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bert learns a few things about gerard way pretty quickly.
he files them away as such;
one, gerard has a helluva oral fixation. even when he isn't smoking, which he often is, he talks with his mouth pinched in one corner from a habit of talking around a cigarette. a muscle fixation for something not there.
two, gerard is awfully self deprecating, but he loves attention. anybody with eyes on him and he's preening like a pretty bird, batting his eyelashes and soaking up the flattery. he peacocks onstage, moaning into microphones all nasal and flirting with the sweaty guys in the audience; they're a fag band, sort of, and gerard takes more pride in that than anything. a band of pansies, yeah, that's them.
three, and this is the most important one, gerard overcompensates for his self deprecation with sex, and drugs. he's a whore, sort of, if you knew where to press his buttons. to a lot of people, he was an awkward, nerdy-charming androgyne from jersey who liked superhero comics, but know where to push him and he's a fucking pornstar. particularly, bert notes, when he does coke (which he often does).
it's a fantastic combo of these three things that means gerard is grinning up at him, on his knees in a dirty truckstop bathroom. they're somewhere along interstate 19, maybe outside of tucson, and it's the kind of summer dry hot that makes your clothes cling to your armpits umpleasantly and your mouth feel like a dust bunny.
the whole place reeks of piss, the flourescents above them flicker and buzz, and bert does not like the look of the stain on the floor, but gerard's hands shake in anticipation as he opens the baggie nonetheless. bert's grinning back down at him, jeans shoved around his thighs. they ain't got much time, maybe ten minutes until someone from the rest stop comes looking, one of their roadies as the buses are parked up. "fucking hold it still!"
"i'm holding it still." bert giggles, two fingers pushing his hard dick down to an angle that g can shoddily shake a line down it. it was a stupid fuckin' joke that g had latched onto; snorting a line of coke off bert's dick. but hey, if it meant bert's dick got any sort of touched, he'd probably walk into a bear pit with a steak tied around his nutsack. his other hand slides into gerard's greasy hair, and he collapses into another fit of giggles at the sight of gerard's pointy pixie nose dragging along his shaft to snort the poorly cut line. g leans back, sniffling and rubbing at his nose, and before bert can tell him he missed a little, his lips are around the tip of bert's cock, and bert's groaning and throwing his head back. it hits the stall wall, which rattles accordingly, and he punctuates this with a quick thrust up into the warm, velvety heat of gerard's mouth.
gerard takes it like a champ, of course, because he's a fucking veteran cocksucker. older than everyone on this tour, with the exception of maybe jeph. his mouth is hot and tight, soft tongue mapping out every inch of bert's cock, tracing veins and flattening against the underside, enough pressure to keep bert's arousal at a rising cicada-buzz behind his eyelids. he can feel, if he concentrates past the 5 or so beers he's been gunning on the bus, each breath gerard takes, every swallow that squeezes the head of his cock against gerard's soft palate, leaking. even the little whine on an upstroke, bert can feel it. god, it's so fucking much.
gerard drags his tongue up slow, calculated, and he's so fucking good at this that bert kind of feels a spike of jealousy at anybody else who's ever gotten their cock sucked by gerard way. which, judging by this level of fucking skill, seemed to be a few hundred thousand people. the jersey devil, swallowing cocks all the way down the east coast-- g tightens his lips and hollows his cheeks, and bert loses his train of thought, grabbing a fistful of greasy box dye black hair and shoving his hips forward. gerard's eyes bug out all wide and surprised, but he manages to take it in his flow, despite bert butting the head of his cock against gerard's soft palate pretty bruisingly. bert wants him to puke, really, but no dice yet. g's too good, and his throat only tightens reflexively as his gag reflex struggles under the pressure.
after a moment, he releases his grip on g's hair, and gerard pulls back, sliding his mouth up bert's cock until just the head is still past his lips, and bert looks down to realise that he's been drooling like a motherfucker. like one of those hugelarge dogs that have no control over their salivary glands. gee's face is wet with spit and maybe bile, and that thought earns a few more shallow thrusts on bert's account, almost involuntarily, bulging out the side of g's cheek this time, before his balls tighten and he's coming.
he wraps the hand that was in gerard's hair round his cock to pull himself through it, gerard blinking up at him with big baby deer hazel brown eyes all blown out cause of the coke.
gerard pulls back, cock leaving his spit laden mouth with a lewd pop, to lean over the grimy gas station bathroom toilet and hockle, spitting up bert's load into the bowl. he wipes off his mouth and slides his sunglasses down from his hair to rest back on his nose, grinning all dopey-like, clearly buzzed and always cock-drunk. bert delivers him a kick, and giggles, zipping himself back up as they haul ass to get back to their buses.