rivers_bend

So celtic_cookie has been hosting a handjob fest over in her journal, and I've been writing! It's not exactly getting my LBB finished, but writing is good! Or something. I hate losing stuff I write for comment fics, and because I tend to write directly into the comment box rather than into a word processor, I do lose them unless I post them here. So here they are.

Tommy Ratliff/Mikey Way


It's not like it's the first festival Tommy's played, obviously, and it's not even like it's the first one this month. But it's fucking Reading, which is not the same thing at all as being the musical guest at a festival that's really about something else. People here take their music fucking seriously, and they're going to listen to Tommy. And, like, Adam, obviously, Tommy wouldn't be here without him, but still. Reading. It's kind of amazing.

They get to wear their lanyards around the ground, walk through the crowds in the VIP lanes, see some really fucking awesome music. And hang out behind the scenes with people Tommy sometimes has to remind himself not to fanboy all over. It's pretty easy not to make too much of a dick of himself to the dudes from My Chem, though, because they're arguing over which of the reporters in the press pen would get taken down first in a zombie apocalypse when Tommy wanders over, and if that doesn't level the playing field, what will? He does maybe drool slightly inappropriately on Ray's new guitar when Tommy, Ray, Frank and Mikey end up back in their trailer after the beer is gone in the tent. Gerard and Adam have fallen down some sort of philosophical front-man rabbit hole fueled by Smart Water and vehement hand gestures. Tommy doubts they'll surface any time soon, which means he's free to talk neck lengths and amps and pedals to his heart's content.

Ray cries off early to go work on a sound he was messing with at their soundcheck earlier, and Frank and Mikey quiz Tommy on the differences between playing bass for Adam and touring with him as his guitar player. The talk turns eventually to stage gay, though to Tommy's surprise, it's Mikey, not Frank, who brings it up. "So's it harder to keep playing bass with Adam's tongue in your mouth, or guitar?" he asks.

"Mikey's just jealous because I can still shred while his brother's sucking on my face," Frank says, gleeful even under Mikey's perturbed glare. Tommy's glad he said it, because he'd forgotten for a minute that Gerard and Mikey are brothers, and was going to ask if Gerard hadn't ever kissed him. Adam's shown him the video of Gerard kissing Frank full on the lips, and tonight Tommy watched Frank pull Mikey onto the stage by his hair and Gerard wipe his face on the outside of Mikey's thigh, so he knows they aren't strangers to the crowd-pleasing appeal of boys touching each other.

"I don't know," Tommy says, because he doesn't. "Probably bass is easier, but that's because I knew when he was going to do it last tour. Now it's a lot more unpredictable."

"You've gotta be unpredictable. That's the best part!" Frank rolls off the sofa, landing on Mikey to emphasize his point. Mikey shoves him off and scoots over so his shoulder is pressed up against Tommy's knee. Which, okay, there's plenty of floor for him to lounge on without getting up in Tommy's space. Unless he wants to get up in Tommy's space.

"Frank believes in taking people by surprise," Mikey says.

"Mikey's more about sneaking," Frank counters. He eyes the junction of Mikey's arm and Tommy's leg. "I think I'm gonna go see a man about a horse. Dog? Whatever. I'm gonna go somewhere else. But I will say this first. If he tells you he and his wife have an understanding about makeouts and handjobs, it's not just a line. They really do. She's pretty fucking awesome."

"Thank you, Frank," Mikey grits out.

"Hey, no problem!" Frank dives at Mikey's face and gives him a smacking kiss on the mouth before pinballing out the trailer door.

"Huh," Tommy says. "Is he always like that?"

"Pretty much." Mikey does a thing where he oozes up onto the couch, elbows, hips, ass, until he's sitting next to Tommy with his knee up between them, the picture of casual and unthreatening. Tommy kind of liked feeling threatened.

"Interesting wingman tactics."

"Frank's never really needed a wingman. He's been with his wife since like the dawn of time. I don't think he really understands the concept."

Tommy's drunk enough to say, "So makeouts and handjobs?"

"And hairpulling. If you're into that sort of thing." Mikey's smirk says he's seen what besides kissing Adam and Tommy get up to on stage.

"I'll jerk you off if you pull my hair," Tommy offers, feeling reckless, high on the festival.

"Only if I get to make the same offer."

~*~


Frank Iero and Mikey Way


They have a rota. Well. It's not a rota precisely, more an understanding, but Frank's point is that Mikey should not be here right now because it's Frank's fucking turn for five minutes alone with his right hand.

"No," he says firmly. As firmly as you can say no to Mikeyway, anyway. "Just, no." He points back at the 7-11 they're parked behind, where everyone else is lurking by the beer cooler, or the magazines, or making use of the facilities, or whatever they're doing that should mean Frank has his me time.

But fucking Mikey says, "It's Tuesday," and jerks open the door and climbs on inside.

"It's fucking Monday," Frank argues, climbing in behind him and closing the door. "Fuck you."

"Nope. It's after midnight."

Which is not. It's NOT how this works. They've been driving until like ten minutes ago, it is still Frank's turn.

Except Mikey's got his head tilted back and his fingers are undoing his fly.

"No," Frank says again, kicking Mikey in the thigh.

"Yep. If you're gonna beat it, you're gonna have to do it with me here."

That-- Huh. Alone time isn't supposed to be sharing time, but it's gotta be better than fucking nothing. "Fine," Frank mutters, kicking Mikey again just because. "Fine. If you wanna look at my dick while you whack off, you go right ahead."

"Tell yourself that if you want, Frankie," Mikey answers and tilts his head back farther, closing his eyes.

Great. Even better. Whatever the fuck. Frank can do this. Whip it out, git 'er done, then they can hope the bathroom has hot water, and grab some more snacks. No problem.

And he's doing it. Eyes screwed shut, humming under his breath to block out the sounds Mikey's making with his dick, and he's gotten good at this since they hit the road. Fast. He's gonna--

"Bet I can hold out longer than you can," Mikey interrupts, making Frank's eyes fly open and his hand squeeze protectively around his cockhead.

"What?"

"Bet you come first." He doesn't even sound out of breath. More like he's bored, and betting Frank the next Beetle they see's gonna be a blue one.

"That's not the--" Frank gesticulates with the hand not currently holding his junk. "That's not the point!"

"You think we should be seeing who gets off first?"

"I think we should be pretending we're alone." Frank's hissing. Maybe. A little bit. Mikey doesn't seem to get at all that this is supposed to be something a guy does in private.

"You chicken?"

"What? No!" And that's it. It's on. "Who can come first, Mikeyway. Because you're a lazy fucker, and I am so winning this thing."

"You don't get circle jerks at all, Frankie. It's sad."

"Get this," Frank retorts and starts jerking himself hard and fast, not caring if he's jostling Mikey in the seat next to him.

He means to close his eyes again, better to concentrate, but he wants to keep an eye on Mikey's progress so he can really pull out all the stops if he needs to. Besides, Mikey looks like he's pretty good with his fingers, and Frank's never been one to pass up the opportunity to learn new ways to play his instrument.

"Ha!" he crows a couple minutes later, jizz spurting over his fingers. "I win!"

But Mikey lifts a hand shiny in the beam of the security light, and wipes it on Frank's t-shirt. "Tie," he says. "No matter whose rules we're playing by."

~*~


Adam Lambert


Adam's been on stage more times than he can count, between the cruise ship, community theater, school concerts and recitals, and it never occurred to him that getting up on stage in the club might make him nervous, so it didn't. Until he realized that singing doesn't prepare you at all for shaking your ass next to a tiny boy with six-pack abs and nothing between the audience and his junk but a pair of cut-off fishnet tights. And Adam knows he's got nothing to be ashamed of in the junk department, but he can't imagine dancing with his shirt off, never mind putting his ass quite that on display.

Later, though, back in his own bed, he can't stop thinking about it. About how all the eyes in the club could be on him.

He goes slow, one hand in his hair, the other on his face, throat, fingers tracing his collar bones before trailing down to circle his nipples. Of all the lessons he's learned over the years, the most universal is that most of the time it's not what you give the audience, it's how you give it. He knows how to put on a show. Rocking his hips a little in time with the music flowing tinnily out of the cheap portable speakers hooked up to his iPod, Adam tilts his head back, letting his left hand follow his right. It's not the thump-thump of the club but it's enough to maintain the illusion, and Adam keeps going.

There's nothing in his way, no jeans, no Ziggy Stardust body suit, not so much as a thread between his hands and his dick, hard against his belly for everyone to see. Hot under his palm, so so ready for some attention. He could hold a room with his cock, he bets, get all the pretty boys swooning, the muscle men groping themselves, easing the pressure under their zippers. And it's good like this, really good, hand licked wet a tease for the crowd, but making everything just smooth enough. Adam can almost hear them under the beat of the music, the gasps of the crowd as he works his hands and his body in concert, pulling the buzz in his belly out until it coils all through him, makes him lose his rhythm and just rut into the grip of his fist.

"Yeah," he says, "yeah," drawing out his orgasm as long as he can, wanting the audience to get their money's worth, wanting to hold onto the glow it gives him.

~*~


Frank Iero

Frank isn't weird. Or, well, he's not the only dude who can, like, jerk off all afternoon. He was pretty sure about this already, but he couldn't really ask Mikey, because Mikey would probably just look at him that way he does like maybe he's gonna smile and you won't be sure if he's laughing at you or with you or thinking about something else entirely. Or he might say, "Um, no, Frankie, I'm pretty sure you're a freak," and Frank wouldn't know if he was being serious or ironic. And he couldn't ask Gerard, because he might accidentally blurt out that the reason he's been jerking himself raw is that time Gee decided to use Frank's back as a canvas.

But there's this kid Frank's age spending the summer with the old lady next door, and he's got an actual boyfriend back in California, and he doesn't get embarrassed talking about sex at all, and he's kind of awesome, and so now Frank knows.

And today Gerard drew a zombie army attacking a vampire army on Frank's right arm in sharpie, and Frank's pretty sure he's going to break his own record.

The trouble with Gerard is his fingers. And the way he holds his pens, and also Frank's arm, and, oh god, the way he bites his lips sometimes when he's concentrating, or uses his fingers to touch his lips, and that one time--only one time; it's a fucking tragedy--touch Frank's lips because he had some chocolate there which he'd failed to catch with his tongue. And Gerard's tongue. He licks things kind of a lot, but has never licked Frank. Which, talk about a fucking tragedy. If it weren't for Gerard's fingers, and his mouth, and his tongue, and his amazing fucking zombie drawings, and the way he curls up small against Frank's side when they're watching movies sometimes, and the way he gets all bright-eyed when he's talking, and--

If it weren't for Gerard, Frank probably wouldn't be this love-sick loser holed up in his room jerking off all day when he could be next door in the California kid's grandma's pool. Except Adam is probably having phone sex with his boyfriend or something, so Frank might as well be getting some too, even if he's only getting it from himself.

~*~


These are in their original comment fic state, and they're R rated at most. idek. apparently my porn is broken this week.