My future is static, I've already had it.
-New Jersey accent (check)
-fictional yet rather accurate historical event (check)
-Lornaigh getting pissed off in random author's notes (check)
-title from Sonic Youth (check)
First of the Gang to Die
Gerard did not emerge from his office for three and a half hours. At one forty eight in the morning of Friday, November ninth, nineteen thirty four, he watched his father leave his million dollar manor, relief rippling through him as his repulsive relative made his way to the black Bugatti in the driveway. The younger would have liked to say that their conversation was comfortable and productive, but alas, this was not true. He had literally spent the best of the night arguing with his male parent about rather trivial but progressively heated topics, like, for example, his son's weight. ("You weren't too fucking far off when you compared yourself to Jupiter!" Donald had screeched. Jesus, what a pair of lungs that man had. "You probably crush the boy!") Other matters featured Frank, how Il Duce was the best thing to happen to Italy since sliced ciabatta and Frank again. He was a reoccurring topic that arose several times. Donald had said you could the boy up with one word: common. Gerard had aagreed on the one-word policy, but his differed; perfect.
Meanwhile, two floors above them, and (thankfully) out of earshot, thirty one members of the Famiglia and the Brigatta (male and female, respectively) were in the common room watching the little Austrian man on the screen delivering his fight-or-flight-esque speech to the main square in Munich. He was peculiar, in the most negative sense of the word; barely five foot eight, stout, a brush of a mustache on his upper lip. He promised the German people, in his thick, refined, reptilic accent, to bring them to be the "herrenvolk"- the master race. Along with Benito Mussolini, he would restore Germany's pride of place after nearly twenty years of humiliation and degradation. The crew, highest and most prestigious of the gang, and closest to the Capa, were torn when it came to Hitler-captained by the usual suspects, Toro and Bryar. Some-namely Ray, who, like Gerard, had grown up wealthy and waited upon, believed this was right, defeating the socialists once and for all, or, to a lesser extent, didn't see anything wrong with the Fuhrer's sentiments. Others-like Bob, who had been raised in the roughest slums of Chicago-thought he was, in the sandy blond's own words, "some sonuvabitch fuckin racist."
"This is why the Coro likes me better, Toro," he said smugly, jabbing Raymond in the chest. "This is why Imma be Don when he leaves."
"Oh shut-" Ray gaped at him. Several members did. "Why would you be leader? And what gives you the idea he's leaving?"
"Yeah!" Maggio shouted in agreement. "He fuckin tells you everything, does he?"
"You know something we don't, Bobby?"
"A'ight, a'ight, don't get your fuckin panties in a bunch," he replied a little defensively, shrugging casually. "First off;it's pretty fuckin obvious the guy ain't gonna have kids. Ya know, unless he's bi or somethin and cheats on Frankie." He nodded and held out his open palms to show simple logic. "And I think we can all agree there that I can't fuckin see Capa gettin it on wi someone else, he fuckin adores that kid to pieces."
Nods and murmurs of reluctant accession.
"Yeah, I guess so."
"And, ya know, between you, me and tha four walls over here, the Coro ain't so fond o the US, you guys know that. I heard him and the Don de la Via discussin it a while ago at dinner. If he ever leaves da States, he give it to me." He smiled, surprisingly warm and childlike, pulling at your heart-strings. "Dudes, he likes me. I don't hafta call im sir or nothin, wese friends since we were kids, dig?" He raised his eyebrows and sat back in his seat. "Not just any ol cunt gets ta look afta his husband, ya know."
Ducco, some big brawny thing, widened his eyes.
"You seen em kiss and stuff?" He was shell shocked beyond belief. "Holdin hands and whatever?"
"Yeah," Bob said. "Coro's awfully nice to him, Frankie, ya know. He talks to him all tha time and hugs im and stuff, calls im is bunny rabbit, ya know." Women cooed at the couple's loyalty and sweetness-the men simply gawked at Robert. "Capa ain't never hit im or nothin, they get on awfully goddamn well."
"He talk to him in English or Italian?"
"English." He thought about the twenty four year old. "Frankie don't speak Italian. He's a real nice kid, guys, it's just that the Coro don't like it when he gets hurt or somethin, he's very protective of im." He grinned. "Obviously you guys just ain't manly enough."
Boo's and laughs responded to Bryar's long-winded, rather arrogant (but true, and somewhat cute) boasting's, and he was cheered and jeered on until the door was pushed open. The Don stepped through, smirking; dammit, Bob cussed mentally, he had definitely heard-Gerard had bat-like hearing.
"Good evening," he said quietly.
"Good evening, sir" rang through the room. The boss frowned a little when he saw who was on the screen, good mood dented.
"Don de la Via was right, il mio Coro," Ray said slyly. "He's very charismatic."
"Don de la Via is an idiot, Raymond," the younger Way answered, a little more sharply than was necessary. "Any old fucker in a suit and tie can appear charismatic."
A chorus of oooh's was breathed by the others. Gerard smiled and composed himself.
"I'm very sorry, il mio Coro-"
"No matter," the gangster replied, waving his hand. "Forgive me, mt father and I do not see eye to eye on a number of issues, politics being one of them." He turned to Bob. "Robert, might you know of Frank's whereabouts?"
"Uh, yeah, he's sleepin."
"Alright." He nodded at them. "I shall retire for the night. See you all in the morning."
He closed the door and tapped down the hallway, cane slapping the floor every syncopated step. He reached the door at the end, the dark, wooden door and golden knocker facing him. He turned the knob with deliberate slowness, as so not to wake the boy. It was hard being quite, however; once Gerard saw him he nearly exploded with the adorability of it all.
Frank was lying on the four-poster, the black curtains not quite closed, so that Way was able to see his husband in all of his innocent (yet so goddamn tempting) glory. He had stripped to his bare skin, pale and toned in the tender alabaster shade, but the sheets had conveniently rucked up around his waist so that the gangster was deprived the sight of his package-which, currently, looked a little more prominent than usual. The boy had taken a bath and smelled so irresistibly sweet, the gorgeous scent of honey milk assaulting Gerard's senses, consuming him with lust. His bright white skin looked so smooth and soft, scrubbed clean after a day of slander and slagging. His brown hair was tousled and messy, strands of chocolate falling into his eyes. Iero was frowning a little, lips parted in his plump little pout. One arm was across his stomach, gold band glinting in the light.
Needless to say, Gerard had to hold himself back.
He sat on the edge of the bed, placing one of his calloused hands on the side of his hips and smiling, wondering what he had ever done in his life to deserve something this sweet, this innocent,this wholesome and perfect. He leaned down and pressed his lips softly to the other's, and Frank's eyes fluttered open as he was eased back into consciousness.
"Gerard?" He mumbled, yawning.
"Hey, sweetheart," he cooed, stroking his hair. The boy yawned again as he smiled at his killer of a lover. "I'm sorry I woke you up, baby, I just need to talk to you for a little bit. Poor rabbit, you're so tired, I know."
Frank pouted a little when he saw the time displayed on the face of Gerard's watch. Two in the morning-not good.
So I know this is off-topic but seriously I mean when I leave a note on a piece of food (i.e. fucking awesomesauce Percy Pigs from M&S-if you're from the States bascially the best thing ever) saying that this is PROPERTY OF LORNAIGH NI IONNRACHTAIGH AND SHE WILL KICK YOUR SAD SORRY NORTHERN IRISH ASS INTO NEXT GODDAMN WEEK IF YOU TAKE THIS, JANE, SO IF I WERE YOU I'D KNOCK THIS SHIT OFF OR I'M TELLING YOU, SHITS GONNA FLY
I mean what is so hard to understand about that, seriously
"But it's late," he pointed out, tracing his husband's angelic features. Then it occurred to him. "Did you talk to your dad?"
"Mmmm," Way replied vaguely, thinking about the situation as a whole. "I talked to him, yes."
Gerard sighed and gazed into the hazel orbs that glittered and glowed in front of him, strands of light green and chocolate weaving in and out of Frank's eyes. This was going to be hard to convey to him-it would be hard for anyone.
And it's in my own fucking house too like Jesus Christ
God is it like my personal mission to ruin every moment or something
hold on I just need to get a Coke from the fridge
*author wanders away*
FUCK YOU JANE FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU-
Ahem. *pats down front of shirt* Excuse me.
"About a lot of things, babe," he murmured, eye drifting over the boy's chest, his hair, his beautiful face, his ample cheeks, the questioning sincerity in his look. "A lot of things."
"Like what?" Frank asked a little timidly, tugging at the boss's shirt. "About me?"
The involuntary squeak in his tone told Gerard he was anxious, that the topic worried him, that he feared the response. The copper lamps smoldered and his pupils dilated, glistening due to both the growing winter darkness and his own tension.
"Why?" Gerard put to him quietly, brushing his fringe from his eyes, until each hair returned, strand by strand, slowly and intricately. "Are you afraid of him?"
"Um," he whispered back, not meeting his husband's stern but affectionate watch. "I...I mean...he was in the Mafia and stuff." He glanced to Gerard for affirmation. "And he was a Don for a long time."
"Honey, I'm in the Mafia and I've been a Don for seven years," he reminded him softly, as if he didn't know. "And you're not scared of me." He wore a slightly quizzical expression. "Are you?"
His rabbit bit his lip and suckled on it while the main man waited for an answer as he caressed his face, neither angry nor irritated, but simply interested.
"I love you," he told Gerard, wide eyed and honest.
"I know you do, pet, and I return the feeling," he answered reasonably. "But that wasn't what I asked you."
Frank nodded and laced his fingers in Gerard's, sucking on his lip and breathing audibly, his chest obviously worse for wear this evening. He thought about what he was going to say carefully, with time.
"Sometimes when you get angry...when you get really, really angry...then I get a little scared," he said, holding his hand tighter. "It's not that I think you'll hurt me-because I know you wouldn't, you treat me so good, Gee, you really do, it's just that...you're a gangster and I'm not. I don't kill for a living-I don't like doing it like you do." His husband nodded. "I'm not saying that's bad because it's what you do, and I'd never be like Evan, Gerard, I'd never disrespect you and your family like that, I promise." He was being sincere, Way could tell-candid and honest and pure. "I'm just saying that when you torture people and kill people and stuff-"he was talking softly now, almost a whisper, and a shy smile was playing on his lips. "That's not my Gerard. That's the badass, scary as fuck Gerard. And as sexy as he is," he finished truthfully, the lip being released from his mouth, "I prefer my Gerard."
"Really?" Way replied, amused and touched in a strange manner. "What's your Gerard like?"
"Like you are right now," Iero answered simply, trailing his fingers on the chest of the person he adored. "When you hug me and kiss me and call me your bunny rabbit, sugar and stuff like that. When we're with the rest of the gang and I sit in your lap or you show off about me." He was blushing a little, not quite looking at the other. "Or my Gerard doesn't talk all fancily." He was grinning widely now; enjoying it. "The way you talked when you were in Jersey-when you said ain't and cussed all the time and called me your boy-I love it when you talk like that, it's so cool. And I know you have to be all mature and stuff in front of your men and stuff, you can't act like, normal or something-but you don't have to in front of me." That fuckin smile-Jesus, it could make Hitler weak at the knees. "I love it when you talk posh, Gee, it's just that I prefer the other you a lot more. It's like there's two different people I'm married to-I love them both so much, Gerard, really, I've never even thought I could love someone as much as I love you but when we were back in NJ...I don't know." He hoped he wasn't being confusing. "I don't think you should talk the way you do. That's just me, I mean, you don't have to listen to me, I don't know anything-"
"You'd like me to talk with my regular accent?" He was somewhat surprised.
"Well-yes please," he said quietly, giggling in spite of himself. "You don't have to, I just love hearing it and it must be annoying for you speaking like that all the time, being all posh."
"A'ight then," he drawled, and his lover beamed at him. "Is this'n to your taste or whaaat?"
"You are seriously the only person ever who has made me hard just by speaking." Gerard cackled. "And I mean that."
"Mmmm, sugar," he purred, sugar being elongated to suguuuuuuuuuur. "You was havin naughty dreams already though, weren't ya?"
"Ohhh, Gerard, stop," he gasped. "When you don't say the g's at the end-and when you don't say 'you' properly-"he cried out. "I think I'm gonna cum!"
Improper pronunciation and regional dialects just get me every time
The feeling was accentuated when Gerard straddled him, knees on either side, rubbing against him. The boy nearly screamed.
"Aw, my baby rabbit, you so sore?" Awwwwwwuh, my baaaaayby raaaaabit, y'so sorh? "You want'n me to do somethin bout that, sweet'art?"
Want'n. Somethin. Bout. It killed him.
"Uh huh," he panted, pulling Gerard toward him, tearing at him. "Please-"
"Call my name, cupcake, my full name, I wanna hear your pretty little voice scream my name."
He clambered off the bed and Frank had to wonder what shit would go down fairly soon-he was just calming down from lack of Gerard Way when the sheet and the boxers he had been shielding himself with, were pulled down.
"Ohhh," he moaned, creasing his forehead and grimacing. "Oh God, oh Jesus, Gerard, please-"
His voice cracked and shot into a squeak, high and thin. He bucked his hips desperately, the pain shooting through him. Way then tilted his hips up and took the other's pulsating, throbbing member and taking it into his mouth, whole.Frank squeaked again and bucked into Gerard's mouth as he swirled his tongue around the tip, savoring his boy's every move and noise, relishing the delicious sounds his rabbit was making for him, the squeaking, the moaning, the groaning, the gasping as he writhed and wrestled in the sheets. The minute Gerard deep throated him he went out of control.
"Gerarrrrd," he rasped breathlessly. "Ger-" his member slid down his husband's throat. "AAAARGH GERARD WAY-FUCK FUCK FUCK GERARRRRD-"
The coming was quick and pre-empted but enjoyed all the very same by the receiver, who smired when his mouth filled with the white sticky stuff and swallowed it all, feeling it settle at the pit of his stomach. He had done his job well-hey, not everyone can make someone ejaculate just by speaking.
I just texted my best friend that and she was like
"lorna every time u speak a child cries and a bear has a heart attack. and u speak like all the goddamn time, you never fucking shut up"
Well then. That certainly boosts my self-esteem. I'm sure I could make someone spunk off with me talking. They'd have to deaf, but hey, swings and roundabouts, eh?
Frank cried out again as his lover let his erection fall from his lips with an effortless pop. It was a wonder-Gerard had come in to talk to him about serious, pressing issues, and now the kid was after convincing him he was a schizo and getting his dick sucked. Lucky sonuvabitch...
okay seriously jane stop eating my goddamn food imma kill you
"Oh Gerard," he breathed. "Thank you so much, you're amazing."
"No problemo, bunny, s'all good, ya know," he shrugged off as he returned to the other, who was covering himself. "Eh-what tha hell dew think yer doin?"
I just re-read that in my weirdo Northern Irish accent (that makes children cry and bears have cornary arrests, thank you, Katherine) and I read it like
"ehhh-wha de hell d'ya think yer dowan?"
I don't know grammar or whatever all I know is that if I wrote like I talk ye'd all be fucked.
(Sample:Fraaaank creed oot in payan agin as hus lurver let hus uh-rec-chun faaaall from is lips wit an effortlisss pop. It waaaas a wondur-Gererd had cumin to talk aboot seerius, pressin ishhues, and now de kit waaaas aftur cunvincin im he waaaas a schizo and gettin is dick sucked. Looky sonuvabetch...)
Yeah. Be thankful for that, lads.
"Getting dressed?" Iero replied.
"Uh uh," the gangster refused, taking both pieces of clothing from him. "That ain't allowed, sugarmuffin."
"Really? Why not?"
Way grinned and leaned over him again.
"You givin me back-sass, boy?"
"Maybe I am," his rabbit answered cheekily, returning his smirk. "Why are you gonna do about it?"
"Maybe I'll burn all tha biscuits in the house," he purred. "Ban em from ever comin back in."
"No!" Frank squeaked, clutching his husband. "Don't do that, please-I'll do whatever you want!"
"All I want ya to do is sit in my lap and listen, a'ight, babe? Got some stuff to tell ya and it's kinda important."
"I had noticed that, sweet'art, you must be thinkin I'm legally blind or somethin."
"Okay. And Gee?"
"Yessu-never mind, darlin, what is it?"
"Your dad is really scary," he admitted quickly, positioning himself upon the stronger's thighs. "He terrifies me."
"Fuck yeah he is," he murmured in the pink shell of his ear. "But I don't wantin you to be afraid, babe, I told him ta fuck off and stop tellin you you ain't good enough for me." They pressed their lips together. "You know that ain't true."
"Now," Way said softly, looking into Frank's soul, searching him for sincerity, the jade eye serene, calm, beautiful; the red dim and dead. Up close you could see exactly where Mancini's pocket knife had penetrated-the severing of each and every nerve, digging and rootling into the muscle, thrashing all sources of life and sight within it. "Wanna talk to you about the OVRA." He paused for any verification; there was none. "You know what that is, sugar pop?"
"Is that...the spies and stuff?"
"Uh...the Irish guys you work with?"
"The basketball one?"
Gerard couldn't help but smile. It was adorable.
"Dat's the NBA, sweetie. I'm talkin about the Origanizzazione per la Vigilanza e la Reprissione dell'Antifascimo, the OVRA." Iero only one expression: what the flying fuck? "It's the Italian secret police, honey. Remember how we talked about fascism and all that shit?"
The boy nodded faithfully.
"Well...see, babe, ya know Italy? Y'see, it ain't like the States, it has a king, ruled by one guy, you get me?"
Hus face lit up. Frank seemed to be a monarchist.
"Really? They do? Like England? What's his name?"
"Victor Emmanuel the Third, bunny."
The smile that made the gangster overcome with joy.
"Vik-ter-Im-man-you-elle," he pronounced, and giggled. "That's awesome."
Not quite as awesome as Ni Ionnrachtaigh surely
"His name might be, but he isn't. You see, he let this...this really shitty guy come into power, a real asshole. Mussolini. He's tha head o tha Partito Nazionale Fascista, sugarbaby, the Fascist party."
"He isn't good?"
"He isn't good, babe."
"Your dad thought he was good," he replied, a tad perplexed. "Isn't he?"
"No, darlin, he's not. He gets his poh-leece to kill people who ain't agreein wihhim, ya know? That's the OVRA." He scowled. "They get on well wih my father, and now the bastatrd;s gone and fuckin told em about me." He ran his hands through his hair. "And now they've fuckin gone and summoned me to meet with um in Italy, goddammit."
"What-you-you can't! What if they hurt you?"He embraced his husband tightly and squeezed his eyes shut. "No, Gee, you can't, what if they hurt you-if they hurt you I'd die, Gee, you can't-please don't go-"
"I'm afraid I hafta, baby." His eyes were sad as he caressed Frank's face. "They ain't gonna kill me, bunny, my father's friends with Mussolini, how'd it look if they killed is only surviving son?It'll only be a few days, sugar, I'm leavin on Monday and we're back Saturday mornin."
Frank whimpered and snuggled into his chest.
"You promise eveything will be okay?"
"I promise, Frankie,"he breathed back. "I fuckin promise you that, baby."