miss me… / paid in experience (pt. 4)
warped tour ‘05 x reader
words: ~3k
warnings: masturbation and underage fantasy near the end
haha yes it’s been for freaking ever but this chapter is and plot is solidified as of next chapter (which opens up with petekey smut as promised 🫡)
who prefers paid in experience as they new title?
Another name is crossed off of the list.
A frustrated huff escapes Brian’s throat as he throws himself back on the tour bus’s sofa. Pinching his brows together, he scans his clipboard for any potential contact who either owes him a favor or is desperate enough to be in even the most minuscule position in Warped Tour— all are either booked, needing more notice, or completely MIA. Brian’s sure he’s exhausted the voicemail box of every drummer from Long Beach to Toronto.
The trailer opens with a shrill creaking, a figure clad in black stepping into the cluttered kitchenette, appearing like a shadow in the small overhead light that only properly illuminated Brian.
“Still working?” The figure asks. Without looking up, Brian can already tell it’s Gerard.
“That’s just business, I’ve gotta find another replacement before our show in San Fran.”
Gerard hums, smearing some sort of concoction onto a poor slice of bread.
“What happened to the drummer from today?” He asks.
Brian looks up from his notes, offering an expectant look as the younger man turns around, resembling more of a hamster or a chipmunk than a lead singer as he’s shoveling dripping food into his mouth. “The local?” He prompts, voice muffled by the suspicions sandwich. Brian had almost completely forgotten about it, with how booked the band was.
“Ah, right— err, no.” Gerard quirks a brow.
“It’s one thing for a guitarist to come in late, but a drummer needs to keep time.”
Gerard hums in acknowledgment, swallowing. “Patrick?”
“He’s got his own responsibilities, and even if he didn’t, he’s too busy trying to track down Pete these days. And nights…” Gerard laughs, toothy canines shining in the light. He plops himself down on the couch beside Brian, wasting no time in bouncing his leg, contemplating.
“Anyone else you might have in mind?”
“Our original replacement for tomorrow decided skateboarding was more important.”
“It’s Warped Tour,” Gee states as if he’s was saying the sky is fucking blue. “People are going to skate.”
Brian places his thumb between his teeth, seething onto it with barely contained irritation— at his circumstances, at Gerard, the money he’s spent forking out for this band already and at the thought of needing to spend that much more…
“He broke his leg.”
“We can work wi—“
“Don’tfuckingstart. He broke his leg.”
Gerard just nods.
“And his shoulder”
“Damn”
“Fuck you. He also managed to dislocate his jaw.”
“So he’s not available?”
Brian rolls his eyes. “No, he’s just going to use his dick.”
The trailer goes silent, the only noises coming the low hum of the light and from the door, bouncing lazily off of the side of the bus.
Brian rubs his face. “I’ve called every guy I know, and nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“If they answer at all, they ask for more notice.” He snorts. “Fucking good that does me, I need them by noon tomorrow and non of them are even in California.”
“She knew the set, right?” Gee suggests.
“Who?— oh. Barely. She started late and we lost the tempo while we were fucking recording for the bootleg.”
“No we weren’t, not until later. And I doubt she’d come in late a second time, she seemed to do pretty good with her recovery.”
“You think she’s worth one more show?”
“Eh, I think she’s more or less a last resort…
But we don’t have all night to decide.”
—
Your body sways gently in the passenger seat, knees tucked to your chest, held together by your whitening knuckles and near-numb fingers. Your shoes and duffle lay on the floorboard in front of you while Ray, the curly haired guitarist from earlier, drove the tour bus on the eerily deserted highway. The only sound came from the engine and the radio, lowly humming with the quiet music he had been mouthing along to— you were doing everything in your power to not make a noise, not make yourself any more of an inconvenience you already could see yourself becoming.
In any usual situation you’d have kicked your feet up on the dash and at least attempt to make small talk by now, making yourself too-comfortable almost always a little too-quick.
Earlier, practically seconds away from Brian’s deadline, you managed to make it to the tour grounds and have him direct you over the phone on where to go— a blue and silver tour bus. It didn’t belong to My Chem, but to a couple of smaller, female dominated bands. Brian felt it would be safer and more appropriate for you to ride with them, seeing as it was just one night. However, upon arriving and knocking on the door, a woman with smudged eyeliner poked her head out of the trailer door.
“Whatcha up to, kiddo?” She asked, a thick accent you’re sure came from somewhere on the East Coast peeking through the smacks of her gum.
“I’m just here for the ride, Brian said he told you about me?”
She just shook her head, your stomach dropped.
“Sorry, dunno a Brian an’ all our bunks are full. Luck, tho!” And with the harsh slap of the door shutting cutting through the crisp, night air, you called Brian back.
It took a couple of rings, but he eventually answered and you told him the accommodations weren’t as accommodating as he believed.
“Shit, yknow… I think I called the wrong band.”
A brief pause, only the faint crackling of the less than ideal phone signal could be heard, and then—
“The other buses already left, and they ain’t exactly going to turn around for someone that isn’t one of their own.”
So he brought you to his tour bus. The only people present in the front area being him, the curly haired guy, and the one with glasses— who looked disheveled and a bit confused at you being there.
“Thought she was just a temp?” Glasses— maybe Mike you think his name was?— points to you, eyeing your duffle.
Brian grumbles something under his breath before placing you in the passenger side. You don’t argue, or complain about the strange purple stain on the cushion, or the smell that could only be made by five men that made your eyes threaten to water. You can hear Brian and Mike talking in the back, Brian’s voice sounding more like a concerned father than a manager. Ray sits down in the drivers seat, turning the bus keys.
“You get carsick?” He asks, your ears only partially picking him up through the conversation happening behind you.
“I— er, sorry. What?”
“Do you get carsick? We have some plastic grocery bags in the glovebox if you need them. Hopefully you, uh, don’t though.” He almost squirms in his seat at the thought. You reassure him that you don’t, but nothing more.
Your lips have stayed pursed together for the next couple of hours, you wouldn’t be surprised if your teeth had left indents on the insides of your lips.
—
You’re sure you must’ve fallen asleep at one point, awoken by the jolt of a bus hitting a curb as Ray pulls into a dimly lit rest stop. You can hear multiple groans coming from the back of the bus.
“Sorry!” Ray yells behind him. “There should be a bathroom here if you uh… don’t wanna go in ours.” He whispers to you, his tone seeming naturally in the softer range, despite the higher pitch it presents. “It’s not exactly sanitary either way, but it’s a little more private.”
Nodding, you stretch your lips into a thin, polite smile and hop out from the seat, passing the guy with tattoos and piercings— Frank, you recall— as you walk out the door. Him and Ray are talking about something, but you don’t catch what, only focusing on peeing and getting back as soon as possible.
The reststop parking lot was completely deserted other than the tour bus, the only light being offered by flickering streetlights huddled by moths.
The bathroom itself was just as dingy, the “SINGULAR OCCUPANCY” sign on the lone door nearly falling off. Graffiti lined every inch of the place, making it difficult but not impossible to see the buildup of unwashed grime. An eerie feeling crawled its way up your spine.
You didn’t bother washing your hands when you were finished, opting to instead use hand-sanitizer back in the bus. The sinks looked dirtier than the toilet stalls, the water running the color of piss and smelled no better. One look in the small section of the mirror revealed your top to be inside out.
That’s what you get for dressing in the dark.
You slipped it off, kicking open the door with your foot and unbunching your tanktop you had layered underneath.
You rounded the corner to walk back toward the trailer— a dark silhouette blocking your path.
“Jesus—!”
You stumble backward, hands held up defensively, your button up dangling from your fingers threatening to slip. The bassist stared down at you.
“I uh— I wasn’t trying to scare you.” He mumbles, fidgeting with the cuffs of his jacket. Even on the most humid of nights, your hair almost at standing on end, he chooses to bundle up.
“Were you waiting?” You ask, gesturing to the door.
“No— well, yes. But Brian told me to walk back with you, too.”
“Seriously? There’s nobody here but us.” You state plainly, walking back to the bus that’s only about 30 yards ahead.
“…No.” He stares down at his feet. “I just felt weird letting you walk back alone…”
“Not in, like, a creepy way.” He clarifies, a quick defensiveness slipping through his tone. “I mean, there are creeps, but Gerard would’ve yelled at me.”
The gesture was… new, but not entirely unwelcome. Nobody typically insists on walking with you through a deserted lot. Coming from a stranger. You tilt your head.
“…He’s my brother.”
“Ah.” That makes sense, you think to yourslef, though they really don’t look alike…
He attempts to walk past you, fumbling and nearly smacking himself into the wall. You have to choke back a snicker.
“Mike, right?”
“What?” He turns back to you, bangs falling in his face.
“Your name is Mike, right?”
“It’s just Mikey.”
“Mikey, right, sorry— well, uh, Mikey… don’t use the sink.“
Regardless of the warning, when he arrived back outside to see that you had waited for him, you noticed his bangs had been dripping down onto his white top, the fabric becoming translucent.
He waved awkwardly, shuffling hurriedly to match the pace you’d already set back to the bus.
The silence between you both was evident, only crickets and the occasional swoosh of cards could be heard in the distance. He kept his hands shoved in his pockets again and your own hands kept busy by adjusting your buttons.
“So… why’s your hair wet?”
He looks down at you again, your vision fixated on the pavement in front of you.
“I, um… I straighten it.”
It had been Frank who drove the rest of the way, with you dozing off in the passenger seat. Mikey had offered you granola bars or a water bottle upon returning to the bus, and right about now, you wish you had politely refused. Frank, you noticed, was a little more reckless behind the wheel than Ray. Ray wasn’t particularly good either, but Frank seemed to hit every pothole manageable, causing you to sputter awake before passing back out, nausea creeping up your throat as your lolls onto your seatbelt.
—
A heavy, bloated sun rested at its peak in the sky, baking everyone unfortunate enough to be caught beneath it.
“Alright, guys. Rolling.”
The red light atop the camera blinked on.
“Hey everybody, I’m here backstage at Warped Tour San Francisco with My Chemical Romance.” The interviewer smiled into the lens before passing a second microphone toward Gerard, who greeted the camera with a half-hearted wave.
“So, Gerard—Warped Tour’s got this reputation for being kind of a ‘punk rock summer camp’. What has that experience been like so far?”
“Well, uh…” Gerard rubbed the back of his neck. “We were on Warped last year too. We used to have to barbecue just to get to play.” He laughed quietly. “We didn’t even have the bus we’ve got now.”
You weren’t paying them much attention.
Brian had more or less shooed you away, insisting you use the downtime to keep working through the set. You catch a few sentences about lack of water and showering that makes your nose scrunch up… it explains the sort of sweaty, mildew smell that had built up inside of the bus. You chose to sit a little ways off, beneath the thin strip of shade cast by a trailer. Your headphones over your ears, focusing on your loaned drum pads and the songs you had screwed up yesterday.
The headphones an iPod you used weren’t even yours, having borrowed them from your friend a week prior to practice for your own band.
“…So did you guys start wearing matching clothes on stage?” the interviewer asked. “Is it sort of a uniform to better fit your new image?”
Ray gestures for the mic, clearing his throat.
“I guess it could be called a uniform, It’s more about showing we’re all part of the same thing—“
The interviewer had nodded along thoughtful before his attention had wandered, glancing at, compared to the rest of the band, a youth.
“Speaking of…” The interviewer pointed past the camera, toward you. The cameraman followed the direction, catching you in a corner of the frame, completely oblivious to the camera figuratively burning a hole in your back. “What about her?”
The band glanced in your direction, briefly, before looking at the interviewer, eyebrows cocked.
“What about her?” Frank shrugs, a bit too far for the mic to properly pick up.
“Is she, uh…” He grinned. “…a girlfriend? Groupie? Something like that?”
Frank barked out a laugh, one that causes the camera to swerve, panning back to the band.
“We don’t do groupies, or anything.” Gerard explains. “She’s filling in on drums.”
“Seriously? Well, she’s not dressed like the rest of you—she sticking around?”
Gerard rubs his eyes, further smudging his red eyeshadow. “Just for the show, I think. We haven’t found a more permanent replacement for Bob just yet.”
“So non of you are seeing her? She single?“
“Jesus, man.” Ray nudges the interviewer, not harshly, but with more force than just a playful nudge. “C’mon, she’s like sixteen!”
“Seventeen.” Mikey mumbles, shrugging when Gerard gives him a questionable look. “Brian told me, dunno why.”
The interviewer blinks, pausing for a moment.
“So…” he says, cutting through the awkward silence, flipping to the next page of his notes, “…Three Cheers has obviously been blowing up this year…”
The mens eyes occasionally flickered toward you throughout the rest of the interview— you were so focused on your set, sweat beading your brow as you flailed your arms around. The band had admittedly seen better drummers, but from your movements, your fluidity, you were very clearly not a newby…
—
This was wrong. So fucking wrong. Mikey bit his lip, tearing at the skin to prevent any noises from leaving his mouth as he fisted his cock in fervor. The tight denim cut into his balls, his zipper pinching him every so often forcing a harsh hiss.
It wasn’t fair to him— he had to be on stage in less than twenty minutes, and here he was holding his breath in a backstage portable toilet about ready to cum to the thought of watching you for the remainder of the interview.
He’s not sure exactly what got him riled up in the first place, with you being six or seven years younger than him. He was such a shitty guy, fuck, if someone found out he’d be thinking of cumming in a teenagers, most likely virgin, pussy… he doesn’t wanna think about that right now. He’s had his fair share of girls that were barely legal, what’s the difference? Old enough to go on a— fuck—a tour, old enough to give something in return. Shit.
The thought of him using you back in the messy, beat-up tour bus before you were sent back to whereverthefuck you’re from, his cum still leaking from you.
Shitty, weird ass fantasies that were worse than the worlds dumbest porno but it was enough to get him over the edge, cum painting the door and his hand and dribbling onto his jeans.
“Fuck.” That might not come off.
—
Standing on the sidelines, you had been eyeing the crowd for any sign of Brian for the last ten minutes. The band had already cleared off of Bishop Stage, disappearing before the next set had even started playing. You had already tried to call him, and being sent to voicemail half a dozen times could only get you so far.
Warped Tour was crowded both in the public area and backstage, but by now you’re more familiar with his features— short guy with sideburns, not that hard to ask around for, you’re sure.
“Did he have glasses?” Asked the first crew member you were able to find.
“I, well… maybe? I’m not sure.”
“Pretty sure he just got out of a signing!”
Thankfully, he pointed you toward a set of buses you didn’t recognize, but you didn’t blink twice. Not even at the mention of signing— after all, you assume managers are constantly signing things…
This chapter was shit but I have plans! I swear! I’m sorry it took so long :(
Other chapters can be found here, pt. 5 out soon!!
