Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance > First of the Gang to Die

Pure Morning

by unitedsuck007 7 reviews

Our thoughts compressed, which makes us blessed, and makes for stormy weather.

Category: My Chemical Romance - Rating: R - Genres: Drama - Characters: Frank Iero,Gerard Way - Warnings: [V] [X] [R] - Published: 2011-10-26 - Updated: 2011-10-26 - 4016 words - Complete

Lornaigh obviously changed the title of this chapter from Irish Blood, English Heart to Pure Morning, but the next one is I Have Forgiven Jesus.

Unfortunately I am off to my aunt's house this week and won't be back until next Wednesday (i.e. the second of November) so apologies there. She has no internet and even if she did, I don't think she'd love me uploading a gay gang fic about My Chem anyway...

Love you guys,


Warning: do not read this whilst eating.


First of the Gang to Die
Pure Morning

“Oh, Gee!”

“Fuck, Frankie-“

“Gee, baby, OH-God-right there-“

“Ohh Frankie-“

“Sir?” A tentative knock interrupted the lovers. “Don de la Via?”

Gerard Way suddenly snapped from unbelievable pleasure to sudden, vehement rage. It was around four in the morning, and he had been making love to his husband for the past few hours, rather animatedly, it could be said. The moans exiting their bedroom were loud and raw-the men three floors down could hear them. The boss was currently on top of his husband, seven fingers dug into his boy’s stomach, breathing down his neck. Frank was squeaking and gasping under him, hands knitted with Gerard’s.

And there in lied the problem. Gerard would have never dreamed one of his men would ever disturb him in the early hours of the morning. He had very clearly stated about four hours ago he would be retiring to bed, and he did not want to be interrupted whilst ‘sleeping.’ Now he was hearing tiny whispering lingering outside his door. He scowled ferociously and kissed his boy’s hair, urging him to be silent.

“What the fuck is it?” He snarled, and Iero whimpered. “It’s four in the fucking morning.”

“Oh...well...sir...there’s someone downstairs waiting for you. They, er...may I please come in?”

“No, you may not fucking come in,” Way snapped, that infamous temper revealing itself with a flourish. “I was under the goddamn impression people fucking sleep during the night, you shits, not get called down by you cunts.”

He carefully dislodged himself from Frank, who smiled and sat up to kiss him on the cheek. He rested against the gangster’s chest, cherishing his heart beat, Gerard stroking him lovingly.

“Sir. It’s the Romano’s.”

Gerard growled and cussed and spat at the name, and felt the twenty four year old cringe in his arms. He kissed him again and closed his eyes.

“What do they want,” he said calmly, quietly. “What’s the matter with them now?”

“They say they want to talk to you, sir. About certain things they would not enclose to myself and Luc. They want you and Fr-“


“Uhh, yes, yes sir! You and uh, Mister Way, and Ray and Louis.” The man outside regained composure. “No weapons requested. They’re down in the great hall, sir.”

“Very well.” He clambered off the bed with a thump and grasped for clothes-trousers, shirt, waistcoat, tie. All black, all intimidating and serious. He took a fedora as his boy got up to dress. “God, can’t get a fricking night’s sleep around here...” he wrapped his arms around Frank. “So sorry, baby. Perhaps we can finish this in the morning, yes?”

“That’d be good,” Iero whispered back, and their lips meshed together. “Do I have to get dressed up like you?”

“You wear whatever you want, doll.” Frank opted for a white shirt and black pants.

“Gerard.” He sucked his lip. “What if they do something?”

“Promise this’ll be okay, darling, they can’t do a fucking thing to you.” He cautiously wound his tie around his neck and then pulled it tightly. “You’ll be right next to me all the time.”

“Can I sit in your lap?” He said in a small, weak voice. “Please, Gerard. I feel so safe when I’m sitting with you. Please.”

“Sure, sugar pop,” he agreed, shoving a pistol into his belt. “Sure you can.”

“I thought they said no weapons,” the boy pointed out to him as Gerard ran over his face with powder and liner. “You have a gun.”

“I ain’t taking no goddamn instructions from them, they ain’t my goddamn mother,” he huffed, pouting. “That’s bull, I’ll take a motherfucking anti-aircraft missile if I want to.” He reached for Frank’s hand. “Come, baby, it’ll be nice and quick, honest.”

They pushed the door open to find the hallways glowing with that unnatural man-made lighting that seems to occur only at night-time. It was harsh to the eye and nearly-blinding; Gerard hissed and muttered something about ‘molfuckin Romano’s’ under his breath. Frank was nervous and sleepy; his cheeks were still flushed from the intercourse and his hair was messy, with lack of make-up. The two tapped into the main hall and gazed upon the merry faces of the men of the House of Romano.

Marcus was at the top, in the middle, a sour, disgruntled look over his features. He looked a little like James-the same killer grey eyes, the brown hair, the accent that mixed English and American, with a suitable little slight twang. The Protestant man was tall, like James, but two years his senior-Marcus had graced this earth for nearly thirty three years. He glared at the men once they entered the room, lips curling back into a sickly grimace. Four men surrounded him-two on the left and two on the right. Raymond and Louis sat at the table opposite them, the bewildered, slightly grumpy looks telling that they too were exhausted.

“Gentlemen,” Gerard greeted airily, covering his yawn. He pulled out the nearest chair for Frank, who blushed and sat down next to Soprano, who smiled at him wearily. The Don of the Famiglia sat atop the table, pulling out reading glasses and looking to the Romano’s. “Right. Well. It’s four in the morning.” His glinting jade eye rose above the black frames and surveyed the other family. “This better be good.”

“Oh, it is,” Marcus said so softly, the tone laced with danger. He reminded Gerard of a mentally retarded snake-Frank couldn’t even barely to look at him. “It’s great.” He called outside the door, a deafening screech of ‘LOUISE!’ “I brought my missus. Hope you don’t mind, you being a fag and all.”

“Certainly,” Gerard replied, beaming. “Like your brother.”

Marcus snarled as a woman with limp brown hair and a fur coat entered the room, smiling sleazily and plumping up her hair. She sat in his lap, kissing his cheek and twirling brown strands between painted fingers.

“This is my wife, Louise,” Marcus said, waving an airy hand to the other killer. “My third.”

“How lovely,” Gerard muttered, a devout Catholic. “How nice for you both.”

Frank decided this simply wasn’t good enough, and pushed himself to settle lightly on Gerard’s thighs, the Don looking slightly surprised but pleased nonetheless. The boy smiled and peppered kisses all over the boss’s jaw.

“That’s disgusting,” Romano sneered, nearly choking.

“So’s your face,” Frank snapped childishly, his short legs kicking over Way’s side, extending about a foot over the edge. Gerard chuckled quietly in his ear.

“So, Way-“

“Don de la Via!” Ray barked, red in the face. “You refer to him as Don de la Via!”

“I don’t speak your common fucking language,” Romano spat. “I don’t talk that shit-“

“That is not Italian,” Gerard intersected lightly. “Don is an honorary term for the leader and de la Via is my name. You do not have to speak Italian to call me it.”

“I am not going to call you-“

“Look.” He rubbed his temples and sighed. “It’s late. I don’t just mean the night; I mean this whole goddamn thing. I gotta drop my niece to her maths class in a few hours. You’ve got kids of your own, you’re married, I’m married-I’ m gettin outta this shit and I’m gettin out soon. Soon as I get Ray as Don I’m goin to Italy with my boy and you ain’t gonna hear from me again until I kick the bucket, I tell ya.” Another deep sigh. Marcus’ mouth hung open. “So can we just get this over with? I’m sick of it. Tell me what’s so damn important and then we can drop it.”

Romano turned a deathly shade of pale, and muttered something in his wife’s ear. She glared at him.

“You sick, fucking disgusting freak!” She cried, upstarting. “That is VILE!”

She ran out of the room, stilettos slapping the floor. Romano turned slightly pink, when frenzied, quick knuckles rapped the door. Christa opened the door a fraction, tears staining pale cheeks.

“Don de la Via!” She cried. “Please, sir, I need you!”

Gerard cocked his head.

“I’m sorry, Missus Toro, we’re quite preoccupied at the moment.”

She turned, frantic, to Frank.

“Frankie-Mister Way-please!” She flapped her hands and gestured for him to come. “Please, come with me, just a moment, it’s so important-“

“Okay,” Frank said, jumping up to help her, going out the door and shutting it. The gangster turned to Romano, one eyebrow raised.

“Is there something wrong?”

“I-I-oh shit,” he said, burying his head in his hands. Marcus Romano, repentant and regretful? Never. “I...I didn’t think you’d wanna make peace.”

“I told you I wished for this to come to an eventual end,” Gerard replied sharply. “Why? What have you done?”

“I...I didn’t do it, okay? I just said it as a joke. I didn’t mean him to go through with it.” The four men on the side, whom Gerard did not know the names of, stirred and winced. They were all terrified of his oncoming reaction. “It was just a kinda joke, a sick, fucked up joke, but I just...I didn’t fuckin think he’d do it, okay?!” He nearly screeched, upset beyond belief. The left henchman placed a firm hand on his shoulder. “I totally forgot about it until now. Please, just-“

“Gerard?” Frank was at the door, shaking and pale. The gangster rose instantly. “Can, can you come out for a minute?”

Way got up and strode over to his husband, shutting the door carefully and standing with him in the hallway. The house was deadly silent until a horrible, warbling wail rang true within the mansion.

“What’s wrong, baby?” He murmured to him, caressing him. “Why are you crying, sweetie?” The brow connected. “Someone hurt you?”

“No.” His eyes darkened as he hiccupped. “Not me.”

“Who, darling?” Frank burst into fresh tears again, hugging the killer tightly. “What do you-“

He stopped mid-sentence when he realized the weak, cracked cries were coming from his niece’s room.

“Luci...Luciana?” He rasped in a trace-like whisper. “They...hurt...her?”

“She-was-raped,” Frank wept into his shoulder, and Gerard felt his breath being knocked out of him. “Last night-they br-broke in and they-THEY FUCKING RAPED HER!” He screamed, sobbing. Gerard was still stone-like. “Gerard-she’s so banged up-she’s so weak-“

“Where. Is. She.”

“Her room,” he whimpered. “In-there.”

Gerard stormed out of the hallway and into her room.

“Gerard,” was the first word Luciana said when she came to. Her face crumpled and she broke into tears. “It was so sore.”

Don de la Via’s lip quivered as he tried to hold himself together. No crying now, Gerard. Not now.

The cry heard the previous night-or morning, as the case may be-had been the stifling of her screams as she was thrown into the en suite in her bedroom. She had cried out sharply, but the cries had fallen upon deaf ears. Christa had found her, soaked with blood and slicked with bodily fluids. She had then been treated and bound with bandage-her legs had been cut and bruised, bloodied and battered. She was now wrapped up in her uncle's bedroom-she had screeched to high heavens when she was brought near her own room.

“Oh baby,” he whispered to her, squeezing the bridge of his nose. “Oh darling, sugar plum, I’m so sorry.”

“He called me bad words,” she whimpered, gorgeous brown eyes huge and wet. “He threw me up against the wall and pulled up my skirt. I told him no and tried to hit him but he laughed and did it anyway.” Her tone spoke of betrayal, her eyes smouldering softly. “It was horrible.”

Gerard bowed his head and bit back tears. Luciana fell back into the pillow, crying quietly.

“You’re not meant to do that,” she squealed, head in hands. “I wanted to grow up and get married, with someone nice.” A deep sniff. “It hurts so much I can’t even walk.”

Way silently screamed. She had been attacked...from behind.

"Will you stay with me?" She asked, and he nearly broke when she said it. "Please. It's so scary."

"Oh, of course I will, baby," he confirmed, bowing his head as she grasped fistfuls of his white hair. "Of course darling, we'll look after you."

There was a short silence.

“Are you going to kill him?” She asked quietly. “Torture him?”

“The worst possible,” Gerard growled finally, caressing his niece’s hand, hot, rebel tears bubbling up in his lids. “As soon as you tell me who did it, baby, he’s gonna die in the most brutal way.” He kissed her lightly on her forehead-the shivering flinch below him spoke loud and clear. “I know it must be so painful for you, sweetheart, but if you could describe him for me it’d be great.” He pursed his lips. “Was he tall, or short, or fat, or skinny-“

“He was tall,” she confirmed decisively, nodding. “Really tall. Taller than you. And skinny, I guess.” She thought pensively, and her lip trembled. “He had a really scary laugh and he was so mean...and...and sick.” She hiccupped. “Not like the flu, like bad things. Rude things.”

"Rude?" Gerard questioned to himself more than the girl. "He was rude to you?"

"About kissing and stuff," she breathed, sucking in deep breaths. "And...bad words."

“Is there anything else distinct about him, darling?” He peered into the lighter pair, her pale skin more pallid than healthy. “Did you see what colour hair he had?”

“It was dark,” she whispered. “Hard to see. But black, I think. He was pale.”

“Did he...did he sound English, pet?” Romano’s were the British answer to the Mafia; technically they were not defined as the Cosa Nostra. “Or Italian, maybe?”

“No.” She seemed confident. “No, he was American. Not from Jersey or LA but-“ she gasped a little-her lip had started to bleed from biting it too hard. “But I don’t know. He wasn’t English.”

“Anything different, love? It’s nearly over, promise.” He tucked black strands behind her ear. “Like a tattoo or piercings or something?”

“His mouth was silver,” she nodded. “It looked awful.”

“Silver? How do you m-“ he stopped dead and his eyes bulged in their sockets. “Did he...did he have metal things on his teeth?”

“Mmm,” she agreed, exhausted. “He made me kiss him and it hurt loads.”

Gerard closed his eyes and grit his own teeth. Warner was going to die, and it was gonna be painful; for both the Don and the rapist.

Way threw open the front door to the torture chambers. The green eye swept the scene swiftly; the red rolled and tumbled in his socket. He blinked fiercely and glared at the man inside the room.

But Brian Warner could not meet his look. He was currently in the most excruciating pain he had ever experienced-he had been reprimanded from his Los Angeles manor an hour ago and dragged to the house of Way. His feet, hands and head had been bound with strips of boiling hot leather, which burned and sizzled his skin. He forced himself to laugh and simper right through the torture-he had a reputation, dammit, and he’d have to stand to it.

Umm this paragraph is pretty gross

Following the burning, he had been stripped down to his jockey shorts and-oddly enough-suspenders. Then his stomach had been slit across, side-to-side, by an unseen dagger, so that his small intestines flopped into his lap and blood seeped down his legs. Then, worse still, for lack of vision, he had heard high, frenzied squeaking; the sound of rodents.

Six huge, black, struggling rats were then shoved into his abdomen.

“FUUUUCK!” He had hollered. “FUCK YOU!”

Then he had been sewn up again, with sloppy, poor stitching. The guts still lay on his thighs, and you could see his stomach contents bulging through the stitches. Blood trickled down his midriff-he was in utter agony.

But he would still try his very best to be the most disgusting and horrendous human beings on the planet.

“Hey Gerard,” he greeted, shuffling his legs in the chair. He couldn’t see a thing-black silk was the only aid to his vision, so his hearing would have to be his only source of help. “Morning.”

Nothing. He could hear nothing but silence; Gerard wasn’t even moving, the lack of leather meeting cement told him that. Just waiting. Waiting for what was the question.

“She was good, Gerard,” Warner slurred, and women in the room gasped-men cussed and spat. “I’ve got the nicest girls back home but I swear...she was real good. Luciana.” He laughed coldly. “What’s that? Italian for whore?”

There was still no response from the main man. Warner tried to grin and went on.

“No matter. How old is she, Gerard?” The sickly smirk returned. “She seems smart. Cute, as well. She looks like your brother.” The room suddenly lost all noise-breathing even seemed to stop. “Y’know, Michael, the man you’s that gonna go, huh? How’re you going to explain to her that you killed her daddy?”

The quiet made him more confident.

“Those big brown eyes, how perfect her skin is, that adorable smile...she called out for you when I was fucking her.” He applied a high falsetto and cackled. “Oh no, please, Gerard, help me! He’s hurting me, Gerard, oh no-“

Suddenly, something was plunged into the back of his neck, slashing his throat. He couldn’t breathe for a fleeting, terrifying moment-he couldn’t move. Damn; the bastard had snuck behind him.

Gerard reached around, completely vehement, and snapped his nose, blood exploding into his palm and drenching his sleeve. Heripped off the burning cloth with no hesitation and then pushed two of his fingers into the wet jelly that encased Warner’s eye, twisting and digging into the sockets. The other man rocked and hissed, moaning in pain and trying to move, but it was futile. The knife had stuck his spinal chord, and his ability to move was seriously diminishing.

His eye was ripped out and thrown across the room, splattering the door. Raymond squealed and dived into his wife’s arms. Gerard was too crazed to notice.

“You sick fuck,” Warner managed to pant past the metal in his mouth.

Gerard walked calmly to the front of Warner and flicked a pocket knife from his cuff, then striking it, quick as a wink, into the roof of Brian’s mouth. It spurted scarlet and ended with a satisfying snap as the sternum of his nose cracked open. He now could not speak, and it would be agony to scream. He looked terrifying-blood streaming down his face, mouth pulled in horror, empty socket leering.

“Luciana,” Gerard murmured, ignoring the chokes erupting from his victim, “means light in Italian. Meaning she is the light in my life and was the brightest thing in her father’s.” The eye locked onto Warner, panting and writhing. The squeaking of the rats in his stomach winged and squealed. “She turns seven in March and she is smarter than most people in this room.” The eyes narrowed and darkened. “And you raped her.”

No answer. But of course Gerard had expected that.

He pulled a pistol from his belt and shot Warner in the kneecaps, shattering the bone. He kept going, the thirty five year old screeching in chorus with the rats scampering around in his stomach. He continued until the bones were nothing but a pile of red mush connecting shin to thigh. The blood spilling from the splattering of bone dripped to the floor in a steady scarlet stream.

Then he stopped and walked away. He halted, paused, and returned to standing in front of Warner, half-dead. His stomach was starting to split open now, the rats pressing against his bulging stomach.

“Stand up,” Gerard ordered. He kicked him in the balls-Warner fell to the ground, screaming. “Stand up.”

“I can’t-can’t-“

“What’s that?” He ripped him up by the hair. “Can’t stand? Can’t walk? Oh no,” he said in a mock of an innocent lisp. “Just like my niece-she can’t fucking move because of you.” The tone quivered and he pulled Warner up to press their noses together. “SHE NEVER DID ONE FUCKING THING TO YOU, NOT ONE FUCKING THING, AND YOU RAPED HER!” He hollered, upstarting. “YOU RAPED A SIX YEAR OLD GIRL AND YOU HAVE THE MOLFUCKING NERVE TO SIT HERE AND CALL ME THE SICK FUCK?!”

The stitches finally gave and Brian’s swollen stomach exploded. Bloodied rats and assorted organs spilled-among them, his liver and his pancreas. The rats squeaked and jumped around excitedly, happy to be out of that slimy chamber of flesh-they squirmed around Gerard’s legs. The gangster brought his foot down onto one of them and flattened until he heard a little squelch.

Raymond noticed the hatred burning in Gerard’s eye. Normally whilst carrying out torturing Gerard would be gleeful and excited, with a wide feline grin on his face-today he was stony and sombre. It was like the day Frank spilled to him he had been violated.

“You and those bastards have destroyed my family,” he said quietly, rubbing his temples. “You go off and fuck my ex-husband?” People gasped-no one ever heard that one before. “Nah, not enough. Rape my present husband? Still not good enough. Maybe raping his niece will do,” he sneered, spitting at the dying, bleeding man below him. “Yeah, that should do it, shouldn’t it?”

“You’re not so innocent yourself,” Warner rasped, throat rising with vomit and blood. “In the Mafia. Revenge. Vendetta. Deserve it. Just like your fath-“

“SHUT! UP!” Gerard screamed, pumping him full of bullets, lead streaming through him, showers of them. “DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH I FUCKING HATE THIS SHIT? HOW I WOULD RATHER DO ANYFUCKINGTHING ELSE IN THIS WORLD APART FROM THIS?!” He roared in frustration and threw his gun to the floor. “I can’t step outside my goddamn house, I can’t use my own goddamn name, I can’t talk like I normally do, I ain’t even from fucking LA!”

More gasps. It was like a soap opera. Warner raised an eyebrow.

“I’m from New fucking Jersey, Jesus Christ!”

One man muttered:

“Knew he was English.”

“I AM NOT ENGLISH!” He screeched again. “I don’t even fuckin talk like this, all fancy-like, I was raised in the molfuckin slums, man. I hate this fucking shit,” he repeated, wiping his mouth. “I can’t get a goddamn break from you cunts, it’s constant, it never fuckin ends. My boy was beaten and bruised, broken. Now you’ve goddamn done it to my niece.” He shook his head, hair grabbed in fistfuls.

“Y’know what? Fuck this. I’m done. Ray? You’re Don. Congrats.”

Gerard Way turned on his heels and left the chambers.
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