward. It's over too soon though, Pete prying himself off Gerard and he feels the loss of Pete's weight too keenly, too soon.
"Can I see?" Gerard asks, starting to get up, to head for a mirror. Pete snatches him by the wrist, pulling him back down.
"Not yet, I'm not done." This pulls Gerard's mouth into a pout, but Pete just grins at him. That knowing, manic grin that says pouting will get Gerard absolutely nowhere. "On your back." Pete points to the bed.
Gerard rolls his eyes but does as he's told. Pete is so going to owe him for this. He's going to have to pose for him now. Naked. Gerard's debating whether to use oils or acrylics when the snap of the pen cap coming off startles him back into the room.
Pete's breath ghosts over Gerard's skin as he leans down to write again. The wet tip of the pen is cold, but Pete's hands are warm. He's scrawling shapes across Gerard's hip, skating over his hip bone, his elbow brushing absently across Gerard's crotch and really, Gerard can't help it when his hips twitch up and his cock takes notice. He's one great big ball of singing flesh right now and all of Pete's clinical touching is driving him slightly mad.
It isn't until Pete's finished the last line of that lyric that he notices Gerard's... condition.
"Oh it's like that is it Geeway?" Gerard shivers as Pete's hands find him, fingers caressing, encouraging him to full erection. "Why didn't you say something?" The words are carrying warm breath over Gerard's groin and Gerard's voice hitches.
"You were busy." Gerard feels strangely shy all of a sudden.
"Not yet... but I can be." Pete mutters before bending down to fill his mouth with Gerard, who bucks up to meet him, hands flying up to grasp the back of Pete's head, encouraging without adding any pressure.
Pete gives good head. Amazing head, actually. Gerard thinks half of it is just how into it Pete gets. He seriously makes more noise than Gerard, and he's not even on the receiving end. He also uses his hands, and sometimes, like now, he'll slide a finger or two inside and Gerard will get it from both angles. It's kind of mind blowing.
Gerard can't help it, his hips won’t keep still and he's already bouncing on Pete's fingers. It's not going to take him long today. He's so close already, has been really for hours, trying so hard to be still while Pete's been decorating him. When Pete moans around his cock and starts bouncing his head faster, faster... it's too much. Gerard's fingers tighten in Pete's hair, he arches up off the bed shouting out his release as Pete groans into his crotch.
Fuck. Yeah.
Pete's looking up at him, face still buried in Gee's groin and those eyes, that look. It should be illegal. Gerard can't help when his gaze skims over to his left hip, trying to read the black shapes Pete's left there.
"What does it say?"
Pete sighs, resigned. It's kind of over now, he's not actually going to be able to do all of Gerard's front side because he's all hard and hot and Gerard knows that. So he grabs Gerard by the hand and places him in front of the mirror.
He stands behind Gerard, pressing up against his back, one arm snaking around his waist to point at the lyrics there. Since they're backwards in the mirror Gee stumbles over them at first, until Pete reads them aloud.
"I'll stick with you baby for a thousand years, nothing's gonna touch you in these golden years."
"Bowie. Nice." Gerard smiles, his face looking small and pale in the mirror. Pete smiles back over Gee's shoulder, then grabs him by the shoulders and turns him around. He snatches up a hand mirror so Gerard can see his back.
It takes a moment for Gerard to get the mirror at a good angle, but when he does... wow. It's just incredible. The way Pete's rounded lettering rolls across the tapestry of his back. It's like the best ink ever, but without the pain of needles. Gerard can't help the gigantic goofy grin that splits his face.
Then he starts reading. Line after line. From his shoulder to his back, down his legs, across his ass. His mouth drops open and there's an incredible, overwhelming warmth swelling in his chest.
"Pete." Gerard's eyes are welling, he has to blink his vision clear again. "They're all love songs."
"Of course they are baby. It's you and me, yeah?" Pete's smile is huge and it's all Gerard can see. He pulls Pete close, covering his mouth with a kiss and falling into it. All of him. His whole heart.
Because there's a word for it now. This thing they have.
It's love.
***
And that's all. Thanks so much for the amazing prompts, every single one of them. I am really proud of what came out - in 24 hours no less! Thank you.
For gracie321 - Frank/Gerard/Brian
Clarity
789 words
They really need to be drunk for this to work.
Which might have been an option two and a half years ago, but it is so completely not going to happen now. Gerard is just going to have to rely on his wits. His wits have gotten Frank and Brian into his hotel room, the three of them smushed onto the bed, which is a good start. However shifting the gears from "Star Wars Marathon" to "Threesome" is proving nearly impossible.
For the first time in a really long time, Gerard wishes he could have a drink.
Fuck it, he thinks. Fuck it.He doesn't need dutch courage. He's just going to take the plunge. Brian's on his left, sitting slumped against the headboard, so close Gerard can hear his breaths, see every detail of the man with the red shield tattooed on his neck, under the dancing light of the television. His heart pounding, fingers curling into the sheets as he does, Gerard turns his head to the side and presses his mouth over the red shield, feeling the warmth and pulse beneath his lips.
Brian startles immediately, his body leaping up off the bed, but Gerard is ready, latched on and he doesn't break contact.
"Gee, what?" Breathless confusion in Brian's voice as Gerard detaches himself with a final lick to Brian's neck. He doesn't answer the almost-question, instead lifting one hand to Brian's cheek, pulling him down for a kiss.
Brian's lips aren't moving. Gerard fights a rising panic. This is all a mistake. He's ruined it all. Frank's right behind him and he can tell by the lack of movement that he's watching, there's no way he's missing this. He's nearly ready to cave into himself, pull away, apologize, when softly, tentatively, Brian kisses back.
Relief floods through Gerard even as desire threatens to rob him of all remaining thought. His hand slides up into Brian's hair, gripping tight and pressing closer, kissing harder until Brian's slipping him tongue and tearing a moan from him.
Blood rushing in his ears, he almost doesn't hear the half-laugh, half-cough noise Frank makes. He does feel it when Frank starts to slide off the bed, muttering something about finding his own room. Adrenaline rushes through him and his hand flutters behind him, reaching for Frank, somehow blindly grabbing him by the forearm.
He's panting when he breaks the kiss, turning slowly from Brian to Frank, eyes hazy with lust, lips feeling swollen as he says, "No, Frank. Stay. Please. Stay." He turns back to Brian. "Both of you."
There it is. He said it.
Silence is heavy in the room as the meaning of what he's proposing sinks in for both of them.
Frank's eyes flick from Gerard to Brian. They share a long look. Gerard holds his breath.
Slowly Brian raises an eyebrow at Frank, one shoulder coming up in an expression that says Why not?
Gerard watches Frank closely, heart lifting as Frank's brow unfurrows and his lips slowly stretch into a wicked grin. Then Frank's giggling and diving onto the bed, landing hard on top of both himself and Brian in a mess of limbs.
They're laughing as they wrestle on the bed, elbows catching, legs sliding, hands brushing, until Gerard finds the scorpion on Frank's neck and latches onto it. The laughing quietens as Frank arches beneath him, Gerard's hands sliding up under the guitarist's shirt to trace the bluebirds he knows are there.
Soon there's an arm around Gerard's back, pulling him closer and when Gerard breaks his mouth from Frank's neck and looks up he's met with a sight that forces an ache through him. Brian's kissing Frank, and Frank's kissing back. It's hard and intense and Gerard's getting glimpses of tongue when their mouths shift. It's so insanely fucking hot Gerard's not sure if he can take it. His breath comes out in a gasp and his hips buck forward, rubbing on both their bodies like he has no control at all.
Brian slowly releases Frank's mouth, but not before sucking hard on his lower lip and catching Frank's lip ring on the way up. Then they're both looking at him. Frank and Brian. Eyes warm and hazy as they start to move.
The bed is soft under Gerard's back as two pairs of inked arms press him down onto it. Then they're taking turns kissing him and he's fumbling with their clothes until they all stop to strip off. As the orgy of tattooed flesh comes down on him, all Gerard can think is this is exactly the way he wanted it. Exactly. He's seeing everything, feeling everything. It's all crystal clear.
And he's never been more glad to be sober.
For equinescientist - Bob/Frank
Territory
372 words
Bob is minding his own business, in his own bunk, trying to read quietly dammit when his lap suddenly becomes full of squirming, giggling Iero.
"Frank!" Bob growls, trying not to "Ooof" audibly as one of Frank's flaily legs gets him in the stomach. "Frank!" He tries again, but Frank is laughing too hard to respond.
With something akin to resignation, Bob grabs a handful of Frank's shirt and shoves him towards out. It doesn't work though, Frank somehow manages to get stuck, despite being half the size of a normal person. He starts shrieking,
"Bob ow! Bob my head!"
"Are you gonna get out?" Bob growls, trying not to laugh even though Frank with his head smushed against the bunk strut is about the funniest thing ever.
Frank's still giggling even though he's trapped, Bob's arm between his shoulderblades isn't going anywhere. He sends one flailing, reaching hand behind himself, trying to grab any part of Bob he can find.
Well, probably any part but that part. And it's really highly inconvenient that the magazine Bob was reading (which is now crumpled beneath Frank's ass) is not the latest issue of Modern Drummer, but rather something with a more adult bent.
So when Frank gets a handful, he really gets a handful. And that shuts him right up. For maybe, three seconds (because this is Frank we're talking about).
"Are you sure you want me to get out?" Frank's voice is suddenly very small. He hasn't actually let go either.
His face pinkening by the second, Bob releases his hold on Frank, letting him fall into the bunk on his back with rush of breath. Frank's wearing a half-smile but his eyes are unsure, somehow pleading. Somehow extremely pretty too.
Almost as if to remind Bob there's still a question that needs answering, Frank hand just presses up.
Anything close to rational thought goes out the window and before Bob's even really aware of it he's flopping down over the smaller man and finding Frank's mouth with his own. Frank's arms twine up around his neck, pulling Bob closer as he slides his tongue in.
And Bob can't fathom why he would even consider kicking Frank out of his bunk. Ever.
For fight_thepast - Frank/Mikey
The Friday Night Routine
1 196 words
"Cher, Gambit loves you." Frank barely gets the words out before he dissolves into giggles, half falling off the couch and coming dangerously close to slopping bong water on himself.
Mikey's already off and running, laughter bubbling out of him, draped bonelessly over the edge of the couch with his bony ass on the floor. They're watching animated X-men re-runs and it's just, the funniest thing ever. Though most of that is probably the pot talking but - "Dude. Dude. Frank's panting it out between laughing fits. "He just..." another explosion of snickering pours out of him as he struggles to get the words out. "Just... confessed his love... in third fucking person."
Mikey's already there like he didn't even need Frank to explain it. He's barely staying upright, gasping for breath between laughing fits, tears rolling down his cheeks.
"I know. I know, right?" Mikey has to stop even attempting to speak for a moment, bent double and smothering an endless peal of giggling into his knees. "He just... It's like this right?"
Mikey grabs Frank to demonstrate, pulling him the rest of the way off the couch and Frank just barely manages to get the bong onto the coffee table without spilling. He's had practice over time. This is pretty much normal Friday night behaviour for the two of them. Frank had no idea how much fun Mikey was til he moved in. He looks so straightlaced and quiet like he wouldn't say boo to a mouse, but you get even three puffs of bud into him and the dude is a fucking comedy goldmine.
Mikey's manhandling Frank into position, laying him across his lap like Rogue is on the screen. As soon as Frank figures it out he gets indignant. Well as indignant as you can be when you can't stop laughing.
"Hey! Hey asshole." He starts flapping his hands at Mikey, getting in the way of Mikey's good works, throat-laughs still leaking out of him sounding like Mutley. "Why am I Rogue? I'm not the fucking chick!" He's not making his point, not even slightly, because he can't stop laughing but whatever, Mikey wont listen to him anyway.
"Of course..." Mikey's eyes are squinched up and he stops for a moment, leaning into Frank's neck and just letting it all bubble out of him like a torrent of insane glee. "Of course you are Frankie... you're always the girl..."
"No, no, nonono." Frank has to pause and heave in a breath. Fuck, he can hardly get this out. He palms his hands over his face, wiping away tears. "You're the fucking girl Mikeyway. You have..." Another snicker bubbles out of him, he can barely speak, "You have girl's hair!"
"I do not..." Mikey's pointing at him now, stumbling over his own mouth that wont stop splurting out giggles, "Do not have girl's hair!"
Mikey's hands are surprisingly strong when he grabs Frank and pushes him against the couch. What follows is the saddest attempt at wrestling ever seen in the modern world. It mainly consists of a lot of rolling around on the floor, some half hearted attempts at flips and holds that they both just can't stop cackling long enough to actually follow through on and a whole stack of giggling.
Frank winds up pinned beneath Mikey's gangly body, Mikey laughing into his neck, his bony weight holding Frank in place. Their chests bounce against each other, vibrating with laughter and Frank can barely breathe. His chest hurts from gasping. He takes a few deep breaths, feeling the laughter start to ebb away, though the hysteria still sits in his chest, waiting for the next tiny cue to release again.
Mikey's settled down a bit too. He pulls his face from the hollow of Frank's neck and looks down at him from propped elbows. His eyes are bloodshot and shiny with tears and he's got the biggest, stupidest, douchiest grin on his face. Frank's looking up at him, at Mikey's stupid face and it's like something just clicks into place. Like he finally figured out the solution to a problem he didn't even realise he was thinking about.
And because Frank's not one to step down when he's got his mind on something, and possibly also with the help of the beer and the pot and the insane amounts of glee-induced adrenaline, he just goes for it. Leans up, and shoves his mouth over Mikey's big dumb smile.
Mikey make a surprised noise, followed by a smothered snicker (smothered because he's still got Frank's mouth on his) and finally, finally kisses back. It's actually a lot more relaxed than a first kiss should be because they're both so high and smoke-sated, but that's good. It's slow and it's lazy as Mikey's lips slide over his and when they graduate to tongue Mikey's whole body shifts lower so they're flush. Stuck. And Frank's feeling pretty good about this. Pretty fucking good.
It goes on like that, slower than ooze, Frank's hand trailing up and down Mikey's slender back, Mikey's hands drawing patterns down Frank's arms. They're kissing deep and lazy, like there's nothing else in the world they'd rather be doing. There probably isn't either.
Mikey finally comes up for air, head dropping on Frank's shoulder and just breathing deeply. He's rolling his hips a little on Frank as he does and Frank feels like he's fighting a warm red cloud he's so hot. So into this.
"So... " Mikey's mumbling into Frank's collarbone. "If I'm the girl. And you're the girl..." Mikey's head comes up so Frank can see the giggle already tugging on his mouth before he can even get the sentence out. "What's that make us?"
"Fucking lesbians!" Frank shouts it out and that's it, Mikey breaks, hiccuping laughter barrelling out him as he goes boneless on top of Frank. That tips Frank right over, hysterical giggles bubbling from his lips, gasping for breath and covered in a squirming Mikey-blanket.
Somewhere in the giggle fit they find each other’s mouths again, peppering kisses and gropes on each other between laughing jags. It takes forever to even get their clothes off and Mikey almost gets swallowed by his shirt trying to pull it over his head. He winds up with his arms stuck above him in the air, tangled in too-tight-shirt, laughing into the material that smothers him. When Frank disentangles him they tumble back onto the carpet, smearing Cheeto-powder into it and puzzling their way through the rest of their clothing removal.
Frank doesn't think he's ever lasted this long through a hand job before. Or smiled this much while getting one. The pot keeps it slow and lazy, but also light and silly and when they both finally get off it's even funnier than Gambit's love confessions.
That's how they wind up, sticky bodies entwined and Mikey's arms wrapped right around Frank as they ride out the last of their giggles. Frank's grinning up at Mikey and Mikey's got this glazed douchey smile pasted on his sweet, pretty face.
Frank's thinking this should definitely be their new Friday night routine. Maybe Saturday, Sunday and every other night's too.
For villiagegreen - Mike Dirnt/Mikeyway
Picking Up (where we left off)
805 words
When Mike turns back from the bar and bumps right into Mikey Way he can't help thinking that this is the last person he was expecting to see tonight.
Which is stupid of course, because it's the NME awards and just about any band they've ever met or toured with is here. But it just didn't occur to him that it might happen. That he'd see Mikey again, face to face. In the flesh.
The first thing he notices is how different Mikey looks. No more glasses. Hair slicked back and up and off his face like he doesn't need it to hide behind anymore. Not that he ever did. He's still beautiful.
"Mikey." Mike says it with a smile, turning the name into a greeting.
"Mike.' Mikey smiles back and it goes all the way to his eyes. It puts a little lilt in Mike's heart, even though it shouldn't. He doubts Mikey even remembers that night on the tour, he was so drunk and strung out when Mike found him, sniffling and tearstained hiding behind a Marshall stack. Mike remembers though. It's burned on his mind. Fixed. Like a tattoo.
Before he can stop himself his hand's gone up to Mikey's face, fingers dancing along his cheekbone, proudly exposed.
"No more glasses." There's a note of wonder in Mike's voice, he hopes Mikey doesn't hear it.
"No, I got them done." Mikey's voice sounds deeper, if that's possible. His mouth twists into a little grin as he waves a hand, "Adios Paul Frank, hello twenty-twenty."
"Looks good. Looks really good." Mike wants to kick himself for being so obvious. He's barely said hi to the kid and he's already drooling at him. Not that Mikey's a kid anymore. Not at all. He's grown up.
Far from the kid with the smudged, crooked glasses that Mike found and held and whispered to. Mikey had hung onto him, glasses pressing into Mike's neck, muttering drunken nonsense at him, leeching out the hurt. Mike never was sure what caused it, it probably wasn't one single thing, more an avalanche of nonsense fuelled by alcohol, causing the breakdown. No, all Mike can remember is the way Mikey looked up at him, his eyes wet and pleading. The way he latched his fingers in Mike's hair and pulled him down for a sloppy but intense kiss. How hard it was, so hard to pull away. But he did. Because he's not like that. He doesn't take advantage, especially not of pretty young boys with crooked glasses who look thin enough to break.
Billie Joe called him ten kinds of idiot for passing it up. He called himself the same things, because look what he could have had? But he knows he couldn't have lived with himself if he'd taken advantage of it, the mixture of grief and drunkenness and hero worship that was being offered. He just couldn't.
But Mikey's smiling at him now. Hot grown-up, free-of-glasses Mikey is looking like the cat that ate the cream. He probably doesn't even remember.
"Thanks." Mikey's voice carries over the too-loud murmur of the room, tiny twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth. "You're looking pretty good yourself there, Mike." Mikey's eyes drop low and scan their way back up, cataloguing every inch of Mike and oh, okay. He may not be an expert at this but he's pretty sure Mikey's flirting with him. Well. Hello.
"Now Mikeyway. I think you should let me buy you a drink." And Mike's putting his full-beam smile on now, turning the charm up to eleven. He can do this. He's not that rusty at the whole picking-up caper.
"I don't think they're gonna take your money, Mike. It's an open bar." Mikey's eyebrow twitches up and the kid is fucking smirking at him now. Oh this is on. So on.
"Well then, let me get you a drink. Mister Way." Mike grabs Mikey by the arm and steers him back to the bar, letting his hand stray to the small of Mikey's back, feeling daring. Before he's even gotten two steps there's a brush over his ass and Mikey's hand is slipping into the back pocket of his jeans. And he knows he's way out of his league now. Mikey is so, so far ahead of him.
"Why don't we skip the drink?" Mikey's saying, guiding their journey past the bar and outside, away from the milling crowd. "I don't really drink much anymore, anyway." Mikey's saying, tugging on Mike's hand, pulling them into a shadow. "Besides. You and I have unfinished business."
He does remember. The thought barely gets out before Mikey's grabbing his head for a kiss, lips covering his expertly, firm and soft and delicious. And Mike knows he's been out-flirted completely. And he really, really doesn't care.
For phelixstar - Gerard/Bert
Anywhere (is where I wont be)
1 169 words
Gerard's swaying a little on his feet. Or maybe the room is swaying and he's standing perfectly still. Either way, it's throwing him off. Stupid room.
"Bert?" His voice comes out frail. Where did he go? He was here a minute ago.
"Hey." Strong arms around him, warm voice in his ear, scent of cigarettes. "Got you." Gerard's hands slide over the arms that encase him, fingers trailing over tattoos, fine hairs, jutting bones. The relief he feels is instant, Bert's solidity grounding him, the room even seems to settle a little, though it is still swaying, kinda.
Gerard slides his arm up and back, digging one hand into Bert's hair, pulling him close as he turns his head for a kiss. Bert's tongue darts out to trace his lips first before finding his mouth properly, pressing full and hard and giving him tongue straight away. Because that's Bert. He doesn't hold back. It's always zero to one hundred with him and Gerard lives to ride that way.
Gerard moans into the kiss, turning in Bert's arms so they're facing, digging his hand further into Bert's hair as his other hand clutches a handful of Bert's shirt. He's arching into Bert already, pushing and rubbing up against him, wanting more, always wanting more. It happens so quickly now, no warm up necessary. Like his body is already attuned to what's coming and immediately arms up for it, quickening, hardening, throbbing.
Bert's slides a hand down, covering Gee's crotch, feeling how hard he is already through is jeans. A growl of satisfaction leaks into their kiss, Bert's mouth twitching like he's fighting a smile. He breaks the kiss, pressing his forehead to Gerard's, wicked smile curling his lip.
"Already Gee?" He's murmuring, voice deep and throaty and it makes Gerard buck into his hand, groaning with need. "Fuck, I've barely touched you." Bert twitches his hand as he speaks, pressing and rubbing, giving Gee the friction he's aching for.
Gerard doesn't have a thing to say. His limbs feel liquid, saturated and heavy with desire. He just pulls Bert's head closer to his and kisses him again, stroking, devouring his lips eagerly. He's rolling his hips wantonly against Bert's hand, desperate for more contact, shamelessly begging for it.
Bert shoves him back onto the bed, placing him down on the mattress and crawling over him. They're both so ready and it's taken no time at all. Gerard is already scrabbling at Bert's belt, getting annoyed when he can't figure it out even though he's too busy kissing Bert to actually look at what he's doing. Bert chuckles throatily, brushes his hands aside and undoes it himself. As soon as button and zip are open Gerard's hands are inside, sighing with relief when Bert's not wearing underwear. He fills one hand with warm hardness, his other hand sliding lower to gently dance over Bert's balls and it's Bert's turn to moan and shiver.
Gerard can't push the satisfied smile from his face as he shapes and strokes Bert. It's almost muscle memory now, the way his hands move, seeking out Bert's sensitive spots, pressing and rubbing at them til he groans.
"Asshole." Bert mutters, with no real malice. That's when Gerard knows he's really got it right, if Bert starts swearing he's definitely liking it. Gerard trills out a satisfied little laugh as he pulls another shudder from Bert who groans again and reaches for Gerard's belt to retaliate.
"You fucking love it." Gerard teases, mouth pulling into a smug grin.
"I fucking do." Bert mutters, barely getting the words out before he's gasping from Gerard's nimble fingers. "Oh fuck you." He breathes, eyes squinching shut and Gerard can feel the throb in his hand as Bert struggles for control. He can't help smiling. He loves doing this to Bert.
He's not smiling when Bert gets his pants open and his hands inside. He's groaning, loud and long at the sheer fucking bliss of Bert's fingers and fuck if he doesn't know exactly the way Gerard likes to be touched. Firm, fast and exactly perfect and it's making Gerard's own hands fumble on Bert's cock because he just can't keep his concentration.
"Fuck. Fuck. Wait." He has to pull his hands out of Bert's pants to grab Bert's wrists stilling them. "It's too much." He's panting, barely able to breathe. "Fuck. I just need..." He struggles, tongue feeling too large and heavy to move, heat in his groin pulling all the spark out of his brain.
"You need to be fucked." Bert supplies, voice rough. And he's totally right. The words nearly make Gerard shoot his load on the spot, but he keeps himself in check, biting down on his lip and breathing deep, fingers tightening around Bert's wrists because he just can't take anymore contact right now. He's gonna blow his load everywhere.
"Yes. Yeah. Fuck yeah, Bert." He kisses the smile on Bert's face. "Fuck yeah."
Bert rolls him over onto his belly, manhandling him till his jeans are off and his ass is in the air. Gerard has to bite down hard on his own hand when Bert's slippery fingers find him. He's too close and even though his cock is untouched the twist of Bert's fingers feels amazing. He breathes deep and tries to relax, as one finger becomes two, becomes three.
"I'm ready, I'm ready fuck, please Bert, please." The words tumble from his mouth, half muffled into the mattress but Bert gets it, he hears him. Gerard hears the snick and snap of a condom before the first blunt press of Bert's cock draws a moan from him. Bert pushes in slow, but constant. Gerard's so tense from teetering on the brink it hurts a little, but only for a moment and then he's full, so fucking full of Bert's cock he can't stand it. It's too much.
"Oh jesusfuck, Bert. Fuuuuuuck." He knows he's making too much noise but he can't help it. Bert starts to move, setting a pace that's probably too fast but for Gerard it's perfect and he barely has time to get his fist around his cock before he's flatlining, whiting out, spraying all over the sheets with an agonised moan.
Bert keeps pumping into him, chasing his own release at a flat-out run as Gerard's still feeling aftershocks throb through his softening cock. He can hear it in Bert's voice as he gets close, his grunts building up, getting louder. Then Bert's folding forward, mouth hot on Gerard's neck as he moans out his orgasm, hips bucking, hands grasping at Gerard's shoulders.
After seconds or minutes, Bert peels away his deathgrip and rolls them to their sides. He pulls out and ditches the condom as Gerard burrows his face into Bert's neck, cuddling into him.
"Don't ever go away okay?" Gerard's voice sounds ragged and strangely childlike. Bert squeezes him tight and holds on.
"Don't worry Gee, I'm not going anywhere."
Gerard makes a satisfied noise and drifts off.
For b_dsaint - Pete/Mikey
Familiar
1 318 words
It was actually Alicia's idea.
Too many times she'd seen the same expression on Mikey's face as he read a text message from the same number. Glanced at too many emails over his shoulder. Read between the lines on too many tweets between mikeyway and petewentz @twitter.com.
She called Ashlee.
Mikey still isn't entirely comfortable or in the loop as to how they wound up here. It was all offscreen movements, patterns being painted by other people's hands.
But he doesn't really care. It doesn't matter how they got here. What matters is they're here. Just them.
Pete is standing in his living room, looking older and younger and exactly the same. His hair is smushed flat beneath his stupid grey-checked grandpa hat and his hands are stuffed deep in the pockets of his ridiculous pink hoodie.
But he's here. Smiling at Mikey with his too-big teeth and his brown eyes dancing and Mikey didn't even realise he's been missing him this much. Not until he's right here, in front of him.
His old awkwardness comes flooding back. He nearly reaches up to adjust his glasses before he remembers he doesn't wear them anymore. He shifts on his feet, not sure what the next part is. It's on the tip of his tongue to offer Pete a drink, play the host, but Pete's quicker and more impatient, just like he always has been. He crosses the two steps between them, hands coming up to touch Mikey's face. Fingertips brush lightly over his cheekbones and eyebrows as Pete studies him with something like wonder, hands feathering upwards over his slicked-up hair.
"You're so... different." Pete's saying, almost to himself. Mikey's not sure if this is a good thing. It must show on his face or the way he bites his lip because Pete interjects almost immediately. "I mean, you look good, really fucking good, it's just... different."
Mikey still hasn't found words so he stays silent, watching Pete, drinking him in. Pete's fingers ghost down his cheek, pads sliding gently across Mikey's lower lip, almost like he's re-learning him. Finding him again after all this time.
Mikey knows it's coming. From the way Pete is staring at his mouth. The way the tip of his tongue darts out to wet his lips is a signal and Mikey welcomes it. Pete leans in, fingers soft on Mikey's chin, tilting his head down for a kiss.
It's at once familiar and new. Pete tastes different, fresher, cleaner somehow but still essentially Pete and Mikey falls back into him like no time has passed at all. This isn't all he's missed about Pete, the random mad conversations, the devious plans, the half cocked ideas, the way he laughed. Mikey missed those too. But this... this is the one thing he can't get anywhere else. He's been able to synthesize a lot of what was absent through messages and calls and photos, but not this. This he needs to get from the source and he's been starving for it.
Pete kisses him firmly, lips stroking over Mikey's, tongue delicately pressing at Mikey's mouth before slipping inside. Mikey tilts his head to the side, deepening the kiss, pressing up closer to Pete until they're flush and he can't help the strangled noise that leaks out of him at the contact. Pete's hard where Alicia is soft, angles where she is curves. It's neither better nor worse, just different but god he's missed this. Pete himself but also this the hard slide, the rough grasp of strong hands on him.
Without a conscious thought their legs have scissored, and Pete's pushing up against him, grinding on him so Mikey can feel the press of his hard-on. It's a rush, Mikey has to break the kiss, gasping for air even as he pushes back on Pete, rubbing his own ache on Pete's thigh.
It's like Warped all over again. Fully clothed and pressing into each other, rutting like teenagers all need and want and no time to strip off. But it's better than Warped because there's a couch or a bedroom, and no chance of being walked in on and shrieked at by bandmates. No need to be quiet.
Staying upright gets too difficult almost immediately, so Mikey starts backing up, pulling Pete with him to the couch, falling back onto it and drawing Pete on top of him. Without missing a beat Pete finds his mouth again, tongue sliding inside as his hands slide up under Mikey's shirt, tracing over skin. Mikey's not as skinny as he once was but Pete doesn't seem to mind, tugging up on Mikey's shirt until he stops to take it off. Mikey drags on Pete's clothes too, and he's grinning wickedly as he unzips the stupid pink hoodie revealing the "Mikey Fuckin Way" shirt Pete's wearing beneath it.
Mikey chokes out a laugh at the sight.
"Sentimentalist!" he accuses, feeling like his smile might split his face in half. Pete's grinning at him cheekily.
"Fuck you, Way. Jesus, I try to do something nice..." Pete admonishes but the illusion of any anger in his voice is destroyed by the giant smile he's wearing.
Mikey's had enough of the shirt already, so he pulls it off Pete, and it takes the stupid hat with it which Mikey's also infinitely happy about. He makes a start on Pete's belt and pants because fuck if he's gonna wait any longer for this, he's waited long enough. Luckily, Pete's on side and between the two of them they get their pants off in record time and only a small amount of trouble in the shoe department.
Then they're both blessedly, totally naked and Mikey's got Pete stretched over him, all warm skin and black ink and it's just what he's been aching for. Pete fists Mikey's cock and Mikey returns the favour, they rub on each other, kissing and stroking and it's not enough but it's also too much, because it's been too long and it's just too intense having Pete back like this. Straight back in his life, into his living room and throbbing in his hand in minutes. But he wouldn't give it back for anything. He lifts his free hand to Pete's head, pulling him down to devour his mouth and as their tongue tangle their hands quicken and Mikey knows they wont last long this time. This first time back.
Pete pulls his mouth off Mikey's to grunt into his cheek and stare at him. Mikey knows that's his signal, Pete's gonna blow, so Mikey quickens the movement of his hand, not looking away for one second. Pete's gasping rhythmically, tone getting higher with each stroke until he's there - there moaning out Mikey's name and bucking on top of him as Mikey feels the warm rush hit his stomach.
Pete doesn't even take recovery time, his own hand moving faster even as he still pants out his aftermath into Mikey's neck. Mikey starts to arch up off the couch, bending up as feels his orgasm's screaming approach. Pete's fingers tighten around him, pumping impossibly quicker. Pete pulls his head from Mikey's neck, looking down on him, waiting for him to shatter.
"Come on, Mikey."
And that's all Mikey needs. He bucks up into Pete's hand, shooting up on him as a moan tears from his throat. Pete watches every motion, every breath, every gasp, not stopping until he's wrung Mikey dry and Mikey's feeling fuzzy from it.
Pete collapses onto Mikey when they're done and they both fade out, falling into a relaxed exhaustion and wallowing in it in a way they never could've back on tour. They revel in the freedom of not having to wrestle themselves straight back into their clothes, Mikey running warm hands up and down Pete's full sleeve.
"Missed you." Pete says it first but Mikey chimes in like a call-and-response.
"Missed you too."
For liescontinue - Frank/Gerard
Why I Hate House Parties
729 words
"I dare you to kiss Frank."
Well fuck.
That is the last time Gerard is sharing anything with his stupid brother ever again. Because obviously Mikey doesn't know there's a line between what Gerard chooses to share with Mikey and what Mikey is allowed to share with his stupid smirking soccer-star boyfriend.
There is not supposed to be a reality where Pete knows about Gerard's crush on Frank. This is not an eventuality that is allowed in Gerard's life. And yet here it is, painted all over Pete's annoying, knowing face under the guise of a game of truth or dare.
Gerard hasn't even looked beside him to see if Frank heard or is paying attention. He knows he has though, because every other pair of eyes in the circle is looking at Frank, waiting for a reaction. With a final, very long, very scathing glare at his brother (who doesn't even bother to pretend to feel sorry about his betrayal) Gerard finally manages to turn his gaze to Frank.
To find that Frank is staring at him. It's almost like looking in a mirror because Frank's expression, Gerard is certain, is identical to his own. Something of the lines of "Did he really just say that?" with a measure of "I am watching to see what you do first."
There's no answer for it, because Pete quite clearly has the upper hand. Not only does he have the will of the surly group of highschoolers behind him, two turns ago he was dared to run through the house naked and the crazy fucker actually did, rendering all further dares he dealt out with an unavoidable guarantee of completion. There's no arguing a dare with the guy who just streaked the entire fucking house party. No fucking way.
So the sigh that rises to Gerard's lips is one of resignation. He'd be lying to himself if he didn't admit he was a teensy, little bit excited. But the excitement is pretty much buried under the crushing weight of his mortification and nervousness.
But he has to do this. He has no choice. Gerard slides closer to Frank on the carpet, trying to work up his nerve. Frank's sitting cross-legged, nearly buried in a dark hoodie that's too big for him, his black hair falling half over his face, obscuring his clear hazel eyes. Gerard's mouth is watering a little. Probably nerves, he tells himself, not just that Frank is looking particularly hot tonight. Which he is. Very much.
Gerard wants to ask Frank if it's okay. But that's not how the game works and anyway, he's not sure he can make his mouth forms words right now. His chest is shifting with fast breaths and he feels warm and flushed. He can't really believe he's going to do this. But he is. He has to. He leans forward, getting incrementally closer to Frank and Frank is just staring at him, not moving and not moving away, just sitting there, hands fisted in his lap, ready.
Gerard's eyes flutter closed a moment before their lips meet, so he doesn't know for sure if Frank leaned in that last half-inch or if it just feels like he did. But Frank doesn't flinch away when their lips make contact, or when Gerard presses into the kiss, making it deeper. Frank actually kisses back, working his lips over Gerard's, making Gerard quiver with a warm excitement. There's the briefest, tiniest touch of tongue to Gerard's lips, like Frank's asking permission and Gerard's getting warm all over thinking maybe, maybe this is a real kiss. He's leaning into it, ready to slide his mouth open and see if it is... when a loud crash somewhere in the next universe nearly gives him a heart attack.
Startled, Gerard pulls back, eyes popping open, quivering like a scared rabbit. When his eyes finally focus he sees Frank's looking equally shocked, eyes flicking behind Gerard for the source of the racket.
"Sorry!" A slurry voice from the kitchen calls. "You didn't need that punch bowl did you, Pete?" Pete makes a grumpy noise and yells something back, but Gerard doesn't hear it. He's too busy studying Frank, trying to figure out what just happened.
Frank's not giving anything away though. He just smiles a little half-smile at Gerard, showing him they're all cool, and turns back to the game.
For magic_electric - Frank/Gerard with a side of Bob
Blankets Make Bad Walls
876 words
"Mmm.... yeah.... that's good. Fuck, Frank you're so good at that." Gerard's not even bothering to keep his voice down, hissing at Frank in a guttural moan that is completely impossible to filter out. Especially when it's coming from the bed four feet away, in the same fucking hotel room.
"Jesus fucking christ you guys. I'm right here!" Bob grumbles, probably louder than necessary but what the fuck does he care? Obviously everyone around here is presumed deaf with all the goddamn noise that's going on.
"What?" Gerard's face is blank, peering over the edge of the blanket at Bob. Like a meerkat, Frank's eyes pop into sight as well, the wobbling blanket barely obscuring the two of them from neck down. Frank's mouth is very wet and his lips looks swollen and Bob just does not, he does not need to see this.
"I am not deaf, you fuckers and I'm not blind either. Can you just stop all the fucking?"
"What? Why?" Frank's making puppy eyes at him and that is so not going to work. Not when they are intent on being noisily carnal while Bob needs to get some urgent sleep.
"Come on, Bob. It's like the first hotel night in aaages." Gerard is trying on some charm, but Bob's too annoyed for it to even penetrate through his thick shield of grr.
"I don't fucking care. You should've got a room together. You-" He points at Frank, "Are not supposed to be here. Go to your own room."
"But I'm sharing with Ray and he snores! And he doesn't give good head like Gerard." Frank shoots a little smile at Gee as he says this and Gerard practically glows with pride.
"Oh god you did not - you did not just say that! Fuck!" Bob covers his ears, but it's too late, the words are already ringing in his head and there's no escape from them.
When he finally glances up long enough, something's changed in the other bed. Frank and Gerard are still looking at him, all innocent and wide-eyed, but something's going on. Bob can't quite put his finger on it, until he notices how Gerard keeps blinking and sort of... twitching.
Oh. Oh great. Now Frank's just... doing something behind that blanket and they're just going to pretend that he's not. Fuck. Fuck that.
"You!" Bob points at Frank. "You... you're not. You're really, really not..."
"Really not what?" Frank answers, cool as ice, but his shoulder is moving, and Gerard's starting to sway and zone out a bit.
"You are totally... " Bob's struggling for words now, his indignation getting in the way of his tongue. "Totally hand-fucking him!" Bob finally spits out.
Frank starts to deny it, smirk already firmly in place, but Gerard gets in first, shooting off his mouth, "He totally is. You wanna see?"
Then Gerard tears the blanket-wall down and Bob's seeing far more of his bandmates than he's ever, ever wanted to. They are both completely naked, Gerard leaned back against the headboard with his legs stretched out, Frank sitting cross-legged between them. And then there's their cocks, which Bob really tried hard not to notice, but it's impossible since Frank's is completely hard, jutting upwards between his legs and of course Gerard's has Frank's hand wrapped around it, jerking him off very slowly.
All the words Bob had ready to smite with die in his mouth and as much as he knows this is the point where he really, really needs to leave the room and go crash with Ray he just. Can't. Manage it.
Because bandmates or no bandmates, the sight is pretty hot and you cannot expect any man to look away from anything vaguely (or in this case graphically) sexual. It's not his fault anyway, it's theirs. They started this. They can take the fucking blame.
Except they're not particularly interested in taking the fucking blame, Frank seems more interested in taking a much closer look at what his hand is doing and then - hello Bob is bearing witness to Frank giving Gerard a blow job. A particularly good one too, if the way Gerard is arching back and moaning is anything to go by.
Bob goes through several different states of being in a matter of seconds. His flight response flares and swiftly dies, embarrassment sets in, but is hastily shoveled aside when it becomes seriously obvious that he's the only one in the room feeling even slightly embarrassed by this. Lastly, a strange calm settles over him, somehow allowing him to be at peace with what he's seeing, what he’s hearing and the slow heat building in his groin. He leans back against the wall, settles in and just watches.
Well not onlywatches, Frank could use a pointer or two.
"Frank, you should use your hands more. Show his balls a bit of love, dude."
Frank vocalizes something that might have been intended as "Fuck off Bob" if he wasn't saying it around a mouthful of cock. But he does slide his free hand down between Gee's legs and start rolling his sacs around.
Gee arches further, moaning out a quivering. "Ohhhh... thanks Bob...." between groans. This pulls Bob's mouth into a grin.
"Anytime Gee. Anytime."
For bebunny - Ray/Brian
Stay For Breakfast
647 words
It should be weird, but it isn't.
Ray's cooking eggs in his pokey little kitchen, Brian's sitting at his tiny scratched-up table in the same jeans he was wearing last night and one of Ray's clean t-shirts. It should definitely be weirder than it is.
Ray didn't even expect Brian to still be there this morning. He woke up thinking he’d find the bed beside him empty, Brian having slipped away, realizing they'd both done something infinitely stupid. But Brian was still there in his bed when Ray awoke, one arm clasped across Ray's chest as he slept on peacefully. Ray couldn't help but trace the stars tattooed on the arm lying over him.
Ray had been riding high last night. It was good show, no a fucking excellent show and everyone knew it. Brian in particular, though he'd seen them dozens of times now. He kept popping up at show after show, never pushy but always tenacious, letting them know he was just waiting. Waiting for them to wise up and let him on board.
Maybe last night Ray was a little too wired, a little too drunk. Maybe he felt bad for Brian because he kept getting ignored and shoved aside by the rest of the band. But he kept coming back. Ray can respect that.
Maybe Brian was looking particularly hot last night. Maybe Ray was feeling particularly daring.
Whatever the case, when Ray grabbed a handful of Brian's shirt, pulled him forward and mashed his mouth over his, he wasn't really thinking about what it would mean the next morning. He was just thinking about how great Brian's lips felt, how firm, how strange to feel the prickle of stubble where their chins touched while Brian buried his hands in Ray's hair and slipped him tongue.
He didn't think they'd wind up panting in each other's arms in the back alleyway behind the club, groping and rubbing on each other until a bunch of drunks came stumbling out the back door and scaring them into a cab. It seemed only natural for them to head to Ray's tiny apartment, lock the door behind them and for Ray to kiss Brian up against the door.
Yes he was drunk, but he knew what he was doing. It was his call to peel off Brian's shirt, uncover more tattoos, tasting each one with the stroke of his tongue. It was his decision to let Brian peel down his pants and suck his cock until he was shuddering and gripping Brian's hair, trying hard not to explode.
When Brian asked if he had anything, he knew "anything" was condoms and lube. And he did. And they used them. And fuck if he's gonna say he didn't enjoy it. He fucking loved it. Brian's ass was so tight around his cock, his skin so hot, his dick so hard and perfect in Ray's hand as he jerked him in time with his thrusts. It was probably one of the best nights of sex Ray's ever had.
So he's not going to pretend it didn't happen. No way.
He drops two plates of scrambled eggs on the table, taking a seat across from Brian.
Brian gives him a small smile before he digs in and Ray can feel one stretching across his own face in reply.
"Don't worry about Gerard. He'll come around." Brian looks up, a little confused by the non-sequitor. They weren't even talking about the band. Ray just rattles on. "You're doing the right thing. Just hang in there. They'll see soon enough."
"They'll see what?" Brian's brows are furrowed, but his expression is still open, curious.
"That you're one of us. That you belong."
"You sure about that?" Brian asks, twirling the fork in his hand.
"Yeah." Ray says with a smile. And he is sure. Surer than he's been about anything in a long time.
For dancinbutterfly - Gerard/Pete
Ink Without Needles
1 161 words
The tip of the Sharpie is cold and wet on Gerard's skin. As patterns play over his shoulder and back and down his arm Gerard's trying very hard to keep still, not shiver when it tickles, not twitch when it strays across a sensitive spot.
Not that he has much choice. He has no real say in this at all. He already pointed out the ridiculousness of Pete being the one to do the skin artistry rather than Gerard, who is, you know, the artist. But Pete and Gerard are a lot alike in probably more ways than is healthy in a relationship (or whatever they want to call this thing they have) so Gerard knows he needs to let Pete do this. Because Gerard wouldn't let it lie either.
So that's why he's stretched across the bed naked, his pale skin a curved and rounded canvas for Pete's pen.
Pete's not drawing graphics, Gerard can tell. The way the pen is sliding, Pete is writing words. From the feel of them, it's long strings of words running on, Pete only pausing occasionally to hum to himself before moving to another part of Gerard's body, a new swathe of skin, to unfold another scrawling line of text.
Song lyrics, Gerard is thinking, it has to be song lyrics. Which would explain why the tuneless humming Pete keeps slipping into keeps changing rhythm and cadence, even if it's too soft for Gerard to identify exactly what it is.
Pete finishes scrawling a line right up Gerard's spine before he caps the pen. Gerard is treated to a mess of goosebumps as Pete blows gently over the fresh words. He crawls on top of Gerard, his jeans and shirt rough against Gerard's naked and now very sensitized skin. Breath hot in Gerard's ear as he whispers, "You should see it. You look amazing."
Gerard grins into the mattress, turning his head sideways to try and catch Pete's mouth in a kiss. Pete lets him, melts into him, sucking his lower lip even though the angle is awkward. It's over too soon though, Pete prying himself off Gerard and he feels the loss of Pete's weight too keenly, too soon.
"Can I see?" Gerard asks, starting to get up, to head for a mirror. Pete snatches him by the wrist, pulling him back down.
"Not yet, I'm not done." This pulls Gerard's mouth into a pout, but Pete just grins at him. That knowing, manic grin that says pouting will get Gerard absolutely nowhere. "On your back." Pete points to the bed.
Gerard rolls his eyes but does as he's told. Pete is so going to owe him for this. He's going to have to pose for him now. Naked. Gerard's debating whether to use oils or acrylics when the snap of the pen cap coming off startles him back into the room.
Pete's breath ghosts over Gerard's skin as he leans down to write again. The wet tip of the pen is cold, but Pete's hands are warm. He's scrawling shapes across Gerard's hip, skating over his hip bone, his elbow brushing absently across Gerard's crotch and really, Gerard can't help it when his hips twitch up and his cock takes notice. He's one great big ball of singing flesh right now and all of Pete's clinical touching is driving him slightly mad.
It isn't until Pete's finished the last line of that lyric that he notices Gerard's... condition.
"Oh it's like that is it Geeway?" Gerard shivers as Pete's hands find him, fingers caressing, encouraging him to full erection. "Why didn't you say something?" The words are carrying warm breath over Gerard's groin and Gerard's voice hitches.
"You were busy." Gerard feels strangely shy all of a sudden.
"Not yet... but I can be." Pete mutters before bending down to fill his mouth with Gerard, who bucks up to meet him, hands flying up to grasp the back of Pete's head, encouraging without adding any pressure.
Pete gives good head. Amazing head, actually. Gerard thinks half of it is just how into it Pete gets. He seriously makes more noise than Gerard, and he's not even on the receiving end. He also uses his hands, and sometimes, like now, he'll slide a finger or two inside and Gerard will get it from both angles. It's kind of mind blowing.
Gerard can't help it, his hips won’t keep still and he's already bouncing on Pete's fingers. It's not going to take him long today. He's so close already, has been really for hours, trying so hard to be still while Pete's been decorating him. When Pete moans around his cock and starts bouncing his head faster, faster... it's too much. Gerard's fingers tighten in Pete's hair, he arches up off the bed shouting out his release as Pete groans into his crotch.
Fuck. Yeah.
Pete's looking up at him, face still buried in Gee's groin and those eyes, that look. It should be illegal. Gerard can't help when his gaze skims over to his left hip, trying to read the black shapes Pete's left there.
"What does it say?"
Pete sighs, resigned. It's kind of over now, he's not actually going to be able to do all of Gerard's front side because he's all hard and hot and Gerard knows that. So he grabs Gerard by the hand and places him in front of the mirror.
He stands behind Gerard, pressing up against his back, one arm snaking around his waist to point at the lyrics there. Since they're backwards in the mirror Gee stumbles over them at first, until Pete reads them aloud.
"I'll stick with you baby for a thousand years, nothing's gonna touch you in these golden years."
"Bowie. Nice." Gerard smiles, his face looking small and pale in the mirror. Pete smiles back over Gee's shoulder, then grabs him by the shoulders and turns him around. He snatches up a hand mirror so Gerard can see his back.
It takes a moment for Gerard to get the mirror at a good angle, but when he does... wow. It's just incredible. The way Pete's rounded lettering rolls across the tapestry of his back. It's like the best ink ever, but without the pain of needles. Gerard can't help the gigantic goofy grin that splits his face.
Then he starts reading. Line after line. From his shoulder to his back, down his legs, across his ass. His mouth drops open and there's an incredible, overwhelming warmth swelling in his chest.
"Pete." Gerard's eyes are welling, he has to blink his vision clear again. "They're all love songs."
"Of course they are baby. It's you and me, yeah?" Pete's smile is huge and it's all Gerard can see. He pulls Pete close, covering his mouth with a kiss and falling into it. All of him. His whole heart.
Because there's a word for it now. This thing they have.
It's love.
***
And that's all. Thanks so much for the amazing prompts, every single one of them. I am really proud of what came out - in 24 hours no less! Thank you.