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It's not the first time this has ever happened or anything, but it's never been this bad before.
They've been out on the road now for about a week, getting back into the rhythm of travel and sound checks and press and waiting around for hours and then finally playing, getting up on stage and fucking forgetting everything else but the music, creating something new and precious and finite for the audience. After that it's time to start the comedown every night. Sometimes there are fan encounters and sometimes not; either way, they continue into the slow and methodical routine of relaxing and rehashing that night’s show on the tour bus as it moves towards the next city, the next stage.
Frank loves it all. He loves the never-ending pattern and how it starts to feel like he’s been on a tour bus his entire life, how he navigates it like a sailor walks the deck of his ship in the middle of the night, barely noticing the wind and the rain. 3 a.m. has always been the perfect time to pick up their discussion of how exactly Splinter met the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles in the first place, and whether the canon would ever actually line up on that. These are the conversations he could practically have in his sleep, the arguments and cadences as familiar as every guitar line he plays on stage every night. They work as a mild soporific, lulling Frank’s brain quiet even as he vehemently argues that the new Nickelodeon series will be a travesty, an opinion he plans to stick with until he becomes addicted to the show.
Once his mind has slowed down a little, isn't jittery from the adrenaline of performing, it's time to work on his body, to get the last of the stage energy out so that he can actually get some rest before starting it all again tomorrow. And if there's a better way to achieve that than jerking off nice and slow, one hand cupping his balls as the other tugs and twists around his cock, hips pressing up in time, he sure as fuck hasn't found it.
And that's when everything starts to break down.
The first night it's not so bad, just a stiffness in his fingers when he speeds up towards the end, tightening his grip as he works over the head of his cock, rubbing the callouses of his fingers and thumb over the velvet-soft skin on the crown. It doesn't interfere with the quality of the orgasm, the way his legs tense and his ass clenches when he finally comes. The spunk drips down his hand before he wipes it off on the sheet, and he falls asleep sprawled out on his back, body limp and sated.
The second night it starts a little earlier and has spread, the fleshy part of Frank’s hand right below his thumb seizing up a bit, and it's enough to fuck with his rhythm. He adjusts his grip, trying a looser hold on his dick and snapping his hips harder, and that works fine--he still comes like a freight train, it's all good, and he drops off easily enough afterwards.
By the third night, though, it's like the muscles in his forearm start fucking spasming the second he tries to speed up at all, and nothing seems to help it. He tries an even looser grip, shorter strokes just over the head, more rubbing against his skin than anything else, and damn it. It's like Frank’s body has decided that he can fuck a guitar every night for 90 minutes, or he can jerk off, but he can’t do both.
Getting old fucking blows.
He doesn't remember this happening as bad on the last tour, and it certainly didn't start this early. He starts to wonder if it's his playing, like maybe his strumming is fucked up. Maybe he just needs to make a slight adjustment, like a baseball player who needs to go back to fundamentals to fix a problem with his swing. A session with his batting coach is in order.
"Hey Toro," Frank says at the end of sound check one day, fiddling with his green Epiphone. "You mind taking a look at something for me?"
“Sure!" Ray comes over. He frowns a little at Frank's expression. "Everything okay?"
Frank shrugs while he adjusts the tuning minutely. "Yeah, my right wrist's been bugging me a little, wanted to see if you can notice anything I'm doing differently." He suddenly feels weirdly self-conscious and lame, like he's asking Ray to show him how to jerk off without hurting himself because he's that much of a tool.
Ray's easy reaction dispels that fear fast enough. "Yeah, no problem, Frank. Let's see you go." He crosses his arms over his chest, eyes already intent on Frank's hands.
Frank runs through the trickiest bits of S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W and Destroya and Prison, trying not to change his technique from normal or overthink everything. He looks up when he's done and Ray's just staring at him, a fond look on his face. "What?" Frank asks, preparing himself for the worst. "What is it?"
Ray shakes his head. "It isn't anything, Frank, I just like watching you play." Ray shrugs. "Everything looks good to me."
Frank looks down, feeling his cheeks warm a little at the praise at fucking nothing, seriously. This kid. "Thanks, man."
"No problem." Ray pushes his hair back with one of his hands. "Does your wrist hurt when you play?"
Frank shakes his head. "Nah, it's mostly just--other stuff, you know," he says.
"Like what, typing?"
"Yeah, exactly," Frank says quickly. Typing. Sure.
Ray looks thoughtful. "Well, if you think it's your keyboard, you could try getting a new one, there are all these new travel versions that are supposed to be all ergonomic and wireless and shit." He pauses and grins at Frank. "Or you could stop fucking updating your blog every two hours."
Frank laughs. "Yeah, no more telling the Internet about my lunch, got it."
"And you could try like wearing a wrist brace if you think it's that bad," Ray continues, suddenly earnest again. "Just. You don't want to be messing around with your wrists, you know?"
Frank does know. He doesn’t exactly bother being careful with his body most of the time, but his wrists and hands are his life--his life and his livelihood and everything that makes him him. And he fucking loves jerking off, but if it's between music and choking the chicken, he knows what he's gonna choose, no question.
He nods back at Ray, smiling a bit. "Yeah, you're right. Maybe I'll get one tomorrow on our day off. Can't hurt, anyway."
That night he's on fucking fire, all over the place and playing up to Ray for the entire set, getting behind Mikey for a bit and just feeling it. He catches Gerard's eye a couple of time, can see the way Gerard feeds off his energy and gives it right back to him, and they throw it all out at the crowd, watching as it reverberates through the audience and fills the space.
They all jostle playfully as they make their way off the stage after the set, bumping into each other and laughing. Mikey leans up next to Frank in the hall, all long lines and angles.
"That was fucking awesome," he says, and Frank nods in agreement. "You were fucking nuts, dude."
Frank laughs a little, ripping off the fingerless glove from his right hand and wiping the sweat off his face with it. His hand doesn't feel bad right now, just feels warm and loose like the rest of him, and he begins to think that maybe he just needed to talk to Toro, that maybe he’s just fucking fixed things with his mind or some shit.
"I just fucking love playing up there with you guys," he says to Mikey, grinning wide.
His whole body feels awesome, the adrenaline coursing through his veins. Tonight’s set feels like it went by in a second and like it happened in slow motion all at once, the focus on each note, each chord, each downbeat echoing through his mind.
He thinks it'll be better tonight: he won’t have a hard time falling asleep after he spends two hours discussing a new riff with Ray and watching it percolate through Gerard's brain, seeing him mentally connect the dots between the sound and whatever it is he wants to express with his lyrics. But when he gets into his bunk, his hands immediately fit around his dick and his balls, and he figures what the hell, it's worth a try.
And at first, everything seems perfect. He's not fully hard yet, and he runs the fingertips of his left hand up his inner thigh as he strokes himself slowly, igniting the nerve endings all throughout his groin.
He takes his hand off his cock for a second and reaches up underneath his pillow to snag his travel-sized bottle of lube. He flips open the cap with one hand and squeezes out just a little before clicking the bottle shut and dropping it onto the bed. He grabs his dick again, exhaling softly at the slide of his hand over the head. He drags his left hand up over his hipbone, scratching a little and pressing down against his skin as his right hands speeds up, just a little.
At the first hint of real friction, of really jerking off at all, his hand starts to ache.
Frank swears under his breath. He’s so fucking turned on already; it won’t really that bad if he keeps going. He can jerk off through the pain. He's sure he can do it, and he really fucking wants to, wants to just fuck his hand and squeeze his dick and move his whole arm with it, fucking let go. But he starts to hear Ray's voice in his head, telling him to knock it the fuck off, and while he's had way more disturbing thoughts than this in pursuit of an orgasm and had no trouble continuing on, the problem is that imaginary Ray is fucking right.
He pulls his right hand off and tries replacing it with his left, figures it’s gotta be better than nothing, but it feels all wrong and he can’t get the rhythm right and it’s just making him more frustrated, body tense in all the worst ways.
He wrenches his hand off his cock, flexing out his fingers and feeling them spasm a little. He tries to breathe more quietly in the silence of the bunks, the sound of the engine hopefully doing enough to mask precisely what just happened from the guys. He doesn't give a shit if they know he's jerking off--they've all been living together on a bus or in a van for long enough to know what's going on around them--but this feels worse, somehow.
The next night he actually gets on his stomach with a pillow under his crotch and starts to hump it like a twelve-year-old with a hard-on he doesn't know what the fuck to do with, but beyond the fact that he feels like a fucking creep, the shuffling and pushing and rustling of his efforts are way too fucking loud, even for bus code, and he barely gets halfway there before giving it up as a lost cause. He twists himself around onto his back, the pillow still caught halfway between his thighs, and he's got his right hand back on his dick for just a second before he pulls away and shoves it under his ass. His hips push up towards the top of the bunk, unable to accept the lack of follow through. Frank can't fucking believe what a cockblock he's being to himself.
It takes a long time for sleep to come that night.
The following morning he's fucking determined to not let this get to him. He's bigger than this, more than just his fucking sex drive--he doesn't need to jerk off, he's got plenty else.
Tonight’s the first show he’s played after having abstained the night before, and his focus is fucking unreal, everything feeling easy and natural. He wonders after they get offstage whether it's like athletes who don't jerk off before a game or a race to not deplete their energy or whatever the fuck.
Of course, this also means that by halfway through the set his dick is hard as a fucking rock, pressed up tight beneath the zipper on his jeans, and he pushes down on his boner with his guitar, practically ruts up against her during the breakdown of Mama.
By the time he gets off-stage he just fucking wants so bad, he's pacing around like an animal in a cage. He doesn't know if he should be alone so that he doesn't snap at someone who doesn’t deserve it or if he should rely on the company of the band to keep his hands off his dick. He settles on the group option, sitting quietly off to the side and going through a six pack of beer, just taking a pull every fifteen seconds and ignoring the guys.
He's used to shows like that leaving him with the best afterglow in the world; instead, this feels like torture.
The next night he doesn't even get the hyper-focus consolation prize during the show. It's fine, he's fine, but it's like another day at the office only with the knowledge that there's no fucking martini waiting for him at the end of the day. He hates feeling like that, hates the idea of this becoming routine in any way, so he pumps himself up a bit, spits at the audience constantly and flips the bird whenever it's remotely appropriate thematically and a couple of times when it's not at all.
He plays up to Gerard, waiting for him to respond and then spinning away when he does, dropping to his knees and trying to ride the wave again. And he catches it again, he does, and it makes it okay, makes the frustration and irritation flowing through his body worth it. Once the show is over, he retreats to the bunks almost immediately, leaving the guys to their debates and taking his Kindle in with him to read until he can’t focus on the screen any longer and he drops off.
He can handle this.
But the night after that, things get really bad.
The show goes well. Frank spins and spits and rages onstage like he hasn’t in years. There's something comforting in the way he can ease back into it. He doesn't actually kick Gerard in the balls again or anything but he fucking thinks about it.
When he decides against hiding from the guys tonight, it seems like a good call when the conversation returns to the ongoing discussion of TMNT personalities from a couple of weeks ago. But then the whole thing goes off the rails.
"You have got to be fucking kidding me. There is no motherfucking way I'm Michelangelo."
Mikey's still smiling, like he doesn't understand how serious this shit is. "I'm just saying, he's all up for like adventure and all that, and he's got all the catch phrases, and yeah. I don't know."
"But he's got your name, Mikey. I mean, beyond the fact that everything about him is you, you have the same fucking name." Frank keeps a smile on his face with some effort.
"Yeah, but it's not like my name's Donatello," Ray points out. "Or Gerard's is Leonardo."
"It doesn't have to be the same name, it just adds to it, that's all."
"I don't know, Ray, I totally think that you could be Leonardo," Gerard says thoughtfully, and Mikey makes an intrigued sound.
Which is when Frank fucking loses it.
"Guys, I can't fucking believe I'm hearing this, there is no fucking way Gerard isn't Leonardo. He's the leader! And Donatello, the gentle genius -- just try and fucking tell me that's not Ray and I will laugh in your face. And I'm not even going to fucking get into Mikey any more, I'm really not." Frank slams his hand down on the table and glares at all of them.
They stare back at him wordlessly for a second, until finally Ray clears his throat. "Okay, maybe you are Raphael, Frank. We're just having a friendly discussion here."
Suddenly Frank's exhausted, all of his fury seeping out of him. He shakes his head and stands up. "Yeah, no, I'm sorry, guys. I'm just. I'm just gonna head to bed, I'm feeling a little off." He turns and walks away before any of them can say anything to him, although as he gets to the bunks he hears Mikey ask, "So was that actually about turtles?"
He strips out of his clothes, falls into the bunk in just his boxers, and closes the curtain as firmly as he can. He stares up at the ceiling of his bunk and clenches his hands at his sides before he rolls over onto his stomach, getting his hands up under the pillow and trying to think of nothing at all.
Frank's quiet the entire next day. He tries to avoid the guys as much as he can without being totally obvious. They help out by giving him a wide berth. He wishes that talking about this would help, that there actually was a way for Ray, or Mikey, or Gerard to fucking fix this. Belatedly he remembers that Ray had suggested getting a wrist brace like Bob used to wear all the time, and he resolves to do something about that tomorrow on their day off.
The only saving grace is that he still feels fine playing his guitar. The crowd that night is amazing, one of the best of the whole tour. Frank attempts to let their enthusiasm hold him up as he tries to focus inward, practically shredding his fingers on the strings but not even caring.
It’s still not quite enough though, the irritation and frustration rising up to the surface again, and he’s aware of not really playing with his band, more against them, repelling all their attention and giving them none in return. There are times when he’s mad on stage that he fucking enjoys it, and he tries to get to that place tonight but never does. He doesn’t think it’s something that the crowd notices--he’s hitting every note even as he burns up inside--but he’s not fooling himself that his boys don’t know something’s up.
So he’s not all that surprised when, after they get off-stage, Gerard grabs him by the back of the neck and steers him into an empty dressing room. Frank’s been acting like a pissy little bitch for almost a week now; Gerard’s not gonna let that go unchecked forever.
Because he’s motherfucking Leonardo, Frank thinks. He grins involuntarily at the thought until Gerard turns him around and Frank gets a good look at his worried face and suddenly feels like a total asshole.
“Frank.” Gerard crosses his arms over his chest and looks at him intently. “Everything okay?”
Frank thinks about evading the question, thinks about just telling Gerard that he's fine, really. It's not even a lie, he is fine, except for how he's not. He's not usually an asshole to his band, he's not usually off on his own, he's not usually wound so tight the only thing that releases it at all is playing, and even that doesn't last.
He shrugs before he can stop himself, attempting to minimize the problem even before he blurts it out. "Yeah, I've just been having some problems with my wrist."
Gerard's eyes immediately sharpen and focus on his hands clasped together in front of him. "You've been fine on stage, Frankie. Are you--does it hurt when you're playing?"
Frank shakes his head and is relieved to see a bit of the tension melt out of Gerard's shoulders when he does. "No, see that's the thing. It's fine when I'm playing, for now at least, I just can't--" He breaks off, not sure how to say this without sounding like the world's biggest tool, and he just presses on when he realizes that there's no actual good way to say it. "I can't fucking jerk off, it hurts my wrist, and I'm afraid that if I do it anyway it'll start fucking with my playing, and it's driving me nuts, Gee."
Frank waits for Gerard to laugh, to mock him for being such an ass because of fucking blue balls, but Gerard just looks at him for a minute before he speaks. "So how long has it been?"
"Five days." He doesn't need to count; as much as tour normally blends together into one long mishmash of a city, never knowing when one place ends and the next begins, he knows exactly where they were, what highway they were traveling over. "Which, guess I'm still young enough to have a healthy sex drive, because it's fucking messing me up bad."
"Well, masturbation is about more than just sex drive, Frank," Gerard says, and frowns. "It's about relaxation and comfort and being horny. It's really important."
"Yeah, I fucking know, Gerard, trust me," Frank says, stuffing his hands into his pockets.
"Why didn't you say something earlier?"
"I talked to Ray!" Frank says defensively. "Or, I mean, I sort of did."
"And he didn't offer to help?"
"Well, I mean, he did what he could, but aside from checking out my strumming and telling me to invest in a wrist brace, what the fuck else was he supposed to do?" Frank asks. He backs up as Gerard steps towards him, his eyes intent in a whole new way.
"Hmm, yeah, maybe not," Gerard says, and just as Frank’s back hits the wall, Gerard drops to his knees in front of him and starts to unbuckle Frank’s belt. Frank stares down at him and doesn’t get what’s going on until Gerard unbuttons his jeans and pulls down the zipper, and at that point his brain starts to short out. It’s not like he never pictured this in his mind, he just never actually expected it to happen.
"Gerard, what are you--oh, fuck," Frank breathes out, still disbelieving until Gerard gets his mouth on Frank's cock through his briefs. He moans a little more when Gerard's hands reach up and tug his pants and briefs down.
"Okay, Frankie?" Gerard asks, and Frank nods his head hard against the wall. He lets out a gasp when Gerard takes that as his cue to get all of Frank's half-hard dick into his mouth and starts to suck, letting his lips drag up towards the head before sinking back down. The feel of his mouth around him is all-encompassing, and his dick barely knows what to do with all the sensation, like someone dying of thirst suddenly being dropped into the middle of a freshwater pond.
"Oh Jesus, you are so fucking good at that, Gee, oh," Frank gets out, finally putting his hands on Gerard's head and pressing him down, moaning when Gerard just goes with it. He's fully hard in practically an instant, already closer than he wants to be, because Gerard's mouth is so hot and wet, so much more than what Frank's been missing, and it overwhelms him. He thrusts forward a little, not surprised at all when Gerard moves with him, and he runs his hands down Gerard's face and over his jaw and throat, dragging his fingers over Gerard's soft skin.
Gerard's tongue works over him every time he pulls back a little, flicking under the head and up the slit, and Frank stares down at Gerard's face. Gerard's lips are already shiny and pink, his face a little flushed but eyes steady as they meet Frank’s. Frank brushes Gerard’s bangs out of his face and cups his cheek before closing his own eyes and just focusing on the feeling of Gerard's mouth, Jesus Christ.
And then Gerard pins Frank's hips to the wall more firmly with both hands and goes back down all the way, swallowing around Frank's cock. Frank buries his hands in Gerard’s hair and tries to hold on, his legs shaking with the effort of staying upright. Gerard pulls off a little but goes right back down, deep-throating Frank over and over, and Frank stops trying to keep quiet and lets himself babble.
"Oh god yes, you motherfucker, just like that, oh please please please don't stop, oh god oh god--" Frank tries to give warning, tries to tell Gerard to either pull off or prepare himself for a mouthful of come, but he’s long past the point of coherent communication and he comes hard, the feeling intense and prolonged and suspended, like his body doesn't know what to do with the sensation anymore.
Frank feels like if Gerard doesn't pull away he's just going to keep coming forever, the spasms reverberating throughout his body. Finally, though, he stops shaking and Gerard slides off his cock, cool as anything, and licks over his lips before looking back up at Frank.
"You just had to say something, Frank." Gerard wipes at his mouth a little as Frank tries to formulate a response to that. "I mean, that must've sucked."
Frank laughs weakly, and when Gerard leans forward to kiss the head of his cock it twitches against Gerard's lips, not at all done for the night. Frank shrugs when Gerard looks up at him with one eyebrow cocked. "It's got a lot of pent up energy, what can I say."
Gerard nods and gets up off his knees. "Well, in that case, we should go," he says, leaning in and kissing Frank briefly on the mouth before pulling him away from the wall. Frank stumbles a little, his pants still undone around his thighs. "Oh. You should do up your pants, Frank."
Frank doesn't even know what to say, so he just does as he's told, mutely tucking his cock back in and doing up his pants.
This evening is not exactly going as he expected.
When he looks up, Gerard is waiting for him at the door, and as soon as Frank walks towards him he opens it and immediately calls out, "Mikey! Ray?"
Frank follows him out into the hall to find Ray bounding towards them, Mikey ambling behind. "Hey! Where'd you guys go? We’ve been ready to leave for the hotel for ages."
"Oh, me and Frank had to discuss a couple of things, that's all," Gerard says. Frank just nods, not trusting his voice. He supposes that if Gerard's throat can take screaming into a mic for hours every night it can handle a cock shoved down it once in a while, but he's still pretty impressed at how good Gerard sounds right now. "Hey Mikes, would you mind switching rooms with Frank tonight? We've still got some stuff to go over."
"Yeah, no problem," Mikey says as Ray asks, "Is it your wrist, Frank? Has it gotten worse?" His voice is so fucking worried Frank can hardly stand it, because right now he feels so good he could fucking float away.
He shakes his head, looking straight at Ray with what he hope is a sincere face and not the face of someone who just got his brain sucked out of his balls. "It's doing okay, Ray. I'm okay."
Ray still looks a little concerned, though. "I was going to go out and get you a brace, Frank. I just forgot. But I'll do it tomorrow," he says, and seriously, how the fuck did Frank end up in a band with the best dudes in the world?
Gerard gets a hand on Frank's shoulder, slight pressure just there, and Frank leans into it a little. "That sounds good, Ray. But we should really get to the buses, they're gonna fucking kill us."
Frank pretty much zones out for the entire ride over to the hotel, his body still thrumming both from the unexpected blowjob and from not knowing what's next, what exactly Gerard has in mind. For all Frank knows, Gerard actually does want to talk to him.
Somehow he doesn't think so.
Once they make it to the hotel and Gerard gets their room keys from their tour manager, Frank follows Gerard down the hall towards their room, barely waving good night to Mikey and Ray before Gerard shuts the door behind them. Gerard turns to him and looks over his face, eyes dancing from his mouth to his nose to his cheeks and finally up to his eyes, and it's that careful regard, that care, that makes Frank stumble forward and kiss him.
Gerard gets his arms around Frank, holding him up as they move further into the room, mouths on each other the whole time. Gerard tastes amazing, tastes like Frank but also like the same old Gerard, known and remembered from stage kisses so long ago. Frank's just as pumped full of adrenaline as he is in front of ten thousand people, just as revved up. Gerard squeezes his thigh between Frank's legs and Frank grinds up against it, moaning into Gerard's mouth.
It's the perfect pressure, the perfect counterpoint to Gerard's mouth and lips and tongue working Frank over, and he lets Gerard take his weight, trusts him to hold him up as he thrusts against Gerard's thigh. A whimper starts in the back of Frank's throat, needy and desperate already, and when Gerard pulls back his mouth enough to lean down and lick a stripe up Frank's neck, he gasps loudly.
"Oh god, Gerard, just, I need more," he says frantically, and Gerard nods against his neck before pushing him away a bit, hands already pulling at the hem of Frank's t-shirt.
Frank immediately starts to help, toeing off his sneakers and trying to work on his belt while Gerard tugs at his shirt before realizing that he has to wait. He lifts his arms up and lets Gerard whip his shirt off before he returns to the task of getting his pants down and off. When he’s finally naked, he stands and waits.
Gerard looks Frank over slowly. His eyes linger greedily on the tattoos on Frank’s belly and arms before finally coming back up to Frank's face again. "Get on the bed, Frankie."
Frank doesn't know what's on offer yet, but he knows what he wants. He walks over to the bed and climbs on, getting on his elbows and knees with his ass in the air, face pressed against the comforter. Gerard inhales sharply behind him. It’s a long moment before Frank feels the slight dip of Gerard getting on the bed and then Gerard's strong hands on his ass, spreading him further open.
He keens when Gerard gives him that first lick. His tongue is so perfect and hot and wet across Frank's hole, but in a moment his mouth is everywhere, his tongue pressing in before he pulls away and sucks on Frank's balls, hands firm on his ass the whole time.
Frank pushes back against Gerard's face, needing more, needing everything that Gerard can give him. "Oh fuck, oh fuck, Gee, just please, I need your fingers, something, oh you feel so good," he moans out as Gerard eats him out, his entire body going weak at the feel of it. His hands are fisted in the comforter, face shoved in the massive pile of pillows.
When Gerard finally adds the first finger, pressing it in next to his tongue, Frank's right leg tries to kick out a little as his body opens up immediately for it. His cock is leaking all over the place now, and Frank is about to beg for more when Gerard pulls back just enough to slide in a second finger, pushing and probing until they find Frank's prostate. Frank cries out, clenching down hard on Gerard's fingers.
"Oh fuck, Frank, I wish you could see yourself right now, so fucking gorgeous just taking me like this," Gerard murmurs against his ass, thrusting his fingers in and out. Frank shakes his head against the pillow. He doesn’t know how much more he can take.
"Just fuck me, Gee, come on, just fucking do it, please," he begs. When Gerard pulls away, at first all it means to Frank is emptiness. He moans in frustration.
"Shh." Gerard's hands are back on him for a moment, and then Frank hears the sound of Gerard tearing open a condom packet and he starts to breathe again, pushing his ass up in the air. He feels suspended in time until he feels Gerard up against his hole, cock hard and ready, and he starts to nod his head in response to the question Gerard hasn't been able to ask yet.
"Okay, that answers that," Gerard says before slowly starting to press in, and Frank scrabbles at the pillows, trying to brace himself for the sensation. He's fighting a losing battle though, because by the time Gerard is fully inside him, hips pressed up flush against his ass, Frank is moaning continuously, the feeling of being split open and taken so much more than he was yearning for when he just wanted his fucking hand on his own cock.
And then Gerard pulls back a little and thrusts back inside, pressing against his prostate in the process, and Frank moans and spreads his knees out wider, tries to get even more. Gerard’s hands are firm on the outside of Frank's hips, pulling him towards him as Gerard's hips snap forward and he fucks Frank hard.
"Ah, oh god, oh god, fuck, yeah, oh god, ah, ah, ah, fuck me, yeah," Frank grunts in time to Gerard fucking into him, a constant refrain, and he can hear Gerard echoing back his own chorus of sex. Gerard slows down for a bit, grinding up against Frank's ass, and he clenches down around Gerard's cock, wanting to really feel it.
"Oh fuck, Frank, yeah," Gerard gets out, hands squeezing down hard on Frank's ass before gripping around his hips and slamming in again and again.
Frank can feel himself getting close, can feel the pressure building inside him, and he tries to figure out how to brace himself on his chest and shoulders so he can get a hand on his cock. But when he gets his hand there, Gerard grabs onto his wrist and pulls his arm back until it's resting just above his ass, Gerard's hand firm around it.
"What, no, Gerard," he gasps, and before he can even try to get his left hand to his dick Gerard has pulled that arm back too.
"Your wrists are important, Frankie," Gerard breathes out, fucking him harder and using the leverage of holding Frank's arms to power forward into him, and Frank can't take much more, needs a hand around his cock more than ever.
"Please, Gee, just, please touch me, please please please," he begs, and Gerard responds by releasing his right wrist and getting his arm around Frank's torso, pulling him up until he's straddling Gerard's lap. Frank lets his head fall back onto Gerard's shoulder, fucking himself down on Gerard's cock, and when Gerard grips his hip tight in his left hand and wraps his right hand around Frank's cock, he shudders and jerks and writhes on Gerard's dick.
Gerard's hand is perfect, tight and twisting and hitting right under the head, right where he wants it, just on the right side of too rough, and Gerard has to move his left arm up around Frank's torso to keep him upright as he breaks apart in Gerard's arms, coming all over Gerard's hand and his legs and the bed.
"Oh fuck, Frank, fuck fuck fuck,” Gerard moans, thrusting short and fast into Frank until he slams up and stills, dick pulsing inside Frank's ass.
Frank can't keep himself upright a second longer. As he collapses sideways onto the bed, Gerard follows him over, still buried inside him. Frank pants as he tries to catch his breath, the effort made slightly more difficult by how tightly Gerard is holding him. He can't really mind, though.
"You don't have to let go," Frank mumbles, waving his left hand in the air, amazed at how heavy it feels. He lets it fall to the bed with a thump, letting out a giddy laugh.
"Hm?" Gerard asks, nuzzling the back of his neck with his nose and squeezing again.
"Nothing," Frank sighs, and gives up. Gerard isn’t showing any signs of releasing him anyway.
“Okay,” Gerard says into his neck, breath tickling a little. “So just, in the future, maybe come to me before you get so sexually frustrated you yell at Mikey about turtles, okay?” He mouths at Frank’s pulse point which, combined with the overall afterglow, is enough to delay Frank’s comprehension a little. But once he gets it Frank is the one to pull away. He winces at the feeling of Gerard’s softening cock slipping out of his body, letting out a little moan, and he turns around to face Gerard.
“Gee,” he begins, and then pauses before saying, “You weren’t just like a way to jerk off.” He rolls his eyes when Gerard gives him a look. “Well, I mean, when you first dropped to your knees and started to fucking suck my cock, yeah. But like. I didn’t just fuck you because I needed to get off.”
“I know!” Gerard says, a little indignant. “I mean. I wasn’t just being a sex toy.”
They stare at each other for a moment until Frank gives up on holding in his giggles, which sets Gerard off too. Frank laughs into Gerard’s chest, forehead resting on Gerard’s collarbone as they both crack up.
“Okay,” Frank says once they’ve mostly stopped. “So. Um. I would really like it if this wasn’t just an emergency response system, okay?”
Gerard pulls him back and looks at him. He strokes the back of his hand along Frank’s face before pulling him in for a quick kiss. “And I’d rather not be a consolation prize while your hand’s out of commission.”
“You are definitely more than that,” Frank says fervently. Gerard huffs a laugh against Frank’s cheek before kissing him again, softer and sweeter this time.
“Okay,” he says. “So tomorrow, you’ll try wearing the brace Ray gets you.” He makes a stern face when Frank sticks his tongue out before continuing, “And I’ll fuck your brains out anyway just because.”
Frank’s face gets warm and his dick gives a feeble twitch before conceding that twice is really enough for one night, even after a week of deprivation. “Um. Okay by me.”
“Good,” Gerard says, pulling Frank’s head down to his chest and breathing deep. “I’m glad that’s settled now.”
“Mmm-hmm,” Frank agrees, body and mind already drifting off.
Frank’s wrist doesn’t bother him at all for the rest of the tour.
Ray is pretty fucking proud of that brace he bought him.