any other day
Gerard/Bert
Standalone
NC-17 (smut)
written Jan-Feb 2008
for bert_and_gerard Slashy Sweetheart challenge, and slashfic25 prompt 21: epiphany.
They're too tight.
The restraints pinch the skin at his wrists and ankles if he tries to move, or when he takes too deep a breath; irritating, reddening as silky fabric digs into soft white flesh. Far too tight for comfort, but comfort isn't part of the deal. And he doesn't want it to be. Comfort -- well, that's for later. For sweat-soaked limbs heavy with exhaustion, for lips swollen from passion, for minds and bodies well and truly fucked.
And lying like this -- like a piece of meat waiting to be devoured -- turns him on far more than it should. His first and only thought is for contact: ohgodtouchme runs through his head again and again, and his lips form the words, but no sound comes out. He can't speak, even if he wants to. Silence is part of the deal. He can't touch himself, either; if he moves enough for his biceps to twitch, the only reward is a stinging in his wrists and a tingling in his hands, which only makes his cock harder, his desire stronger ... and the vicious, fuckless cycle starts again. He wants to scream, to break free, to force his cock between Bert's lips and down his motherfucking throat until he makes the bastard choke. And Jesus Christ, that thought should not have just gone through his head, because now he's harder than ever and --
"Havin' fun?"
Gerard doesn't have to open his eyes, but he bites down on his lip to keep from screaming. The gravelly, sardonic voice is coming from the doorway and he can hear both amusement and lust in its tone. The lust he can understand, but ... trust Bert to find this situation funny.
"You-- God, you look good," Bert says, voice low. "I could stand here all day."
His eyes snap open. Bert is fully dressed, leaning against the doorframe, sipping casually at a can of Coke. He smiles innocently as they make eye contact and swallows another mouthful of his drink before sauntering into the room.
"Comfy?" he asks, setting the half-empty can on the dresser and knowing full well that Gerard won't reply -- not verbally, at least. He can't really gesture, either; shrugging is almost impossible, lying spread-eagled the way he is, and lifting his head to nod or shake only adds to the pressure on his wrists. What Bert does notice is the redness of Gerard's lower lip, the result of being bitten in frustration, and the colour in his cheeks.
Enough teasing, he thinks, stripping off his shirt without breaking eye contact.
Well ... nearly enough.
It's gloomy in the bedroom, which is usually full of sunlight, with its large windows. Today, the drapes have been drawn and the bed stripped bare of everything but a sheet; Gerard doesn't even have the luxury of a pillow. Any other day -- any other day -- Gerard would have complained and Bert would have laughed, but today he'd said okay, let's try this, and Bert's libido soared almost as fast as his enthusiasm.
Of course, he has to hide it. He has to be the master, the dominant -- the one who deigns to give favours to his helpless submissive. Any other day and Bert's the one begging for sex, he's the one promising to do the dishes in exchange for a blowjob or a good hard fuck in the ass, but today -- today he's Mr Nonchalant. Today he's Mr How-Much-Do-You-Want-Me-Slut?
The answer: a lot. Gerard is on the verge of passing out; his chest hurts from restricting his breath to small, shallow intakes of air, his heart is pounding, his head spinning. He would give anything in the world for this to be over ... or for it never to end. And as he watches Bert slowly remove his clothes -- sitting on the end of the bed, pulling off one sock at a time before standing to unbutton his shorts and ease them from his narrow hips -- he's pretty sure he's going to come as soon as Bert touches him.
Which wouldn't be a bad thing.
Bert's down to his underwear now, and Gerard starts to gnaw on his upper lip; the lower one is almost raw. Pale blue boxer-briefs are pushed down without ceremony and kicked away quickly; Bert leaps onto the bed before he remembers his role and checks himself. He takes a deep breath and exhales, a half-smile spreading across his face. Can't be too enthusiastic -- not yet.
"How ya doin'?" he murmurs, leaning forward to press his lips to the hollow in Gerard's throat. His breath is hot and his stringy hair tickles as it brushes against Gerard's skin, making him tense, then hiss as the silk scarves tighten further around his wrists. The sensations are incredible; tingling, throbbing pain mixed with soft, moist kisses and feather-light touches. Add a dash of harsh, unsatisfied arousal and a pinch of silence and Gerard has a recipe for insanity.
Bert's straddling him now, ass pressing against the tip of his cock, rocking slightly, and Gerard's breath catches in his throat. This is -- God, there are no words for this feeling, even if he was allowed to utter them. Because it's all in his mind; this submission, this restriction on his movement and his words and his satisfaction. He can say the safeword at any moment and it'll all be over. Back to the real world. But this -- this yielding, this loss of control -- this is power, pure and simple. Power over his demons, his insecurities. Bert's not doing this because he wants to; he's doing this because Gerard wants him to. Because Gerard's letting him do it. Him and no-one else. And somewhere, tangled up in the pain and the want and this strange, muddled epiphany, Gerard feels a sudden surge of love, knowing that Bert's not abusing the trust he's been given. Knowing that Bert's enjoying this as much as he is, and for the same reasons. Hell, he thinks lazily, his mind drifting as Bert begins to run his tongue along his bicep, it takes as much courage to dominate as it does to submit.
"You're so pretty when you're lying on your back." Bert's voice is thick as he sits up before climbing off the mattress. Gerard watches as he reaches for the bottle of lube and squirts some into his palm. For a moment he stands there, hand wrapped around his cock, breath quickening, eyes slipping closed. Then he grins and moves back to the bed. "Getting a bit ahead of myself there," he says, choking back a laugh as he runs his slippery palms along the inside of Gerard's thighs. Slowly, slowly ... letting his fingernails drag across the sensitive skin.
"I think I know what you want," he murmurs, "but do you deserve it?"
Gerard's breathing is shaky. The muscles in his arms and legs are burning, twitching; his stomach is tight from the tension, his lips bitten raw. Sweet mother of fucking God, he's never felt better in his life.
That is, until Bert grabs the base of his cock and slides the tip into his mouth. The already dim room gets even darker for a second as Gerard's consciousness flickers, only to rush back in a wave of intensity. Everything seems surreal. Bert's sliding him in deeper, tongue working, hands pumping ... and this should not feel as good as it does. If anything, the tension in his belly increases, but his lungs contract with relief and he exhales fully, oblivious to the pain shooting through his arms. He tries to lift his hips, but Bert lifts his head and gives him a look that says, do you want me to suck you or not? So Gerard contents himself with focusing on the feeling coursing through him and breathing in time with Bert's movements -- long, deep, slow.
Bert glances up occasionally, taking in the sight of Gerard's flushed face and glassy eyes, his sloppy smile. He manages to smile back -- or at least, to produce the closest thing he can manage with a cock in his mouth. He knows Gerard's close; after all these years, he'd be an idiot if he couldn't tell, so he pumps faster, sucks harder, and feels Gerard's legs twitching as he approaches orgasm.
When it comes, it's almost a surprise to Gerard. It runs through him like a knife, sharp and clear, and he can't stop the moan that escapes from his lips any more than he can stop the warm, sated feeling that spreads up into his belly and down through his legs. Even the pain in his wrists and ankles seems dulled, blunted; he closes his eyes and listens to his breathing as beads of sweat form at his hairline and roll down his forehead.
"You like that, baby?"
Bert only calls him baby when they're alone. Years before, they'd had an argument (Gerard had called it a heated discussion) on the subject of pet names and when they could use them, and they'd settled on a compromise. Cutesy nicknames were off-limits around other people. We're guys, Gerard had said firmly. Yeah, I kinda noticed, was Bert's response. Calling you baby isn't gonna make my dick disappear, dumbass.
Hearing the word -- and everything it implies -- makes Gerard's dazed, satisfied smile even wider, and Bert takes that as an affirmative.
"Want me to untie you?"
Gerard opens his eyes. Bert's lying beside him, sipping at his can of Coke. He raises his eyebrows and Bert laughs.
"I think you can talk now."
"Oh." Gerard's surprised by how croaky he sounds. He clears his throat as Bert leans over him to untie one of the silk scarves. "Did you -- "
"What, d'you think I can only jerk off one guy at a time?" He frees Gerard's left wrist, which throbs painfully as the blood flow returns. "Fuckin' good, huh?"
"Yeah," is all he can say as his right arm is released and he pulls it down to his side. Bert reaches for one of his wrists and rubs it gingerly. "Legs," Gerard mumbles after a moment. Bert chuckles as he sits up to undo the knots in the ankle restraints.
Finally, Gerard turns onto his side and brings his knees up to his chest. He's naked and exhausted, but he's pretty damn happy as Bert curls up behind him, draping an arm across his waist and pulling him close.
"So," Bert says as he kisses Gerard's shoulderblade, "do you trust me now?"
Standalone
NC-17 (smut)
written Jan-Feb 2008
for bert_and_gerard Slashy Sweetheart challenge, and slashfic25 prompt 21: epiphany.
They're too tight.
The restraints pinch the skin at his wrists and ankles if he tries to move, or when he takes too deep a breath; irritating, reddening as silky fabric digs into soft white flesh. Far too tight for comfort, but comfort isn't part of the deal. And he doesn't want it to be. Comfort -- well, that's for later. For sweat-soaked limbs heavy with exhaustion, for lips swollen from passion, for minds and bodies well and truly fucked.
And lying like this -- like a piece of meat waiting to be devoured -- turns him on far more than it should. His first and only thought is for contact: ohgodtouchme runs through his head again and again, and his lips form the words, but no sound comes out. He can't speak, even if he wants to. Silence is part of the deal. He can't touch himself, either; if he moves enough for his biceps to twitch, the only reward is a stinging in his wrists and a tingling in his hands, which only makes his cock harder, his desire stronger ... and the vicious, fuckless cycle starts again. He wants to scream, to break free, to force his cock between Bert's lips and down his motherfucking throat until he makes the bastard choke. And Jesus Christ, that thought should not have just gone through his head, because now he's harder than ever and --
"Havin' fun?"
Gerard doesn't have to open his eyes, but he bites down on his lip to keep from screaming. The gravelly, sardonic voice is coming from the doorway and he can hear both amusement and lust in its tone. The lust he can understand, but ... trust Bert to find this situation funny.
"You-- God, you look good," Bert says, voice low. "I could stand here all day."
His eyes snap open. Bert is fully dressed, leaning against the doorframe, sipping casually at a can of Coke. He smiles innocently as they make eye contact and swallows another mouthful of his drink before sauntering into the room.
"Comfy?" he asks, setting the half-empty can on the dresser and knowing full well that Gerard won't reply -- not verbally, at least. He can't really gesture, either; shrugging is almost impossible, lying spread-eagled the way he is, and lifting his head to nod or shake only adds to the pressure on his wrists. What Bert does notice is the redness of Gerard's lower lip, the result of being bitten in frustration, and the colour in his cheeks.
Enough teasing, he thinks, stripping off his shirt without breaking eye contact.
Well ... nearly enough.
It's gloomy in the bedroom, which is usually full of sunlight, with its large windows. Today, the drapes have been drawn and the bed stripped bare of everything but a sheet; Gerard doesn't even have the luxury of a pillow. Any other day -- any other day -- Gerard would have complained and Bert would have laughed, but today he'd said okay, let's try this, and Bert's libido soared almost as fast as his enthusiasm.
Of course, he has to hide it. He has to be the master, the dominant -- the one who deigns to give favours to his helpless submissive. Any other day and Bert's the one begging for sex, he's the one promising to do the dishes in exchange for a blowjob or a good hard fuck in the ass, but today -- today he's Mr Nonchalant. Today he's Mr How-Much-Do-You-Want-Me-Slut?
The answer: a lot. Gerard is on the verge of passing out; his chest hurts from restricting his breath to small, shallow intakes of air, his heart is pounding, his head spinning. He would give anything in the world for this to be over ... or for it never to end. And as he watches Bert slowly remove his clothes -- sitting on the end of the bed, pulling off one sock at a time before standing to unbutton his shorts and ease them from his narrow hips -- he's pretty sure he's going to come as soon as Bert touches him.
Which wouldn't be a bad thing.
Bert's down to his underwear now, and Gerard starts to gnaw on his upper lip; the lower one is almost raw. Pale blue boxer-briefs are pushed down without ceremony and kicked away quickly; Bert leaps onto the bed before he remembers his role and checks himself. He takes a deep breath and exhales, a half-smile spreading across his face. Can't be too enthusiastic -- not yet.
"How ya doin'?" he murmurs, leaning forward to press his lips to the hollow in Gerard's throat. His breath is hot and his stringy hair tickles as it brushes against Gerard's skin, making him tense, then hiss as the silk scarves tighten further around his wrists. The sensations are incredible; tingling, throbbing pain mixed with soft, moist kisses and feather-light touches. Add a dash of harsh, unsatisfied arousal and a pinch of silence and Gerard has a recipe for insanity.
Bert's straddling him now, ass pressing against the tip of his cock, rocking slightly, and Gerard's breath catches in his throat. This is -- God, there are no words for this feeling, even if he was allowed to utter them. Because it's all in his mind; this submission, this restriction on his movement and his words and his satisfaction. He can say the safeword at any moment and it'll all be over. Back to the real world. But this -- this yielding, this loss of control -- this is power, pure and simple. Power over his demons, his insecurities. Bert's not doing this because he wants to; he's doing this because Gerard wants him to. Because Gerard's letting him do it. Him and no-one else. And somewhere, tangled up in the pain and the want and this strange, muddled epiphany, Gerard feels a sudden surge of love, knowing that Bert's not abusing the trust he's been given. Knowing that Bert's enjoying this as much as he is, and for the same reasons. Hell, he thinks lazily, his mind drifting as Bert begins to run his tongue along his bicep, it takes as much courage to dominate as it does to submit.
"You're so pretty when you're lying on your back." Bert's voice is thick as he sits up before climbing off the mattress. Gerard watches as he reaches for the bottle of lube and squirts some into his palm. For a moment he stands there, hand wrapped around his cock, breath quickening, eyes slipping closed. Then he grins and moves back to the bed. "Getting a bit ahead of myself there," he says, choking back a laugh as he runs his slippery palms along the inside of Gerard's thighs. Slowly, slowly ... letting his fingernails drag across the sensitive skin.
"I think I know what you want," he murmurs, "but do you deserve it?"
Gerard's breathing is shaky. The muscles in his arms and legs are burning, twitching; his stomach is tight from the tension, his lips bitten raw. Sweet mother of fucking God, he's never felt better in his life.
That is, until Bert grabs the base of his cock and slides the tip into his mouth. The already dim room gets even darker for a second as Gerard's consciousness flickers, only to rush back in a wave of intensity. Everything seems surreal. Bert's sliding him in deeper, tongue working, hands pumping ... and this should not feel as good as it does. If anything, the tension in his belly increases, but his lungs contract with relief and he exhales fully, oblivious to the pain shooting through his arms. He tries to lift his hips, but Bert lifts his head and gives him a look that says, do you want me to suck you or not? So Gerard contents himself with focusing on the feeling coursing through him and breathing in time with Bert's movements -- long, deep, slow.
Bert glances up occasionally, taking in the sight of Gerard's flushed face and glassy eyes, his sloppy smile. He manages to smile back -- or at least, to produce the closest thing he can manage with a cock in his mouth. He knows Gerard's close; after all these years, he'd be an idiot if he couldn't tell, so he pumps faster, sucks harder, and feels Gerard's legs twitching as he approaches orgasm.
When it comes, it's almost a surprise to Gerard. It runs through him like a knife, sharp and clear, and he can't stop the moan that escapes from his lips any more than he can stop the warm, sated feeling that spreads up into his belly and down through his legs. Even the pain in his wrists and ankles seems dulled, blunted; he closes his eyes and listens to his breathing as beads of sweat form at his hairline and roll down his forehead.
"You like that, baby?"
Bert only calls him baby when they're alone. Years before, they'd had an argument (Gerard had called it a heated discussion) on the subject of pet names and when they could use them, and they'd settled on a compromise. Cutesy nicknames were off-limits around other people. We're guys, Gerard had said firmly. Yeah, I kinda noticed, was Bert's response. Calling you baby isn't gonna make my dick disappear, dumbass.
Hearing the word -- and everything it implies -- makes Gerard's dazed, satisfied smile even wider, and Bert takes that as an affirmative.
"Want me to untie you?"
Gerard opens his eyes. Bert's lying beside him, sipping at his can of Coke. He raises his eyebrows and Bert laughs.
"I think you can talk now."
"Oh." Gerard's surprised by how croaky he sounds. He clears his throat as Bert leans over him to untie one of the silk scarves. "Did you -- "
"What, d'you think I can only jerk off one guy at a time?" He frees Gerard's left wrist, which throbs painfully as the blood flow returns. "Fuckin' good, huh?"
"Yeah," is all he can say as his right arm is released and he pulls it down to his side. Bert reaches for one of his wrists and rubs it gingerly. "Legs," Gerard mumbles after a moment. Bert chuckles as he sits up to undo the knots in the ankle restraints.
Finally, Gerard turns onto his side and brings his knees up to his chest. He's naked and exhausted, but he's pretty damn happy as Bert curls up behind him, draping an arm across his waist and pulling him close.
"So," Bert says as he kisses Gerard's shoulderblade, "do you trust me now?"