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Bring More Knives

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Ogden Theatre, Denver, Colorado, April 2004.

Gerard Way had never been normal; from his taste in movies and comics to his history of being a bit of a recluse, he was planted firmly in geek culture, always living on the fringe, latching onto horror and fantasy and any oddity he could consume. He had accepted this aspect of himself; it was neither here nor there, and he had been able to make a career of it twice. The same went for sex, however. He couldn’t help it, really. It was just in his nature. You name it, he had probably tried it, fascinated by the very concept of unnatural fetish. He'd let a dude blindfold him in college. He'd unearthed some rare fantasy art porn several years back, naked elves and whatnot. They all had nicely painted, otherworldly tits. His hands often wandered when he was alone at night, prodding and pinching at himself, seeing just how far he could go, what he could take. He thought it was all pretty neat. The internet boom when he was in college had only spurred him on; he finally had access to websites, information, chat rooms. When a former partner of his had confessed some of their darker secrets to him, he had simply laughed warmly, listening with rapt attention.


Gerard swallows thickly, laugh sticking in his throat at the absurdity of his predicament. He's just turned twenty seven years old, should be smarter with his time, should perhaps be settling down and doing his best to make a stable life for himself, not that he isn't living out one of his dreams, getting to make music for a living. He should be drawing for a living, he should find a nice apartment in the city and dick around on his guitar in his spare time. He should be more responsible. He never should have left Cartoon Network, but he did, and now he's bent over a flimsy tv table backstage with his own tie knotted tightly around his neck and familiar, strong hands tugging at his hair. His scalp burns, and he thinks back to every time he's been told to cut his hair, but it was short for years before, and he likes it. Likes the messy look. Likes the way Frank grabs big handfuls of it. Him and Frank aren't together, per se, but they've fallen into certain patterns.


Gerard can hardly remember how and when it started- a few glances perhaps, flirting that never went away with time, until Frank caught his wrist one day, a little more rough than their usual horsing around. The tug on his arm had sent Gerard reeling, rendered him speechless, and the rest was history.

He laughs again, because here he is, bent over a table that keeps wobbling under the weight of two grown men, hands held behind his back, a firm hand in his hair that's slowly starting to dry off after he'd sweat through it all; that had been Frank's excuse this time, probably the laziest one yet.

"You're filthy." Frank had taken one look at him after they left the stage, sighing in faux exasperation. "When was the last time you showered?"

"This morning," Gerard had answered truthfully, but Frank was still looking at him, eyes raking up and down his body, over his soaked clothes and flushed face, and Gerard knew it had been a rhetorical question. So there he is, dress pants halfway down his waist, thinking about how the rest of the guys are out getting dinner and drinks, and he laughs, because it's a little bit ridiculous. He should be more careful, more mature, but he needs it. He needs it, and Frank has fun with him.

"What's so funny?" Frank's hand leaves his hair, letting it fall around his face once more, and grabs Gerard's chin, lifting his face to meet his eyes. Frank is serious, but his eyes are wide and attentive, studying him.

"Nothing." The corners of Gerard's mouth twitch. He moves his hips against the table helplessly, wanting any sort of friction, a shred of relief. "I think I'm going to come in my pants if you don't touch me soon." He murmurs, laying his cheek against the smooth wood of the table once more.

"I don't think that's physically possible," Frank yanks on Gerard's tie, and his breath catches in his throat as a strangled gasp. He closes his eyes, concentrating on the sensations, his aching legs, the tightness around his throat, the way the table is digging into his middle, into the bruise on his stomach from last week. Frank had hit him square in the stomach, but he'd been asking for it. Frank continues, ignoring his plight. "No, I'm serious, I don't think anyone can do that in real life, not without any stimulation. You watch too much porn."

"Do not." Gerard is irritated, wants less talking and more touching, needs to be knocked around at the very least, if Frank won't touch him.

He grins again, despite himself. "I draw my own." That earns him a slap on his half-exposed ass, and not a gentle one, either. "You're so gross." Gerard hears Frank's familiar ex-stoner giggle, can't see him, though, and he nods. That apparently isn't good enough, because Frank hits him again, in the exact same spot where his pants are slipping down, exposing his gray boxers. It fucking hurts, and his dick fucking aches, but he lets out an embarrassing yelp anyway.

"Ow!" He closes his eyes once more as Frank delivers four more blows, each one stinging more than the last. "Ow, god, you're such a prick." He groans, wiggling uncomfortably against the table.

"You're gonna call me names?" Frank yanks him up- Gerard wonders for the umpteenth time where he stores all of that strength- and grabs his face again, turning his face towards his. Gerard blinks at him for a second, pain-drunk and dazed, standing on weak legs after leaning against discount furniture for so long.

Frank continues. "You're gonna call me names?" and Gerard holds back yet another laugh, because he's scary but he sounds a little silly, like he's in the mafia or something, and the whole situation is a little silly, but he's painfully hard in his dress pants and isn't about to ruin anything. Gerard runs his tongue over his teeth, and god, he doesn't care how much of it is an act, Frank is fucking hot right then. He answers, knows what Frank wants to hear.

"No, no, I'm not." Gerard clears his throat, wants to prove himself as much as he wants to piss him off. That, apparently, wasn't what Frank wanted to hear. His right hand makes contact with Gerard's stomach for the second time that week, right in the middle of his sweat and party store blood-soaked shirt, right where it clings to his middle and he lurches forward, wind nearly knocked out of him, and it isn't until he's steadying himself on the table and letting out some fairly embarrassing noises that he realizes; it's one of those nights. He spits out some of the drool that collected in the corners of his mouth while held over the table.

"No, sir." And fuck, if just saying that doesn't make his knees give out. Frank twists his arm behind his back, and Gerard vaguely wonders how he manages to do that, considering their height difference.

"What?" Frank looks pissed, it looks fucking real- Gerard has seen him angry before. It looks real and he swears he can feel the blood drain from his face. 

"I said, no sir, I'm not calling you names," Gerard pauses, considers dropping to his knees, partly because he feels weak and partly because he thinks Frank might like it. "And you're right, I'm gross, I fuckin' love this shit, you know that, I'll take whatever you've got, I'm-" he's babbling now, and the part of his brain that isn't insanely turned on is cursing himself for looking so stupid. Frank only raises his eyebrows, snorts, as if to say, show me, and Gerard scrambles to the floor, grateful to sit, gets down on the tattered green room carpet until he's face to face with Frank's sneakers. A small part of his brain is screaming absolutely not while a very large part of is brain is screaming at him to go for it, so he does, pressing his face to Frank's left shoe and licking a wide stripe across the canvas.

The material is itchy on his tongue and he moves down, mouthing kisses along the strip of rubber at the bottom, and feels a hand in his hair again, pulling, shoving his head down. His eyes water and he thinks he can hear frank mutter something that sounds like "Fuck, that's hot," above him, and he's spurred on, licking across the shoe once more and mouthing at his ankles.

Frank releases his hair, stroking it for a moment. "There we go," he sighs, and Gerard thinks he can hear him squeezing himself through his jeans, thinks about Frank's cock, and tries to stand up again. Frank gives a rough shove to his shoulder and he's down again, cheek on the floor. "Thought you were gonna be good for me." Frank gives him a long stare, and there's a hint of playfulness in his gaze, a hint of warmth, and for a moment Gerard thinks he's going to lean down and press a kiss to the side of his sweaty temple. "I thought," Frank continues, nudging him with the toe of his sneaker, "You were gonna be a good boy and stop being such a fucking brat." He spits then, and it lands on Gerard's head, just where he was expecting a kiss.

Gerard grits his teeth as it runs down his face, shoving his hands between his legs and attempting to soothe the ache there. "Isn't that what you promised me? In Omaha?" Frank nudges his shoe under the left side of Gerard's face, as if he wasn't already looking up at him. Gerard makes a noise in the back of his throat, low and appreciative, fearful that if he tries to speak, it'll come out all wrong, low and twisted, or that he'll lose his voice altogether. Frank is right, though; that was how he earned that first punch to his stomach.

He gulps, nodding quickly. "Yeah." Frank's shoe moves then, coming down on his right cheek, pressing it to the floor. Gerard can see cracker crumbs embedded in the carpet, probably from the opening band; this room was the only one with a working lock, wasn't even their own dressing room- and breathes through his nose. His neck hurts and he's bent over at a strange angle and he's fucking under Frank's feet, and it's not like he's thought about that very thing before or anything, not like he's touched himself to the thought of Frank pounding him into the floor with his feet.

Gerard must have been lost in his thoughts for long enough, because Frank presses his foot down, says, "Atta boy"  along with a whole bunch of insults, and Gerard unzips his dress pants, not lasting two seconds once he brushes his fingers over himself. He laughs, again, at the knowledge that he came in his pants after all, not quite untouched. His heart won't stop pounding as he wipes his hand off, vaguely aware that Frank's shoe is off of his face and his hands are in his hair, combing through it with his fingers.

"You want to shower, now?"

Gerard grins back, tired and lazy. "Please."