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Out Of My Head

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Gerard wakes up hard and panting. He stares down at his naked wrists, certain he can feel the phantom sensation of material wrapped tight around them. It was such an intense dream.

Red material, tied in a messy knot, holding his hands above his head. He's straining, sweating, his cock hard and leaking but he can't touch, can't do anything. His knees hurt from kneeling. He's begging... please, please, I need to come. The material pulls tighter around his wrists, and he fixates on the black pattern against the red fabric, his hips pushing forward against empty air.

When he's so desperate he can't see straight, he feels lips on the back of his neck, arms wrapping around him from behind, skilled fingers jerking his dick, giving him that release he craves. He comes, groaning, looking down to watch the hands as they bring him off, familiar tattoos blurring with motion.

Frank's hands.

Gerard shoves a hand down his pajama pants and brings himself off, quick and silent, before he can think about what it means.


He doesn't think about it again. Not until soundcheck, when Frank catches his arm, telling him something that Gerard doesn't absorb - because wrapped around Frank's wrist is the same red bandanna from his dream.

It's just a coincidence. Frank always wears a bandanna when he plays. It's just a freak accident that it's the same colour, the same pattern Gerard remembers.

The explanation doesn't stop the flush that creeps up his cheeks, or the heat that gathers in his groin.

He stutters out a nonsensical answer to whatever Frank says and excuses himself, racing for the bathroom.


The next morning he wakes up clutching at his throat.

This time, it's a belt. Gerard's belt, the one with the batman buckle, pulled firm around his throat. Frank's not touching him this time, but it's his hands that hold the belt tight around Gerard's neck as recites a steady stream of filth, hot into Gerard's ear.

"Yeah, that's it Gee. Touch yourself. Show me how you get yourself off. Do it right, or I'll..." the belt gets incrementally tighter and Gerard gasps, his hand moving faster on his own dick, bringing himself off at Frank's command.

"Yeah, do it."

Gerard can still hear Frank's voice in his head when he shoves his hand into his underwear and jerks off fast and rough. He claps a hand over his mouth, breathing hard through his nose, smelling his own sweat as he shudders and comes.


It isn't until the're halfway through their first song at soundcheck when Gerard notices Frank is wearing the belt with the bat buckle. He drops half the chorus and barely keeps a hold of his mic. His pants are too fucking tight.


That night, Gerard stays awake a lot longer than he usually would, trying to tire himself out so that he can just sleep, and be done with confusing dreams.

It doesn't work.

This time, it's Gerard's hat. The stupid hat-scarf thing, with ears and fur that he mostly bought to make fun of Mikey with (everyone knows Pete has a furry thing.)

It's a lot less funny when Frank wears it. When Frank wears only it.

Gerard's flat on his back, Frank kneeling above him, one knee either side of Gerard's torso. Gerard isn't tied down this time, but he can't move - or he isn't allowed to. Frank grins down at him, his skin shiny and glowing with sweat, naked and beautiful, his muscles shifting as he works his fist over his dick.

His cock is slick with precome or lube, and he's going fast, making gorgeous, throaty noises and pushing into his hand. He hides nothing from Gerard - in fact, he's showing off, playing up, rolling his hips so his hand and dick are mere inches from Gerard's mouth. Gerard wants to lift his head, make contact with his tongue but he can't. He's not allowed to move.

It's exquisite torture, watching Frank get closer, and closer, and not being able to do do a thing about it. Frank's voice raises in volume as his movements get faster and sloppier. Gerard tenses up, willing Frank on, desperate to watch him come apart. Frank's body bucks and shudders, his back arching, his hips shoving forwards as he comes, painting hot stripes of come across Gerard's chest.

Gerard watches it all, panting, his own hard-on painfully insistent and untouched. Frank reaches down, smirking, as he trails two fingers through the mess on Gerard's skin.

Gerard's hand is already on his dick when he wakes up, this time. He rolls onto his belly, rutting into it, muffling his stuttered breaths into the pillow as he fucks his hand . It doesn't take long before he comes with a bitten-back groan, covering his fingers and the sheets with hot wetness.


When Gerard walks into the dressing room at the venue, he takes one look at Frank - who is wearing the ridiculous fur hat-scarf - turns around and walks right back out again.

He gets himself off twice more in the bathroom before he feels prepared to face anyone again.


The "no-privacy-on-tour" problem comes with it's own set of unwritten rules. One of them is, if you walk in on one of your bandmates whacking off, you are deaf, dumb and blind to any and all proceedings and you remove yourself from the situation as quickly and quietly as possible.

In keeping with these rules, when Gerard walks in on Frank in the venue bathroom he starts to perform a swift U-turn. Except before he turns away he notices something that glues his feet to the floor.

Frank's got a pair of Gerard's briefs, wrapped around his wrist and gripped between the fingers of his not-busy hand.

Frank's jerking off, with Gerard's underwear in his hand. Gerard nearly falls down when he processes that particular piece of information.

"What the fuck, Gerard?" Frank squeaks, putting his back to Gerard and scrambling for his jeans. In his hurry to cover himself, the underwear falls from his hand onto the floor. It's one of Gerard's older pairs, black fabric faded to grey and some of the elastic starting to unravel. Gerard bends down to pick them up.

The moment his fingers touch the fabric, images hit his brain with so much force it sends him reeling backwards.

The floor is hard at his back, his hands tied at the wrist over his head. He's naked, sweat cooling on his skin and he wants to cover himself, wants to move but he won't. He's not allowed to.

There's something in his mouth, dry against his tongue. It's his underwear. He has to hold it there, has to be so still, so quiet, even as Frank's fingers twist in his ass, striking pleasure right up his spine.

"Shh, it's okay." The fingers move again, and Gerard catches a glimpse of Frank's wicked grin between his fluttering eyelashes. "Fuck, you like that don't you?"

It takes everything he's got not to move, not to fuck himself down on Frank's fingers. But he knows if he behaves, he'll get Frank's cock. He's got to be so good. He panting, sharp nasal breaths, the material in his mouth getting wetter and wetter. If he could speak he'd be begging - fuck me, fuck me, please. Please.

Frank leans closer, his lips brushing Gerard's skin as he whispers, "Soon babe. Soon. But first you gotta be still for me. Can you do that?"

Gerard stares at the underwear in his hand, then at Frank, who's red-faced and sweating, holding his jeans up with one hand. "Gee, what-"

"They weren't dreams," Gerard says, still trying to figure it out even as he forms the words, "You were - no, they were… fuck." He can still taste the cloth against his lips, and he's hot all over, and painfully hard in his jeans. "They were… were you doing it on purpose?"

"Doing what?" Frank asks, looking genuinely confused and absolutely fucking beautiful.

Gerard stares at him, the fabric of the underwear growing warm in his hand as he figures it out. They weren't dreams. They were fantasies. Just, not his.

Well, not at first.

He stares at Frank a moment longer, coming to a decision. Then - holding Frank's gaze the entire time - he shoves the underwear in his mouth.

Frank gasps, his face flooding crimson. "Oh god. You can't know. You don't-"

Gerard knows his own skin is an answering shade of red, but he steels his nerve and sheds his clothes, not daring to look up from the floor until he's naked. Even then he doesn't make eye contact with Frank until he's lying down, hands twined above his head, underwear caught between his teeth.

The floor is hard against his back, but he won't move. Not unless he's told to.

When he finally nerves himself to look up at Frank, Frank's staring at him, his eyes huge and want written in every line of him.

Gerard holds himself so, so still, willing Frank to go along with this. Wanting everything he saw and more.

Frank bites his lip, lowering himself to the ground beside Gerard. His hands are shaky, but his voice is steady as he tells Gerard, "I need you to be still for me. Can you do that?"

Gerard nods.