(on a side note, I FUCKING LOVE THE SHIT OUT OF PORN BATTLE. I'm just gonna write all the everything, okay? Jasley's even trying to talk me into writing anthro, and I've never done that before.
Title: Gimme A Head With Hair
Pairing: Frank/Gerard. Mentions of open Frank/Jamia and open Gerard/Lyn-Z.
Summary: Five times Frank's hairstyle interfered with sex.
Prompt used: Frank/Gerard- drinking, collar, chapter, red, shaved. Also I think it was defect_9 that mentioned the thing in part four, and the recent 'drama' prompted part five.
Warnings: Possible slight tour-fuckery, but I tried. This fic actually contains a fair bit of research for three in the morning.
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.
Frank’s not actually sure who this guy is, or why he stumbled over to him and started sucking on his collarbone, but he’s seriously not about to complain. It’s kind of rare to get out guys in this scene. Shit, it’s not like he’s out himself. Forceful probably comes with the territory; if you’re ballsy enough to be out in this group of bastards you’re the type that makes the first move. Some asshole ripped his shirt in the moshpit, one of his favourite shirts, been through the washing machine enough that it’s almost see through, probably the reason the collar ripped so easily. Maybe the guy thought the skin showing was a subtle method of flirting. Or maybe it’s just that he’s drunk. Because on the scale of alcohol intake, and Frank’s seen his fair share of wasted dudes, the guy is pretty fucking drunk.
The guy’s mouth starts nipping it’s way up his neck, and fuck if he cares that his queer interests are being plastered all over the bar, he’s not gonna push the guy away. It’s not like Hambone or Shaun will give a shit, and with their help he can take down any motherfucker that decides to have a problem.
He’s got his dreds in hand, starting to push them out of the way for better access when he pauses then pulls away a bit. “Do you have any you wanna sell?”
Right. His hair probably smells like weed. He showered this morning, but he’s smoked a few times since then. And yeah, the kissing is nice, but Myles convinced him to buy a quarter, and he only remembered like an hour later that he still has weed at home. He needs to offload some of it before it goes brown and brittle, or Hambone ends up freeloading half of it.
The guy buys three dimebags and stumbles off saying he’s gonna find his brother. Frank shrugs and crams the money into his pocket. It’s not technically profit, since twenty five in his pocket isn’t the forty he paid out. But it’s better than fuck-all, and it’s enough to buy a few more beers as he waits for the next band to set up their shit.
They’re not strongly into D/s. When they try it the roles never change. Frank’s always sub, Gerard’s always Dom. But it’s not even a bedroom thing, never mind a lifestyle thing. It’s just sometimes they pull out the Mentos for a blowjob, sometimes they fuck on the kitchen table, and sometimes Gerard pushes a gag into his mouth and orders him to not come. Variety is the spice of life and all those other shiny cliches.
So when Gerard opens the dresser drawer that’s full of their toys and pulls out a collar, it’s not the big thing that it would be for the couples that are really into this kind of thing. It’s not a declaration, a statement of permanence or cementing their duties to each other. It’s just the perfect combination of Gerard liking being able to pull him around, and Frank enjoying finding marks after sex.
The problem with having a recognisable face, the one problem no one will admit to any interviewer, no matter how shameless, is how you can’t go into sex shops anymore. Thank fuck it’s the 2000’s, and anything you could possibly want is on the internet. Of course that has it’s problems too, buying a vibrator and realising you read diameter instead of circumference and it takes D batteries, or fucking up UK boot size charts compared to American ones.
The collar is a piece of shit. Frank intends to inform Gerard as soon as they’re done that they’re getting a refund, or more likely just tossing it into the garbage. He’s fine with doing this again, actually really likes the idea of a thick red line across his throat after sex. But either they need to order a different one and wait patiently for it to arrive, or see if they can convert something from a goth store, because he’s not wearing this one again. But he’s under orders to shut the hell up, and when they’re playing this kind of game Frank listens. Complaining can wait.
He’s not sure what the hell is wrong with it. It’s itchy as hell, but it’s more than that. There’s something wrong with the back of it, the closure keeps getting caught in his hair. Each time it snags it hurts, and not in a sexy biting-pinching-spanking-scratching way. It hurts in a way that actually hurts.
Finally he snaps. “Motherfucker. Banana.”
Gerard stills his hips and stares. “What, really?”
Frank raises an eyebrow, though he thinks it might be lost under his bangs. “What part of ‘banana’ did you not understand?”
“Shit. Sorry.” Gerard shuffles back on the bed with a hand on his dick so the condom doesn’t pull off, then leans over him to untie the leash from where it’s loosely wrapped around the headboard. Frank sits halfway up and Gerard’s hands curl around his neck to undo the collar. A hank of his hair tries to go with it as Gerard tosses it to the floor, Frank swearing loud enough to fill the room.
“That was too much? I guess a collar does reek of ownership, but you know I don’t-”
Frank mentally groans. He needs to head this shit off at the pass, before Gerard starts in on an argument with himself on how owning people is wrong but how people should live and let live and enjoy what they want. It’s too late in the evening for Frank to handle cognitive dissonance. “The collar was a piece of shit. Pick me up something from PetSmart, we’ll try it again later.”
“We don’t have to, if-”
“Piece. Of. Shit. It’s nothing else man. Like that time we tried to fuck with a condom from the Dollar Tree.” That at least provokes a shuddered laugh, like Frank intended it to.
Frank drops to his knees, hands stroking Gerard’s thighs through the outside of his jeans. He wasn’t sure they were ever going to do this again. He still isn’t quite positive this is something they should be doing. Not every book needs to have a sequel, even if there are threads not wrapped up.
“I dunno if this’ll work.” Gerard says.
“The fuck, man.” Gerard’s the one who came to him, not the other way around. “You couldn’t, like, have thought of that before you came out to see me on tour?”
Frank doesn’t have to look up at Gerard to see him frowning, he can hear it in his voice. “I don’t mean us this, I mean... Screw it, just try.”
If Frank thought that this was some kind of pity thing he’d punch Gerard in the dick. He might not be perfectly fine with their shit being over, but he’s not perfectly fine about a lot of things. That’s sort of what Leathermouth is about. They both have other lives now, and just because they’ve had hypothetical conversations with their wives doesn’t mean there isn’t a difference between shit that can be talked about and shit that should be done.
But it’s fucking Gerard, is the thing. So as a precursor to swallowing his dick he swallows his doubts. If this doesn’t work, well, it’s not like they haven’t dealt with worse. Shit, there might not even be an opportunity for shit to get awkward, not the way everyone feels about My Chem right now. And while getting rid of current fears by projecting a worst case future probably isn’t the best way to go about things, it’s enough to get him to lick the head of Gerard’s cock.
It’s good for a few minutes. Frank enjoys teasing Gerard with shallow licks, teasing has always been a strong part of his repertoire. Jamia’s always enjoyed it more than Gerard does though, so it’s not much of a surprise when Gerard grabs a fistful of his hair and tugs his face forward. Frank grins against the sudden mouthful of dick, happy he’s still got it.
The confidence is what does it. Fate fucking strikes a lightning bolt at him for being cocky; Gerard starts giggling. Unless Clerks is on in the background, there shouldn’t be giggling during sex. It’s enough to make a guy wilt.
Frank pulls off. “You couldn’t have just written your grocery list?”
He knows what he means, of course. “It wasn’t bad, I wasn’t laughing at you sucking at it.” Before Frank can point out that there’s absolutely nothing funny in the room, and him sucking dick is pretty much the only entertainment, Gerard continues. “You want to fuck instead?”
“What the fuck, man?”
“Frank, I.” Gerard sighs, runs a hand through his hair. Frank can tell he hasn’t showered in a few days, his hair stays in the ruffled position he pulled it into. “I’m not one of those douches online, okay? Look however the fuck you want to, it’s your fucking body. But you have a beard, and my thighs are ticklish as fuck. I told you it wasn’t going to work. Any time you try to blow me, I’m going to squeal like I’m Ray and you’re going after my feet. So you wanna just fuck, or?”
He’s not ready to lose the beard. Gerard’s right, he can do whatever the fuck he wants now. It’s almost funny how many people are crapping all over him because of it. But it’s nice to have a reason, and it’s not like he’s lying to make him feel better. Now that he actually thinks about it, Mikey and Gerard didn’t have tickle fights very often because Mikey would just go limp and refuse to react, but when he did battle, he always went for Gee’s legs.
“Sure. Let’s fuck.”
He understands Gerard’s concept, of course. It’s a fucking brilliant world, shit that Frank sometimes wonders what would be like in another medium. He wants to go to the library and check out Killjoys books, he wants to pretend to be sophisticated with Jamia and go see a Killjoys ballet. He’s been to ComicCon, has heard of smaller conventions for shit like Star Wars and Harry Potter, and how they have light sabre duels and Quidditch. He wants people to play blaster tag or something, a few hundred people renting out a motel for four days and liking their shit enough that they want to be immersed in it.
He understands the concept, understands code names and fast cars and primary colours. But that doesn’t mean that there aren’t things about it that aren’t a pain in the ass. Like the graffittied boards for the diner. When Ray brought the boards and the four of them spent the night spray painting all sorts of shit on them, what they hadn’t realised was it was plain untreated plywood. Doing the shoot, every time someone so much as looked at the boards their hand was full of splinters.
For the most part, their costumes are pretty decent. Gerard spent fucking forever consulting to make them look the way he imagined in his original sketches, and in his head before that. Not that that’s really changed, they’ve worn what Gerard wants since the beginning. This time around though it’s jeans and shirts and jackets, not woolen suits that weigh five hundred pounds before they get soaked with sweat.
Where things get a bit interesting is the haircuts. Ray’s is normal as always. Gerard’s idea of a topknot lasted for all of five seconds before Ray shot him down hard. His isn’t much different either, back to long and headbanging and sexy. But Mikey’s got the Flock of Seagulls thing going on, bleached and epic bangs. The first time Frank saw him hold it back with barrettes -green with bunnies, an obvious reject from Bandit- he thought he was going to vomit laughing.
Gerard’s is worse though. It’s high maintenance as hell, the colour leaches away with each shampoo. Of course, being Gee, his solution for most of the World Contamination tour was to just not shower. Or wash his clothes, or put on deodorant. Not that they’re not used to it at this point, not that Mikey wasn’t far behind in his rejection of hygiene.
But they’re back, and it’s washed out, and for some reason Frank is the one stuck in a bathroom with him, perched on the thin rim of the bathtub. They’re past the part where he has to point out various places Gerard still needs to rub in the dye, onto the annoying twenty minutes when your scalp itches but you need to wait or the dye doesn’t take. Back in the day he’d spend the time smoking a bowl and watching an episode of Invader Zim, but any idiot knows you can’t smoke in a house that has kids.
Twenty minutes won’t be long enough to do the dishes, or sort the laundry. It could be enough time to read a chapter of something, but Gerard and he have different tastes in books and Gerard can probably search all his shelves without finding one thing to read. Any episode of anything they put on they’ll miss the last few minutes. Really, there’s only one thing to do. Frank slides smoothly from his porcelain seat to his knees in front of Gerard. Gerard’s gloved hand is slick when it holds him in place, but Frank doesn’t think much of it, just moves his tongue the way Gerard likes it.
A few hours later Mikey and Ray come over. Mikey’s still bleached, Ray’s still metal, Gerard’s freshly tinted, and Frank has a splotch of orange on the back of his head. Frank says loudly over their snickering, “at least there’s not five individual fingers, right?”
Ray shrugs. “Yeah, it’s more of a blob.”
“Trust me, our fans will notice.”
Mikey probably knows better than him. His style is consistent, Mikey’s the one that had the internet explode when he got his Lasik. Still, Frank can’t believe that everyone will care. “Only the thirteen year old girls. Who the fuck else has time for that?”
“You’re talking about the same fans that went through the trailer screencapping each second and found the twins like three days before you Tweeted it, right?”
“Fuck off,” Frank mutters. That was probably thirteen year old girls too, you don’t know anyone’s age on Twitter.
Shaving your head seems like a great idea when you have the two best babies in the world who have become smart enough to learn that grabbing is fun. Jamia’s hair is nearly always in a ponytail, but his isn’t quite long enough for that. Besides, if one of the guys sees his hair in a douchey ponyknob he’ll be ripped on forever. It’s a lot easier to just buzz it all off.
Like most decisions made out of frustration, there are consequences not considered that don’t come out until later. Frank snorts and shakes free. When Gerard doesn’t seem to understand the meaning of that he drops from hands and knees to his stomach then shimmies over onto his back.
“Seriously?” He can’t help but grin. Gerard is so fucking lame it’s almost hilarious.
“What?” Gerard demands, not so much a question.
“My ears are not handles, fucker.”
Gerard can’t really shrug the way he’s holding himself up over Frank, but if he could he would. Frank’s known the guy almost ten years, he knows his body language. “My hands went for your hair, there was no hair, they grabbed the next best thing. It was, like, instinct.”
“Your instinct sucks.” Seriously, who tugs on a person’s ears as they’re fucking?
“Well, as soon as you grow it back I’ll go back to your hair. Until then you’ll have to deal.”
Frank snorts again. “Or I could just not put out?”
Gerard laughs. “You’d only be punishing yourself, Iero.”
And yeah, there’s that. Frank raises his leg and crooks it to pull Gerard down towards him. A light, innocent kiss on the lips is followed by the warning “use my ears like reins again and I’ll hit you.” Gerard smiles as he shifts to realign himself, and Frank knows he understands.