(no subject)
Title: Bars and Chains
Pairing: Mikey/Gerard
Rating: nc17
Wordcount: 1523
Summary: When you're an outlaw punk band, getting arrested is just part of the routine. Luckily Mikey has other routines that make the time behind bars better.
Prompt used: time: twentieth for kiss bingo.
Disclaimer: This is a non-profit, non-commercial work of fiction using the names and likenesses of real individuals. This fictional story is not intended to imply that the events herein actually occurred or that the attitudes or behaviors described are engaged in or condoned by the real persons whose names are used without permission.
Warnings: breathplay, collaring (sort of), and obviously incest.
Author's Notes: Doing a thing where I write Waycest in each video 'verse. This is Desolation Row. It fits along with my other DR story, Gotta Be What Tomorrow Needs, although it's not necessary to read that first, or at all.
It’s the twentieth time My Chemical Romance has been arrested. Mikey knows better than to say that out loud in the back of the paddywagon though. Frank always worries that the higher authorities are going to get involved because they’re clearly unrepentant offenders. Never worried enough to keep him from traveling to the next show though, and in the end that’s all that really matters. Well, that and making enough money on the tickets to pay whatever fine the city is gonna tag them with before they can leave.
How soon they get out depends on what they’re getting charged with. Disturbing the peace gets less time than inciting a riot, which gets less time than causing bodily harm or seeking to provoke bodily harm to an officer. At the very least it’ll still be a few hours in a cell made for two. Mikey plans to spend the whole time making out with Gerard. Fuck all their bullshit laws. Between alcohol and drugs and gambling and sex in public and monitoring decibels it’s like they’re trying to suck all the fun out of the world. Sucking Gerard’s tongue just puts the fun back in. And it only makes it sweeter that in Massachusetts incest is illegal, up to twenty years. If they were still in Jersey a bit of shared genes sex between two consenting adults would be just fine.
The pigs always put all five of them in the same cell. What they don’t show you on tv is that jail cells are cramped as hell, the tight quarters were a hell of a surprise the first time they were shoved in, some fucker sneering as he shut the door. There’s not even room for all of them to sit on the bed at the same time. Not that it’s actually a bed; it’s a hunk of floor that rises up to knee height. With rounded corners, of course, so nobody can curbstomp someone while they’re waiting to be processed. Apparently you can even request a pillow, if you don’t mind it reeking of dried piss. Since that’s not Mikey’s kink, he never asks. Besides, if he tried to pass the time away with a nap his brother and friends would have to sit on the cold gritty floor. It would be a douche action.
They do tend to move though, once he and Gerard start making out. Mikey’s not sure if it’s because they don’t want to be associated with the act of rebellion (unlikely), they think it’s gross (possible), or because they want a better view (equally possible). It doesn’t really matter to him though, whatever the reason. He’s pretty much doing it with the purpose of getting a rise out of viewers. Getting upset at whatever reaction that follows would be stupid.
Sometimes it’s more than kissing, though not always. Oddly enough, it really comes down to what he’s wearing. Maybe it’s lame of him, but if Mikey’s uncomfortable he doesn’t want to consider sex. He’ll wear leather pants on stage because that’s one of the acceptable looks, but he’ll never let Gerard open his zipper halfway and give him a handjob with fingers and palm covered in similar leather. If he wants to ride a glam punk look he’ll spray his hair silver and wear a meshy sequiny tank top, but he won’t crawl on top of Gerard and rut against him in it. Each thrust into Gerard’s pelvis would just move the fabric against him, and that stuff is itchy as hell when you’re not riding the adrenaline of the stage.
Tonight though, Mikey’s got a pair of jeans ripped in a dozen places -real rips, not a brand new pair thrown into the wash with some rocks- and they’re completely worn away at the thighs. When he wears them he has to make sure to wear underwear so nothing flashes on stage. Half the time he has to borrow from Frank, he only has a few of his own pairs. Gerard’s fingers lightly scratch the bare skin and it’s brilliant. His own mother could be sitting with Frank and Ray and Bob against the wall of the cell and Mikey still wouldn’t be able to stop.
Best of all is when he wears the neck chain. It started off as just another accessory that fits the world they imbue at night. The more Mikey wears it the more he’s thinking it might mean something. He’s starting to really like the way Gerard grabs it when they’re making out or when he’s giving his brother head. Frank, with his major in Psych before they decided to make a stand, would say it was a conditioning thing, associating pleasure with his chain collar instead of food with a bell. Mikey’s not entirely sure he’s wrong. Loose jeans and a hoodie are better for the van, so they inevitably end up parked a block away from the venue changing into their more appropriate clothing. When he changes, slides the chain on and fastens the end closed, he gets hard. He can’t remember when it started happening, but he can’t imagine it’ll stop any time soon.
For Mikey, things culminated five nights ago. The job of guarding the van and the instruments cycles according to a schedule plugged into Frank’s phone. Everybody wants the rare chance to sleep in a bed but their things can’t be left unattended overnight, and these days carrying in a instrument case is about as flashy as holding a kilo of cocaine under your arm. Last hotel night had been his turn. He’d spent the evening hanging out with them, playing cards and watching tv. Ray’d bitched about how much more boring commercials were with no jingles attached, which caused a cascade of all of them belting out a few of their more memorable childhood toy commercials. Mikey’d only left when they’d divided up the two queen beds between them, Bob and Ray already nearly asleep, Bob grumbling at having to switch beds and move out of his warm spot. They knew him too well though, in the morning he’d be grateful to not have Ray smothering him with his hair. Ray and Gee were cuddlers, Bob was not.
Sleeping on the longest bench seat, face pressed into the corner of seat and backrest to drown out the lamppost light, gun resting on this thigh wasn’t bad. What was better was the ability to jerk off with actual privacy the next morning. Privacy was a rare commodity these days, he’d grab every handful he could. Maybe it was crossing a line, putting the chain on tightly, the pattern of the interior still etched on his face, but he didn’t regret it when he came into his hand groaning, and he doesn’t regret it now. It violated the rule of what happens in the jail cell stays in the jail cell, but if anything is obvious to him and the band, it’s that rules are meant to be broken.
“What do you want?” He knows what he wants, just doesn’t know if it should be said. Gerard smiles at him, something glinting in his eyes, the same thing that allows him to commit crime night after night by performing. “Come on Mikeyway. Wanna make you moan loud enough that the front desk hears it.”
Mikey would be vocal anyway, since that’s the point of this. But with Gerard’s words he can let himself pretend. “Choke me.”
Ray bursts into a spluttering hacking cough. If Mikey looked over he knows Ray would be blushing, but he just keeps his eyes on Gerard. His brother blinks, then smiles and squirms his fingers between the chain and the back of his neck. It’s tight already, so Gerard making a fist draws the front hard into his flesh.
Mikey gasps a fuck yeah, except there’s no audio, and taking in the next breath to try again doesn’t work. He grinds against Gerard’s wrist and arm, his thighs burning hot where Gerard’s nails are scraping the bare skin. It shouldn’t be enough, normally wouldn’t be, but sparks of purple-blue are swarming in front of his face and his chest is heaving to no avail. His orgasm is a rush of colour and then Gerard lets go and Mikey slumps back, not even wincing when his head hits the concrete.
When he can open his eyes a second later Gerard is shoving his hand down his jeans. Apparently it did something for his brother too, because he’s not jerking off, just gathering what he can then smearing it on the wall before it can make his jeans wet. Until the day they die, Mikey will find it funny that Gerard can not shower for three weeks and not care, but needs come wiped off as soon as possible.
He knows this isn’t an every day thing for his brother. They’re different, in this and a dozen other ways. But as long as My Chem keeps playing they’ll keep being arrested. And when that happens Gerard is his. Provided they’re both wearing the right clothes, of course.
Pairing: Mikey/Gerard
Rating: nc17
Wordcount: 1523
Summary: When you're an outlaw punk band, getting arrested is just part of the routine. Luckily Mikey has other routines that make the time behind bars better.
Prompt used: time: twentieth for kiss bingo.
Disclaimer: This is a non-profit, non-commercial work of fiction using the names and likenesses of real individuals. This fictional story is not intended to imply that the events herein actually occurred or that the attitudes or behaviors described are engaged in or condoned by the real persons whose names are used without permission.
Warnings: breathplay, collaring (sort of), and obviously incest.
Author's Notes: Doing a thing where I write Waycest in each video 'verse. This is Desolation Row. It fits along with my other DR story, Gotta Be What Tomorrow Needs, although it's not necessary to read that first, or at all.
It’s the twentieth time My Chemical Romance has been arrested. Mikey knows better than to say that out loud in the back of the paddywagon though. Frank always worries that the higher authorities are going to get involved because they’re clearly unrepentant offenders. Never worried enough to keep him from traveling to the next show though, and in the end that’s all that really matters. Well, that and making enough money on the tickets to pay whatever fine the city is gonna tag them with before they can leave.
How soon they get out depends on what they’re getting charged with. Disturbing the peace gets less time than inciting a riot, which gets less time than causing bodily harm or seeking to provoke bodily harm to an officer. At the very least it’ll still be a few hours in a cell made for two. Mikey plans to spend the whole time making out with Gerard. Fuck all their bullshit laws. Between alcohol and drugs and gambling and sex in public and monitoring decibels it’s like they’re trying to suck all the fun out of the world. Sucking Gerard’s tongue just puts the fun back in. And it only makes it sweeter that in Massachusetts incest is illegal, up to twenty years. If they were still in Jersey a bit of shared genes sex between two consenting adults would be just fine.
The pigs always put all five of them in the same cell. What they don’t show you on tv is that jail cells are cramped as hell, the tight quarters were a hell of a surprise the first time they were shoved in, some fucker sneering as he shut the door. There’s not even room for all of them to sit on the bed at the same time. Not that it’s actually a bed; it’s a hunk of floor that rises up to knee height. With rounded corners, of course, so nobody can curbstomp someone while they’re waiting to be processed. Apparently you can even request a pillow, if you don’t mind it reeking of dried piss. Since that’s not Mikey’s kink, he never asks. Besides, if he tried to pass the time away with a nap his brother and friends would have to sit on the cold gritty floor. It would be a douche action.
They do tend to move though, once he and Gerard start making out. Mikey’s not sure if it’s because they don’t want to be associated with the act of rebellion (unlikely), they think it’s gross (possible), or because they want a better view (equally possible). It doesn’t really matter to him though, whatever the reason. He’s pretty much doing it with the purpose of getting a rise out of viewers. Getting upset at whatever reaction that follows would be stupid.
Sometimes it’s more than kissing, though not always. Oddly enough, it really comes down to what he’s wearing. Maybe it’s lame of him, but if Mikey’s uncomfortable he doesn’t want to consider sex. He’ll wear leather pants on stage because that’s one of the acceptable looks, but he’ll never let Gerard open his zipper halfway and give him a handjob with fingers and palm covered in similar leather. If he wants to ride a glam punk look he’ll spray his hair silver and wear a meshy sequiny tank top, but he won’t crawl on top of Gerard and rut against him in it. Each thrust into Gerard’s pelvis would just move the fabric against him, and that stuff is itchy as hell when you’re not riding the adrenaline of the stage.
Tonight though, Mikey’s got a pair of jeans ripped in a dozen places -real rips, not a brand new pair thrown into the wash with some rocks- and they’re completely worn away at the thighs. When he wears them he has to make sure to wear underwear so nothing flashes on stage. Half the time he has to borrow from Frank, he only has a few of his own pairs. Gerard’s fingers lightly scratch the bare skin and it’s brilliant. His own mother could be sitting with Frank and Ray and Bob against the wall of the cell and Mikey still wouldn’t be able to stop.
Best of all is when he wears the neck chain. It started off as just another accessory that fits the world they imbue at night. The more Mikey wears it the more he’s thinking it might mean something. He’s starting to really like the way Gerard grabs it when they’re making out or when he’s giving his brother head. Frank, with his major in Psych before they decided to make a stand, would say it was a conditioning thing, associating pleasure with his chain collar instead of food with a bell. Mikey’s not entirely sure he’s wrong. Loose jeans and a hoodie are better for the van, so they inevitably end up parked a block away from the venue changing into their more appropriate clothing. When he changes, slides the chain on and fastens the end closed, he gets hard. He can’t remember when it started happening, but he can’t imagine it’ll stop any time soon.
For Mikey, things culminated five nights ago. The job of guarding the van and the instruments cycles according to a schedule plugged into Frank’s phone. Everybody wants the rare chance to sleep in a bed but their things can’t be left unattended overnight, and these days carrying in a instrument case is about as flashy as holding a kilo of cocaine under your arm. Last hotel night had been his turn. He’d spent the evening hanging out with them, playing cards and watching tv. Ray’d bitched about how much more boring commercials were with no jingles attached, which caused a cascade of all of them belting out a few of their more memorable childhood toy commercials. Mikey’d only left when they’d divided up the two queen beds between them, Bob and Ray already nearly asleep, Bob grumbling at having to switch beds and move out of his warm spot. They knew him too well though, in the morning he’d be grateful to not have Ray smothering him with his hair. Ray and Gee were cuddlers, Bob was not.
Sleeping on the longest bench seat, face pressed into the corner of seat and backrest to drown out the lamppost light, gun resting on this thigh wasn’t bad. What was better was the ability to jerk off with actual privacy the next morning. Privacy was a rare commodity these days, he’d grab every handful he could. Maybe it was crossing a line, putting the chain on tightly, the pattern of the interior still etched on his face, but he didn’t regret it when he came into his hand groaning, and he doesn’t regret it now. It violated the rule of what happens in the jail cell stays in the jail cell, but if anything is obvious to him and the band, it’s that rules are meant to be broken.
“What do you want?” He knows what he wants, just doesn’t know if it should be said. Gerard smiles at him, something glinting in his eyes, the same thing that allows him to commit crime night after night by performing. “Come on Mikeyway. Wanna make you moan loud enough that the front desk hears it.”
Mikey would be vocal anyway, since that’s the point of this. But with Gerard’s words he can let himself pretend. “Choke me.”
Ray bursts into a spluttering hacking cough. If Mikey looked over he knows Ray would be blushing, but he just keeps his eyes on Gerard. His brother blinks, then smiles and squirms his fingers between the chain and the back of his neck. It’s tight already, so Gerard making a fist draws the front hard into his flesh.
Mikey gasps a fuck yeah, except there’s no audio, and taking in the next breath to try again doesn’t work. He grinds against Gerard’s wrist and arm, his thighs burning hot where Gerard’s nails are scraping the bare skin. It shouldn’t be enough, normally wouldn’t be, but sparks of purple-blue are swarming in front of his face and his chest is heaving to no avail. His orgasm is a rush of colour and then Gerard lets go and Mikey slumps back, not even wincing when his head hits the concrete.
When he can open his eyes a second later Gerard is shoving his hand down his jeans. Apparently it did something for his brother too, because he’s not jerking off, just gathering what he can then smearing it on the wall before it can make his jeans wet. Until the day they die, Mikey will find it funny that Gerard can not shower for three weeks and not care, but needs come wiped off as soon as possible.
He knows this isn’t an every day thing for his brother. They’re different, in this and a dozen other ways. But as long as My Chem keeps playing they’ll keep being arrested. And when that happens Gerard is his. Provided they’re both wearing the right clothes, of course.