Blaming Frank Chapters 11-13
Chapters 1-5 | Chapters 6-10 | Chapter 14 and Epilogue
[11: Someone Else’s Laundry - Gerard]
Gerard climbed out of his bunk and promptly tripped over someone’s trousers. Wait. What? He bent down to investigate the offending material. Not someone’s. Ray’s. Why were Ray’s pants on the floor? With dried come on them? He was normally neat, at least compared to the Ways. Not like that was really that difficult, but. Whatever. Asshole.
Right. Coffee. He needed coffee before he faced any more stray laundry. Stray sex-covered laundry. What the hell? Gerard kept his dubiously-stained clothes at the foot of his bunk, or in the bathroom, or draped over a lamp or something, like a normal person.
He staggered to the front lounge and went straight to the coffeepot, barely pausing to pour himself a mug before he took a greedy sip. It had cooled down just enough that he could chug it and only burn his throat a little. He didn’t bother prying his eyes open until he had poured the second mug and could manage to take a more casual sip, surveying the scene.
No braiding this time, thank fuck. But something was slightly left of center, anyway. Ray and Frank were sitting on the couch with Mikey draped across their laps, his head nearest to Frank who was playing with his hair, carding like a cat or some shit. Ray and Mikey held controllers and were playing Halo and talking shit at each other.
“What the fuck? The bad guys are this way, quit lollygagging and get the hell over here,” Ray ordered. His voice sounded aggravated but there was a smile tucked in the corner of his mouth and his eyes kept glancing away from the screen and down at Mikey.
“Dude, I’ll show you lollygagging,” Mikey muttered, tucking his feet more firmly against Ray’s side. “I’m trying to get more grenades, you asshole.”
“Sure, sure,” Ray grumbled. “Just let me go on ahead and waste all this ammo and shit, send me to my doom. I’ll just go ahead and kill all these fuckers by myself, die a martyr.”
“While I’m getting grenades, I’ll see if I can’t find a hammer for you to get yourself up on that cross, too, okay?” Mikey snarked, mashing a lot of buttons as he joined the fight.
“No, no, don’t bother. I’ll mange. By myself. In the dark. Against countless alien hordes.” Ray shook his head and looked at Mikey again.
“You two are such dorks,” Frank declared, grinning like an asshole.
“Learned it from you,” Mikey chirped, fingers clicking.
“That’s for sure,” Ray agreed. For somebody on the brink of death, he seemed more relaxed than usual. Wait. Trousers.
Assholes. Something twisted in Gerard’s stomach, and he was pretty sure it wasn’t from the coffee.
“Oh,” Gerard said at once and tried not to frown disapprovingly, shuffling his feet.
“What?” Ray asked, lifting an eyebrow.
“Nothing,” Gerard answered, hiding his face by refilling his mug for a third time. Something heated crossed Ray’s face, but he quickly looked away and back to the TV.
“Right,” Ray muttered and went back to killing aliens.
Frank watched the exchange with a tilted head, like a golden retriever who was watching something interesting. Like one of them was going to rollover or fetch or some shit any second. Maybe even give him a treat.
“Yeah,” Gerard whispered, retreating to his bunk again. Deja fucking vu.
He heard Mikey grumble something barely intelligible, along the lines of “that’s my head, fucker.” Gerard was ready to scoot in when Frank caught his elbow.
“Frankie, I don’t--” Gerard started, but Frankie kissed the corner of his mouth. Gerard wasn’t even sure what he was going to say. I don’t want to play? I’m not ready to talk about tomorrow’s set list? I don’t want company? Whatever.
“Shut up and let me in,” Frankie said, simply, before Gerard could find an end to his sentence. Like it was easy.
“Okay,” Gerard grumbled, and Frank ruffled his hair, making it even more impressively bed-headed.
Gerard ducked away and pouted because, dude, not cool. “Stopit.”
“Ah, hey,” Frankie said apologetically, and stole another kiss, grinning at Gerard like he thought something adorable was going on, but his face went contemplative as Gerard chugged the last of his coffee.
“What, Frankie?” Gerard asked, bravely or stupidly.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Frank bit his lip, looking quietly insightful, and that was way worse than a patronizing ‘you’re adorable’ look, if you asked Gerard. Not that anyone ever did. No, Gerard did not want to talk about how both Frank and his little brother got to have sex with Ray before Gerard did, somehow. Or how said little brother had probably fucked Ray before and was discreet enough not to say anything, the smug, content, well-fucked bastard. Mikey was just like that; Gerard couldn’t blame him. Hell, he liked how Mikey was like that. And everybody knew Frank was like that. That was just... Frank. Or how he couldn’t explain exactly why he was jealous precisely, or even if it was jealousy, because it was kind of irrational overall. Kind of stupid, maybe. But it didn’t feel stupid. It felt like something he wanted. Not something really freaky or startling, just a sort of awareness. Like the distant itch of new skin growing. And it was Ray who was making him itchy. And he just wanted to bang another of his bandmates, if in a slightly weirder way than usual, so he couldn’t say any of this shit out loud, because Frank would laugh at him like the comfortable-with-banging-everybody asshole he was. Of course, Frank would then help him construct a game plan, after he was done laughing. But dammit. Gerard had... well, something, if not a plan, exactly. And he didn’t have to talk about it.
He shook his head and stood there as Frank studied him, trying to keep his face in check, but Frank probably saw right through him anyway. He was annoyingly good at that.
“Wanna cuddle? I promise not to braid your hair,” Frankie held up three fingers in the Boy Scout salute.
“Cuddleslut,” Gerard muttered, fighting a smile and letting Frankie drag them into Gerard’s bunk.
“You gotta problem with that?” Frank grinned, the fucker.
“Nope,” Gerard chuckled, strangely comforted by the way Frank tackled him, warm and heavy and shoving like he always did.
[12: If You Try Sometimes, You Get What You Need - Ray]
The next morning, Gerard was hogging the coffeepot, as usual. Ray staggered over to the sink to wash his dirty mug from yesterday (or, more likely, make sure there weren’t any cigarette butts in it and then pour coffee in it regardless), but it wasn’t there. Which meant someone took it. But Gerard was drinking from the unicorn mug. Ray looked at him. Ray looked at the coffeepot. Ray frowned.
“Want some coffee?”
Ray scowled. This would usually be the part where Gerard poured himself the last cup and told Ray he should make some. Ray waited, bleary-eyed.
Gerard opened the cupboard, took down Ray’s mug, filled it with coffee, and handed it to him.
Ray looked at it suspiciously. It was clean. And full of coffee. Which he didn’t have to make, or pour, or fight Gerard to the death for. And clean. Someone had washed it. Ray made a surprised noise, took the mug with a nod, and went back to his bunk.
Later, during sound check, Ray was tuning. Or, at least, he was trying to until Frank came up.
“So,” Frank asked, not quite crowding Ray, but certainly being in Ray’s space enough that Frank’s striped sleeve kept brushing his arm and he could smell Frank’s toffee soap, tickling his nose.
“What’s up?” Ray asked, keeping his fingers busy, tweaking the tuning on his guitar just a little and then a little more. He noticed that there was a smear of reddish stain on the shoulder of Frank’s shirt, almost like Gerard had marked his territory.
“Are you guys, like, playing gay chicken, or something?” Frankie asked, eyes focusing on Ray, oddly intent, assessing, despite his jovial tone. “Because I should tell you, Dewees always wins at gay chicken, even if he’s not playing, and it usually involves a bathtub and candy or condiments or some shit. And I totally wouldn’t lay odds against him when we’re in the land of deep-fried Mars bars. There’s no telling what he’d do.”
Ray was pretty sure they weren’t talking about Dewees at all. In fact, Ray figured this was as close as Frank ever got to giving anyone a Talk. Not that Ray had any idea why this would be occurring. If anyone should be getting a talking-to, it was Gerard, being all weird and spindly and ...weird. Gerard, who was looking at them with a hooded expression from across the stage, his arm draped over Mikey’s shoulders. Gerard, who was being weird as fuck. The last thing Ray needed was Frank joining the weird-as-fuck party. He frowned, strumming peevishly.
“Frank, I am aware of the dangers of playing gay chicken on tour,” Ray answered carefully. If his B string would just stay in tune. If Frank would stop being weird about Gerard being weird. Whatever.
Frank nodded, satisfied, finding whatever it was he was looking for in Ray’s face. “Cool,” he said wandering back over to his own setup to finish soundcheck.
Then Gerard was in his space all of a sudden, appearing out of nowhere holding a bottle of water.
“Shit,” Ray visibly jerked, because fucking seriously. Could Gerard have made some fucking noise?
“You looked thirsty,” Gerard said simply, placing the bottle into Ray’s hand and wandering back off, sparing a glance over his shoulder, almost nervously. If Ray didn’t know better, he would have thought that was some sort of joke, and the water bottle was full of gin or witch hazel or something. But no. Ice cold, seal intact, same label as all the other bottles.
Seriously. What. The. Fuck.
“Thanks,” Ray answered anyway, nearly whispered, and he could hear his own confusion.
He was rewarded with the glimmer of a smile. Fuckin’ seriously. What?
But it wasn't until the night after the Dublin show, when the shuttle arrived at the hotel, that Ray said something. Just a little experiment. And, okay, maybe he was tired and maybe he should have stopped at three beers for the set, but you don’t say no to Guinness in Dublin, and maybe if he did this wrong it could go really badly. But fuck that shit. If Gee was gonna be weird and prickly, Ray could be weird right back. Frank and Mikey had already started in to the rooms.
"Hey, hand me my bag, willya?" Gerard made grabby-hands at something on Ray's left.
"Please." Ray prompted, trying to make it sound offhanded.
"Um." Gerard swallowed, and something red that wasn't hair dye or stray marker or paint flashed across his face. Ah. There it was. Then it was gone, replaced by a nervous laugh.
"O dearest of Rays, most helpful of bandmates, hear my plea?" And then it flashed across his face again, quickly wiped away by amicable eyebrows and Gerard's laughable attempt at a 'patiently waiting' expression. "Seriously, it's just that one. There."
Ray bit his lip deliberately. Was he imagining things? He could always blame it on something else. The beer, Frank, the tour, anything.
"Oh, that one," Ray clarified needlessly, and sat back against the seat, ostensibly getting out of Gerard's way, but in that asshole-on-an-airplane way that made someone, if anything, more of an obstacle. "Sorry. You go ahead." Gerard tugged his hair, sighed, and crouched over the seat, reaching over Ray's lap, hand out for his stupid duffel. His hand was shaking. Ray leaned slightly to the left and carefully did not touch Gerard. He didn't put a hand on that ass in those ridiculously tight jeans, he did not draw a finger over those weird white-seamed briefs Gerard had been wearing lately, which Ray could see because Gerard’s tiny shirt was drawing up over his waist, nor he did not grab Gerard and press him down into his lap. Some kind of medal was obviously in order. No, he just leaned over and said into a red-stained ear, "Gerard. What. Are you doing?"
Gerard turned his head with a pissy, incredulous kind of look, his jaw dropping low enough that Ray could see his tongue glisten. Jesus. Make that two medals. "I don't mean the bag."
Gerard closed his mouth. And opened it again. "Nothing--It's just, Frank, being, like, in heat with his stupid soap, and you're twelve, and Mikey, I just wondered, but, and then I couldn't--"
"Okaystop." Ray rubbed at his left eye, adjusting his contact, thinking for a second. Gerard closed his mouth and put down his arm. He was just leaning halfway over Ray's lap. Just... waiting. There was something calm in his expression, calm like Gerard hadn’t been in days, like he’d been waiting to spout that jumble of words and he was pleased he’d said his incomprehensible piece, or something. Or maybe he was just relieved that Ray wasn’t going to make him explain that shit. Ray picked up the bag and his own backpack and jerked his head at the door. Gerard slid off the seat and climbed down from the van awkwardly, waiting with his hands shoved in his pockets until Ray walked past him into the hotel. Ray didn't look back, didn't check in with Mikey and Frank, didn't tell Gee to follow. He just shouldered the bags and opened the door with a keycard and waited while Gerard walked in, gnawing on a cuticle.
Ray put down the stuff and took off his jacket. Gerard opened his mouth again. Ray closed the space between them in two steps and put his thumb over Gerard's lips, index finger curling beneath his chin. He made this funny little intake of breath, not quite a gasp, and his tongue just barely touched Ray's thumb. Ray waited. Gerard swallowed, and didn't move, exactly. He just gravitated, focused, practically vibrated out of his skin while trying to stay still. It might have been hilarious, or cruel, or something, watching Gerard's world stop because he couldn't put something in his mouth. It was utterly mesmerizing. Ray should do this more often. He should do this all the time. He couldn't help pulling his thumb down just a little, watching Gerard's mouth open just a tiny bit more, before swiping his thumb across Gerard's lips and kissing him once. Carefully, and thoroughly, and firmly, before taking a deep breath and pulling away, in spite of the look on Gerard’s face. Ray was going to let him think about it. They hadn’t ever gone much past the usual sort of drunken van-fumbling, and Gerard was being... Gerard, and Ray was at least going to give him an out.
"I'm going to brush my teeth now. When I come back, you'll be naked. Unless... Unless you wanted to go to sleep -- that's cool, too." Ray shrugged as easily as he could, and then tried not to smile as he saw Gee in the corner of his eye, shaking his head vehemently. Ray closed the bathroom door and let himself grin. He brushed his teeth. He washed his face. He put a packet of lube in his pocket to warm up, and opened the bathroom door.
"Um. Wow." Gerard was naked, alright. And kneeling. And hard. He looked up at the sound of the door opening, bit his lip, and looked back down, a strand of red falling over one eye. Ray walked over, pulling off his shirt, and let his fingers tangle gently in Gerard’s hair. Gee rubbed his jaw, catlike, against Ray's leg, and Ray gave it a minute, feeling warm and fuzzy and just a little nervous. Ray took a breath, tightened his fingers and pulled up, slowly and firmly. Gerard sucked in a breath of air, and his arms flailed a little as he tried to stand, one leg at a time, without falling over, without making a sound. Ray moved deliberately, stepping toward the bed, guiding Gerard by a fistful of hair. There was an awkward moment when Gerard bent to get facedown on the bed, and Ray twisted his fingers. Gerard gave a yelp, then panted, little desperate hiccup-breaths, and Ray kind of wanted to do it again.
Instead, he stepped behind the still-slightly-crouching man, reluctantly loosening his fingers from the tangled red mop. Gerard wavered, and Ray pulled him back against his chest. Ray didn’t press against him, didn’t pull him tight, just smoothed Gerard’s arms down to his sides and ducked his head to breathe against his ear. He didn’t say anything, yet. Just watched Gerard bite his lip and try not to move, try not to clench his fingers at his sides, try not to press back against Ray’s jeans, try not to gasp or plead or demand. Ray breathed it in. The tension rose off of Gerard’s skin like a current.
Ray looked to make sure Gerard was stable in his stance, and stepped backward.
Gerard whimpered. Actually whimpered. Not like a kid who’d lost a toy, but like… like a puppy who didn’t know what he’d done wrong, and fuck, Ray was going to come in his pants at this rate.
He toed off his shoes, unbuckled his belt, unzipped. Gerard’s shoulders twitched in front of him at the sound, but he didn’t turn. He was being so good. So conscientious and focused and fucking needy and trying so, so hard. Ray peeled off his jeans and boxers, remembering the lube, and dropped the clothes on the floor. He wrapped a hand around the base of his cock and squeezed, breathing out slowly, just to ease the ache. He stepped forward again, and a smile quirked his lips as Gee’s shoulders relaxed. Ray ducked his head again, and licked a hot swipe from Gerard's shoulder up to his ear, and whispered, "Down. Faceup."
Gerard clambered and rolled, and managed to land flat on his back, tense as hell.
“Hands behind your head. Unless you need help.” Unless you need me to tie your ass up. I will if you want me to. But I bet you’ll do what I tell you. Honestly, it’d been a few days of ‘I bet you’ll do what I tell you,’ and they were both ready to see where the cards would fall. Gerard tucked his hands behind his head.
Ray walked to the foot of the bed, trying not to stare. Gerard was pale, streaked here and there with sharpie and paint, stage sweat gone cold and hot again, little red marks under his knees where he’d worn those funny little garters for the show, blurred slightly by where he’d knelt on the coarse hotel carpet. His arms were tight, hands clenching each other behind his head, pulse beating in his throat, a dusting of dark hair leading a trail between his legs, cock purpling and pointing up to his navel. Technically, nothing Ray hadn’t seen before. Lots of times, really.
But tonight, Gerard was specifically his. All his. Waiting. Straining to do everything perfectly. Ray wasn’t going to fuck it up. He swished the packet of lube experimentally in his fist, and moved to kneel on the bed between Gerard’s legs. Gee obligingly spread his legs a little more. Bendy little fucker; he was almost as bad as Frank. Ray tore the tab on the packet and slicked up his hands. Gerard was looking at Ray and biting his lower lip so far into his mouth it looked like it’d disappeared. Ray looked back, smiled, and wrapped the warm, slippery fingers of his left hand around Gerard’s balls, enjoying the look on Gee’s face as his mouth opened again, lip reappearing as he remembered to breathe.
Ray glanced down, cupping loose skin in his hand and rubbing his thumb over the base of Gerard’s cock, and let himself focus on his fingers, drawing the index finger of his right hand slowly down the underside from tip to root. He did it again, and again, and again. Sometimes with other fingers, or more lube, to the left or right, watching the little twitches and jerks and gasps he elicited.
But Gerard never moved his hands from underneath his head, and he never spoke a word. Ray smiled. “Good,” he murmured, and Gerard flushed pink with pleasure all the way down his chest. Ray wrapped his whole hand around Gee’s length, then, squeezing firmly, and grinned at the desperate groan that came out of Gerard’s mouth. Ray knuckled gently under his balls, grazing his sweet spot from the outside, and began to stroke. Thumb curling under the head on the downstroke, palm curving over the head on the upstroke, the rhythm soothingly like strumming his guitar. His left hand manipulated, pressed, found pleasing patterns, and his right hand provided the momentum, the force. And Gerard... Gerard was slowly tightening, winding. Being tuned. His thighs were tight, his toes were curling. He let out a choked, surprised sound.
“Yeah,” Ray said, letting his fingers slip down to Gerard’s ass and back up, still stroking in a maddening rhythm, watching.
“Ray...” Gerard’s eyebrows drew together.
“Say ‘please,’” Ray said calmly, pressing a slick, hot finger to Gerard’s asshole again, waiting, jerking his cock quick and shallow.
“Ohfuckplease,” Gerard ground out, and Ray obligingly slid in his finger, crooked it, tightened his fist around Gerard’s dick.
“Now,” Ray breathed, and it couldn’t have been more than a minute or five, all told, but Gerard was coming all over his hand, milking Ray’s finger, clutching the back of his own head, pulling his own hair to keep from moving his hands.
Ray had probably seen something hotter in his life, but he couldn’t think what it’d be. Gerard coming apart, overwhelmed, pulling himself apart rather than do something Ray didn’t want, completely at Ray’s mercy and completely out of his head with pleasure. Fuck. He slipped his finger out slowly, and made a pleased noise deep in his throat. Gerard was still panting, and trembling a little, and Ray’s hands were covered in come. Well, he’d done something right, at least. He lifted a thumb to his lip, almost absentmindedly, wondering what Gerard tasted like. Less coffee-bitter than he’d have thought. Ray looked down. Gerard’s eyes were open again. Ray extended his right hand, offering. Gerard looked questioningly, moving his hands to prop himself up a little. Ray nodded, and he leaned forward to suck Ray’s index finger into his mouth, watching Ray, licking him clean digit by digit.
“Shitfuck,” Ray muttered softly, “Gerard, your mouth...” He broke off to slide his left hand back between Gerard’s legs, circling the rim of his hole with a wet, sticky fingertip. Gerard moaned around Ray’s pinky, and Ray felt his cock twitch in sympathy. He drew his pinky back across Gerard’s lips, and replaced it with his index and middle fingers, just to watch Gerard’s mouth, just to watch him suck the fingers down. It was utterly obscene the way Gerard was looking through his lashes at Ray, sucking contentedly, and it wasn’t conscious, the way Ray pushed his fingers inside Gerard’s ass. It was just... he had to.
He didn’t mean to do it so suddenly, and the look on Gerard’s face went abruptly from contented to shocked to pained, and he whimpered around the fingers in his mouth, and Ray was just about to apologize when he realized Gerard was sucking harder, and the look of pain had changed into something else, something fiery and needy, and fucking hell. Ray had his come-covered fingers inside his best friend and the frontman of his band, and it was maybe weird, but it had been weird for days, and Ray couldn’t stop, it wouldn’t be right. And even if it were, Gerard started using his arms for more leverage, pushing back against the fingers in his ass, moaning loudly now that he was muffled.
Muzzled, provided Ray’s brain helpfully, gagged. I am muting my own fucking vocalist. And everybody wanted to shut Gerard up sometime, but Ray hadn’t really considered doing it this way before, and somehow in those moments Ray went from couldn’t stop to wouldn’t stop.
He slid his hand from Gerard’s mouth, chuckling at the faint disappointed noise he made, and wrapped it in his hair again, wanting to hear every sound. It was too good not to, and Gerard was happy to comply, whimpering and moaning, a spark in his eyes. His eyelids fluttered closed, then open again, and he was performing for Ray, challenging and beautiful and so turned on it hurt. Ray slid his fingers out and then back in as he added a third, working up into the tight satin heat of Gerard’s ass. Gee was hard again, and Ray was ready, so fucking ready. But he could wait. He could wait. Gerard would ask for it, wouldn’t he? He had to. And Ray could wait for it.
He curved his fingers, twisting them a little harshly on purpose, and Gerard made a keening noise, looking back at Ray with eyes like saucers. Ray quirked his lips, trying to radiate patience and intensity, and relaxed, just letting his fingers pulse. Gerard gasped, licking his lips, and started breathing in time to Ray’s pulses, panting, until he closed his eyes. Little notes of desperation touched his breaths, and Destroya had nothing on this. His head tilted back in Ray’s grasp; his throat bobbed as he swallowed. Maybe patience was worth it.
Ray leaned forward and licked Gerard’s neck, nipping at the flesh above his adam’s apple. He lingered there, then, mouthing the skin until he felt the voice underneath cry out, then heard it. He slid his fingers almost all the way out, slowly, carefully. The sound Gerard made was broken, bereft. Ray drew in a little closer, touching his jaw to red-stained skin, and cradled Gee’s head in his hand, watching. His hands were clenched into fists behind him on the bed, and his shoulders trembled. Whether it was with the effort of holding himself up, or with tension or lust or impatience, it didn’t matter, it was gorgeous.
“Ray,” Gerard whispered. “Ray, please.”
Ray twitched his fingers a little, and listened to the hitch in Gerard’s breathing. “Please what?”
“Anything. Everything. Whatever you’ll give me. Just... Please.”
Yes, Ray thought, and kissed Gerard’s ear. “Yes,” he repeated out loud, and eased his fingers the rest of the way out. “Over.” He let go of Gerard’s hair, touched his nape softly, and moved to let him turn, finding the lube in the process.
He backed to the edge of the bed, barely pausing to slick up. Gerard was clutching one of the several dozen pillows the hotel apparently thought they’d need, chewing on a fingernail.
“Arms down to your sides,” Ray said softly, suddenly a little hoarse. Gerard moved, twitching a shoulder, and Ray moved closer behind him, running a hand up his thigh. Soon he had both hands on those hips, and he could just grip them, and pull them how he wanted, and then there was Gerard, ass up to meet him, with his face on the mattress like a broken doll, porcelain and debauchery. Ray shifted against Gerard’s ass, and pressed, leaning forward to take Gerard’s wrists in a firm grip in each hand.
Then he pulled, and Gerard was tight like a bowstring, the force of Ray’s grip lifting his torso, forcing him to arch his back. Gerard gasped, but leaned into it, pliant, so Ray could slide into his ass, tight and round and perfect. That wasn’t all that was perfect, either. Ray looked at the muscles in his back, the valley of his spine, the curve of his neck, all of Gerard his, in his hands, on his cock, waiting for him. He slid out slowly, just once, using those sinewy wrists like handles; then nothing was slow anymore, and his hips slammed against Gerard’s ass. Gerard lifted his head a little on each stroke, making loud, desperate, gorgeous noises.
“So good, so good for me,” Ray panted, and pounded into Gerard again and again, and he was merciless, and Gerard was soft and willing and practically wailing, and he was going to leave bruises, and he’d waited too long, it was too much, and he pulled Gerard tight and came, digging in his fingernails. He pushed in deeply, groaning, vision greying at the edges. He caught his breath, let down Gerard’s wrists, and thrust again. Gerard put his arms under his head and gasped, twitching, milking Ray of every last drop, whimpering. Ray kept going. He could do this for a while.
“C’mon, Gee.” He angled down for a few strokes, holding onto Gerard’s hips. He got some higher-pitched cries in response, but it wasn’t enough. Gerard’s shoulders were drawn up to his ears, muscles bunching under the skin, and he was tense enough to go at any minute if Ray could just give him what he needed.
“More?” Bright red hair bobbed up and down on the pillow with an accompanying gasp, and Ray smiled, wrapping fingers around Gerard’s length, sticky from last time and leaking again. “Now,” Ray cautioned, loosely fisting Gerard’s cock with each stroke, “I want to hear you, want to hear you come for me again.” Four more strokes, and Gerard tilted back his head, crying out in the general direction of Ray and the ceiling, shuddered, and collapsed in a glorious little heap.
Ray slid out, kissed Gerard’s back. “Just a sec,” he murmured, going to clean up. He came back, flicking off the bathroom light, and Gerard hadn’t moved. Ray gathered up his little heap of vocalist, kissing softly behind his ear, and resisted the urge to ask if he was alright. Or if Ray had done things right. If everything they’d just done was okay. If Gerard needed anything. No. Ray was pretty sure they were cool. Better than cool. Better than before. It felt better, anyway. He wasn’t going to worry about it. Not right now. He just let Gerard hold on to his arm, too tightly, and they slept.
[13: Sometimes, You Just Get What You Want - Gerard]
Gerard rolled out of bed and headed toward the bathroom, his awareness limited to finding the light switch and making sure the toilet seat was up. He pissed what felt like gallons, propping himself against the wall with a clumsy hand. He shook his dick, scratched his balls, turned, flipped the switch and went back to bed. The covers were still warm. They smelled nice. He flopped over, preparing to lose consciousness. Someone grunted.
It was Ray. Next to him. In bed.
Ray was naked.
That in itself didn’t necessarily mean anything, but something in the back of Gerard’s head was insisting that it did. And that Gerard was sore in weirder ways than usual. Wait. What?
“Holy shit.” Gerard groaned. Then he groaned again, because one of Ray’s forearms flopped heavily onto his back and pulled him closer.
“Ray.” Gerard said it cautiously. It was possible he was wrong. It was dark. It was way before noon. He hadn’t had any coffee.
“Gee.” Ray confirmed sleepily.
“We have sex?” Mikey or Frank could have switched rooms on him, or stolen Ray’s boxers. Wouldn’t be the first time.
“Yes?”
“Kinky sex?” Gerard could have dreamed it. Or fallen off the wagon. Or something.
“Very yes?” Ray shifted, pulling Gerard against his chest.
“Oh.” Gerard tried to sound normal, as the memories rushed into his sleepy brain in what seemed like X-rated technicolor surround-sound slow-motion.
“...that okay?” Ray pulled back a little, leaning so he could look at Gerard’s face.
“Maybe,” Gerard mused fuzzily, trying to get a handle on the wave of arousal that washed through him in the wake of his brain’s super-helpful “Sex Flashback” feature.
“Maybe,” Ray repeated. His eyebrows furrowed. “Maybe.” He was starting to sound pissed. It could be, Gerard’s brain was now helpfully telling him, that someone might consider it rude if you go weird on them for weeks because you’re not fucking, and then say ‘maybe,’ when you finally have a lot of really amazing sex.
“Depends,” Gerard said, trying to sound light and teasing instead of cranky, and kicked some covers out of the way so he could grind his ass against Ray’s morning wood.
“Depends on what, exactly?” Gerard wasn’t sure, but he thought maybe Ray sounded marginally less pissed.
“If we can do it again.”
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[11: Someone Else’s Laundry - Gerard]
Gerard climbed out of his bunk and promptly tripped over someone’s trousers. Wait. What? He bent down to investigate the offending material. Not someone’s. Ray’s. Why were Ray’s pants on the floor? With dried come on them? He was normally neat, at least compared to the Ways. Not like that was really that difficult, but. Whatever. Asshole.
Right. Coffee. He needed coffee before he faced any more stray laundry. Stray sex-covered laundry. What the hell? Gerard kept his dubiously-stained clothes at the foot of his bunk, or in the bathroom, or draped over a lamp or something, like a normal person.
He staggered to the front lounge and went straight to the coffeepot, barely pausing to pour himself a mug before he took a greedy sip. It had cooled down just enough that he could chug it and only burn his throat a little. He didn’t bother prying his eyes open until he had poured the second mug and could manage to take a more casual sip, surveying the scene.
No braiding this time, thank fuck. But something was slightly left of center, anyway. Ray and Frank were sitting on the couch with Mikey draped across their laps, his head nearest to Frank who was playing with his hair, carding like a cat or some shit. Ray and Mikey held controllers and were playing Halo and talking shit at each other.
“What the fuck? The bad guys are this way, quit lollygagging and get the hell over here,” Ray ordered. His voice sounded aggravated but there was a smile tucked in the corner of his mouth and his eyes kept glancing away from the screen and down at Mikey.
“Dude, I’ll show you lollygagging,” Mikey muttered, tucking his feet more firmly against Ray’s side. “I’m trying to get more grenades, you asshole.”
“Sure, sure,” Ray grumbled. “Just let me go on ahead and waste all this ammo and shit, send me to my doom. I’ll just go ahead and kill all these fuckers by myself, die a martyr.”
“While I’m getting grenades, I’ll see if I can’t find a hammer for you to get yourself up on that cross, too, okay?” Mikey snarked, mashing a lot of buttons as he joined the fight.
“No, no, don’t bother. I’ll mange. By myself. In the dark. Against countless alien hordes.” Ray shook his head and looked at Mikey again.
“You two are such dorks,” Frank declared, grinning like an asshole.
“Learned it from you,” Mikey chirped, fingers clicking.
“That’s for sure,” Ray agreed. For somebody on the brink of death, he seemed more relaxed than usual. Wait. Trousers.
Assholes. Something twisted in Gerard’s stomach, and he was pretty sure it wasn’t from the coffee.
“Oh,” Gerard said at once and tried not to frown disapprovingly, shuffling his feet.
“What?” Ray asked, lifting an eyebrow.
“Nothing,” Gerard answered, hiding his face by refilling his mug for a third time. Something heated crossed Ray’s face, but he quickly looked away and back to the TV.
“Right,” Ray muttered and went back to killing aliens.
Frank watched the exchange with a tilted head, like a golden retriever who was watching something interesting. Like one of them was going to rollover or fetch or some shit any second. Maybe even give him a treat.
“Yeah,” Gerard whispered, retreating to his bunk again. Deja fucking vu.
He heard Mikey grumble something barely intelligible, along the lines of “that’s my head, fucker.” Gerard was ready to scoot in when Frank caught his elbow.
“Frankie, I don’t--” Gerard started, but Frankie kissed the corner of his mouth. Gerard wasn’t even sure what he was going to say. I don’t want to play? I’m not ready to talk about tomorrow’s set list? I don’t want company? Whatever.
“Shut up and let me in,” Frankie said, simply, before Gerard could find an end to his sentence. Like it was easy.
“Okay,” Gerard grumbled, and Frank ruffled his hair, making it even more impressively bed-headed.
Gerard ducked away and pouted because, dude, not cool. “Stopit.”
“Ah, hey,” Frankie said apologetically, and stole another kiss, grinning at Gerard like he thought something adorable was going on, but his face went contemplative as Gerard chugged the last of his coffee.
“What, Frankie?” Gerard asked, bravely or stupidly.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Frank bit his lip, looking quietly insightful, and that was way worse than a patronizing ‘you’re adorable’ look, if you asked Gerard. Not that anyone ever did. No, Gerard did not want to talk about how both Frank and his little brother got to have sex with Ray before Gerard did, somehow. Or how said little brother had probably fucked Ray before and was discreet enough not to say anything, the smug, content, well-fucked bastard. Mikey was just like that; Gerard couldn’t blame him. Hell, he liked how Mikey was like that. And everybody knew Frank was like that. That was just... Frank. Or how he couldn’t explain exactly why he was jealous precisely, or even if it was jealousy, because it was kind of irrational overall. Kind of stupid, maybe. But it didn’t feel stupid. It felt like something he wanted. Not something really freaky or startling, just a sort of awareness. Like the distant itch of new skin growing. And it was Ray who was making him itchy. And he just wanted to bang another of his bandmates, if in a slightly weirder way than usual, so he couldn’t say any of this shit out loud, because Frank would laugh at him like the comfortable-with-banging-everybody asshole he was. Of course, Frank would then help him construct a game plan, after he was done laughing. But dammit. Gerard had... well, something, if not a plan, exactly. And he didn’t have to talk about it.
He shook his head and stood there as Frank studied him, trying to keep his face in check, but Frank probably saw right through him anyway. He was annoyingly good at that.
“Wanna cuddle? I promise not to braid your hair,” Frankie held up three fingers in the Boy Scout salute.
“Cuddleslut,” Gerard muttered, fighting a smile and letting Frankie drag them into Gerard’s bunk.
“You gotta problem with that?” Frank grinned, the fucker.
“Nope,” Gerard chuckled, strangely comforted by the way Frank tackled him, warm and heavy and shoving like he always did.
[12: If You Try Sometimes, You Get What You Need - Ray]
The next morning, Gerard was hogging the coffeepot, as usual. Ray staggered over to the sink to wash his dirty mug from yesterday (or, more likely, make sure there weren’t any cigarette butts in it and then pour coffee in it regardless), but it wasn’t there. Which meant someone took it. But Gerard was drinking from the unicorn mug. Ray looked at him. Ray looked at the coffeepot. Ray frowned.
“Want some coffee?”
Ray scowled. This would usually be the part where Gerard poured himself the last cup and told Ray he should make some. Ray waited, bleary-eyed.
Gerard opened the cupboard, took down Ray’s mug, filled it with coffee, and handed it to him.
Ray looked at it suspiciously. It was clean. And full of coffee. Which he didn’t have to make, or pour, or fight Gerard to the death for. And clean. Someone had washed it. Ray made a surprised noise, took the mug with a nod, and went back to his bunk.
Later, during sound check, Ray was tuning. Or, at least, he was trying to until Frank came up.
“So,” Frank asked, not quite crowding Ray, but certainly being in Ray’s space enough that Frank’s striped sleeve kept brushing his arm and he could smell Frank’s toffee soap, tickling his nose.
“What’s up?” Ray asked, keeping his fingers busy, tweaking the tuning on his guitar just a little and then a little more. He noticed that there was a smear of reddish stain on the shoulder of Frank’s shirt, almost like Gerard had marked his territory.
“Are you guys, like, playing gay chicken, or something?” Frankie asked, eyes focusing on Ray, oddly intent, assessing, despite his jovial tone. “Because I should tell you, Dewees always wins at gay chicken, even if he’s not playing, and it usually involves a bathtub and candy or condiments or some shit. And I totally wouldn’t lay odds against him when we’re in the land of deep-fried Mars bars. There’s no telling what he’d do.”
Ray was pretty sure they weren’t talking about Dewees at all. In fact, Ray figured this was as close as Frank ever got to giving anyone a Talk. Not that Ray had any idea why this would be occurring. If anyone should be getting a talking-to, it was Gerard, being all weird and spindly and ...weird. Gerard, who was looking at them with a hooded expression from across the stage, his arm draped over Mikey’s shoulders. Gerard, who was being weird as fuck. The last thing Ray needed was Frank joining the weird-as-fuck party. He frowned, strumming peevishly.
“Frank, I am aware of the dangers of playing gay chicken on tour,” Ray answered carefully. If his B string would just stay in tune. If Frank would stop being weird about Gerard being weird. Whatever.
Frank nodded, satisfied, finding whatever it was he was looking for in Ray’s face. “Cool,” he said wandering back over to his own setup to finish soundcheck.
Then Gerard was in his space all of a sudden, appearing out of nowhere holding a bottle of water.
“Shit,” Ray visibly jerked, because fucking seriously. Could Gerard have made some fucking noise?
“You looked thirsty,” Gerard said simply, placing the bottle into Ray’s hand and wandering back off, sparing a glance over his shoulder, almost nervously. If Ray didn’t know better, he would have thought that was some sort of joke, and the water bottle was full of gin or witch hazel or something. But no. Ice cold, seal intact, same label as all the other bottles.
Seriously. What. The. Fuck.
“Thanks,” Ray answered anyway, nearly whispered, and he could hear his own confusion.
He was rewarded with the glimmer of a smile. Fuckin’ seriously. What?
But it wasn't until the night after the Dublin show, when the shuttle arrived at the hotel, that Ray said something. Just a little experiment. And, okay, maybe he was tired and maybe he should have stopped at three beers for the set, but you don’t say no to Guinness in Dublin, and maybe if he did this wrong it could go really badly. But fuck that shit. If Gee was gonna be weird and prickly, Ray could be weird right back. Frank and Mikey had already started in to the rooms.
"Hey, hand me my bag, willya?" Gerard made grabby-hands at something on Ray's left.
"Please." Ray prompted, trying to make it sound offhanded.
"Um." Gerard swallowed, and something red that wasn't hair dye or stray marker or paint flashed across his face. Ah. There it was. Then it was gone, replaced by a nervous laugh.
"O dearest of Rays, most helpful of bandmates, hear my plea?" And then it flashed across his face again, quickly wiped away by amicable eyebrows and Gerard's laughable attempt at a 'patiently waiting' expression. "Seriously, it's just that one. There."
Ray bit his lip deliberately. Was he imagining things? He could always blame it on something else. The beer, Frank, the tour, anything.
"Oh, that one," Ray clarified needlessly, and sat back against the seat, ostensibly getting out of Gerard's way, but in that asshole-on-an-airplane way that made someone, if anything, more of an obstacle. "Sorry. You go ahead." Gerard tugged his hair, sighed, and crouched over the seat, reaching over Ray's lap, hand out for his stupid duffel. His hand was shaking. Ray leaned slightly to the left and carefully did not touch Gerard. He didn't put a hand on that ass in those ridiculously tight jeans, he did not draw a finger over those weird white-seamed briefs Gerard had been wearing lately, which Ray could see because Gerard’s tiny shirt was drawing up over his waist, nor he did not grab Gerard and press him down into his lap. Some kind of medal was obviously in order. No, he just leaned over and said into a red-stained ear, "Gerard. What. Are you doing?"
Gerard turned his head with a pissy, incredulous kind of look, his jaw dropping low enough that Ray could see his tongue glisten. Jesus. Make that two medals. "I don't mean the bag."
Gerard closed his mouth. And opened it again. "Nothing--It's just, Frank, being, like, in heat with his stupid soap, and you're twelve, and Mikey, I just wondered, but, and then I couldn't--"
"Okaystop." Ray rubbed at his left eye, adjusting his contact, thinking for a second. Gerard closed his mouth and put down his arm. He was just leaning halfway over Ray's lap. Just... waiting. There was something calm in his expression, calm like Gerard hadn’t been in days, like he’d been waiting to spout that jumble of words and he was pleased he’d said his incomprehensible piece, or something. Or maybe he was just relieved that Ray wasn’t going to make him explain that shit. Ray picked up the bag and his own backpack and jerked his head at the door. Gerard slid off the seat and climbed down from the van awkwardly, waiting with his hands shoved in his pockets until Ray walked past him into the hotel. Ray didn't look back, didn't check in with Mikey and Frank, didn't tell Gee to follow. He just shouldered the bags and opened the door with a keycard and waited while Gerard walked in, gnawing on a cuticle.
Ray put down the stuff and took off his jacket. Gerard opened his mouth again. Ray closed the space between them in two steps and put his thumb over Gerard's lips, index finger curling beneath his chin. He made this funny little intake of breath, not quite a gasp, and his tongue just barely touched Ray's thumb. Ray waited. Gerard swallowed, and didn't move, exactly. He just gravitated, focused, practically vibrated out of his skin while trying to stay still. It might have been hilarious, or cruel, or something, watching Gerard's world stop because he couldn't put something in his mouth. It was utterly mesmerizing. Ray should do this more often. He should do this all the time. He couldn't help pulling his thumb down just a little, watching Gerard's mouth open just a tiny bit more, before swiping his thumb across Gerard's lips and kissing him once. Carefully, and thoroughly, and firmly, before taking a deep breath and pulling away, in spite of the look on Gerard’s face. Ray was going to let him think about it. They hadn’t ever gone much past the usual sort of drunken van-fumbling, and Gerard was being... Gerard, and Ray was at least going to give him an out.
"I'm going to brush my teeth now. When I come back, you'll be naked. Unless... Unless you wanted to go to sleep -- that's cool, too." Ray shrugged as easily as he could, and then tried not to smile as he saw Gee in the corner of his eye, shaking his head vehemently. Ray closed the bathroom door and let himself grin. He brushed his teeth. He washed his face. He put a packet of lube in his pocket to warm up, and opened the bathroom door.
"Um. Wow." Gerard was naked, alright. And kneeling. And hard. He looked up at the sound of the door opening, bit his lip, and looked back down, a strand of red falling over one eye. Ray walked over, pulling off his shirt, and let his fingers tangle gently in Gerard’s hair. Gee rubbed his jaw, catlike, against Ray's leg, and Ray gave it a minute, feeling warm and fuzzy and just a little nervous. Ray took a breath, tightened his fingers and pulled up, slowly and firmly. Gerard sucked in a breath of air, and his arms flailed a little as he tried to stand, one leg at a time, without falling over, without making a sound. Ray moved deliberately, stepping toward the bed, guiding Gerard by a fistful of hair. There was an awkward moment when Gerard bent to get facedown on the bed, and Ray twisted his fingers. Gerard gave a yelp, then panted, little desperate hiccup-breaths, and Ray kind of wanted to do it again.
Instead, he stepped behind the still-slightly-crouching man, reluctantly loosening his fingers from the tangled red mop. Gerard wavered, and Ray pulled him back against his chest. Ray didn’t press against him, didn’t pull him tight, just smoothed Gerard’s arms down to his sides and ducked his head to breathe against his ear. He didn’t say anything, yet. Just watched Gerard bite his lip and try not to move, try not to clench his fingers at his sides, try not to press back against Ray’s jeans, try not to gasp or plead or demand. Ray breathed it in. The tension rose off of Gerard’s skin like a current.
Ray looked to make sure Gerard was stable in his stance, and stepped backward.
Gerard whimpered. Actually whimpered. Not like a kid who’d lost a toy, but like… like a puppy who didn’t know what he’d done wrong, and fuck, Ray was going to come in his pants at this rate.
He toed off his shoes, unbuckled his belt, unzipped. Gerard’s shoulders twitched in front of him at the sound, but he didn’t turn. He was being so good. So conscientious and focused and fucking needy and trying so, so hard. Ray peeled off his jeans and boxers, remembering the lube, and dropped the clothes on the floor. He wrapped a hand around the base of his cock and squeezed, breathing out slowly, just to ease the ache. He stepped forward again, and a smile quirked his lips as Gee’s shoulders relaxed. Ray ducked his head again, and licked a hot swipe from Gerard's shoulder up to his ear, and whispered, "Down. Faceup."
Gerard clambered and rolled, and managed to land flat on his back, tense as hell.
“Hands behind your head. Unless you need help.” Unless you need me to tie your ass up. I will if you want me to. But I bet you’ll do what I tell you. Honestly, it’d been a few days of ‘I bet you’ll do what I tell you,’ and they were both ready to see where the cards would fall. Gerard tucked his hands behind his head.
Ray walked to the foot of the bed, trying not to stare. Gerard was pale, streaked here and there with sharpie and paint, stage sweat gone cold and hot again, little red marks under his knees where he’d worn those funny little garters for the show, blurred slightly by where he’d knelt on the coarse hotel carpet. His arms were tight, hands clenching each other behind his head, pulse beating in his throat, a dusting of dark hair leading a trail between his legs, cock purpling and pointing up to his navel. Technically, nothing Ray hadn’t seen before. Lots of times, really.
But tonight, Gerard was specifically his. All his. Waiting. Straining to do everything perfectly. Ray wasn’t going to fuck it up. He swished the packet of lube experimentally in his fist, and moved to kneel on the bed between Gerard’s legs. Gee obligingly spread his legs a little more. Bendy little fucker; he was almost as bad as Frank. Ray tore the tab on the packet and slicked up his hands. Gerard was looking at Ray and biting his lower lip so far into his mouth it looked like it’d disappeared. Ray looked back, smiled, and wrapped the warm, slippery fingers of his left hand around Gerard’s balls, enjoying the look on Gee’s face as his mouth opened again, lip reappearing as he remembered to breathe.
Ray glanced down, cupping loose skin in his hand and rubbing his thumb over the base of Gerard’s cock, and let himself focus on his fingers, drawing the index finger of his right hand slowly down the underside from tip to root. He did it again, and again, and again. Sometimes with other fingers, or more lube, to the left or right, watching the little twitches and jerks and gasps he elicited.
But Gerard never moved his hands from underneath his head, and he never spoke a word. Ray smiled. “Good,” he murmured, and Gerard flushed pink with pleasure all the way down his chest. Ray wrapped his whole hand around Gee’s length, then, squeezing firmly, and grinned at the desperate groan that came out of Gerard’s mouth. Ray knuckled gently under his balls, grazing his sweet spot from the outside, and began to stroke. Thumb curling under the head on the downstroke, palm curving over the head on the upstroke, the rhythm soothingly like strumming his guitar. His left hand manipulated, pressed, found pleasing patterns, and his right hand provided the momentum, the force. And Gerard... Gerard was slowly tightening, winding. Being tuned. His thighs were tight, his toes were curling. He let out a choked, surprised sound.
“Yeah,” Ray said, letting his fingers slip down to Gerard’s ass and back up, still stroking in a maddening rhythm, watching.
“Ray...” Gerard’s eyebrows drew together.
“Say ‘please,’” Ray said calmly, pressing a slick, hot finger to Gerard’s asshole again, waiting, jerking his cock quick and shallow.
“Ohfuckplease,” Gerard ground out, and Ray obligingly slid in his finger, crooked it, tightened his fist around Gerard’s dick.
“Now,” Ray breathed, and it couldn’t have been more than a minute or five, all told, but Gerard was coming all over his hand, milking Ray’s finger, clutching the back of his own head, pulling his own hair to keep from moving his hands.
Ray had probably seen something hotter in his life, but he couldn’t think what it’d be. Gerard coming apart, overwhelmed, pulling himself apart rather than do something Ray didn’t want, completely at Ray’s mercy and completely out of his head with pleasure. Fuck. He slipped his finger out slowly, and made a pleased noise deep in his throat. Gerard was still panting, and trembling a little, and Ray’s hands were covered in come. Well, he’d done something right, at least. He lifted a thumb to his lip, almost absentmindedly, wondering what Gerard tasted like. Less coffee-bitter than he’d have thought. Ray looked down. Gerard’s eyes were open again. Ray extended his right hand, offering. Gerard looked questioningly, moving his hands to prop himself up a little. Ray nodded, and he leaned forward to suck Ray’s index finger into his mouth, watching Ray, licking him clean digit by digit.
“Shitfuck,” Ray muttered softly, “Gerard, your mouth...” He broke off to slide his left hand back between Gerard’s legs, circling the rim of his hole with a wet, sticky fingertip. Gerard moaned around Ray’s pinky, and Ray felt his cock twitch in sympathy. He drew his pinky back across Gerard’s lips, and replaced it with his index and middle fingers, just to watch Gerard’s mouth, just to watch him suck the fingers down. It was utterly obscene the way Gerard was looking through his lashes at Ray, sucking contentedly, and it wasn’t conscious, the way Ray pushed his fingers inside Gerard’s ass. It was just... he had to.
He didn’t mean to do it so suddenly, and the look on Gerard’s face went abruptly from contented to shocked to pained, and he whimpered around the fingers in his mouth, and Ray was just about to apologize when he realized Gerard was sucking harder, and the look of pain had changed into something else, something fiery and needy, and fucking hell. Ray had his come-covered fingers inside his best friend and the frontman of his band, and it was maybe weird, but it had been weird for days, and Ray couldn’t stop, it wouldn’t be right. And even if it were, Gerard started using his arms for more leverage, pushing back against the fingers in his ass, moaning loudly now that he was muffled.
Muzzled, provided Ray’s brain helpfully, gagged. I am muting my own fucking vocalist. And everybody wanted to shut Gerard up sometime, but Ray hadn’t really considered doing it this way before, and somehow in those moments Ray went from couldn’t stop to wouldn’t stop.
He slid his hand from Gerard’s mouth, chuckling at the faint disappointed noise he made, and wrapped it in his hair again, wanting to hear every sound. It was too good not to, and Gerard was happy to comply, whimpering and moaning, a spark in his eyes. His eyelids fluttered closed, then open again, and he was performing for Ray, challenging and beautiful and so turned on it hurt. Ray slid his fingers out and then back in as he added a third, working up into the tight satin heat of Gerard’s ass. Gee was hard again, and Ray was ready, so fucking ready. But he could wait. He could wait. Gerard would ask for it, wouldn’t he? He had to. And Ray could wait for it.
He curved his fingers, twisting them a little harshly on purpose, and Gerard made a keening noise, looking back at Ray with eyes like saucers. Ray quirked his lips, trying to radiate patience and intensity, and relaxed, just letting his fingers pulse. Gerard gasped, licking his lips, and started breathing in time to Ray’s pulses, panting, until he closed his eyes. Little notes of desperation touched his breaths, and Destroya had nothing on this. His head tilted back in Ray’s grasp; his throat bobbed as he swallowed. Maybe patience was worth it.
Ray leaned forward and licked Gerard’s neck, nipping at the flesh above his adam’s apple. He lingered there, then, mouthing the skin until he felt the voice underneath cry out, then heard it. He slid his fingers almost all the way out, slowly, carefully. The sound Gerard made was broken, bereft. Ray drew in a little closer, touching his jaw to red-stained skin, and cradled Gee’s head in his hand, watching. His hands were clenched into fists behind him on the bed, and his shoulders trembled. Whether it was with the effort of holding himself up, or with tension or lust or impatience, it didn’t matter, it was gorgeous.
“Ray,” Gerard whispered. “Ray, please.”
Ray twitched his fingers a little, and listened to the hitch in Gerard’s breathing. “Please what?”
“Anything. Everything. Whatever you’ll give me. Just... Please.”
Yes, Ray thought, and kissed Gerard’s ear. “Yes,” he repeated out loud, and eased his fingers the rest of the way out. “Over.” He let go of Gerard’s hair, touched his nape softly, and moved to let him turn, finding the lube in the process.
He backed to the edge of the bed, barely pausing to slick up. Gerard was clutching one of the several dozen pillows the hotel apparently thought they’d need, chewing on a fingernail.
“Arms down to your sides,” Ray said softly, suddenly a little hoarse. Gerard moved, twitching a shoulder, and Ray moved closer behind him, running a hand up his thigh. Soon he had both hands on those hips, and he could just grip them, and pull them how he wanted, and then there was Gerard, ass up to meet him, with his face on the mattress like a broken doll, porcelain and debauchery. Ray shifted against Gerard’s ass, and pressed, leaning forward to take Gerard’s wrists in a firm grip in each hand.
Then he pulled, and Gerard was tight like a bowstring, the force of Ray’s grip lifting his torso, forcing him to arch his back. Gerard gasped, but leaned into it, pliant, so Ray could slide into his ass, tight and round and perfect. That wasn’t all that was perfect, either. Ray looked at the muscles in his back, the valley of his spine, the curve of his neck, all of Gerard his, in his hands, on his cock, waiting for him. He slid out slowly, just once, using those sinewy wrists like handles; then nothing was slow anymore, and his hips slammed against Gerard’s ass. Gerard lifted his head a little on each stroke, making loud, desperate, gorgeous noises.
“So good, so good for me,” Ray panted, and pounded into Gerard again and again, and he was merciless, and Gerard was soft and willing and practically wailing, and he was going to leave bruises, and he’d waited too long, it was too much, and he pulled Gerard tight and came, digging in his fingernails. He pushed in deeply, groaning, vision greying at the edges. He caught his breath, let down Gerard’s wrists, and thrust again. Gerard put his arms under his head and gasped, twitching, milking Ray of every last drop, whimpering. Ray kept going. He could do this for a while.
“C’mon, Gee.” He angled down for a few strokes, holding onto Gerard’s hips. He got some higher-pitched cries in response, but it wasn’t enough. Gerard’s shoulders were drawn up to his ears, muscles bunching under the skin, and he was tense enough to go at any minute if Ray could just give him what he needed.
“More?” Bright red hair bobbed up and down on the pillow with an accompanying gasp, and Ray smiled, wrapping fingers around Gerard’s length, sticky from last time and leaking again. “Now,” Ray cautioned, loosely fisting Gerard’s cock with each stroke, “I want to hear you, want to hear you come for me again.” Four more strokes, and Gerard tilted back his head, crying out in the general direction of Ray and the ceiling, shuddered, and collapsed in a glorious little heap.
Ray slid out, kissed Gerard’s back. “Just a sec,” he murmured, going to clean up. He came back, flicking off the bathroom light, and Gerard hadn’t moved. Ray gathered up his little heap of vocalist, kissing softly behind his ear, and resisted the urge to ask if he was alright. Or if Ray had done things right. If everything they’d just done was okay. If Gerard needed anything. No. Ray was pretty sure they were cool. Better than cool. Better than before. It felt better, anyway. He wasn’t going to worry about it. Not right now. He just let Gerard hold on to his arm, too tightly, and they slept.
[13: Sometimes, You Just Get What You Want - Gerard]
Gerard rolled out of bed and headed toward the bathroom, his awareness limited to finding the light switch and making sure the toilet seat was up. He pissed what felt like gallons, propping himself against the wall with a clumsy hand. He shook his dick, scratched his balls, turned, flipped the switch and went back to bed. The covers were still warm. They smelled nice. He flopped over, preparing to lose consciousness. Someone grunted.
It was Ray. Next to him. In bed.
Ray was naked.
That in itself didn’t necessarily mean anything, but something in the back of Gerard’s head was insisting that it did. And that Gerard was sore in weirder ways than usual. Wait. What?
“Holy shit.” Gerard groaned. Then he groaned again, because one of Ray’s forearms flopped heavily onto his back and pulled him closer.
“Ray.” Gerard said it cautiously. It was possible he was wrong. It was dark. It was way before noon. He hadn’t had any coffee.
“Gee.” Ray confirmed sleepily.
“We have sex?” Mikey or Frank could have switched rooms on him, or stolen Ray’s boxers. Wouldn’t be the first time.
“Yes?”
“Kinky sex?” Gerard could have dreamed it. Or fallen off the wagon. Or something.
“Very yes?” Ray shifted, pulling Gerard against his chest.
“Oh.” Gerard tried to sound normal, as the memories rushed into his sleepy brain in what seemed like X-rated technicolor surround-sound slow-motion.
“...that okay?” Ray pulled back a little, leaning so he could look at Gerard’s face.
“Maybe,” Gerard mused fuzzily, trying to get a handle on the wave of arousal that washed through him in the wake of his brain’s super-helpful “Sex Flashback” feature.
“Maybe,” Ray repeated. His eyebrows furrowed. “Maybe.” He was starting to sound pissed. It could be, Gerard’s brain was now helpfully telling him, that someone might consider it rude if you go weird on them for weeks because you’re not fucking, and then say ‘maybe,’ when you finally have a lot of really amazing sex.
“Depends,” Gerard said, trying to sound light and teasing instead of cranky, and kicked some covers out of the way so he could grind his ass against Ray’s morning wood.
“Depends on what, exactly?” Gerard wasn’t sure, but he thought maybe Ray sounded marginally less pissed.
“If we can do it again.”
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