Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance
Out the back door, Goddamn, but I love him anyway
1 reviewFrerard oneshot, Frank's a bit of a heartbreaker, but what impact will the new guy on the bar scene have on him? Will this be different, and will Frank get his just desserts?
1Hot
Frank was a player, any fool knew that; a regular love ‘em and leave ‘em kinda guy, happy to bed any girl or boy who caught his eye. The morning after? What about the morning after? Chances are Frank had slipped out the door and was halfway home before his latest conquest had even finished rubbing the sleep from their eyes – that is if he’d even bothered to stay the night.
Everyone anything near connected to the bar scene his end of New Jersey had heard of Frank Iero, but there were always fresh faces ready to take a chance on the charming little punk with the Italian surname – which was just how he liked it. He was young, it was fun, people knew what they were signing up for, or at least they should have.
Frank was out one night at one of his favourites, a sweet little joint that kept the live bands loud and the conscience quiet, a kind of boozy place but with a warm beating heart beneath the grimy shoes of a hundred barely-legal kids.
It was there that he saw him first – just a glimpse, mind you – a glimmer of bright eyes and dyed-black hair. It should have been nothing, really, in this club full of hyped up children with more hair dye than common sense and more spirit than a bottle of vodka, but for some reason it stayed in his mind long after he’d started making out with a blue haired guy with snakebites on the dancefloor.
The second time Frank saw him was at a different bar, a bigger place down town with more flashing lights than the cop cars that came down whenever some guy tried to push more than a little weed without consulting the management first.
Frank was by the bar, eyes idly skimming the crowd while he talked to a friend of a friend, Mikeyway or something, tall and skinny and too awkward to fit in, except he did and was some kind of scene kid god. As soon as he noticed him, him -wide hips and wider eyes, flirting with some dude- Frank licked his lips and turned to Mikey, asking him if he knew who the guy was.
“My brother,” Mikey said, raising an eyebrow in what could have been amusement, “Careful though – he can be a bit of a heartbreaker.” The irony in his tone was not wasted on Frank, he just chose to ignore it. He finished his beer and looked up, just in time to see the back of Gerard’s head vanishing into the men’s bathroom; the guy who he had been flirted with no-where in sight. He didn’t come out. Frank grunted and started chatting to the nearby scene girl least attached to Mikey.
The third time Frank saw him it was he who was being watched. It was a Tuesday, so the bar (a tiny place where you couldn’t tell the decorative graffiti from the natural) was quieter than usual and he could feel eyes on the back of his neck, which was far from unusual.
“Hey,” Said the person connected to the eyes, when he had approached. “Gerard Way.” It was him.
“Frank Iero,” Replied Frank, almost shaken at the sight of the gorgeous man before him: pale skin, Hazel eyes, pixie nose, sultry grin; the sweet smell of strawberry aftershave clinging to his neck.
“I know,” responded Gerard Way with a smirk, before picking out and sucking on the ice-cube from his orange juice.
So they got talking, which led to kissing, which led to touching, which led to leaving in a hurry and stumbling down the streets home, high on a mad rush of careless arousal.
And it was the same routine as ever.
The difference this time, though, was it was Frank’s house the lust drove them to that night; Frank’s sheets that got to witness the holy union of man and man (or dick and ass), in the heady cocktail of kisses, attraction and satisfaction they worked so hard to down as Gerard fucked Frank through his own mattress.
And as Frank fell asleep in a cradle of sweaty arms and dirty sheets, his thoughts were of Gerard: his eyes, his laugh, his mouth, how he wouldn’t mind spending some more time with Gerard; wouldn’t mind a morning after…
When Frank awoke the next morning there was no warm body in the sheets beside him, the sheets were cold, Gerard was gone. Clothes, shoes, all gone – as if he hadn’t even been there in the first place.
All that remained of his presence was the lingering scent of strawberry aftershave on the pillow next to Frank’s head.
So Frank got his comeuppance, eh? I wrote this last night with a pen and paper after watching 7 episodes of Supernatural, I'm not sure what time I started writing it but I finished it at 5am, it's based on what Brendon Urie said about the song 'Miss Jackson' in an interview and 5am me decided she could write this.
Please R&R and let me know what you think :)
Everyone anything near connected to the bar scene his end of New Jersey had heard of Frank Iero, but there were always fresh faces ready to take a chance on the charming little punk with the Italian surname – which was just how he liked it. He was young, it was fun, people knew what they were signing up for, or at least they should have.
Frank was out one night at one of his favourites, a sweet little joint that kept the live bands loud and the conscience quiet, a kind of boozy place but with a warm beating heart beneath the grimy shoes of a hundred barely-legal kids.
It was there that he saw him first – just a glimpse, mind you – a glimmer of bright eyes and dyed-black hair. It should have been nothing, really, in this club full of hyped up children with more hair dye than common sense and more spirit than a bottle of vodka, but for some reason it stayed in his mind long after he’d started making out with a blue haired guy with snakebites on the dancefloor.
The second time Frank saw him was at a different bar, a bigger place down town with more flashing lights than the cop cars that came down whenever some guy tried to push more than a little weed without consulting the management first.
Frank was by the bar, eyes idly skimming the crowd while he talked to a friend of a friend, Mikeyway or something, tall and skinny and too awkward to fit in, except he did and was some kind of scene kid god. As soon as he noticed him, him -wide hips and wider eyes, flirting with some dude- Frank licked his lips and turned to Mikey, asking him if he knew who the guy was.
“My brother,” Mikey said, raising an eyebrow in what could have been amusement, “Careful though – he can be a bit of a heartbreaker.” The irony in his tone was not wasted on Frank, he just chose to ignore it. He finished his beer and looked up, just in time to see the back of Gerard’s head vanishing into the men’s bathroom; the guy who he had been flirted with no-where in sight. He didn’t come out. Frank grunted and started chatting to the nearby scene girl least attached to Mikey.
The third time Frank saw him it was he who was being watched. It was a Tuesday, so the bar (a tiny place where you couldn’t tell the decorative graffiti from the natural) was quieter than usual and he could feel eyes on the back of his neck, which was far from unusual.
“Hey,” Said the person connected to the eyes, when he had approached. “Gerard Way.” It was him.
“Frank Iero,” Replied Frank, almost shaken at the sight of the gorgeous man before him: pale skin, Hazel eyes, pixie nose, sultry grin; the sweet smell of strawberry aftershave clinging to his neck.
“I know,” responded Gerard Way with a smirk, before picking out and sucking on the ice-cube from his orange juice.
So they got talking, which led to kissing, which led to touching, which led to leaving in a hurry and stumbling down the streets home, high on a mad rush of careless arousal.
And it was the same routine as ever.
The difference this time, though, was it was Frank’s house the lust drove them to that night; Frank’s sheets that got to witness the holy union of man and man (or dick and ass), in the heady cocktail of kisses, attraction and satisfaction they worked so hard to down as Gerard fucked Frank through his own mattress.
And as Frank fell asleep in a cradle of sweaty arms and dirty sheets, his thoughts were of Gerard: his eyes, his laugh, his mouth, how he wouldn’t mind spending some more time with Gerard; wouldn’t mind a morning after…
When Frank awoke the next morning there was no warm body in the sheets beside him, the sheets were cold, Gerard was gone. Clothes, shoes, all gone – as if he hadn’t even been there in the first place.
All that remained of his presence was the lingering scent of strawberry aftershave on the pillow next to Frank’s head.
So Frank got his comeuppance, eh? I wrote this last night with a pen and paper after watching 7 episodes of Supernatural, I'm not sure what time I started writing it but I finished it at 5am, it's based on what Brendon Urie said about the song 'Miss Jackson' in an interview and 5am me decided she could write this.
Please R&R and let me know what you think :)
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