"So basically, I'm just a nerd. Y'know, comics and stuff. I don't do 'sexy' very well." Frank's sick of Gerard's lies.
A/N: This is intended to be HUMOROUS. Not in any way serious. Do not take this too seriously. I'm serious. Contains hints at Frerard.
"So, what do you guys like to do when you're not onstage? To cut loose?"
God, if I had a dollar for everytime I heard that EXACT question in an interview...
It's like, can't you people think of anything better to ask us? We've been a band for nine plus years. It's time folks; new questions. Ask us anything. You think we'll care? The only person who bothers to pay attention during interviews anymore is Gerard. And that's because he just loves to talk. And talk. And talk. And talk. Such a waste of such a pretty mouth, all that yapping.
No. Bad Frankie. Don't think those things.
"Well, y'know, we play a lot of video games. Mostly that's just the guys, right you guys?"
"Huh, what? Oh, yeah, we play a lot of video games." Good boy Ray. He rattles off the pre-programmed response and it's all I can do not to yawn.
"And what about you Gerard?"
What do you THINK he does in the off time lady? Kill people? Suck blood? Jack off?
Not quite; "Mostly, I just read a lot of books, or sit in my bunk and think. I spend a lot of time walking around if I can, or I sleep."
"Now, Gerard, we've got some fan questions for you boys, if that's okay? We had them email them in."
Oh goodie. Like this didn't get old the fourteenth billionth time we got the questions about our "vampire outfits" or our "blood fetishes" or especially the "Gerard and Frankie gay sex thing". Hit us with your best shot lady, we're ready.
Well, Mikey's not ready. But I am.
"Gerard, this question is for you-" Shocker there. "-From kittykat47 at Hotmail.com. She wants to know about your 'sexy dance moves' on-stage and if you've ever had any formal training."
I felt the shift. Ray sat up. Mikey coughed awkwardly, turning bright red. Bob began to fidget. I crossed and uncrossed my legs. Gerard, fucking, Gerard, just giggled. Motherfucker. Like he didn't know.
"Well, uh, Kittykat, I've never had any formal training dancing, y'know? I was actually kind of a fat little kid, so I definitely wasn't doing any dancing. I was reading comic books and playing Dungeons and Dragons by myself in the basement. As for sexy, I really don't think that's what it is. I still read comic books and play video games. So basically, I'm just a nerd. Y'know, comics and stuff. I don't do 'sexy' very well."
You motherfucking LIAR. That's it. I've had it. Last straw.
"Liar!" I snarled, slapping him as hard as I could, "Stop fucking lying!"
"Ow! Frankie, ow," Gerard whined, pushing me, "Stop hitting me! I don't even know what you're talking about."
Oh, right. I froze, staring awkwardly into the camera that was still poised on us, and the interview lady, who suddenly looked way more interested. I giggled nervously, patting Gerard on the shoulder, pretending to smooth his sky-blue shirt. "Sorry," I laughed, sitting up straighter, dropping my hands to my knees, grinning, "Inside joke. About Gerard's stripper school days."
Gerard spluttered. I grinned, brows arching coyly. Smirking. I felt Mikey, Ray and Bob all mentally pat me on the back.
Oh stop looking at me like that bitch. You don't even know what the fuck I'm talking about. You're just some interviewer. Don't act like you know. Because you don't.
"Right, Well, that's all the time we have," She blathered, looking extremely put out, "Thanks so much for the interview guys."
Sure thing. Any time. We loved it. Great for the fans. We'll catch up again next time we're in town. Never ever again.
"What was that, back there, in the studio with the interviewer?"
Oh, nothing. Y'know, just you being a total liar. Never had a lesson before? Bullshit. Total bullshit. How can I believe that? How can any of us believe that?
You're not a nerd at heart Gerard, you're an exotic fucking dancer. Striptease. Stripper.
That's right, don't give us that innocent little pout. We're fucking on to you! Don't think we're not. That we haven't noticed all those little 'moves' you do when we're onstage.
Trust us, the reason we can't take our guitars off during the set isn't because we love them so fucking much.
And you're acting all innocent, all naive, like you don't know.
You're a slut, with tight pants, pouty lips and moves that would put the girls to shame. If we gave you a pole, I'm sure you'd be right at home.
On-stage, every night. All those little things you think you don't do? Yeah, you do'em. All those things you think we don't see. Ohhhh... We see'em. Mikey hides behind his hair, Ray tries to keep his back to you, Bob drew a circle on his drum that he stares at all night, and me, I haven't found a way to keep my eyes off you just yet.
You're a show off. A showman. A showgirl.
Strutting, kicking, twisting, arching your back, tapping your feet, pivoting your hips, tossing your arms, flipping your hair, biting your tongue, nibbling your lips. You jump, you twist, you fall, you moan, you groan. Your eyes roll back in your head, your breathing quickens, you whimper, cry, collapse to your knees and nearly orgasm right fucking there.
And you don't even stop to think about us, do you? You...you whore! You stupid, little, fucking, striptease!
Even poor little Mikey can't help himself. It's not fair to him. Not fair to us!
How am I supposed to play guitar with you writhing on the ground, bucking your hips, eyes clamped tightly shut, whining in ecstasy? Or when you grind your hips against me, arms wrapping around my neck, breath in my ear?
What do YOU care? You love it. Don't lie to me. Don't pretend. Don't fuck with Frankie.
You love performing. Painting up your face, going bare, tearing at your clothes, stalking across the stage, wiggling your hips. God, your hips. Weapons of mass destruction. WMDS. That's what they are.
Slender, arched, they move like they're alive. You buck them. You thrust them. You wiggle and wriggle them. You roll them. You'll do anything with your fucking hips, just to elicit a reaction. And babydoll, I'm a fucking nuclear reactor. And I'm ready to explode.
And when you let your eyes slip half-shut, and you moan into the mic, and you jut one hip over and over, rolling your shoulders back, chest arching, gasping, it's like I'm being seared alive. I can feel heat. Just plain old heat scorching through me.
You always wonder why we all sweat more than you do onstage. Motherfucker.
Your whole body moves. Your shoulders, your chest, they work together like a fucking tag-team on me. On us. On everyone. God, I could just... Ahem. Well, nevermind that.
It's a safe bet that if any one of us got you into bed, you wouldn't be doing any of those 'moves' for a long time. Frustration like this, it'll make you crazy. Make you into an animal.
And you'll just smirk, lips curved, brows arched, and gesture, roll your fingers in a 'come on baby' move. You'll beg for more from the crowd, and they'll practically rip each other to pieces, you're just driving them fucking crazy. They don't even know the half of it. What we put up with on a daily basis.
As soon as you hit that stage, baby, it's like you just come apart. You prowl. You growl. You pout. You stalk. You become what Mikey has lovingly (not) called a 'total fucking sex kitten'. Yeah, if you only KNEW how we talk about you when you're not around. It's totally sick.
But we can't help it. We swap stories, of what we'd do to you. If we could just get you alone, if we could somehow get those moves into bed. You'd think we'd be too shy to discuss those with each other. But trust me, when you've reached the point of frustration we're at, you'd swap sex fantasies too. Just so you know.
And all you can do, is just drag your hand through your hair, tangle it there, moan breathily into that little mic of yours, lip quivering, mouth agape, and whimper as you launch into the next chorus. You tap your foot, bounce your hip, flash that bedroom smirk, and shut your eyes. You moan a little louder, a little sluttier, if that's even possible, and rub your hands across your chest, slither them down your hips, clutch the fabric of your clothes and practically tear them off yourself...
Hm? Oh, right. You're still here.
"Seriously, what was that about, back there in the interview?"
You don't even wanna know...
"Oh, nothing. Messing with you."
Good cover Frankie. Good one.
"Oh, okay. Well, uh, I'm gonna go get some coffee. Want any?"
"Nah, I'm good."
"Well, later Frankie."
Thanks so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed enough to pretty please leave a review and a rating! If you liked it enough, I might consider a sequel. Let me know. :)